#extendible third leg | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stllmnstr · 6 months ago

Text

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. ♡

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

1K notes · View notes

reminiscingtonight · 2 months ago

Text

The Bet

Leah Williamson x Stanway!Reader

Word Count: 769

[WOSO Masterlist]

“So like… do you hate me or something?”

It’s six am on a Wednesday morning and you’re definitely not awake enough to be having this conversation. But be it as it may, Leah’s taken it upon herself to drag you to some cafe close to your place for your pre-game breakfast tradition.

Ever since you began dating, if Leah had a game coming up, the two of you would go grab a bite to eat in the morning.

And usually everything is great. You and Leah will have a quick catch up as if you don’t spend every second of every minute together, and you’ll pretend to be interested when Leah begins talking about football.

But it’s six in the morning and you’ve barely even sat down before Leah is glaring at you as if you woke up this morning with the sole purpose of offending her.

“Why in the world are you wearing a Bayern jersey?” The disgust in her voice is palpable and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“You mean my sister’s jersey?”

“A Bayern jersey,” she repeats. If you stare hard enough you’d swear you can see her shudder at the name of the other team.

“Your best friend’s jersey,” you shoot back, paying Leah no mind as you browse the menu.

Leah’s eye twitches. “Bayern. Jersey. Where is the girlfriend loyalty?”

Sometimes you wonder how the stubborn person sitting in front of you is best friends with your sister. Leah may be stoic and the captain of the national team, but then you remember that she’s also equal parts a child at heart as your sister. The countless pranks Georgia and Leah have pulled on you when the three of you were growing up is a testament to that, and it’s a miracle why you ever decided to give Leah a chance.

“Babe, she won the bet. And a Stanway promise is a Stanway promise.”

“Georgia isn’t even here right now!” Leah whines, a second away from banging her head on the table.

Georgia and Leah have always been competitive. And the second you started dating Leah meant their bets extended to you. If Leah won a game? You were dressed up as a living memento of all things Arsenal. If Georgia won a game, you’d be forced to wear nothing but the colors of her club for days to come. The stakes only go up higher when the two of them have a match against each other.

Since Bayern won the last game, Georgia smugly told you to wear her jersey at the second leg game tonight. You were never one to back down from a challenge, so on the jersey went. Leah spent days trying to convince you to cut up the jersey, or let her accidentally place it in the washer, but you were unmoved. You might not be a Bayern fan at heart, but you’ll always support your sister, and damaging your Stanway jersey would be grounds for a break up.

“Can you at least, I dunno, cover it up or something?” Leah groans, waving her hand around your top as if staring at it any longer will cause her to melt to the ground,

“You are a child,” you sigh, doing nothing of the such.

“We’re getting looks from people around!”

You roll your eyes. The barista had taken one look at your jersey and then your girlfriend before smirking. You’re regulars at this place and even they are attuned to the fragility of your girlfriend’s ego.

“Eat your toast, darling.”

Breakfast carries on in silence, and it isn’t until the third time you catch Leah’s pout that you break.

“Will it make you feel better if I wear an Arsenal beanie?”

Leah perks up a bit before she realizes you mean paired with your Stanway jersey. “No.”

“Babe, it’s the Arsenal beanie or nothing.”

“How ‘bout nothing? I quite like the look of you dressed up in nothing.” Leah giggles and jerks backward when you reach across the table to punch her shoulder.

“Nothing but the Bayern jersey,” you deadpan, internally laughing at the way Leah’s face instantly falls.

“How about this. You win the game tonight and I’ll wear nothing but the Arsenal jersey.”

It takes a second for the words to register. Leah blinks, mouth dropping open a bit.

“And the red lace you love.”

You laugh when Leah’s up in an instant, ushering you towards the door like a woman on a mission.

“No time to waste, babe, gotta get to the Colney and train so I’m ready to win tonight.”

#leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #woso x reader #woso imagine #Ace writes

556 notes · View notes

stray-cat-with-internet-access · 1 month ago

Text

Peach Cake

Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader Tags: fluff, heavy age gap (implied), Jackson era, no proofread, english is not my first language (bare with me please) WC: 779

Joel is smitten by you but he´s socially akward so he´s decided to act like a raccoon

Two weeks.

It has been two weeks since one of Jackson's patrols rescued you from raiders outside the town. They were kind enough to bring your ragged form back with them, a safe place amidst the chaos that is life now.

If you are honest with yourself, it is hard for you to survive out there. With no special skills or enough strength, it feels almost wrong to have a roof over your head, a hot meal in your belly and dozens of pairs of hands ready to help when you need it.

Still shy and with bruises to heal, you have decided to spend most of your time in your new home, recovering at your own pace.

Getting up early to catch the fall breeze, you open your front door when a soft thud in the wood makes you frown.

A tote bag lay on the floor of your porch, some of its contents peeking out.

Looking around, you crouched to check it out and find a small pouch of ground coffee, flour, and what brings a smile to your face, two cans of peaches.

They look old and battered, but well sealed. This is a luxury these days, and you wonder who decided to give you such a treasure.

Smiling, you look around before taking the bag inside and closing the door behind you.

The third time it happens you are already on alert, scrambling out of bed at the faint sound of footsteps at your front door.

Still in your sleep shorts and a shirt when you opened the door in a rush, you caught him like a deer in headlights.

Crouching down, rifle on his shoulder and a small bag of homemade soap in his hand, he stares back at you before rising and clearing his throat.

Joel Miller, one of the men that personally took out half of the raiders to get you to safety.

“´Morning. Got you these” He extends the bag towards you, eyes darting everywhere but your face. Is too early, so he definitively detouring to your place before patrolling.

“Thank you. Why are you…?”

“Just stuff we found, though you’ll need it” He cuts you off, glancing at his brother who is waiting for him near the stables. He nods at you as a goodbye and starts to descend the steps to get going when you call out to him.

“Would you stop by later?”

You have him knocking at your door that afternoon. With his broad shoulders and sunkissed skin covered by a flannel he shifts his weight on what you presume is his good leg when you greet him with a smile. He looks a bit tired and faded dirt covers his boots and part of his jeans.

“Sorry for making you come. I´ll be quick to let you go rest, but I made you something”

He follows you inside. He looks a bit uncomfortable inside your home but the moment you place a cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of him a smirk breaks on his face.

“You didn´t have to” he eagerly come closer to grab the cup and takes a sip, and you use that distraction to fetch your main surprise.

A small plate with a floral cloth is carefully placed on the table and on top of it is a simple brown cake with peach slices. You can still even see a bit of steam coming from it.

“It’s been a while since the last time I baked something, so I hope it’s good”

“This´ for me?” His features softened at the sight of the cake, making you blush for some reason.

“Well, for us, I kept a few pieces if you don’t mind” You laughed, drying your hands in your jeans. “As a thank you for bringing me stuff”

He chuckled as he grabs a piece, taking a bite and letting out a hum of approval.

“Damn, forgot what cake tasted like” He sits across from you, and you feel proud that he finally felt confident enough to take a seat with you.

The fact that you made this gruff rugged man melt with something so simple makes you feel warm inside. What if…?

“I know that patrol days are hard Mr. Miller, you can always drop by to grab a bite if you want, it´s only me after all and I think is fair you get to enjoy the stuff you find”

He smiles at your words, crow feet adorning the corner of his eyes, and shakes his head with amusement, before meeting your gaze.

“Maybe. But don´t call me that”

“Okay, maybe then, Joel”

dividers are from @saradika-graphics

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou2 #joel miller fluff #the last of us #joel miller x you

349 notes · View notes

cy-cyborg · 1 year ago

Text

Tips for writing and drawing Wheelchair using characters: Your character's wheelchair can tell us a lot about them

When you first start learning character design, you'll often be told something to the effect of "use your character's outfit to tell us more about them" - and this same principles can be applied to a disabled character's mobility aids.

Mobility aids like wheelchairs, to many disabled people, are a part of us. They can be an extension to a person's body and chances are, if you're going to be using this piece of equipment every day for the foreseeable future (or at least for a good amount of time for the foreseeable future), it's going to start reflecting some aspects of your personality, your interests, your passions, especially when you remember, a lot of people get their wheelchairs custom built for them.

You can use your character's wheelchair to tell us a lot about them without ever needing to show/describe them directly.

Let me show you two examples:

Take a look at these two wheelchairs. they're similar in shape and build, but still pretty different to each other. Can you make some guesses about their users based only on what's shown here?

intended answers below:

Please note, the following points are all generalisations and the real world is rarely this simple. This is to demonstrate how to use disability aids to contribute to your character's design, not how to make assumptions about real people in real life.

So here are some similarities between the chairs:

Both wheelchairs have ridged frames, this means the wheelchair can't be folded in any way. These kinds of chairs can imply a few different things depending on the person. They are typically lighter, sturdier and more durable, and indicate the person probably will be using the wheelchair for a long time and/or has the money to get something built to last (or lives in a place where cost not an issue due to universal/subsidised access to healthcare). They are also typically better to travel with when flying, as they are less likely to be broken by airport security/staff.

Both wheelchairs also lack anti-tip wheels, which are a third set of wheels that extend from the back of the chair. Them not being present could indicate the person is likely pretty confident in their ability to use the chair without worrying about tipping out. It could also indicate they are in an environment where the anti-tips could be more of a hazard than a help, such as on rough terrain.

So lets look at some specifics for the green wheelchair:

Take a look at the wheels. The front wheels are pretty small and appear to be solid, while the back wheels appear to be quite narrow (compared to the orange chair anyway). This indicates the user likely lives somewhere with decent accessibility like a (well funded) city where they are unlikely to encounter unpaved/dirt roads/grass. Small front wheels and thin back wheels are good for manoeuvrability and a smooth ride over even terrain, but they will get stuck as soon as bumps appear, so this probably isn't an issue for this person.

While its a bit hard to tell unless you have seen other similar wheelchairs, this wheelchair is very long in the front, meaning the footplate and front wheels are further away from the seat than most. There could be a few reasons for this. One either indicates the person has very long legs, or a lack of motion in their knees, making it harder to bend their legs. This is moves the chair's centre of gravity forward by a decent amount, making it harder to tip back, which could indicate the person's legs are very light. You tend to see this most often in the wheelchairs of bilateral leg amputees, who are at a greater risk of tipping backwards due to a lack of weight at the front of the chair (even if they wear their prosthetics).

The colour of the chair is bright. This could simply be the character's favourite colour, or maybe this colour has some significance to them?

There are stickers on the side of the chair relating to the Paralympics. This could indicate the person is a fan, or perhaps had some involvement in the games?

The wheelchair has handles on the back, but they are able to be folded down. This is a popular feature for people who are independent enough to go out on their own, but still want to have the option for some help. folding down the handles also deters random strangers from grabbing at you (an unfortunately common experience for wheelchair users).

There is some mild paint scratching to the front of the wheelchair, but nothing too noticable. This is typical of older chairs and people who are a little rough on their chairs. Maybe they've had a few stacks and falls throughout the years, probably going a decent speed.

Ok, now let's look at the orange chair

This wheelchair has very large, inflatable front wheels, and very thick back wheels. This will make the chair slower and less manoeuvrable on flat/even surfaces, but much, much easier to push on rough terrain. This is supported by the amount of mud on the wheelchair.

The seat on this wheelchair tilts upwards slightly. This is called a bucket (or according to an old basketball teammate of mine, a dump-truck lol). This is a feature you typically see in wheelchairs made for people with spinal injuries who are unable to move their legs and engage their lower bodies or core to help keep them stable.

The back of this chair is very low, indicating that if this wheelchair user has a spinal injury, it's probably pretty low on their spine, likely fairly close to the hips, making the person a low-level paraplegic. Higher-level paraplegics and quadriplegics usually need a higher back to help support them and keep them from flopping over, since all the muscles below their place where their spine broke either doesn't work, or is significantly weaker. Higher backs though can get in the way of pushing and reduce mobility, so people who need less support will likely opt for a lower back rest.

This wheelchair has no handles, which indicates the user is probably very independent and doesn't need a lot of help getting around.

The paint on this wheelchair is very scratched up, showing the person is very tough on their wheelchair and doesn't care to get the paint touched up.

This wheelchair has no breaks. This is very common on chairs with larger tiers as they don't tend to be as effective, but also on many outdoor wheelchairs, for two reasons. One is because they are made for rough terrain, so chances are, you aren't going to go far without a big push to get you moving. The second reason is that to get over large bumps and obsticals in a wheelchair, it can be helpful to do very large pushes using the top and front of the wheel. When pushing a normal chair, most people will only use the top section of the wheel to push since it's closest, but these big pushes that use the front of the wheel make it easier to push, since you can benefit from downwards momentum. However, this is also where the breaks are located on most wheelchairs, which can create a hazard. I've lost entire fingernails by them getting snagged on the breaks when pushing this way. So if you live somewhere where the breaks are not going to be helpful to you often, it makes sense to not get them.

And here are the characters who own these wheelchairs

The owner of the green wheelchair is an amalgamation of a few people I knew from when I played wheelchair basketball. They're a bilateral leg amputee, and judging by their outfit (The Official National Wheelchair Basketball uniform for Australia), they're an elite athlete. This wheelchair is not the one they play sport in, but it still needs to be durable enough to withstand the rough treatment of airport staff when traveling, as well as heavy day-to-day use that comes with being an active person. While it needs to be rough, the person also seemed to want to prioritise speed and manoeuvrability, and likely doesn't need to worry about rough terrain too much, so they probably live in a major city.

The owner of the orange chair was inspired by a family friend of mine. They live on a farm, and need a chair that can handle life in those conditions, rough terrain and all. This comes at the cost of speed and manoeuvrability on smoother terrain, but honestly, anyone who's lived in the country knows you won't find many of those around there anyway, so that's not too big of a sacrifice. They are paraplegic, are very confident in their ability to use their wheelchair, and probably doesn't need help too often, but still benefit from some extra stability support from the raised seat on their chair.

Conclusion

Once again, these are generalisations, and in real life there are always exceptions, but I hope this helped demonstrate what I meant when I said you can use your character's wheelchair to tell us more info about them if you're smart about it.

I originally planned to do a whole series of these, showing a wider variety of wheelchairs and the people who they belong to, but I guess I kind of forgot because they've been sitting, abandoned on my hard drive for the last 2 years 😅. If that's something you folks would be interested in seeing though, let me know, I'd happily revive the series lol.

4K notes · View notes

filisite · 22 days ago

Text

when she is the daughter of Eggman Rabotnik...

And here we go again?...

Oh, this stupid series about a love triangle, but so addictive... You were now sitting on the couch and watching these hot male twins fight for their love for one woman.

Shadow said that the main character should kill them both. The girl waved it off, not paying attention to what was said.

- It's so romantic when they fight for your heart. Despite the probable death, - you sighed dreamily, folding your palms on your chest towards your heart, imagining how the most handsome and popular guys in school fight for your attention.

Stone smirked in the background and shook his head, oh, these teenage girls.

Shadow looked at you, raising an eyebrow in bewilderment, no matter how similar you were to Maria, you are still a different person with your own thoughts. Comparing you at the first meeting was basically stupid. You will never be her.

...

Two episodes passed, as you passed out and lay down on the couch with your legs stretched out. You were sleepy, after such events with your father and grandfather and with other colored aliens. You wanted to rest so much.

Shadow stole a glance at you, he had been standing there throughout the entire series. Even when you offered to sit next to you. Was he afraid of you?... Nonsense.

And yet the hedgehog risked coming closer to you, he was drawn to you like a magnet. And as soon as he was at your face, he looked at every scar on your face, every mole, and every hair.

He carefully watched your breathing, how you inhaled air into your lungs and exhaled it through your nose. Shadow seemed to be watching himself from the outside, unable to control his actions. As if he was now in a movie and watching himself in the third person.

The black hedgehog extended his palm to your face. Feeling the flow of air from you even through the fabric of the glove. He smoothly ran his hand over your head and carefully pushed the hair away from your face so that it would not interfere with your sleep. Then he gently placed his palm on your heart.

For some reason, it calmed him down. Every beat of your heart echoed in his palm, telling him loudly that it was still working perfectly. Pumping blood throughout your body.

Maria's face suddenly appeared before his eyes, without breath, without a heartbeat, without lines on her eyes, as she smiled brightly.

Shadow pulled away abruptly, taking his hand away from you, pressing it to himself.

N̷o̴,҈ y̶o҈u҉ c̶a҉n̸'҉t҉,̷ n̶o̴t̸ a҈g҈a̶i҉n҉.̶ T̷h҉i҈s҈ c҉a̷n̸'̶t̶ h̵a̷p҈p҉e҉n҈ a̷g̴a҈i̷n̷.̴

S̴̜̗̭̯̪͈̮̗̙̮̯̝̠̱̟͙̥̳͙͓͎̲̈́́̒͊̀͑͂̋̀͒́͋̉̿͑̒̓͛̄̚ͅT҈͕̘̖̲̣̘̩̯̲̘͔̘̳̲̪̫̐͒͊̅̀́̐̓̊̉̈̊̀̆̈̏͋̍̃̃̽Ō̸̗̩̩͎̤̪̱͔͎̰͉̠̠̣͍̩̲̠̙͎͒̊̒̋̆̓̏͒̏̾̈́̊̊̈́̌̎̂̋̎P̷̳̱̖͇̪̫̦̗̫͖͙̮̘̯̥̝͈̲͎̈̀͛̅̄̍̑̊̈́̂̀͑̓̋̀́ͅ!

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic x reader #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #sonic movie 3 #Eggmansdaughter

258 notes · View notes

godjo · 6 months ago

Text

✮ — warrior’s executioner.

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm.

tags — zoro x afab!reader. 1.3k wc. soft -> rough, like really, dappled with a lot of prose (i hope they make sense tbh). huge cock!zoro. creampie. a LOT of cum, sue me. cervix fucking. very explicit smut. minors, blank, and ageless blogs dni.

from hunter — i… don’t know. i felt so, so, soft for zoro in this fine afternoon. this fic made me vulnerable lmao. this is hardly proofread btw. ��

imbued with an ache for glory since the sprout of his childhood, the way of the warrior lives in zoro’s skin and bones like a malignant disease of no existing palliative. he inhales the roughened edges of a samurai’s principle like air his lungs need to survive. these beliefs are claws of death that have grazed him one too many times, yet he wears the thousand cuts with pride.

they whisper about him across the four seas: the devil wearing a human’s flesh, they say, siphoning his unyielding strength from the depths of hell. enemies see his swords like the embodiment of death, the extended hands of sharp torment, while allies revere his strength.

his hands are tainted with blood from hard won victories. and zoro has never even thought of cleaning the proof of endless wars snaking along the lines of his palms until he’s met you.

“are you sure you want this?” zoro asks for what seems like the third time, and for each you answer him with a feathery chuckle. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

“you won’t hurt me, zoro.” there’s a spark of assurance in your eyes, fueled by conviction that it would take more than his tenacity to inflict pain upon you.

zoro admires you for it; he desires you for that inelastic poise. and so he moistens his lips, guiding the raw end of his cock through your supple pussy lips. he’s been leaking like crazy, transparent lines of precum smeared all over your bare stomach where his rigid cock had been resting.

he palms his girth as if to soothe the stiffness; he’s unimaginably hard, pulsing with fierce vivacity. tremors rack zoro’s body, not on the account of anxiety, such is a distant feeling, but because of how much he wants to shove his thick cock right into your pussy, fuck you until your insides crumble.

“spread your legs wider for me,” he whispers, breath catching up in his throat when he feels the wet caress of your slabbering cunt around his flushed cocktip.

you share a shuddering breath when he sheathes himself to the hilt, closing his good eye in concentration, in savoring the gummy embrace of your pussy around his twitching shaft. all the might and the brawn he’s built for years now melts into a thick puddle underneath his wavering feet.

you’re an earthquake that rocks his steady rhythm.

hovering above you, cautious as to not crush your ribcage with the weight of his immeasurable desire and wanton lust, zoro moves with calculated tempo. he pitches his head right below your chin, staggering breath fanning the crater between your collarbones. seconds— a dribble of a moment within which he loses his composure— that’s all it has taken for his gruff hand to cage the tender flesh of your waist and pull you with snapping vitality, therefore burying his hungry cock further in your insides.

with an obscene yelp, you toss your head back. your weakened frame finds its leverage on zoro’s broad shoulders, leaving wild stripes of crimson on his golden skin with your nails. you can feel the ridges of his girth, the angry veins scraping your cunt repeatedly, making the little wet hole swell.

“i’m sorry,” zoro confesses softly against your heated cheeks. “did i hurt you?”

you wish you can pour your heart out and say no, he’s not hurting you and he never will. tears grace the corner of your eyes, from the fluttering emotions hugging your belly, and you can only shake your head. at last, your hands find the curve of his flushed cheeks. he looks feverish, pushed into perpetual agony and terror of breaking you. like you’ve never done before, you tug him by the face and seal his lips with a kiss that quickly forms a whorl of saliva inside your mouths. you never let him go.

zoro’s heart will burst, he swears it will. the unspoken consent triggers his primal need, the animalistic urge of wanting to prove how you drive him to the edge of insanity.

he pounds your pussy like a mad man freed from restraints. he folds your knees to fuck you properly while watching your cunt swallow his needy cock to the base. there are strings of transparent liquid connecting your pussy to his shaft, augmenting the smacking sound whenever he brings his weight down your soiled cervix. hungrily, repeatedly, mercilessly.

“z… zoro!” your unabating and quivered chant injected with pleasure. “more… i need you— want you.”

need.

his eye dilates as the word flows inside his system. he slides his upper body down to meet yours, a breathless yet fervent chuckle rising from his throat. zoro has been maiming your cervix with his insatiable cock for what seems like forever now. he’s been fucking you so maniacally that his bladder shudders and your pussy has turned a damped mess under his vigorous thrusts. all this is accompanied with brutal strength.

instead of cowering away, you tell him to sink in you deeper.

you, who emit the air of lavender blossoms and speak with honey in your mouth. you, whose featherlight touch whispers life into every withered thing. you, who keep a universe of all things soft and kind and gentle locked inside your velvet chest.

“you’re perfect,” zoro murmurs against your mouth, pinning his cock one more time to your slabbering cunt. “and you’re mine.”

your belly heats up from the fervid claim. rapture, its pleasurable hand reaching for you, as zoro’s movements become deliberately slow. his spine moves like waves, the roll of his hips jittery yet deep. you feel it all at once when he pops your hardened nipple in his mouth. zoro suckles, salivating around the areola while maintaining his slow pace.

the heat picks up its intensity, along with the furiously lewd moan gaining strength and fleeing your lips. caged in a bubble of sensitivity that will burst at the seams with an airy touch, you clamp a hand over your mouth but zoro takes your wrist to pin beside your head. his final savage thrust sends rolling waves of euphoria squeezing your chest until the only way you can breathe again is to shout his name with a piece of your soul attached in it.

zoro tattoos your expression in a huge part of his memory; the narrow of your brows, how your pretty lips shape his name, and the tears of release like silver satin adorning your eyes. with that image he buries his cock between your velvety walls, down and down until his cocktip meets your cervix again, and there— bouts of thick cum burst in your uterus.

he screams your name, placing his life and his love between its syllables. you touch his face, soothing his shivers, but he just won’t stop filling your womb with fresh and viscid cum like he’s not busted a fat nut in a hundred years. zoro’s eye teared up at the sensation.

“i… i can’t stop. fuck— it’s seeping. fuck, fuck—”

you lock your legs around his hips. “let it all out.”

zoro admits defeat and collapses on top of you. his cock continues to plug your pussy with blobs of cum. he withers beside you, then, and finally pulls out achingly. even without the grip of your cunt his swollen tip lazily oozes all over the sheets.

“how are you feeling?” he tucks you in, securing your body with the warmth of his.

“definitely sore,” you breathe, tracing the mark of stitches on his chest with a delicate finger. “but happy. how about you?”

he ponders at the question. how does he feel, truly? once, he wondered if his tenacity is just another word for wickedness and if shedding blood is the only purpose his unmatched strength serves. he pondered about the hunger he’s shackled in his core and whether it could only be satiated as he felled each enemy with a sword.

zoro fears that he’ll never learn how to hold you close to his heart without tarnishing the perpetual twinkle of light in your luminescent eyes. but then he kisses you, and you do not flinch from its violence.

zoro has found the answer, then.

how could he ever hurt you when you make him tender?

how could he ever hurt you when you turn him to pieces?

#mine ✮#zoro smut #zoro x reader #zoro x you #zoro x y/n #roronoa zoro smut #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #op smut #one piece smut #op x reader #one piece x reader

816 notes · View notes

sugarlywhispers · 5 months ago

Text

b.katsuki x reader (fem)

a.n; i blame this completely over the Olympics, again. sorry, but it has me on chokehold and i'm not resisting against it LOL 😜

Okay, hear me out...

Third date with Bakugou Katsuki.

The first one, of course, was very awkward and tense and sometimes even a bit worrisome. We are talking about dating Bakugou Katsuki, the one aggressive and violent Pro Hero that everybody has a hate-love feeling towards for; because the man looks and acts –and can– step on your head and crush it with malicious intent and yet, he's Nº 2 Pro Hero on the ranks and you just know that if he's around, you are completely safe. But he's big and tough and harsh in his talking and walking –how can anyone look that scary by just walking, you're still wondering, but it's real. He's fucking scary.

The second date was way more relaxed. He cooked for you. In his massive penthouse that probably costs more than your annual salary. Yep, morherfucker is rich rich. And you think he deserves it really. After all the troubles he goes through to keep the whole country safe –and even the world–, he completely deserves it. You just forgot how well he does his job to get to be that rich. You don't care about money though. You're dating him because you saw him helping a granny cross the street and that was the cutest thing you ever saw. So, back to the second date, he cooked for you, and damn... now you can say you'll keep dating him because of his food. Man cooks like the gods, like a fucking professional chef of the most expensive restaurant on earth. And also, you noticed how relaxed and in peace he looked in his own environment and he looked. So. Freaking. Attractive. Hot even. He looked just so... deliciously handsome.

So for the third date, and because he picked the second one, this one was of your choice. You decide to go ice skating. And you did not expect what happened at all.

One would expect that Pro Hero Dynamight, civilian name Bakugou Katsuki, being who he is, would have exceptional balance and even a hidden talent for this. You’re wrong. Everyone is wrong. The second the blades of his skates touched the Ice Rink, he fell. Your eyes opened wide and you definitely were holding back your laugh as he struggled to get himself up by holding the handrail around the rink.

“Need some help?” You asked, getting close to him with no trouble at all. He looked up at you annoyed, struggling so hard to get up and keep his balance that his cheeks turned pink. How. Freaking. Cute. You’re glad that dating the Pro Hero came with its perks –like closing the whole rink just so only you and him are there, enjoying your date on a late wednesday night.

“Shut up. No, I can do it…” He declared, but another fall on his knees made you giggle while sliding backwards and away from him with ease, hands up in surrender. Katsuki looked at you once his stood for the nth time holding the handrail like dear life with a frown on his face, watching you how easy you made it look, “How the fuck are you doing that?”

You giggled again, amused by all of this situation. Sliding back towards him and extending your hands, you said, “Come one, let me help.”

Katsuki buffed but he placed his hands on yours, whole body trembling, barely holding himself up. The image of him sticking his ass up and body bending forward while his feet barely moved made you laugh out loud and he yelled another “shut up!”.

You changed your grip to his forearms and again slid backwards to make him move forward, his legs still trembling and his eyes never leaving the floor. He looked so cute, it made your heart flutter. The smile never left your face as you spoke again, “I used to skate a lot when I was younger. I even prepared myself to compete, but an injury put me out of the game.”

He immediately looked back at you at your words, “What happened?” He looked curious, but also worried and kind of sad.

You shrugged, “I landed pretty badly over my right leg after a spinning jump once. After that, the shin splints became unbearable and I couldn't continue…”

He looked down at your leg, watching you move attentively, “Does it hurt now?”

You shook your head and smiled at him, grateful for his worry, “Naah. It would only hurt badly if I tried to skate the way I used to… Guess I demanded a lot of myself back then.”

Katsuki didn’t comment further on, but he kept his attention on your leg. Didn’t that make him even cuter!

It took you a while –long while– to finally be able to let go of one of his forearms once he was ready on his balance; his other hand still held yours strongly.

Time went by, both of you laughing and smiling while skating around the rink, hand in hand. You’re so happy that you could stand on the ice again. It brought you so many fond memories of when you were a kid. Skating was the only thing that could easily make you smile just because; the wind in your face made you feel free, content. and Katsuki could clearly see that.

For a moment, he got distracted by how beautiful you looked… and he lost his balance again. This time bringing you down with him. He was fast enough though to catch you and make you land over him. Your amused and loud laugh was contagious, so he couldn’t help but smile. He's having fun –even if he knew his body was going to hurt a bit the next day for how many falls he had.

“You’re so clumsy…” You laughed, joking kindly and funny.

“Oh, yeah? Then why don’t you show me what you can do?” His smirk made you suddenly stop laughing. It’s a clear challenge, yet curiosity shined in his eyes.

“Alright, hero… watch and learn,” you helped him stand up and directed him towards the handrail.

Once he was away from possible harm, Katsuki watched you skate around the rink as if you were flying, gliding around with so much confidence and ease, as if you were made for it. Your hair floating behind you for how fast you were going, dancing beautifully with the air. He was hypnotized. Completely mesmerized by each little form you decided to enlighten him with. He particularly felt fascinated when you decided to spin fast and so many times he couldn’t count how many, then you stopped like it had been nothing and kept gliding around.

You looked so nice and professional, Katsuki felt a little pang of pity for the world. It would never be able to share how beautifully perfect you looked at the moment.

A few more glides around, until you stopped in a very experienced way right in front of him, a huge smile on your face and a shine on your eyes that were proof of how immensely excited and happy you felt.

Did katsuki say already how fucking beautiful you were?

Just to prove his point, he instantly grabbed your face and kissed you for the very first time.

And fuck, he planned on keep kissing you as much as you would let him.

He let you go for a moment just to say, “That was beautiful… You’re gorgeous.”

You smiled one more time before sliding your arms around his neck to kiss him again. He moved a bit to surround your waist with his arms…

And that’s when he forgot about the handrail and sent you both again towards the floor.

#also i keep imagining when you both go back to your apartment #cuz of course you're invinting him over to eat something even though is already very late into the night #and unfortunately you do feel the shin of your right leg bother you a bit #so when you sit on your couch and rub against it #it doesn't go unnoticed by katsuki #so he sits next to you #brings your legs up over his lap and starts massaging them #especially the one that bothers you #it def brings kinky time 😏#DO I HAVE TO SAY MORE???#PLS STOP ME OR I'LL KEEP ON RAMBLINGGGG #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction #mha bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bnha bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou x reader #bnha bakugo katsuki #mha bakugou x reader #mha bakugo katsuki #mha drabbles #mha imagines #mha fluff #mha scenarios #mha x reader #mha x you #bnha bakugo x reader #bnha fluff #bnha imagines #bnha scenarios

787 notes · View notes

rileyslibrary · 2 years ago

Text

Ghost is shocked by your immunity to being tased.

I received an ask from an anon for this story. Unfortunately, either Tumblr ate it, or I accidentally deleted it; I can’t be sure because I trust neither of us. Gladly, I remember the gist of it. I hope that anon sees it. (Sorry, anon, and thank you for the ask.)

———————————————————————

You push open the workshop door, and notice a curated display of taser gear spread across the table for today’s training session. Ghost, your lieutenant and trainer for the day, occupies a corner, busy with extracting all sorts of stuff—taser guns, pulses, stun batons—from bags and placing them on the table. He catches the sound of your entrance and turns halfway to face you.

“You’re early,” he mutters under his breath.

“I just couldn’t wait, Lieutenant,” you reply sarcastically.

He huffs. “We’ll see about that once training’s over.”

You approach the table, and look at the equipment. You reach out and grasp a taser gun. It looks exactly like a pistol but bulkier and has yellow elements to distinguish it from firearms.

“Could you please remind me how this baby works?” you ask.

He turns his entire body towards you and contemplates your question. Although the training session is just half an hour away, and he doesn’t technically need to explain anything, you’re his weak spot. So he leaves the gear in the bag, walks towards you, and begins to give you a detailed explanation.

It almost feels like a private session, but you have ulterior motives—you’ve already been through a similar class in the past and are eager to skip this one. Despite your repeated attempts to convey this to Ghost, he remained adamant that this course would be a refresher for you and, thus, necessary.

“Once you have a clear shot, you press the trigger.” He concludes.

“Like this?” you ask, directing the taser towards your right foot and squeezing the trigger. It stings, but your previous training has taught you how to get used to the feeling and handle the pain better. Or at least make it look that way.

Your poor lieutenant stands speechless as he looks at the now-fired taser gun. He slowly looks down, where his shocked eyes trace the two wires extending from the device, connecting to your foot.

“What the fuck did you do?” he shouts, gesturing towards your leg.

“Jeez, Lt., you seem stunned,” you comment.

“Are you having a laugh, soldier?” He scolds you with as much authority as he has left from what he just experienced. He drops to the ground, working to remove the wires from your foot. He stands up, alternating his gaze between the device and your leg. Finally, he turns to you.

“How come you’re not in pain?” he asks, confused.

You shrug, unaffected, and pick up another taser from the table. “Maybe the first one was defective; let’s give this one a go,” you suggest, aiming at your other foot and firing.

“Are you out of your mind, Y/N?” he screams in a high-pitched voice and kneels again to retrieve the second taser from your foot.

“Come on, Lt., it’s not as bad as it seems!” You reassure him with a grin, seizing a third taser from the table. This time, you point it at Ghost’s leg. “Wanna see?”

He lifts his knee and gathers his arms close to his body. He looks like a pitcher, ready to throw the ball in a baseball match.

“No, no, thank you very much”, he protests.

“Sure?” You ask and aim at his other leg on the ground.

“Absolutely certain, you maniac,” he says, switching legs. “How far are you willing to go to skip this class?!”

“Not too far,” you reply with a smile, “as far as these two wires go when they get propelled from the taser gun.”

“Cut it out!”

To his relief, the rest of the team enters the room, and Ghost instantly transitions into his authoritative persona. He places both feet on the ground, protrudes his chest, and places both hands on his waist. He clears his throat.

“Take your positions, everyone,” he commands, “everyone except for you, Y/N.”

“Why am I excluded, Lieutenant?” you ask with a pout and a playful wink. “Is it because I’m unfazed?”

“Nah, soldier,” he replies and walks behind you to tidy the wires from the already-shot taser guns, “it’s because you’re a live wire—always keeping me on my toes.”

———————————————————————

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x y/n #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #cod ghost #ghost call of duty #ghost cod mw2 #cod mw2 fanfic #ghost cod mwii #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic

6K notes · View notes

ckret2 · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 70* of the first day of the rest of human Bill Cipher's life—he's back in the Mystery Shack but whether or not he's a prisoner anymore is up in the air, he's proven he knows how to escape, and the Pines have proven they don't want to execute him anymore. For now. How's he gonna celebrate?

With back pain! That's what you get from half a week of running around in the woods ignoring all your body's pain signals.

But at least it can't get worse.

This chapter is book compatible but book spoiler free! The fic won't remain spoiler free, but while I figure out how to incorporate the new info in the fic, we're proceeding with pre-written chapters unaltered.

[*"hey, wasn't this chapter 62 a few days ago?" I renumbered the chapters after the Axolotl arc. If you haven't read the Axolotl arc, go back and read it!]

####

Soos was awakened by Melody as she thrashed and sucked in a gasp like a scream. Groggily, Soos said, "Babe? You okay?"

She rolled over, grabbing for his arms with trembling hands. "Soos—"

"I've got you." He half sat up with a sleepy groan and pulled Melody into his embrace. She pressed her face into his chest with a sigh. As he stroked her hair, her breathing slowly steadied out again.

"M'good," Melody said. "Sorry I woke you."

"Don't worry about it, babe. Always happy to cuddle." He yawned. "Sleep paralysis again?"

"Yeah," Melody sighed.

For as long as Melody could remember, she'd had sleep paralysis nightmares: nights where she'd wake up and find she was unable to move any part of her body but her eyes, and a monster escaped from her worst dreams was lurking in the room. Shadowy figures with glowing eyes, twisted demonic representations of her least favorite teachers, hunched hags with claws extending out of tattered robes—for three years, it had looked like a werewolf-mummy from an old horror movie that terrified her as a child—filling the doorway, or silhouetted in the window, or standing perfectly straight in the corner with neck tilted sideways as though it were broken, or staring hungrily down at her from the ceiling with bulging eyes, or crawling up from the foot of the bed and over her body to grab her throat.

The first time she spent the night with Soos, she'd warned him about her sleep paralysis; but for the past year, she'd never had a nightmare while sleeping in the Mystery Shack. She'd even been completely free of them for several months—something subconsciously reassuring about having her fiancé next to her, probably—until their unwelcome house guest moved in and she'd gone back to sleeping at her aunt's house in town.

And now she was even having them in the shack.

"This is the third time in less than a month," Soos asked. "Same one as usual?"

"Mhm."

"I couldn't protect you this time," Soos said mournfully. "I have failed you as your knight in shining armor... Maybe I need shining armor. Do you think they make like, shiny silver spandex pajamas?"

Melody laughed. "Soos, you goofball." She hugged him tighter. "It's fine. I always get sleep paralysis more when I'm stressed. And the situation in the shack's been... well..."

"Yeah," Soos sighed. "I know." She didn't need to tell him what part of "the situation" was stressing her out.

For the past year, ever since Weirdmageddon—which she'd been just unlucky enough to catch live on a weekend trip to visit Soos—her sleep paralysis demon had looked like Bill Cipher.

She'd told Soos this last fall, and in a panic he'd told her that Bill was a dream-invading demon; and for a moment they'd feared this meant Bill had found a way back. But no—according to Soos, Bill was a real chatterbox, and he was always doing something if he invaded your dreams. The thing Melody saw acted like any of her other nightmares: creepy. Standing on too-long legs at the end of the bed; giving off sickly yellow light she could see through her eyelids; staring at her with one bloodshot eye; crawling onto her chest with claws like gnarled black branches. It was just an unlucky coincidence that the real Bill had been a dream demon, and just an unlucky coincidence that being petrified by an eye-bat felt so much like sleep paralysis.

Ironically, now she had confirmation that her nightmares didn't mean Bill was back—because, when Bill did come back, her nightmares hadn't changed.

"My subconscious just hasn't caught up to the fact that you guys finally executed him," Melody said, getting comfortable to go back to sleep. "The good news is, the real Bill's gone and we never need to worry about that again."

"Oh," Soos said. "Um. By the way. The craziest thing happened at like one in the morning."

####

Bill was creeping upstairs to bed when he heard Melody shout, "He's WHAT?!"

He had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out giggling.

####

Bill was getting better at using his other eyes in his sleep, even when he hadn't chemically connected himself to them. His range wasn't very far yet. From inside the shack, all he could feel was his hoodie, his new necklace, a handful of drawings Mabel had done, and four blankets of his zodiac wheel: two in the kids' room, one in Soos's, and one in the dark.

Around eight in the morning, Mabel was still sleeping comfortably and Dipper was staring at the ceiling worrying; all was right with the world. He only glanced into Soos's room long enough to overhear Melody, "—I'm not mad at you, I'm just mad about the whole situation. I mean, I'll adjust, but still—" before moving on, uninterested in listening to a cutesy couple reassuring each other.

The fourth blanket was in some tight dark container—leather?—but he could hear a muffled voice: "If Bill's staying here on a long term basis, we need to renegotiate... almost everything about his captivity." That was Ford. It was gratifying to know that even when Bill was asleep, the whole household was thinking about him.

"Yeah, you're right," Stan sighed. "We can't just let him keep sleeping on a couple of cushions. We haven't been able to use that couch all summer." There was the sound of a zipper and the lid over the zodiac blanket swung up, revealing Stan standing above.

Ford said, "And trying to get him to sleep in the living room is a lost cause. He says he needs to sleep in a room where he can see the stars."

A guilty look crossed Stan's face. "Right. That's probably it." He pushed the zodiac blanket aside, pulled out a t-shirt, and shut the suitcase again. "We could get—I don't know—an inflatable mattress or something..."

"There's an unused mattress in the basement, isn't there? Maybe we could haul it up." (It wasn't a terribly comfortable mattress. But Bill supposed they only wanted to give him the bare minimum so they could get their precious couch cushions back.)

"I'll ask Soos about it," Stan said. "Well, let's get this over with."

That was Bill's cue to wake up. He'd like to look alert when they came for him. Negotiations ought to go in his favor; he could still threaten suicide if their terms felt too restrictive—or even just threaten to escape, he could do that now if he didn't like their terms!—but they couldn't threaten to kill him anymore. He wondered if he could get phone privileges...

He opened his eyes. He was laying on his left side, the window at his back. He tried to push himself upright.

Sharp pain exploded in the left side of his back. He gasped, collapsing on his side. The pain clawed over his left shoulder, inside his arm, up his neck, across to his right shoulder blade, down nearly to his hips. His entire body tensed around the pain.

He let out a weak, wheezy laugh. (He could feel his ribcage contracting as he exhaled.) That was truly exquisite pain.

All right. He shouldn't be surprised by this. He'd spent four of the last five days tromping through forests and mountains and three of the last five nights getting next to no sleep, including two nights in a thin sleeping bag. The last couple of days, he'd hiked all over creation carrying two fully-loaded backpacks, in a body that had gotten next to no exercise for the past month and probably hadn't been designed for hiking in the first place. And on top of all that, first he'd thought the Axolotl was coming to arrest him and then that the Pines were going to kill him—and human bodies handled emotional stress very poorly. Not to mention whatever the heck had happened when three-fourths of his body had simply stopped working for an hour.

He'd ached for days. He'd simply kept pushing himself through it all, because this stupid weak human body didn't get the luxury of rest when Bill's life and death were on the line.

Apparently, that was all the pushing it could take. Now he felt like someone had shoved a knife in his back and twisted the muscles up around the blade like twirling a forkful of spaghetti. (Oh, that sounded delicious. One more brilliant idea to implement when he restarted Weirdmageddon: spinal muscle spaghetti. Freshly grated parmesan, maybe a little pesto.)

It was difficult even to breathe—that little motion was enough to make his back muscles squeal in pain. He had to carefully move his hips and right arm in tiny motions to let him roll onto his back while roiling up his pained muscles as little as possible; and then he just as carefully rolled onto his right side, his back to the room. The human body was such a fascinatingly complex interconnected thing, crisscrossed with puppet strings that all tugged each other; no matter what part of his body he moved, somehow it managed to yank on something in his upper left back. He curled his left arm against his chest and squeezed his elbow with his right arm, trying to find a way to tense the rest of his body that reduced the tension on his back.

He heard the door to Mabel and Dipper's room open. For lack of a better plan, he shut his eyes and tried to look natural as they passed him on the way to the stairs. Like heck was he about to let the kids know he was in pain, much less ask them for help. He doubted he was severely injured—he combed through his knowledge of human anatomy—probably just a muscle spasm. It would reduce in a few hours; and then he could make his way downstairs and figure out how to convince someone to get him an ice pack out of the freezer without betraying that anything was wrong. For now, he just had to lay down, try to find a position that didn't stab into his revolting muscles, and wait...

Downstairs, Stan bellowed, "Hey, demon! Get down here!"

Right. What were the odds Bill could make it downstairs and fake that he wasn't in agonizing pain in front of the Pines family? Could he suppress those winces convincingly? He tried to sit up.

And immediately fell to his side again with a gasp. In spite of his breathtakingly self-destructive willpower, he physically couldn't force himself to sit upright. Why not! What was the point?! He didn't mind the pain half as much as his body did, and he thought he should be the one in control here!

Stan hollered, "BILL!"

His voice cracked, "Later!" Ugh. Good thing he'd gotten in his dramatic return last night. He suspected that was the last time he'd look cool for a while.

####

Soos was just emerging from the bedroom when he heard Stan shouting, "I said get down here, Cipher!"

There was a long pause before the reply came from upstairs: "Can't!"

"I WASN'T ASKING!"

"ME NEITHER."

Something was up. Bill always talked a little too hard—not always loud, but hard—as though he were trying to carry on a regular conversation over a strong wind; but Soos thought something about his voice seemed even more forced today. Almost strained.

Soos heard Stan and Ford talking quietly as they headed up the stairs—"...sounds off, do you think he's injured?" "I can't imagine how, if he'd been up this morning we would have heard him banging around..."—and he followed them up.

At the top of the stairs, Stan demanded, "Well? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me." Bill was curled up on his usual cushion bed. He didn't even turn to look at them. "Just—let me sleep in. Am I not allowed to sleep in? It's not like I have a job." Now that he wasn't straining to shout, his voice sounded even more pained—barely more than a tight whisper.

"All right, fine. Nothing's wrong with you," Ford said. "Then what's wrong with your body?"

Bill chuckled weakly in defeat. "Back's in too much agony to do its job, so I'm giving it the day off."

"Oh, dude," Soos said sympathetically. "Back pain is the worst. One time, I messed up my back after carrying a bunch of boxes between the museum and the attic? Yeah, it was pretty bad for like, a day. I was kinda crying, because it hurt, but also because I had to miss work, and I felt awful about it—but then I remembered the Mystery Shack was closed that day, and I wasn't missing work. So I went to sleep."

Stan and Ford stared expectantly at Soos.

"That's it, that's my whole anecdote."

"Riveting," Bill said flatly. "Did you invite everyone up here to stare at me?" With great difficulty, he pulled his bedsheet up over his head, leaving only a pile of golden curls visible. "Anyway. I'd love to come downstairs—really, I'm famished—buuut my back won't cooperate, and I can't tell you how furious I am about laying on the ground like an idiot at the feet of three of my captors, so if. you. all. would. leave. Please." The "please" came out sounding like the final word of a hex.

Soos winced. Oh, yeah, he supposed being stuck on the floor in front of a bunch of guys you didn't like was pretty embarrassing. He looked toward the stairs and shifted his feet, waiting for the Stans to make a move that direction.

But instead they huddled up to discuss. Stan muttered, "Think he's faking?"

"Why would he?" Soos asked.

Ford murmured, "Soos is right—unless he's that desperate to sleep in, I can't think of a reason he'd lie. He had some... muscular issues after the eclipse—and who knows what he's been up to the last couple of days..." Ford raised his voice, "This isn't the same thing as after the eclipse—?"

"No, just garden variety human back pain," Bill said quickly. "I assume it's garden variety. I've never had back pain before."

"Can you tell what muscles it is?"

"Ugh." Bill let out a shaky sigh. "Pain's... generalized, but... top suspect is the latissimus dorsi. Next guess is the erector spinae group."

"What," Stan said.

Ford nodded like he knew what Bill was talking about. Which he probably did, Soos figured. Doctor and all. "Probably not a severe injury, then. It likely just needs rest—"

Irritably, Bill snapped, "Like I said."

"Great," Stan said. "Then I don't care anymore." He headed downstairs. "Lemme know when the demon can walk again."

Soos and Ford exchanged an awkward look, silently debating whether to follow suite. Ford turned to Bill and cleared his throat. "What do you want for breakfast."

Bill groaned and muttered, "Probably can't use utensils. Whatever, just—bacon and toast and the strongest painkillers in the house."

"All right." Ford headed downstairs.

That struck Soos as inadequate. Trailing after Ford, he said, "Dude, Bill's in so much pain he can't even sit up. Shouldn't we offer to call a doctor or something?"

Ford said, "Knowing Bill, he'd rather die."

Soos considered that. "I'm gonna offer it anyway." He backtracked enough to get his head above the attic floor. "Hey Bill, do you want us to call a doctor or something?"

"I'd rather die."

"Haha, okay! Welp, glad I checked."

But as he headed down to the kitchen, something about the situation still bothered Soos.

Ford was already laying out bacon in a frying pan. "Soos, could you get the painkillers?" he asked. "We should probably give him individual pills rather than the whole bottle. When he got his hands on the cold medicine, he used it to get crossfaded with cider and to drug a wild animal."

Soos winced. Ouch, was that the cold medicine he'd given Bill? (He wondered when Ford had learned the phrase "crossfaded.")

"Hey... didn't Bill say he was famished?" Soos asked. "Is it kinda weird he's just asking for bacon and toast?"

It took Ford a long moment to answer. He didn't look up from the bacon. "I... suppose he's too proud to ask for anything more complicated."

"Why wait for him to ask, then? Just make him some more stuff anyway?"

Ford shook his head. "He'd be insulted."

Ford had been right about Bill's reactions so far, but— "Okay, fine. Then I'll bring it upstairs and insult him. He'll be insulted and fed. What do you think he'll eat?"

Ford glanced at Soos. Soos thought the look was grateful.

####

Apparently, Bill's age looked a little bit different to everybody. Soos had first found out when Abuelita mentioned that Bill looked like one of those ladies she saw at bingo night who were clearly 60-something, but had had a little too much work done—makeup, facial injections, hair dye. The sort who never really looked younger, but rather just gave off the impression that they were terrified of looking older.

So Soos had asked Mabel, and she said that Bill looked like he was in his mid-20s—about Soos's age, maybe a little older. He'd asked Dipper, and Dipper said he had no idea—to him, Bill never really looked quite convincingly human, more like an alien wearing a human rubber mask—but if he had to take a guess at the age the rubber mask was supposed to portray... like, middle-age-ish? Parent-middle-age-ish? Maybe 40-something? 40-something. Melody had had a hard time as well, but eventually settled on early 30s—the age you imagined a snotty Silicon Valley startup CEO would be.

Which was all very fascinating to Soos.

Because to him, Bill looked eighteen. Exactly eighteen.

At 23, Soos was just reaching the age where 18-year-olds stopped looking like peers and started looking like babies. Eighteen was "you know this is what an adult looks like, but it takes you by surprise almost every time" age. Eighteen was "you wouldn't be surprised to see this face behind a counter working as a barista, but you'd be a little alarmed if you overheard them talking about paying rent" age. Eighteen was "they can be all alone in the world making their own decisions and it's technically okay, but if they are, then someone failed them" age.

To him, Bill looked like somebody who'd been flung callously out into the world before his time—unprepared, overwhelmed, and alone.

Soos knew Bill was older than the whole universe or whatever. He knew that Bill was the guy who'd tried to take over the Earth. But he wasn't that guy now. Look at him. He shouldn't have been worried about imprisonment or world domination or getting executed. He should have been making pocket change working at the mall food court over summer break and playing Dancy Pants Revolution at the arcade with other recent high school grads and making puppy eyes at all the small business owners in town until somebody offered him a minimum-wage full-time job and sneaking into the movie theater on Saturday mornings.

Soos was finding it more and more impossible to see Bill as the enemy, much less as some incomprehensible alien. He had cousins who looked like Bill. Slap a pair of sunglasses over his freaky eyes and try to ignore that his body proportions were just a bit unnatural, and he could blend right into a Ramirez family portrait. Just another post-high-school pre-college kid in the middle of the transition from skinny teen to fat adult that most Ramirez women went through by 30. His neon yellow hair would fit right in beside Reggie's little sister's current neon red dye job.

From the moment Bill temporally poofed into the Mystery Shack on June 1 with a Pony Heist bedsheet toga and an ineffective vengeance plot, he'd been going through the physical and emotional wringer. Soos got it, of course Bill was having a bad time, he was a prisoner because he was a danger to the whole universe. And being human for the first time was probably tough. One time Soos was stuck in a pig's body and that was rough, and it was only for one day and at least Soos had still been a mammal. It was probably inevitable that Bill was having a bad time.

But it bothered Soos, seeing somebody in his house who was so miserable. And it bothered him that no one else seemed very bothered.

He loved the Pines family—he'd reverse-adopted Stan as his dad and he'd give his life for any one of them—but part of him had to wonder whether they'd be more bothered by witnessing the hell Bill was going through if he looked like he could be part of their family.

####

"Hey dawg!" Soos hefted up the tray as he entered the attic. "Breakfast!"

Bill was still buried under his bedsheet. "Stanford couldn't be bothered to come up himself?"

"I wanted to bring it!"

Bill grumbled something inaudible. He'd made no secret of the fact that he disdained Soos, although Soos had no idea why. When a human looked down on Soos, he had a couple guesses; but he didn't know what an alien could judge him for. Was it the British dog man nightmare? Was Bill insulted by Soos's 10th grade geometry grades?

But Bill didn't protest, so Soos scooted around his makeshift bed to set the tray down on the floor in front of him. "Uh... feel better, dude. Hey, you know—if sleeping on the floor is hurting your back, the fold-out sofa in the living room is still totally available. Just, in case you wanna—"

"Not interested," Bill said. "Buzz off, Questiony."

"Okay." He'd offered.

Soos was almost back to the stairs when Bill said, "What is all this stuff?"

"It's breakfast!" The tray included bacon, a toasted sandwich, a drink with one of those straw that bent in the middle so Bill didn't have to sit up all the way up to drink it, a pre-opened chip bag, and a pre-opened pill bottle. (Soos had elected to ignore Ford's advice that they mete out painkillers one pill at a time. If they gave Bill individual pills, he'd have to ask for more when they wore off, and Soos suspected he'd rather choose to suffer.)

"I didn't ask for this."

"Well, I thought you might want some other stuff."

"I don't."

Surprise! Bill was insulted. Soos didn't understand how he could be insulted by some extra food for breakfast—he's still gotten his bacon and toast—but all right, fine, Soos had been warned. "Oh, okay. Just don't eat anything you don't want."

Bill grunted in response.

As Soos started down the stairs, Bill said, "Hey, Questiony. If Mabel asks where I am, just tell her I woke up for breakfast then decided to sleep in."

Aww, he didn't want her to worry. "What about if Dipper asks?"

"Tell him to mind his own business."

"Heh. You got it, dude." Soos headed back to the kitchen—still bothered.

####

Yesterday, Soos and Melody had made plans to take advantage of the Mystery Shack being closed for the day to make breakfast together, the way they used to during the off season. But today, Melody had said that, now that Bill was alive again, she wasn't comfortable eating in the shack, and she'd gone to her aunt's house. She'd said she wasn't mad at Soos, and he believed her—he'd played no part in Bill's continued survival—but still. It kinda felt like she was mad at Soos.

So Soos was eating brunch by himself in the kitchen when Bill gingerly eased himself downstairs—leaning to one side, wincing in pain, one eye squeezed shut, and supporting himself on his broken umbrella; but, mobile again. He ducked into the living room where Stan and Ford were watching TV and, from what Soos had overheard, planning what to do with the rest of their summer. "Okay, I'm here," Bill said. "Negotiations?"

"Hey—no weapons," Stan said. "Hand over the umbrella."

"What! You let me keep it last night."

"Yeah, when it was raining and we were tired. I don't see any rain inside the house."

"Hey, Mr. Pines?" Soos leaned out of the kitchen. "Bill was just using the umbrella to walk? Maybe we could let him keep this one?"

Bill shot Soos a dirty look, face flushed. (What was that for!)

Stan paused, and turned to Ford for a verdict. Ford pressed his lips together, looked away, and muttered, "Well, if he's using it for legitimate purposes."

Bill stared at Ford, brows raised in amazement. "Wait, wait—I'm allowed to have it now?"

"Yes?" Ford said. "I mean—If you're using it to walk, why wouldn't you be?"

"Why wouldn't I—?!" Bill laughed in disbelief. "'No weapons, Bill!' 'No weapons, Bill!' Ev-ry sin-gle time! No canes, no umbrellas, no brooms, no baseball bats, no GOLF CLUBS, no STICKS, no CURTAIN RODS—"

"Oh come on!" Stan spread his hands defensively. "Some of those can obviously be used as weapons—!"

"I wouldn't have needed a baseball bat if you hadn't already taken my cane!"

"You tried to brain Soos with a cane on your first day."

Bill shot another dirty look at Soos.

Soos said apologetically, "That did objectively happen."

Bill rolled his open eye and glowered at Stan again. "What, so because of that I'm not allowed to walk?"

"I," Stan said. "That." He turned to Ford again for help.

Ford said, "If we'd known you needed a cane—"

"I fall down the stairs twice a day!"

"Well," Ford said.

"You use me falling to tell when I'm up in the morning!"

"Ah."

"Did it not occur to you! That this was a problem! That I was trying to solve!"

"I see your point."

Why didn't he just say something, Soos wondered; followed by, what, the guy who refused to explain why he was stuck laying on the floor until we dragged it out of him?

"Well, you've got an umbrella now," Stan said. "Happy?"

"Elated," Bill said sourly. He perched on the armrest of the sofa, visibly wincing as he crossed his legs and found the right position to balance himself. (Soos noted that, since Stan and Ford were already occupying both armchairs and the sofa's seat cushions were in the attic, Bill didn't have any cushioned place to sit. With back pain, no less.) "Let's get this over with."

The crux of the negotiations was that, when Bill and the Pines had initially agreed on the terms of his imprisonment, they'd only been meant to be sufficient enough to last until either the Pines figured out how to kill him or Bill figured out how to escape. Now that both had happened and it looked like Bill would be staying here longer than planned, they supposed they needed something more sustainable.

Bill requested door rights back. Stan and Ford nixed that immediately; they didn't trust him with that kind of freedom.

"Fine, then at least let me go outside. I want fresh air, blue skies, and a social life! I'm an extrovert, I'm losing even more of my mind in here."

Stan and Ford exchanged a look. "Yeah," Stan said grudgingly. "He's more or less in solitary in here. Even for him, that's harsh." (A ghost of a triumphant smirk flickered across Bill's face and disappeared.)

Ford considered that with an unconvinced grimace; but he said, "I suppose... you can make occasional trips outside the shack for... mental health purposes. Under adequate supervision."

"Finally," Bill sighed. "So what's 'adequate' supervision?"

That was where negotiations broke down. Stan and Ford did not think that Mabel alone was adequate supervision for the villainous Bill Cipher, and Wendy was just barely sufficient for Rainbow Club nights but he couldn't be trusted alone with her outside that; Bill, on the other hand, objected strenuously to the suggestion that he could only go outside with somebody who hated and/or distrusted him—which described everyone in the shack except Wendy and Mabel—because that would just make going outside miserable.

They couldn't agree on what kinds of things Bill would be allowed to do, either. They didn't like the idea of him hanging out with Rainbow Club members outside of club meetings, or going with Abuelita to bingo, or visiting a bar in town—all of those would give him too many opportunities to manipulate people with minimal oversight.

"Okay," Bill said irritably, "so are there any social activities I am allowed to participate in! Since it sounds like socialization itself is off limits—!"

Soos decided to make himself scarce before things got any more heated. Maybe he'd go upstairs to retrieve the tray from breakfast.

####

The bacon and drink had been consumed; the bendy straw had been tied in a double loop; the pill bottle was alarmingly light; the sandwich had been picked at, before Bill elected to eat the toast around it and leave the filling behind on the plate; and the potato chip bag had been flung across the room, crushed chips left in its wake, in some sort of protest against receiving unasked-for food. Okay. So Bill was really insulted, then.

Eh, Soos should probably clean up here anyway. He took pride in keeping the Mystery Shack clean, but he hadn't had a chance to thoroughly clean the attic since Bill and the kids moved in for the summer. And it looked like the projectile potato chips weren't the only junk food trash that had accumulated. He saw empty chip bags, candy wrappers, peanut butter jars, jerky packets, cider cans... a lot of cider cans...

He went downstairs, got a broom, a trash bag, and a vacuum, and got to work.

As Soos worked his way across the floor sucking up potato chips, he quietly sang to himself, "Am I cleanin'? Girl, I'm cleanin'. I vacuum in the attic. 'Are you cleanin'?' Yeah, I'm cleanin'. I vacuum in the..." He picked up the couch cushions to vacuum under them—he still wondered why Bill preferred to sleep on the cushions rather than the sofa bed downstairs. Maybe he got scared of the dark and liked to sleep by a window? That would make sense. Since Bill used to glow when he was a triangle, he probably wasn't used to the dark. Or maybe he just thought the attic was cooler than the living room.

Soos almost set the cushions back on the ground, noticed bloodstains on one, and froze. He'd seen Bill with a lot of little injuries, but had he seen any cuts that big? The blood didn't look fresh. They'd at least been here long enough for Bill to hide them on the underside of the cushion. Soos looked around wildly for any clues about how or why or when, uneasily decided that since they were dry and Bill wasn't dead he didn't need to worry about it, and pulled out the upholstery attachment to give the stain a halfhearted vacuuming before putting the cushions back in place. What the heck was happening in this attic?

Soos scooped up the mostly yellow and black clothes sitting at the foot of the cushion-bed—they were outside Bill's cardboard box "dresser," he figured that meant they were dirty—wrapped them in Bill's Pony Heist sheet, and tossed the bundle toward the staircase. They flew down to the landing without hitting the stairs. "Yes! Three points! No net!" Soos pumped his fist.

He cleaned the window seat's cushion with the upholstery attachment, picked it up to clean underneath—and the cushion was really heavy on one side. He felt that side of the cushion; there was something hard and brick-ish inside. He caught a flash of white along one edge. The cushion's stuffing was coming out of a tear in the seam. Soos reached inside.

His jaw dropped. "No way. How did he...?"

Soos had pulled out two stubby crayons and the long-lost Journal 4.

####

(If you got this far thank you for taking a break from the fandom-wide riots over the book in order to read my fic. (I'm assuming there's fandom-wide riots, I'm queuing this Monday night so that I don't have to worry about it for the rest of the week.) Anyway, I'd love to hear what y'all think about our first Soos-focused plot arc!

And as promised, now that the book's out, I'll be getting to work crossposting the fic to Ao3 soon-ish. I don't know when yet, since I'm writing to y'all from the past, but soon.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #soos ramirez #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher #(Dec 12 edit: chapter has been renumbered)

418 notes · View notes

eelnoise · 8 months ago

Text

pulsewidth (nsfw!)

zoro x fem!reader

masterlist kofi

cw: scent kinks, pussy eating, piv sex on a weight bench idk

an: well, here you go. take my post workout brainrot in fic form. pls ignore any formatting issues i phoneposted this

wc: 1.9k

tagging: @bby-deerling @kaizokuniichan @nina-ya @strawheart-pirate @missmugiwara @sanjisjuul @kibblz-n-bitz @sleepymarimo

You don’t join Zoro for most of his time spent training, but do occasionally bid yourself into the Crow’s Nest to quietly work out alongside him – though far enough away to avoid being the victim of a rogue blade to the gut should you accidentally get too close.

You hum to yourself, generally content in your usual routine that’s become so normal that your mind begins to wander from the monotony of your motions. Even the sounds of Zoro’s blades slashing into a dummy across the room begin to fade into the background and merge with the rhythmic, low rumble of the room’s atmosphere.

Though you're ripped from both your focus and the calm when your ears perk at the sound of your name. You pause your workout, body turning to face Zoro with arms still extended – though your scowl of concentration melts into a relaxed smile as you look at him curiously.

“Do me a favor?” he says, beckoning you over with a wave of his hand once he's sure he has your attention. “D’ya think you could try and dodge some swings?” Zoro asks, motioning to the blades in his hands. "Y'know, kinda like a moving target?"

“Only if you promise not to hurt me!” you tease with a wag of your finger, knowing full well the swordsman would never lay a harmful finger on you.

Zoro rolls his eyes and waves you over again. "I'll try my best to keep 'em to myself," he replies, his gaze glinting with amusement. He shifts his stance, golden earrings clinking together and catching a twinkle in the sunlight – and with two swords at his sides and held at the ready, even the air around him seems to crack with a fierce energy.

"When you're ready," he calls out, waiting for you to position yourself.

You know full well that Zoro's a formidable foe but you’re no slouch in the fighting department either. You circle around him, matching his pace, your own muscles tense and ready.

Zoro makes the first move, his swords slashing out in a blur, the dull edges aimed for your torso. You duck under the first strike just in time, but fail to avoid the second and third. His eyes narrow, his lips curling into a predatory grin as his swords whistle through the air, just brushing past your body.

"Nice dodge," he compliments, spurred on by the challenge you present. He switches tactics, the blades now spinning towards your legs, seeking to knock you off balance. "You move quick."

Sweat runs down your brow, mingling with the salt from your skin as you work to keep up with the swordsman. The air grows thick with the heat of the spar, both bodies dancing in a duet of dodges, near misses, and – when you can't quite keep up with his movements – sharp jabs to your ribs with the dull edge of one of his blades.

The sweat-slicked floor threatens to throw off your footing when you try to dodge a particularly quick swing to the thigh – and it ultimately succeeds in doing so following an unbalanced duck that causes you to slide forward. You spread your arms in a feeble attempt to stay upright, but land face-first into Zoro's bare chest.

Zoro's heart skips a beat as your body collides with his, the wet heat of your skin and the scent of your sweat invading his senses. His swords clatter to the floor, the blades falling from lax fingers as he reaches out to steady you, his hands gripping your waist to keep you from sliding off.

"Not bad," he grunts, the warmth of his body radiating against your own. He loosens his grip, allowing you to stand, but he keeps his hands on your waist, his gaze locked onto yours. "You're improving."

His muscles tense, the urge to wrap you in an embrace almost too strong to resist. Zoro's thumbs brush against the curves of your hips, his grip tight enough to keep you steady, but gentle enough to hint at a desire to explore more.

For a moment, time seems to freeze, and the only thing you can hear is the rapid thump of your heartbeat in your ears. Zoro pulls you closer, his lips meeting yours in a hungry kiss. His tongue flicks against yours, demanding entry as his hands begin to roam, one sliding under your shirt, the other gripping your ass.

Zoro groans, his hand pushing your shirt up to reveal more of your skin. His fingers trail along your sides, lingering over your hip bone and the curve of your waist, the roughness of his skin contrasting with the smoothness of yours.

Your body responds to his, the heat between you intensifying, the air charged with the potency of desire. Zoro's mouth travels down the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses in its wake. He guides you to the weight bench, easing you on it gently – but with the determination of a man who knows what he wants.

His eyes roam over your body, drinking in the sight of your curves, the smoothness of your skin, and the dewy tinge of your breasts. His hands roam to trace their outline, thumb circling your nipples, his touch firm yet gentle.

Zoro’s mouth closes over one of your hardened peaks, sucking gently while his hand cups the other. You arch your back, offering yourself to him, your breath hitching as pleasure begins to spiral throughout your body.

You gasp out his name, fingers finding the length of his toned back as his heavenly ministrations continue. Your body trembles under his touch, each sensation a path to the aching core between your legs.

He releases you with a soft pop before trailing kisses down your body, his gaze never leaving yours. As he reaches the waistband of your shorts, your breathing grows more erratic, the anticipation of what's to come nearly unbearable.

Zoro watches as your eyes flutter shut, the motions of his mouth and hands eliciting soft moans from you. He hooks his thumbs under your shorts and – with the aid of your hips and thighs raising upward – slides them down your thighs.

He spreads your legs wide, his fingers trailing between them and teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the heady scent of your arousal, His finger slips under your panties and pulls them aside before sliding you down the bench and closer to his mouth. Large hands settle on your hips as he buries his face between your legs, his tongue tasting your folds in long strokes.

Zoro takes hold of one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder to give him better access to your core. He grins against your skin, his lips brushing against the sensitive flesh, his breath warm and heavy. "So sweet," his lust-drenched voice growls into your ear.

Zoro's tongue flickers against you, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. His fingers graze over your entrance, and in an instant he fills you with two large fingers, making you gasp out in pleasure.

Zoro's tongue circles your clit while his fingers plunge in and out, the rhythm quick and deliberate, each curl that brushes up against the sweet spot inside of you. His gaze fix on your face, watching the expressions flicker across it, drinking in the sight of your pleasure – and with a final, skilled flick of his tongue and a deep thrust of his fingers, you cry out in bliss, your body convulsing as pleasure claims you, overwhelming your senses in a glorious wave of delirium.

Zoro continues to worship you, lapping up your essence until your body calms and your breathing returns to normal. He slips from between your legs, and he rises, his eyes dark with lust. "Fuck," he mutters, adjusting himself to hurriedly tug his pants down, releasing his thick, precum-beaded cock to the hot air of the nest.

"Hold onto me," he says as his grip takes hold of the backs of your thighs. It's a suggestion, but it's the only warning you'll get. He positions himself at your entrance, cock nudging against you. And with a firm but controlled motion, he pushes into you, stretching you wide and filling you full. His lips find yours once more, his tongue invading your mouth with the same ferocity he uses to claim your body.

Zoro groans into your throat, the sound rumbling through your body as he begins to thrust, his hips moving in a steady, driving rhythm. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you in place tightly while his cock slides in and out with wet, satisfying slaps.

The rocking of his hips becomes more insistent, his movements growing more urgent, his cock hitting all the right spots to keep you on the edge of ecstasy. His breath grows harsher, the beat of his heart pounding against your chest, your bodies moving in harmony.

Zoro's hand slides between the two of you, thumb finding your clit to rub in circles, the motion in perfect sync with his thrusts. The building heat within you flares, the edge of another orgasm sprawling at your senses.

His movements grow more erratic, his thrusts more desperate and fierce, his grip on your waist tightening, his free hand working your clit with a skill that borders on obsessive.

"Zoro!" you gasp out, your body tensing as the pleasure spirals out of control. His name is a plea, a demand, for him to keep going, to not stop, to let you reach that peak.

He exhales sharply as he feels you tighten around him, the slick, wet heat of your sex milking his cock. "Already?" he muses as if he isn’t about to burst as well. His thrusts grow more frenzied, the look in his eyes a mix of lust and possessiveness.

With no time to consider a reply, your orgasm crashes over you – body shuddering and pussy clenching hard around him. Zoro growls, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he nears his own release. With one last, hard plunge, he lets out a guttural cry, his cock pulsating as he fills you with his seed.

He collapses onto you, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, his lips brushing against your neck, his voice a ragged whisper. "Damn, girl," he mutters, the sharp edge of his tone helping to snap you back into reality.

"What do you mean 'damn, girl'?" You retort with a faux whine and a playful hit to his shoulder. "That was all you, I just went along with it."

"Well, you're a distraction," He chides with a smirk, coiling his arms around you before rolling you atop him. Zoro holds you to him closely, his cheek nestling down into your hair.

You grin, nestling against the warmth of Zoro's chest, the weight of his arm around you a comforting anchor. “Yeah, well, things happen," you reply with an impish grin of your own while your fingers begin trailing up and down the sides of his torso.

Zoro's arm tightens, his fingers linking with yours as you trail them along his skin. "I'm not complainin'," he murmurs, smiling into you.

The two of you lie there, breath in tandem and slowing from exertion. The rise and fall of his chest threatens to lull you into slumber, and you almost let it do so – though you think better of it due to the awkward position that someone else may find the two of you in.

"Take a bath with me, stinky," You say, tilting your chin up to him. "C'mon."

Zoro chuckles at your quip, the sound gentle and amused, before giving a playful nudge to your side. "Alright, stinky.” He says, lifting you up and off of him. “Lead the way."

#roronoa zoro x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #roronoa zoro x y/n #zoro x you #zoro smut #x reader #op scenario #zoro x reader #one piece smut

563 notes · View notes

manmuncher777 · 4 days ago

Text

UNDER THEIR WATCH

・❥・ Satoru Gojo x reader x Suguru Geto

・❥・ In which the reader gets assigned with the most obnoxious first years for a mission, tensions rise. And of course… theres only one bed.

・❥・ warnings! SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, spanking, pet names, threesome, oral f and m, mild facefucking, fingering.

・❥・A/N - Holy shit thank you guys so so much for 6k likes on one of my fics, im so amazed. So in thanks I decided to extend the idea. I am so greatful to all 750 of my beautiful followers. PLEASE LIKE, COMMET, AND REBLOG THIS FIC

ALSO MY REQUESTS ARE FUCKING OPEN, PLEASE SEND ME SUMMMMM ❤️

You’d always prided yourself on being unshakable, but Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru tested that resolve at every turn.

They were a pair of opposites that somehow operated in perfect harmony, balancing one another so seamlessly that it felt almost unnatural. Gojo, all sharp edges and searing brightness, was impossible to miss. He carried himself like the world existed for his amusement, his white hair and perpetually cocky grin making him stand out no matter the setting. His teasing was relentless, and he had a knack for getting under your skin with just a few words.

Then there was Geto. Where Gojo was loud and brash, Geto was calm and collected. He moved through the world with a quiet confidence that was almost more dangerous than Gojo’s in-your-face arrogance. His rich voice always seemed to carry just enough amusement to leave you second-guessing yourself, as if every interaction was a game he was playing and you were the unwitting opponent.

As a second-year at Jujutsu High, you were well aware of your reputation as the strongest in your year. It wasn’t something you flaunted, but it was a title you’d earned, and you wore it with quiet pride. That pride, however, took a hit whenever you found yourself in the presence of the school’s infamous third-year duo.

Satoru made a point of reminding you of your place whenever he could.

“Don’t feel bad, Shortstack,” he’d say, slinging an arm around your shoulders like you were old friends. The sheer size of him made you bristle, his tall frame utterly dwarfing yours. “Not everyone can be me”

You’d shove his arm off, scowling. “Thank God for that.”

Suguru, ever the smoother of tensions, would chuckle at the exchange, his deep voice somehow managing to be both warm and teasing. “She’s got a point, Satoru. The world can only handle one of you.”

Then he’d meet your gaze, his dark eyes crinkling with a smile that could almost be called kind if it weren’t for the faint glint of mischief in them. “But you have to admit, you’re lucky to have us around. We’re setting the bar for you, after all.”

They were infuriating. And yet, there was no denying the strange pull they had, not just on you, but on everyone around them. Satoru’s raw power and Suguru’s measured confidence made them a force to be reckoned with, and standing next to them often felt like being caught in the eye of a storm.

But you weren’t one to be overshadowed. You’d earned your place at Jujutsu High, and you weren’t about to let their larger-than-life presence make you doubt your own strength.

Still, as much as you hated to admit it, their friendship fascinated you. The way they moved in sync, their banter so effortless it was like they shared the same brain—it was a connection you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. And when they turned that attention on you, teasing and pushing and prodding, it was hard not to feel like a mouse caught between two very large cats.

Every interaction with them was a battle, and while you hated to lose, there was something about the way they pushed you, challenged you, that made you want to keep fighting.

You just wished they weren’t so damn tall. Towering over you like some kind of gods

You leaned against the doorframe of the small conference room, arms crossed as you surveyed the chaos inside. Gojo Satoru was sprawled out across a chair, his legs stretched impossibly far and his blindfold pushed up just enough for his piercing blue eyes to peek through. He was tossing a pen into the air and catching it lazily, his grin wide enough to reveal just how much he was enjoying Yaga’s barely-contained irritation.

Suguru Geto, on the other hand, sat beside him, deceptively poised as he tapped his fingers against the table. The small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed his role in their synchronized mischief.

Yaga sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Could you two pretend to act like professionals for five minutes?”

“I am being professional,” Gojo said, spinning his pen between his fingers with maddening ease. “You haven’t even told us the mission yet. I’m conserving energy.”

Suguru chuckled, tilting his head in mock consideration. “You can’t fault him for being efficient, Yaga-sensei.”

You bit back a snort, earning Suguru’s attention. He raised a brow, his gaze flicking to you with an amused gleam. “And here I thought you’d be the voice of reason.”

“Don’t lump me in with you two,” you shot back, stepping fully into the room. “I actually respect Yaga-sensei enough to listen.”

Gojo’s grin widened as he leaned back in his chair, balancing it precariously on two legs. “Respect, huh? Sounds like someone’s trying to score extra credit.”

“Or maybe,” Suguru mused, “she just wants us to think she’s better behaved than she really is.”

You rolled your eyes, but the slight warmth in your cheeks didn’t go unnoticed.

“Enough,” Yaga said, cutting through their teasing with a sharp tone. He motioned for you to sit, and you took the chair furthest from Gojo, only for Suguru to shift closer with a casual ease that made your pulse quicken.

“The three of you will be heading to Tokyo for this mission,” Yaga began, his voice all business now. “There have been reports of curse activity in multiple locations across the city. It’s unusual in both volume and concentration, which is why I’m sending the three of you together.”

“Tokyo, huh?” Gojo perked up, letting his chair fall back onto all four legs. “Sounds fun. Maybe we’ll grab some ramen while we’re there. You like ramen, don’t you, Shortstack?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Suguru chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as he glanced at you. “She’s right, Satoru. We should be more respectful. After all, she is the strongest second year.”

The words were polite, but his tone was teasing, and the way his dark eyes lingered on you made you squirm.

“I can see why you two are best friends,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

“Best friends?” Gojo repeated with mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “We’re more like soulmates.”

“Twin flames,” Suguru added dryly, earning a laugh from Gojo.

Yaga ignored their antics, handing out the mission details before delivering the news that made your stomach drop.

“You’ll be staying in Tokyo for at least three days,” he said, flipping through the file. “We’ve arranged accommodations for you at a nearby inn.”

The silence that followed was unnerving, especially coming from Gojo and Suguru. You narrowed your eyes, suspicious as the two exchanged a glance.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

Gojo’s grin returned, wider and sharper than before. “Oh, nothing’s wrong. It’s just—”

“We’re sharing a room,” Suguru finished, his voice calm but no less smug.

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“It’s standard for missions,” Yaga said, clearly unaware of the tension now thrumming through the room. “And with Tokyo’s prices, it’s the most practical option.”

“Practical,” you echoed weakly, your mind racing at the thought of spending three days—nights included—with the most infuriating duo at Jujutsu High.

“It’ll be fun,” Gojo said, leaning back again with that irritatingly easygoing grin. “Like a sleepover. You can braid our hair, Shortstack.”

Suguru chuckled, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Or we can braid yours.”

“Enough,” Yaga snapped, cutting off whatever retort you were about to make. “Focus on the mission. You leave first thing tomorrow.”

The meeting ended quickly after that, but the smirks on Gojo and Suguru’s faces lingered, following you out of the room like shadows.

“You nervous?” Gojo teased as you walked toward the dorms, his voice lilting with fake concern.

“Nervous you’ll snore,” you shot back.

Suguru hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Satoru. She seems more worried about us getting too close.”

You glared at him, ignoring the warmth in your cheeks. “I’m worried about my sanity.”

The two of them laughed, their voices blending in a way that made your chest tighten. This mission was going to be hell.

And yet, despite yourself, you couldn’t deny the faint flicker of excitement beneath your frustration.

The Tokyo streets were bustling with their usual chaotic energy, but as you and the boys walked through the dimly lit alley leading to the inn, a strange, almost suffocating quiet seemed to settle around the three of you. The mission had gone smoothly enough for the day—surveillance was tedious, but necessary, and you were all more than capable of handling it. Still, the weight of the day lingered, and the air was thick with something else now.

You were too aware of the proximity between you and the boys, even as you tried to focus on the mundane task of finding the inn. Gojo had, unsurprisingly, been goading you with teasing remarks about your “seriousness” during the mission. Suguru, ever the cool and composed one, had offered little more than a few knowing glances, his dark eyes always glinting with something that sent your pulse racing.

By the time you reached the inn, you were more than ready to retreat into the safety of your room—except for one small problem.

The front desk clerk had handed Suguru the key, and as he walked over to the room, you followed him with a feeling of dread creeping up your spine. You’d known something was off when you’d seen Gojo’s smug little grin, and now you couldn’t help but feel that you were walking right into some kind of trap.

Suguru unlocked the door with a casual flick of his wrist, pushing the door open to reveal the inside. You froze in the doorway, blinking at what you saw.

There, in the center of the room, was a single large bed—big enough for two, but a bed nonetheless.

You stared at it in disbelief. “There’s only one bed?”

Gojo, who had been hovering at your shoulder, grinned ear to ear. “One bed, huh? I guess we’ll just have to make do.”

Suguru’s lips twitched upward, his eyes never leaving your face as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “Don’t worry, princess, we’re more than capable of sharing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not sleeping with you two.”

“Well, you’ll have to take the couch then,” Gojo said, his voice nonchalant as he shrugged out of his jacket. He was already taking the liberty of unbuckling his belt, clearly unbothered by the situation. “I mean, it's only fair. You’re the third wheel here, after all.”

You shot him a look, but your irritation only seemed to amuse him more. Suguru, ever the calculated one, just took a few steps into the room, his voice a low murmur.

“Is that what you really want, though?”

You hesitated, the weight of his gaze settling heavy on your skin. For a split second, you considered the thought—taking the couch, being left to your own space. But then you remembered the absurdity of the situation.

“Fine, you two share the bed,” you said, trying to maintain an air of calm that you definitely didn’t feel. “I’ll just make do.”

Gojo’s grin grew wider, and Suguru, still leaning against the doorframe, eyed you thoughtfully. His voice, now laced with something darker and more teasing, was just the right mix of sweet and dangerous.

“You sure you don’t want to be closer to us?” Suguru asked, his smile slow, deliberate. “You can always join us.”

You rolled your eyes, trying your hardest to ignore the blush creeping up your neck. “No thanks. I’m good.”

Gojo, of course, wasn’t about to let you get away that easily. “C’mon, don’t be shy. We won’t bite. Well, I won’t bite,” he added, giving Suguru a quick side-eye. “Suguru might.”

Suguru let out a soft chuckle, eyes twinkling in amusement as he slowly pulled the cover back on the bed, clearly making himself at home. You shot him a look of pure disbelief.

“Are you two seriously acting like this right now?”

Suguru ignored you, unbothered as ever, and Gojo wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he was enjoying this. He flopped back on the bed, bouncing slightly before throwing one arm behind his head. “You know, if you wanted to snuggle up, all you had to do was ask.”

You refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, you turned on your heel and walked over to the couch, crossing your arms in the most nonchalant way you could manage—though, in truth, your heartbeat was racing in your chest.

Gojo’s voice carried over to you as you settled yourself uncomfortably on the couch. “You sure you’re okay out there, Shortstack? The couch isn’t the most comfortable place for someone like you.”

You smirked, resisting the urge to glance back at him. “I’ll be fine. Just make sure you don’t fall off the bed, ‘cause you’re the one who wanted to share.”

Suguru’s low chuckle rumbled from the bed. “And here I thought you were the one with no sense of humor. You’re not as stiff as you look, huh?”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “This is the worst.”

Gojo’s grin, the same one that never quite seemed to fade, only grew. “Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be fun. We’ll all make it work. I mean, we’re gonna be stuck together for the next few days, might as well enjoy it, right?”

You shifted on the couch, still trying your best to ignore the way their voices seemed to surround you. The tension in the room was palpable, thick with unspoken things you couldn’t name. It wasn’t just the mission anymore. It was the way their teasing comments lingered, the way they towered over you, the way their presence filled every corner of the room.

You bit your lip, trying to fight off the flush creeping across your cheeks. They might be frustrating, but damn if they weren’t also impossible to ignore.

And that was exactly what made this situation the worst—and also, maybe, the most exciting.

The evening had fallen quickly over the city, painting the sky with hues of dark blue and orange. The tension from earlier in the room hadn’t fully dissipated, but it had been replaced by the warm exhaustion of the mission being over. You had stretched out on the couch, closing your eyes for just a moment—just long enough to take a breather, to let your mind wander.

But the moment you drifted into sleep, you were awoken by the unmistakable sound of Gojo’s voice.

"Princess, wake up," he said, a little too cheerfully. "We’ve got places to be."

You squinted against the blinding light that filled the room from the open window. There they were: both Gojo and Suguru standing in front of you, already dressed in their clothes, their presence too commanding for someone still recovering from a nap.

“What time is it?” you muttered, rubbing at your eyes. Your head felt a little too heavy, still clouded by the remnants of sleep.

“Time to stop napping and start living,” Gojo teased, walking over to you with an almost mischievous grin. “We’re going to hit a bar in Tokyo—mission’s done, and we still have time to kill before heading back. Come on, don’t leave us hanging.”

You groaned, still half-dazed. “A bar? I don’t even have any clothes to—"

“That’s the part we’ve got covered,” Suguru interrupted smoothly, holding up a bag that had been carefully placed beside the bed. He set it down in front of you. “We packed a little something for you.”

You stared at the bag, suspicion flooding your system as you hesitated. “You packed clothes for me?”

Gojo’s grin was wide and almost taunting. “Of course! How could we let our lovely second-year go out looking like she’s just woken up from a nap?”

Suguru, on the other hand, gave you that same quiet, knowing look, his lips curling ever so slightly. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll look great in whatever we chose.”

Your eyes narrowed, still unwilling to fully believe them. “You didn’t pack anything ridiculous, did you?”

“Oh, we did,” Gojo answered with a wink. “You’ll see.”

You looked from one boy to the other, your heart already racing for reasons you couldn’t quite place. But you were too tired to argue at this point—and besides, the prospect of a bar in Tokyo seemed to offer the perfect escape from the stress of the mission and the strange dynamics of your current situation.

“I’ll be quick,” you muttered, reluctantly standing up from the couch and walking over to the bag. You unzipped it slowly, not sure what to expect.

The idea of a night out with Gojo and Suguru was tempting, no doubt. But the prospect of navigating your... complicated relationship with the two boys while surrounded by Tokyo’s night-life made your stomach twist with nervous energy. You didn’t know why the idea of them watching you—teasing you—felt so different tonight. But the playful looks they exchanged earlier only made your pulse race a little faster, and now, here you were, left with a bag of clothes they so thoughtfully packed for you.

You hadn’t really expected much when you’d opened it, but you were definitely surprised by the black dress. It was simple but undeniably flattering, clinging to all the right places. It was a little out of your usual comfort zone, but the moment you slid it on, you couldn’t deny the effect it had on you. It fit like a glove, accentuating your curves, and as you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, your breath hitched.

You hadn’t heard them at first—Gojo and Suguru were already dressed and ready, standing by the door, but the sound of their voices brought you back to the present.

"Princess, are you ready yet?" Gojo’s voice came from the other side of the door, playful, almost mocking. "We can’t leave without you. You’ve gotta hurry."

A faint blush crept up your neck at the sound of his teasing. You were still working on your makeup, your hand trembling slightly as you tried to concentrate on your eyeliner. You hadn’t realized how much their presence had affected you until now, and the attention you were already getting—just from their casual glances and playful comments—was enough to make your heart race.

You finished your makeup quickly, but as you adjusted your hair in the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice the way Gojo and Suguru both leaned against the door frame, watching you. They weren’t hiding it—both of them were staring, their eyes gliding over you like they were savoring the moment.

And gods, they looked good.

Gojo’s dress shirt was a crisp white, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the muscles in his forearms. His usual carefree grin tugged at the corner of his lips, his messy white hair falling perfectly around his face. He always looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine, effortlessly perfect. But tonight, he looked even better somehow. His scent—clean, fresh, with just a hint of something that made your stomach flutter—drifted over to you as he leaned closer.

Suguru was just as handsome, but his approach was different. His black shirt fit snugly over his chest, the fabric stretching over his broad shoulders, his dark eyes gleaming with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He didn’t have to speak to command attention; it was in the quiet way he held himself. And the way he smelled—earthy and warm, like a soft cologne mixed with the slight scent of tobacco—was enough to make you feel all sorts of things you weren’t sure how to name.

You swallowed hard, trying to regain some composure.

“Are you ready, Shortstack?” Gojo’s voice was light, teasing, but there was an edge to it. His eyes lingered a little longer than necessary, and you felt the heat rise in your cheeks once again.

You took a deep breath and turned to gather your things. But as you did, Gojo’s playful voice followed you. “Hurry up, or I might just have to carry you out of here.”

Suguru raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. Look at you.”

Gojo smirked. “I told you, Suguru. She cleans up nice.”

You quickly tried to look away, but you could feel Suguru’s gaze settle on you. “You look stunning,” he murmured, his tone more serious than Gojo’s, but no less intense. “Definitely glad we packed that for you.”

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, but it was hard to stay mad when the air between the three of you was thick with something unspoken. Something that felt like it was just waiting to spill over. You grabbed your things, took one last look in the mirror, and stepped out to face the boys once again.

You gave them both a quick, self-conscious smile. “Thanks.” The word came out softer than you intended, but their constant attention was making it hard to focus on anything else.

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the way your heart was hammering in your chest. “Alright, enough with the compliments. Let’s just get this over with.”

Suguru chuckled softly, that low sound sending a shiver down your spine. “That’s the spirit.”

They were both so close now, practically crowding you, and you couldn’t help but feel the way their presence loomed over you. They had always been bigger—taller, more imposing—but tonight, the tension was palpable, thick in the air.

You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the idea of getting out of this hotel room and into the bustling streets of Tokyo. But as you all stepped toward the door, Gojo’s hand brushed lightly against your back, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

Satoru glanced at you again, his lips curling into an almost imperceptible smile. “You look good enough to cause trouble.”

The way he said it, low and smooth, only made you feel that much more exposed, like the night was just beginning, and you had no idea where it would take you—or what might happen between the three of you.

But one thing was for sure. It was going to be a night to remember.

The bar buzzed with the low hum of conversation, the faint clink of glasses, and the soft thrum of music filling the air. You sat between Gojo and Suguru, the two of them practically towering over you as they leaned in, their attention entirely on you. The dark interior of the bar, lit only by neon signs and dim pendant lights, seemed to accentuate the heat between the three of you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so… exposed.

Gojo had already ordered you your first drink—a bright pink cocktail that looked as sweet as it tasted. Suguru had followed suit, making sure your glass was never too empty. They kept a close eye on you all night, their eyes wandering over you with that familiar mischievous glint. And though their presence was more than enough to keep you on edge, there was something about tonight that felt different. Maybe it was the drinks, the way they’d kept fending off advances from other men, or maybe it was simply the atmosphere—the one where things that had once been so casual were beginning to feel more… intimate.

You could hardly focus on the conversation as both of them leaned in every now and then, their voices low and teasing, keeping the flirtation between you alive. Gojo had a habit of making the smallest comments, his voice light and mocking, but the way he looked at you spoke volumes. Suguru, on the other hand, was quieter, his glances more deliberate, his words slower, as if savoring every moment. Every time he’d catch your eye, his lips would curl up just slightly, like he was enjoying the power he had over you.

"How are you holding up, Shortstack?" Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts. You could feel his body pressing close as his arm slid over the back of your chair, almost touching your shoulders. "You look like you might need another drink," he teased, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck lightly.

You could feel the heat of your face rising, your heartbeat speeding up as he leaned in a little closer. "I’m fine," you murmured, trying to sound unaffected by his proximity. But it was hard to ignore the weight of his presence.

“Fine? Nah, I don’t think so,” Gojo chuckled, pouring you another drink. The sound of the liquid filling the glass was almost too loud, the slight tilt of his head making you acutely aware of his gaze. “You’ve gotta have a good time tonight, y’know. You’re our guest.”

Suguru watched you, his eyes soft but knowing, almost predatory. “I think she’s enjoying herself, Gojo,” he commented, a playful edge to his tone. “You’re just distracting her, like always.” His hand brushed against yours as he reached for his own drink, and you could have sworn you felt a spark at the touch.

You tried to ignore the heat rising in your chest, but it was hard when the two of them were so effortlessly close. Suguru leaned in, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “Besides, it’s hard not to enjoy yourself when you’re surrounded by two handsome men like us.”

Your blush deepened. “I—stop it.” You stammered, trying to focus on your drink but completely aware of how the space between the three of you seemed to shrink with every passing second.

But just as you were about to try and regain some semblance of composure, a man from across the bar sauntered over, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made you immediately uncomfortable. He flashed a smile, completely unaware of the two towering figures beside you. “Hey there,” he said, leaning a little too close for comfort. “You look like you could use some company.”

Before you could even react, Gojo’s arm shot out, effortlessly blocking the man’s path. “You’re a little too close, pal,” Gojo said, his voice low and dangerous despite the lazy smirk on his face. “She’s already taken care of, so why don’t you get lost?”

The guy stumbled back, clearly intimidated by Gojo’s imposing presence, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. He turned to Suguru, giving him a look of challenge. “What, you two think she belongs to you? You can’t just claim her”

Gojo's smile didn't reach his eyes anymore; instead, it was cold, the kind of smile that promised nothing but danger. "I don't think I can. I already have, so why dont you fuck off?." His posture remained loose, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable.

Suguru didn’t even flinch, his gaze steady and calm. “One thing is for sure ” he replied smoothly, his voice a silky whisper. “She certainly doesn’t belong to you, so I’d suggest you step off before we make you.”

The man hesitated, then seemed to reconsider. With a glare at the three of you, he backed off, retreating into the crowd of the bar. You were left with a sense of relief, but also—surprisingly—something else. A feeling of possession, of being protected by them in a way that was... unexpected.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and Gojo leaned in close again, his lips brushing against your ear as he chuckled. “Don’t worry, Shortstack. We’ve got you covered.” His voice was so casual, yet there was a hint of something darker beneath it.

Gojo casually swirled the drink in his hand, flashing you a look of reassurance, though the amusement still danced in his eyes. "You don’t have to worry about guys like that." He raised his glass to you, the playful glint in his eyes returning. "Not when you’ve got us around.”

Suguru didn’t say anything, but his fingers grazed the back of your hand, and the look he gave you spoke volumes. He wasn’t angry, just... satisfied. And the way his fingers lingered there, just for a second too long, sent another wave of heat through your body.

The atmosphere between the three of you had shifted once more, the protective nature of the boys now taking center stage. The tension was still there, palpable, but there was a subtle, deeper understanding that lingered in the air—a silent acknowledgment that tonight, you weren’t just a guest in their presence. You were theirs to look after, and no one would dare come between that.

Geto’s voice broke the silence as he grinned mischievously, that familiar carefree energy returning. "Now, how about we forget about that loser and have a little fun, huh?"

But even as he said it, Suguru's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, something darker and more intent flashing in his eyes before he looked away with a quiet smile. There was no more teasing in his voice now. It was just the quiet certainty of a man who knew exactly what he wanted—and that tonight, you were a part of it.

You couldn’t help but laugh, though the tension still simmered in the air. It was like everything was slowly starting to shift—the jokes, the teasing, all of it suddenly carrying more weight. The night was just beginning, and as the boys took their seats back beside you, the reality of the situation slowly began to sink in.

It wasn’t just a night out anymore. It was a night with them—and somehow, you weren’t sure how much more of this teasing you could take before you gave in to the attraction you were trying so hard to ignore.

The night seems to stretch on, the air between the three of you thick with an intoxicating mixture of alcohol and unspoken intentions. The bar has started to quiet down a little, leaving you, Gojo, and Suguru in a cozy, dimly lit corner booth. The buzz of the crowd and the clinking of glasses fades as the attention in the room becomes drawn solely to the three of you.

Gojo’s gaze hasn’t left you since the awkward interaction with the other guy. It’s almost unsettling how intense it is, that smile of his never fading—yet it’s darker now, more calculating. His eyes flicker between your lips and your eyes, a knowing glint dancing in them.

“So, You gonna flirt back?” he asks, his voice teasing, his finger tracing the rim of his glass idly. "Or are you letting us do all the work tonight?” He’s giving you that playful challenge, and the way he says it feels like a dare.

Before you can even answer, Suguru’s voice slides in from your other side, smooth and almost coaxing. “She doesn’t need to answer that,” he says with a smirk, leaning in just a little, the scent of his cologne—warm, woodsy, and faintly spicy—invading your senses. "The question is, what would you do if we decided to spoil you a little more tonight?” His voice dips lower as he lets the words linger, making it clear he’s not just talking about drinks anymore.

Your stomach flutters, your pulse quickening despite your best efforts to stay calm. They’re practically taking turns pulling you in, weaving their words like a careful trap. And you’re in it, stuck between them in a way you don’t quite know how to escape. Or maybe you don’t want to.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they’re both sitting. Gojo, as always, is close enough to brush against your side with the slightest movement, his long legs stretching across the booth like he owns the entire space. Suguru, on the other hand, remains a little more composed but no less overwhelming. His hand rests on the edge of the table, close enough that his fingers are mere inches from your own.

You try to focus on the conversation, but it’s impossible. They’re both watching you, waiting for your reaction, and the constant pull between them is starting to feel like an endless game. A game you never agreed to play but are somehow already losing.

Suguru leans in a little further, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this. We’re here for you, after all.” His words are teasing, but there’s an edge to them—an underlying current of something darker.

You feel a shiver run down your spine as your face flushes. "I—" you start to speak, but the words catch in your throat.

Gojo cuts in before you can finish, leaning over, his lips just a little too close to your ear as he adds, “You’re cute when you get flustered. But you’ve been doing this all night—trying to act like you’re not interested.” He chuckles softly, the sound rich with amusement. “We both know better, don’t we?”

Suguru grins, clearly enjoying the way your face turns even redder. “It’s funny,” he says casually, his voice rich with playful arrogance. “You think you can hide it from us, but we know exactly what you’re feeling.”

It’s suffocating, the way they speak to you—so confident, so sure. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to pull away. You can’t even look away. The way they hover over you, leaning in just enough to make you feel small and breathless, it’s like they’ve wrapped you up in a web of their own making.

Gojo, noticing your silence, tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “What’s the matter, princess? Too shy to admit you like the attention? Come on, we won’t bite,” he teases, but his voice holds that knowing lilt, like he knows exactly how you feel.

Suguru leans back in his seat, but his gaze is still laser-focused on you, watching your every move. “We can take it slow,” he offers with a raised brow. “But we both know it’s not really about that. You want this—just as much as we do.” His smile is almost predatory, but there’s still that warmth, that care that lingers in his tone.

Your breath hitches, caught between their words and the heat building in your chest. You wish you could escape the intensity of it all, but there’s no way to. They’ve drawn you in, and now you’re at their mercy, just as much a part of this as they are.

Gojo’s finger taps lightly on the edge of his glass, drawing your attention once again. “You still haven’t told us what you want,” he teases, his voice a soft, persistent tug on your nerves. “So, let’s make this easy. Do you want us to keep the night going, or are you too shy to keep up?”

Suguru doesn’t even wait for an answer, leaning in once more and catching your lips with his eyes. “You don’t have to answer right away,” he murmurs, his voice calm yet daring. “But we’re both getting impatient.”

It’s too much, too close, and the teasing undercurrent between them is almost palpable. And now you’re stuck, caught in the web of their attention, unable to say anything but let yourself be swept along by their ever-increasing energy.

You’re trapped—and it feels so good.

The door clicks shut behind you as the three of you enter the hotel room. The air is thick with anticipation, the weight of the night’s flirtations following you inside. It’s a quiet room, but the tension is palpable, humming in the space between you.

Before you can even take a breath, both of them are there. Gojo’s hand finds your back, pressing you gently but firmly toward him, while Suguru is right beside you, his fingers brushing against your arm like a whisper of heat. Their proximity is overwhelming, and the alcohol still courses through your veins, making everything feel just a little more intense, a little more exciting.

“Had enough of the crowds?” Gojo murmurs, his voice low, eyes glittering behind those dark shades he hasn’t bothered to take off yet. It’s a teasing question, but his smirk says he already knows the answer.

Suguru’s gaze is steady, but there’s something there, something that makes your stomach flip. “Think you’re ready for some quiet time?” he asks, his voice so smooth it feels like velvet on your skin. His hand brushes across your hip, sending a shiver up your spine.

You feel like you’re caught between them—enticed, but unsure. It’s all so overwhelming, yet thrilling.

Before you can gather your bearings, Gojo steps closer, tipping your chin up with his finger. The heat from his body radiates off him, his lips barely a breath away. “You’ve been a good girl tonight, haven’t you?” His voice drops lower, a hint of challenge in it.

Suguru, always in tune with Gojo, leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “He’s right, you’ve been so good, letting us treat you like this.” His breath is warm against your skin, and you feel that same flutter in your chest that’s become all too familiar.

The room is thick with desire, and for a moment, the world outside of this hotel room feels miles away. There’s no more playful banter now, just an unspoken understanding between the three of you that tonight is something different.

Gojo moves first, the gentle touch of his hand on your neck sending a spark through your entire body. Slowly, deliberately, he presses his lips against yours, soft at first, as though testing the waters. The kiss deepens, and you feel his hand slide to the back of your neck, anchoring you against him. You can’t help but melt into it, the tension of the night finally snapping, leaving only the heat between the three of you.

Suguru’s hand moves to your waist, pulling you in closer as he places his lips against your temple, his warm breath a soft contrast to the intensity of Gojo’s kiss. You’re surrounded, engulfed in warmth and longing, and for a brief moment, it feels like nothing else matters.

When Gojo pulls back, his lips leaving yours with a faint trace of a smile, Suguru is there, his eyes dark, a satisfied glint dancing in them. “Told you, didn’t we?” he murmurs softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a promise of something more, something unspoken but undeniable.

“Knew you were going to end up like this for us” Suguru murmurs into you skin, he lips kissing gently across your cheeks until he reaches your lips, snatching them up in a kiss. His kiss is different to Gojo’s, gentler. Still with the bubbling undertone of want that flowed through the air.

You were hot, and definitely drunk, but you weren’t so sure it was from the alcohol anymore. Their kisses addictive.

Slowly the men managed to shift you through the room, never removing themselves from your body. Small steps guiding you towards the bed as they set you down, sitting either side of you, kissing their way down your neck. It was overwhelming in the best way possible, it was like all your senses where hyper focused on Gojo and Geto. Goosebumps prickled over you skin as they made their way down your neck. Still in sync, but each of their movement carry characteristics of each men. Gojo moved quicker, more eager. Not leaving a single patch of skin on your neck un-kissed. Nipping and biting at the skin as he went. Geto was slower, taking him time to litter kisses all over, stopping momentarily to suck on certain spots on your neck. Settling on the sweet spot right near your pulse point that had you moaning breathily.

Geto’s hand was the first to touch you, his hand resting on your knee, caressing your thigh, Gojo was next, his hand travelling further and further up your leg teasingly. Both of the men listening intently to your reactions to their touches.

Your head tipping back allowing them more access to ravage you skin with marks, Gojo’s kissing travelling further down towards your breasts, kissing the skin that poked out the neckline of your dress. His hand dancing daringly close to where you needed it. Further and further up your thigh until it ghosted over your panties. His hand gathering the material of your dress.

The sharp gasp you let out telling all the men they needed to know as they pulled away from your neck. You were speechless. Both of them unbuttoning the shirts they had on, and as fucking amazing they looked with them on, they looked even better with them off.

The air in the room is thick with the remnants of the kiss, your heartbeat still racing in your chest as you try to steady yourself. Gojo and Suguru are standing there, shirtless, their broad chests and toned muscles on full display. They move with such confidence, it feels almost like they’re daring you to react. And you do—because, despite yourself, you can’t look away. It’s like you can still feel them on your skin, its burning from their touch.

Gojo, ever the cocky one, leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are locked on yours, a lazy grin curling on his lips as he surveys you from head to toe. “Still catching your breath, huh?” he teases, voice dripping with amusement. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart. It’s cute when you’re flustered.”

Suguru sits on the bed, his posture relaxed, but his eyes burn with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. He’s got that knowing look on his face, the one that says he’s completely in control of the situation, and the fact that you can’t help but notice only fuels his confidence. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve been staring at us, sweets,” he says, his voice low and purposeful. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to look. Just don’t forget, we’re used to being the center of attention.”

Gojo chuckles at Suguru’s words, his grin widening as he takes a step closer. “That’s right. But don’t worry, we don’t mind sharing,” he adds, his voice light but with that edge of something darker, something more calculated. “After all, you’ve been a little shy tonight, haven’t you? Hiding behind your cool exterior, pretending like you’re not into us.”

Suguru stands up, moving toward you with the same fluid, predatory grace that’s become second nature to him. His eyes never leave you, his smile never faltering. “But we see through that act, princess,” he says softly, stepping into your personal space. “We know what you really want. You can stop pretending now.”

Gojo follows, closing the gap between you with his signature cocky swagger. He leans in just enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, his presence overwhelming. “You’ve been teasing us all night, haven’t you?” he murmurs, his voice dropping low. “You know what you’re doing. Playing hard to get. But we’re not the type to let you get away with it for long.”

Suguru’s fingers graze the side of your arm, sending a shiver down your spine as his eyes flicker to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “You’re not the only one with patience,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But even we have limits.”

Gojo laughs, the sound rich and low, a teasing note laced through it. “It’s alright, sweetheart. We get it. You’re just waiting for us to make the first move, right?” His finger lightly brushes your chin, lifting your face so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “Well, you don’t have to wait anymore.”

Suguru steps closer, his breath warm on your neck as he leans in just enough for you to feel his presence. “You’ve been looking at us all night,” he murmurs, his tone full of heat. “And now, you’re going to get exactly what you want.”

Their words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, their proximity making it harder and harder to think straight. Your breath catches in your throat as they tower over you, teasing you with their words, their bodies, and their shared understanding of the game you’re all playing.

It’s almost as if they’ve been waiting for this moment, for you to crack, to let go of the wall you’ve built around yourself. And with every passing second, it’s becoming harder to resist the pull they’re creating.

You know what they’re doing, but somehow, it only makes the tension more unbearable.

They are the first to move, Satoru sitting on the bed, pulling you so you sat in his lap, your back pressed against his muscular chest. You went to protest, confusion on your features but Suguru is beating you to it

“Shhh sweets, just relax for us” Us. As much as you didnt want it to, that turned you on. You allowed Satoru to manhandle you into his lap as Geto positioned himself between your legs on the bed. Holy fuck, this was way to erotic for your mind to handle.

Satoru’s long fingers swiped their way down to your breasts, kneading the soft flash over the material of your dress. Your pink lips being brought between your teeth, you couldnt help but bite on the flesh, trying to stifle your moans. That didn’t’ t last for much longer however, when you glanced down to see Suguru peeling your panties down your thighs, his eyes glued onto your dripping entrance. You had never felt so vulnerable before, but it wasn;t uncomfortable. You just couldnt believe you were revealing yourselves to them like this. Your mind was cut shirt, not given the chance to over think and Gojo slips your tits out of your dress. Pulling the material down and allowing them to spill out. A light moan leaving his mouth as he plays with the skin.

“Damn baby, can’t believe you were hiding all this from us for so long, you’re so pretty.” He whispers, his lips tickling your ear as he spoke. His words resonating deep within you, prickling your skin as his touch never ceased.

“Fucking perfect” Suguru echos, agreeing with his friend. He sounds a lot more… feral however, his mouth hovering so close to where you needed him, but he wasn’t going to just dive in. He had to savour this moment. His fingers pulling at your skin gently, admiring your already slick folds, shining in the dim light of the room. Quietly groaning to himself as your writhed under his touch. It was so light, bordering on teasing.

He couldn’t stop himself from running a finger through your folds, gathering your slick on the tip, before bringing the digit up to his lips, and sucking slowly. All while never breaking eyecontact with you, teasing fuck.

You whines pathetically, you were sure why, maybe to beg for more, maybe because of satoru’s fingers rolling your nipples so cruelly. Or maybe that fucking look Geto was giving you as he sucked his fingers clean.

“You even taste perfect sweets.” He groaned out, almost like he was expecting this. He wasted not a second more, large hands gripping your hips, pushing the material of your skirt over your hips before diving in. He tried to start of slow - he really did. Taking little kitten licks, that then turned into thick stripes. But that wasnt enough, he wanted you to suffocate him, he didn’t want to be able to think about anything else but that sweet little cunt you had been hiding from him.

You couldn’t help but cry out in shock, your hand trying to grasp at his hair. Geto did the best he could to hold you still, recieving no help from Gojo who was too busy playing with your tits and chuckling at the noises you were making.

“F-Fuck! Suguru” You yelp, his tongue never slowing in its movements. He was devouring you, using his hands to push your further down onto his face.

He was already covered. Your slick dripping down his face as he moved messily. He didnt even care, he wanted it so bad. His nose bumping against you clit with each sloppy kiss he left against you cunt. Sucking on your pussy so happily. Groaning as you tugged on his hair so sweetly trying to get him to slow down. That was never going to happen

“Relax sweetheart, jus’ let him make you feel good, hmm?” Gojo whispered to you, pressing a sweet kiss to your head as you moaned out. God it was good, it was too good. The way you were the centre of attention was making your head spin. Satoru trailing hot kisses down your neck as he squeezed your nipple, loving the way you cried out from overstimulation. “Fucking love these tits”

You coul do nothing but just lie there and take what they were giving to you. Just accepting the way they were sharing you between them. Gojo was trying to calm you, cooing in your ear so sweetly, like he wasnt part of the reason tears of pleasure were brewing in your eyes. You must have looked a mess you thought, but to Satoru, you had never looked more perfect. Glossy eyes, puffy lips and his marks all over you. And god your tits, they were teasing him all night, poking out of the top of your dress like they were begging to be released. He moaned as he fondled them, his hands cupping them with a hunger. The way your nipples perked as soon as he got his hands on them, he never wanted to forget this sight.

You could already feel your orgasm building, you had never cum this quick before. That delicious sensation building in your abdomen as both them men continued their attacks on you. Suguru had been pretty silent in comparison to Gojo’s constant rambling. The only noises you could hear was crude slurps and groans. You wriggled in his grip as your orgasm approached, the pleasure increasing with each swipe of his tongue.

“Satoru - ahh - sugu-“ You were trying so hard to form a sentence, not sure who you were trying to talk to.

“Awh you close already baby. Didn’t take long.” Gojo’s syrupy voice rang out in your ear once again, and you could swear the sound was pushing you even closer “You hear that Suguru, she’s close. Should we let her cum?”

Panic flies through you, they wouldn’t stop you right? You’re so close! Oh god please, they couldn’t

For the first time Suguru poked his head up, his fingers replacing his tongue, swirling over your puffy clit.

“M’ not sure. She’s been teasing us all night, don’t think she deserves it.” He grinning at you, smug. His face glistening with your slick as he speaks. That image you wanted to live in your head forever. Stray strands of hair floating in his face, gos he looked fucking angelic.

“True, she’s not been a very good girl for us” Gojo responds, and you can hear the shit eating grin in his voice. It was like they couldn’t hear your desperate whines. Discussing you as if you weren’t being destroyed by them both in that very moment, Gojo’s hands still massaging you tits as he shared a grin with Geto

“Not sure if I can keep away from her sweet little pussy though, she’s calling me back already.” The squelching of your soaked cunt floating through the room.

“No no no- Please!” Yo couldnt stop yourself from begging. They couldn’t leave you teetering on the edge like this, you needed to cum. Needed them to make you cum. “Please! D-Don’t stop!”

“What was that sweets? Please what?” Geto glances at you, that stupid smirk still gracing his features. He wanted you to beg, it was written all over him.

All the previous fight in you had gone, you didn’t have it in you to resist them anymore. “Please- make me cum! Fuck- need it”

“She even used her manners” Gojo chimes in once more, you’d slap the sarcastic bastard if he wasn’t making you shiver right now “You need it huh? How bad?”

“So bad ‘Toru! Please” Hoping the white haired man would show you some mercy.

“Oh yeah? What about me?” Suguru’s fingers dropped from your begging cunt, and your eyes snapped to him in a silent plea

“You too sugu, need you both.”

“There we go” And that smug grin between your legs was the last thing you saw before your eyes screwed shut. They were keeping you on the edge. But now, nothing could stop your orgasm from hitting you, hard.

You weren’t even sure what you were saying, screaming out both their names in a broken symphony, mixed in with a string of curses as your came. Your legs fucking shaking around Geto ‘s head, but that didn’t stop him. He was riding out your high along with Gojo, who was talking you through it so sweetly.

“Oh good girl, feels good huh?”

Whining was the only thing he got in response as the pleasure wracked your body. Practically quivering as your soaked Geto’s face.

Stupidly, you thought they might give you a second to recover, you were wrong. You were still laying there panting as Gojo was manhandling you once more. It was like you weighed nothing to him. He was careful with you as you mewled. Turning you over, picking you up and helping you onto all fours, facing the end of the bed.

“You ready for round 2?” Geto ‘s face appeared in front of yours as he asked you softly, stroking your slightly damp hair. Your legs were still quivering as you tried to catch your breath. Your fucked out eyes lifting to meet his. You nodded quickly, not trusting your voice. He couldn’t help but chuckle

The men had swapped sides now, Gojo now placing himself between your legs as Geto was at your front. When you saw the dark haired man towering over you, you understood your current position. The kind and gentle look in his eyes moment ago, now replaced with something darker, hungrier.

You stared shamelessly as he unzipped his trousers, hearing Gojo do the same from behind you on the bed.

It was a good view you couldnt deny, his muscles defined by the low lighting, you stared at the vines in his arms popping as he rid himself of his trousers. His v-line teasing you as he pulled down his boxers. But nothing beat the sight of what came next. His cock sprung free, his hand stoking it slowly as his eyes never left you face. He was big, you had no idea how you were going to fit that in your mouth, and if Gojo was anything similar, you were in serious trouble

“Don’t look so nervous baby, we’ll be gentle” Suguru soothes, but the look in his eyes tells you the opposite.

“I don’t know Suguru, I want to break this pretty pussy in half” Gojo drawls, mesmerised by the sight before him. Your puffy pussy glistening, inviting him in. His hands tracing over the skin of your ass, squeezing the flesh. Before giving it a slap, watching as red splotches grace the skin.

“Be nice Satoru” Geto warns him, but you can hear the smile in his voice

“I always am…” That was a lie. You knew he was mean, just by the way he was rubbing his weeping tip through your folds.

You whined at the sensation, still overly sensitive from your orgasm just seconds ago. Suguru’s hand rested on top of your head, drawing your attention to him

“You ready?” He asked once more, making sure they weren’t pushing you too far. But to you, it wasnt enough. “Yes” your voice rang out, hoarsely

“Good, now open.” The command was simple, and you followed it eagerly. Your tongue lolling out as you waited for him.

Slowly he lined himself up with your mouth, resting his heavy tip on your tongue as he slid in, inch by inch into you. That gentle hand on your head now gripping your hair as he fucked your mouth, his hips slowly rocking back and forth as he was kind enough to give you some time to adjust.

“No fair, we should’ve started at the same time” Gojo complained from beind you but Geto was far to occupied to care about Hi childish complaints

He laughed out dryly “shut up Satoru”

Satoru didnt even bother to respond, too busy sinking his cock inside of you, he was less slow that Geto . Eager to be wrapped inside of your welcoming walls. The groan that left him was sinful as he fully sheathed himself inside you. He paused like that for a moment, breathing deeply, before his hips snapped into you again, and again, and again.

You moaned around Geto’s cock, being cut off each time he hit that back of your throat. Both the men still in sync as per usual, their thrusts following the same pace as they destroyed you. Your dress still scrunched around your middle, your ass completely out, along with your tits.

Gojo’s hands on your hips, using them to pull you back into each thrust, ensuring he was hitting as deep as he could each time. His shakey breaths could be heard over your shoulder, broken up by shuddering groans

“Shit- you weren’t lying sugu, this pussy-“ Gojo was struggling to keep himself together, struggling not to get lost in your body as he rambled on. He was watching himself, watching as he entered you pussy with such ease, watching as yout tried to suck him back in each time he pulled out. He was in heaven.

“Told you- s’fuckin’ perfect.” He gritted out. He was trying not to bully himself into the back of your throat, but god. You were taking him so well. Your eyes watering, stray tears falling down your face as he moved. Doing you best to suck his soul. Every now and your voice vibrating against his cock as you moaned. You while body shaking as your arms tried to support yourself.

Veins popping all over his flawless skin, poking through his hands as his grip on your hair never faulters, using you as an anchor to ground himself, trying to hold back. Veins bulging in his neck as he strains, doing everything he can to not cum early, he wants to enjoy this for as long as he can. But with how hard he’s been all evening, he doesnt know how he is going to last like this. The way your tongue glides up and down his shaft, tracing over the jagged veins that run up his base. The noises you make every time he hits the back of your throat. Those hollowed cheeks, wrapped around him so perfectly.

He couldn’t quite believe his luck, having you beneath him so sweetly while you allowed yourself to be shared between him and his best friend. Him and Satoru had always spoken about this, on nights where it was just them, sharing a beer. When they were discussing their classmates and the conversation would fall onto you. At first they would joke about you, how you could be a bit of a brat. Always whining at their jokes, nagging them. Then Satoru made a comment about your body, and the conversation took a turn. Discussing how they would share you, how tight you would be for them, how you would sound when they got their hands on you, what you would let them do to you. To say it was better than they imagined would be an understatement. Both men going home after that evening with an achingly hard cock, that conversation putting an imagine in their mind that they couldn’t escape.

Satoru was doing no better than Suguru in trying to keep himself in control. In fact he was finding it incredibly difficult. His hands never stopping, grabbing, caressing and stoking any part of you that he could get his hands on. The skin of your ass prickled with red and pink marks from where his large hands had been getting rough with you. Hand shaped prints on both your hips from where he had been gripping you so tightly. This was better than he had imagined, all those nights spent with his hand around his cock could not compare to how you felt right now. How natural it felt to be inside you. He never wanted to leave. You didnt want him to either. His cock repeatedly hitting that sweet spot inside of you, you could hardly control the noises you were making, despite them being muffled by Suguru’s cock.

Finally Satoru ‘s hand found your clit. Gentle ghosting over the puffy bundle of nerves at first, fingertips getting coated in you juices. You jolted forwards at the sensation, every part of you feeling so sensitive to his touch. Geto choked out a moan, you sudden movement causing you to take him deep, your nose brushing against the skin on his stomach. Gojo did it again, a smile on his face. One more you let out a muffled yelp, moving away from his hands, trying to escape the stimulation.

“F-fucking hell- think she liked that.” Suguru chokes out. He’s getting too close now, and your sudden movements forward aren’t helping him

“Oh y-yeah? That feel good sweets?” One again his cruel fingers roll over your clit, applying more pressure this time. If you weren’t getting some of the best dick of your life you would make fun on the stuttering men, but you weren’t exactly keeping your composure either. This time however, gojos other hand was wrapped tightly around your waist, stopping any escape plan you had, forcing you to seat there and take what his was giving to you as you screamed out pathetically around Geto’s cock.

“Nuh-uh, don’t run from it. Just take it baby.” He’s cooing at you, and you obey. Succumbing to the pleasure. His fingers moving in fast circles around the bundle of nerves and you feel like youre going to explode. Your legs shaking, your hips trying to buck away from his movements, but your stuck there as he impales you on his cock. Once again you can feel an orgasm building, quickly and sharply in your stomach. Hot tears continuing to roll down your cheeks, dragging your makeup of the night with them.

“That’s it, let it out baby.” Geto spots the tears, stroking them gently from your face, his actions contrasting the harsh thrusting of his cock in your mouth

And there not much you can do to stop your orgasm as it crashed over you. Fucking wrecking you.

Eyes squeezing shut tightly as you convulse, unable to still yourself as you clench tightly around gojos cock. You cum hard, juices flowing around Gojo’s cock, overspilling around the edges and coating his abdomen as his thrusts never stop. Both of the men moaning as they watched you, you looked absolutely stunning like this, completely falling apart beneath them.

Your loud moans vibrating down Geto ‘s shaft, and he cant stop himself. He cums down your throat, his hips pushing as deep as they can into your mouth as thick ropes of cum trickle onto your tongue, you swallow it down greedily without a second thought, still sucking when he’s done. His harsh breathing and cut off moans letting you know he’s finished

“Fuck-“ he curses with a groan as he pulls out from your mouth. Watching you gasp for air now.

Gojo still hadn’t stopped, his hips punishing you even after your second orgasm. Your arms couldnt take it anymore, buckling underneath you leaving your face planted into the mattress as you scream out. The overstimulation so good it almost hurt.

“Easy Gojo, be gentle.” Geto pants out, watching his best friend basically fuck the life out of you. Satoru had gone silent now, purely focused on chasing his release that was ever nearing.

“A-almost done baby.” He gasps out as you squeeze him “hafta cum in this sweet pussy”

And cum he did.

His hips stuttering as he fucks his cum deep inside you. Hot spurts of white coating you walls as he fucks himself deeper and deeper. Releasing with a broken groan. His legs almost shaking just like yours

Pulling out and staring in awe as his cum drips out of you, trailing down your puffy folds in elegant drops.

You didn’t end up needing to sleep on the couch that evening, the bed fit all three of you perfectly fine, especially when you were wrapped up in their arms for the whole night. You werent sure what this meant for you from now on, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care after tonight

Principal Yaga’s office was dimly lit as usual, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting shadows on the piles of documents and mission reports. You stood before his desk, flanked by Satoru and Suguru. The air in the room felt heavier than usual, though you suspected it had less to do with the mission and more to do with the recent... developments between you and the boys. You were here to go over the end of mission report

Yaga leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together as he looked over the three of you. “Well, I’ve got to say, you handled that mission well. Minimal collateral damage, objectives met, and no major injuries.” His tone was gruff but approving.

“Of course we did,” Satoru said, his signature grin plastered on his face. “You’re looking at the dream team here.”

Suguru chuckled beside you, his voice smooth as always. “It helps when you’ve got the strongest second-year on your side.” He shot you a look, the corner of his mouth quirking up just enough to make your pulse quicken.

You fought to keep your face neutral, your fingers tightening slightly at your sides. The tension was suffocating.

Yaga narrowed his eyes, clearly picking up on the strange energy in the room. “Something’s different,” he muttered, his gaze flicking between the three of you. “Usually, you two can’t stop bickering. And now you’re practically glowing with camaraderie. What gives?”

“Oh, you know…” Satoru began, his voice dripping with mischief. He stretched his arms behind his head, his casual posture doing nothing to hide the smug glint in his eyes. “We just… found some things to bond over on the trip.” His eyes flitting over to your with a knowing wink.

Suguru hummed in agreement, crossing his arms as he leaned against the desk. “Yeah, turns out, spending a few nights together can really bring people closer.” His voice was calm, but his smirk was anything but innocent.

Your stomach flipped as Yaga’s eyes narrowed further, suspicion practically radiating off him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing!” Satoru waved a hand dismissively, though the grin splitting his face betrayed him. “We’re just saying, you throw three people in a high-pressure situation, and sometimes… sparks fly.”

Suguru let out a low laugh, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “It’s teamwork, Yaga. Pure, unadulterated teamwork.”

You cleared your throat, desperate to regain some semblance of normalcy. “Right. We just worked really well together, is all. Nothing to… overthink.”

All you could do was think, think about what happened, their hands on you. You could feel your face flushing, clearing your throat as you tried to regain composure

Yaga stared at you for a long moment, his brows furrowed, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Whatever. As long as the job’s done, I don’t care how you got along.” He rubbed his temples as though already regretting his decision. “Dismissed.”

The three of you turned to leave, but not before you caught the shared glance between Satoru and Suguru, their eyes gleaming with unspoken amusement.

As the office door closed behind you, Satoru leaned down, his voice low and teasing in your ear. “See? Told you we’d sell it.”

Suguru smirked, his hand brushing against yours as you walked. “Though I think Yaga might still have questions.”

Your face burned as you quickened your pace, ignoring the way your heart betrayed you with every beat. What on earth had you gotten yourself into?

218 notes · View notes

rottencherrypie · 1 month ago

Text

R-18+; Positions

Summary - The favorite positions of some of Middle-Earth's finest royals...

Warnings - Smut, language, fem!reader, afab!reader, mention of male genitalia (characters), mention of female genitalia (reader), missionary sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (reader receiving, Fili and Legolas give), facesitting, implied squirting, mention of bodily fluids, cowgirl position, mention of breasts (reader), sub/dom dynamics, implied dom!Reader, implied sub!Kili (he finds a way), praise kink (Kili), slight dirty talk (various characters), slight sensation play, doggystyle position/bent over, voyeurism (Thranduil stop fucking the reader in front of guards), slight dark!Thranduil, slight dom!Thranduil, slight sub!Reader, kneeling, slight dark!Legolas, dom!Legolas, lowkey mean!Legolas, implied brat!Reader, oral sex (Legolas receiving), fingering (reader receiving), slight powerplay (if you squint), possible dumbification (if you squint), implied punishing, cum eating, and maybe more (I might have missed some).

Pronouns & POV - She/Her, third-person

Pairings - Thorin x Reader, Fili x Reader, Kili x Reader, Thranduil x Reader, Legolas x Reader

Word Count - 3,800+ (I got carried away at some parts)

A/N - This is from my suggestion box which I had posted on Instagram (I will add the suggestion box here too eventually), the person who sent in this suggestion requested to not be tagged but I still wanted to thank them for their suggestion! This is more headcanon-like, so it varies a bit in length each section. I did attempt to give some plot based roughly around the suggestion given! There is only the header image in this post because Tumblr would not save the draft with the gifs I attempted to add, so I apologize for that! Reader is implied to have tits and an ass large enough to jiggle, soft hair, and I believe plump lips. Smut below!

Read on AO3 Read on Wattpad

-thorin

Missionary. The dwarven king of Erebor is a man of routine. Whether intentional or nonintentional routines, they are a part of the raven-haired man's life.

He was a simple dwarf, viewing routines and structure as the utmost importance as it was there to prevent chaos—or as much chaos that was preventable within Middle-Earth, which appeared to be close to none.

The dwarven king's love for routine touched all aspects of his life, including the more intimate aspects of his bed.

It was not an intentional routine, but rather a formed one caused by stressors—something he often cursed, but in this instance would thank as it had led him to many pleasurable nights.

It was made gradually, the first few nights of the king's reign after the battle were particularly stressful. He found himself restless, tossing and turning within the fur bedding as his beloved lay beside him—lacking an equal amount of rest due to how the bed shook with each toss of his sturdy form.

So, to settle the king's mind—and to make the bed creak with something other than displeasure—the queen motioned for him to crawl onto her. It was a mere tired curl of a finger, yet the king knew what she was requesting; and what his beloved wanted, she got.

The thickness of his cock slowly split open her tired, wet walls. The weight upon his shoulders eased as the weight of his cock eased into her, a mixture of relief and exhaustion danced upon his face as his hips began to rock at a steady speed. The toned flesh of his hips met against the plumpness of her arse as he slowly wrapped her legs around his waist, allowing his tired cock to carve deeper into her walls.

An act which slowly drifted into nothingness, as the dwarven king soon fell asleep with his head in the crook of her neck after the heat of his seed flooded into her drenched core—coating the walls of her womb with a fresh painting of white.

As the stressors of the crown became more frequent, so did the nights of the queen's comfort. Though, at times that comfort extended into the daytime during particularly frustrating elven visits.

The all too familiar sight of the dwarven king climbing on you filled your view, yet the shade of his sapphire-colored eyes had dimmed with darkness reserved for the elven king of Mirkwood. You were aware of how much the pair despised one another, how their feud over who was owed what had led to death and devastation—yet, you had little time to dwell upon the past as the thickness of the king's cock pushed into your core.

The weight of your head fell back against the smoothness of the pillows, as the weight of your chest lifted upwards slightly, allowing your back to arch and your dwarven lover to gain further access within the warmth of your walls as he pushed into you. The bones of his hips snapped against the flesh of your arse with a rough fury, the slapping of skin meeting each other echoing throughout the room as his darkened eyes peered into yours.

The dwarven king would never vocalize it, but he loved watching the subtle reactions your eyes held as he pounded into you. He loved the ways your eyelids would flutter when he grazed your most sensitive spot, how you would go slightly cross-eyed when you neared your peak, and the way your eyes glistened with tears when he had pushed you to the breaking point one too many times.

Your reactions were routine, and the dwarven king needed routine just like a fish needed water or a wolf needed to hunt. You were his routine, and he needed you like he needed air to live.

──────

-fili

Facesitting. The golden-haired prince was far more free when it came to routines, unlike his uncle. The prince found routines constrictive.

Though he was the heir to the throne, the eldest prince of Erebor preferred to have freedom in his life. He wanted to joust with fellow warriors, to drink ale and dance, and to be free to slip away to breathe whenever he desired.

Yet, his yearning for breath seemed far distant within the realms of his quarters. As much as the dwarven prince enjoyed his pleasures, he favored pleasuring his beloved above receiving his own.

A fact that left you taken aback when the prince had confided in you that he found giving pleasure far more rewarding than receiving it; you had stood there for what had felt like ages to the poor golden-haired dwarf as you blinked mindlessly at him. Had you been dreaming? A man who wished to pleasure another rather than receive it?

"Are you jesting?" The question was quickly met with an amused snort from the prince; the corners of his lips curved into a lopsided grin as his thick, calloused hand cradled the side of your face. "I'll have you know that I take eating cunt very seriously, my love." The dwarven prince promised you.

A promise he showed swiftly.

It was not exactly perfect the first time—though, no first time truly was perfect—but it was unlike anything you had experienced prior. You were not a pure maiden, you had your fair share of lovers before the golden prince, and he had some prior flings as well, yet none of your previous lovers had ever been so eager to feast upon you before.

The prickle of his bearded face sent shivers down your spine as his lips hungrily sucked upon the wetness of your cunt. His hands tightly gripped your thighs, keeping you steady upon his face as his thick tongue lapped up the entirety of your cunt as he devoured you like a starved man with a meal.

Your thighs quivered around the sides of his head as you attempted to hover above him, worried he was not receiving enough air as he drowned himself in the wetness of your core. His skilled tongue delved into your crevices, lapping up every drop of your sweet, pure nectar as he snarled in pleasure.

"Sit on me." The heat of his words caressed your throbbing cunt, making it twitch from the arousing sensation. "But—" Before you could begin your protests, the golden-haired prince tugged you down upon his face.

A surprised gasp fell from your lips as the prince dipped his tongue into your core, happily spelling his name upon the walls of your core as his hairy face ground into you—drenching his beard and mustache with your essence.

The soft prick of his nails would dig into the plump flesh of your arse as his calloused hands held you steady, ensuring that the fullness of your weight would not leave his face until he made it so.

He would continue to feast at you, rocking your hips as he continued to swirl his tongue around your walls. Occasionally, he would slip his tongue out of you, allowing his lips to encase your pretty little bundle of nerves—hungrily sucking upon your throbbing clit until your sweet squirt gushed down upon his face, soaking his beard with your juices before he delved his tongue back your twitching core.

He would drink you like water—and if he had it his way, he would drink you more than he drank water.

──────

-kili

Cowgirl. The youngest prince of the Misty Mountains, Prince Kili, was not the most presentable royal of the line of Durin.

It was not a matter of his looks, though many would claim he was prettier to elves than he was to dwarves: it was a matter of his maturity. The younger prince was reckless, finding pranks and training far more entertaining than the duties of the dwarven courts.

Or, that is what he would claim when asked of his wavering sense of duty. The truth was that the young prince required guidance.

He yearned to be told what to do. The brunette prince despised how he had to ponder decisions, wondering if he would make the proper one or if he would make a fool of himself in the process; he preferred being told what to do and when to do it.

A yearning that had trickled into his nights of passion as well.

You were a breath of fresh air for the dwarven prince. The hopeless romantic of a dwarf thanked his lucky stars each night with you, as you were always to the point and told him verbatim what you wanted from him—and he was more than happy to oblige.

When you had first told Kili of your preference to be on top during sex, it was like a whole other world had opened up for him. He was not necessarily a virgin, but he was not the most experienced of his kin either. He had a few messy encounters that left him feeling less than satisfied and embarrassed.

Regardless of how hard the dwarven prince had tried, sex never felt right to him before his first night with you.

His honey-colored eyes bore up into your gemstone-colored ones, pupils dilated with affection as he watched you climb on him. The roughness of his calloused hands would encase the softness of your hips, lightly holding onto them as you lowered yourself onto his throbbing cock. The sensation was new to him, the warmth of your walls gripped him in all directions as the wetness coated him entirely as you began to glide on his length.

The bed creaked and groaned with each motion of your hips, his gaze falling from your eyes and onto the flesh of your chest which bounced and jiggled with each motion you made. He was utterly entranced.

A soft slew of moans would fall from his lips, the weight of his head tilting back against pillows beneath him as you continued to pleasure yourself upon the thickness of his cock.

"Fuck, please thrust up, Kili." A request the dwarven prince would eagerly comply to, his hips thrusting up to meet the plumpness of your ass each time you lowered it down upon him. "Just like that. Good boy."

Good boy. A simple name that further fueled the dwarven prince into abiding by your commands, doing everything within his power to please you in and out of his bed in the hopes of being called that delicious name once more.

And a good boy he was.

The dwarven prince was more than eager to please you. Never touched himself without your approval, nor did he touch you without approval—even now as he stared at your pretty breasts as they jiggled in front of his face, bouncing tauntingly as you bounced upon his aching cock.

His balls were filled to the brim with seed, becoming nearly painful from their fullness yet he did not dare release a single droplet without approval from his beloved. He simply lay there, allowing his cock to be used as a device of pleasure for the woman he loved most as she continued to coat the throbbing, aching length with her essence.

"Fuck...that's a good boy." The purred praise of your pleasure would cause the dwarf's cock to stir within your walls, desperately twitching for release. "Alright, alright. You've waited long enough." Your chuckled words would quickly turn to moans as the prince's hips began to thrust up.

His aching cock carved its way deep into your walls, hitting the most special spongy spot within your core in a repeated pattern—as if he was trained to give you pleasure even as he chased after his own. The prince would manage to milk a final orgasm out of you, the essence of your pleasure dripping down and coating his filled balls before he emptied his seed deep inside of you.

The weight of his body sank back into the plush bedding beneath him, as the corners of his lips would curve into a lopsided grin as your soft hands caressed the roughness of his stubbled face while you cooed soft praises to him.

He needed guidance, but he sought it most from you.

──────

-thranduil

Doggystyle. Unlike his dwarven counterparts, the elven king of Mirkwood found solace in his busy schedule.

Where some found stressors in royal life, the elven king found peace and comfort. He would never vocalize it, but he found the hustle and bustle within his daily duties as king soothing.

Perhaps it was how quickly everything transpired, never allowing him a moment to dwell upon the past and all the mistakes that lay dormant within it. Or he sought the chaos of life while others shrunk away in fear of it. Regardless of what it was, the elven king found himself entranced by things done quickly—and this extended into the realms of his chambers.

Though many elves were romantic by nature, playing sonatas of their love for one another, writing endless poems, and spending a tedious amount of time courting, the king of Mirkwood was rather forward.

He saw no point in the pleasantries of courting. After all, he was king of Mirkwood—in his mind, he had done more than enough just by holding that title. However, the king was wise enough to never vocalize his opinions on the matter, as he bit back any snide remark he had on the matter with a bitter grin as he focused on what was important: you were his.

A fact that was well-known to all within the woodland kingdom, as the sounds of your pleasure were ever-playing throughout the twisted halls. Morning, noon, and night. A tune that none could forget, one which the elven king seemed to orchestrate whenever he caught a guard's gaze lingering upon you for a moment too long.

The position was like second nature to you, engraved in the very cells of your body after so much time together with the elven king. Your arse was up in the air as your chest was pressed firmly against the smoothness of the silk sheets under you while the elven king slowly entered you. His thickness parted your wet walls, wetness you were ever thankful for, as the elven king did not seem to give you a moment of breath before his hips snapped forth, meeting the plumpness of your flesh.

His motions were sharp yet poised and precise.

The thickness of his length would delve deep inside of you, as his slender hands would grasp upon the plumpness of your rear. A grasp tight enough to hold you in place, ensuring that your hips never dropped as his thickened length continued to carve into your inner walls, yet loose enough to allow your ass to jiggle as his hips bounced off of it.

The elven king loved watching your ass bounce, it was something that left him hypnotized. The sight of your sweet, plump flesh reacting to his possessive thrusts allowed the weight of his days to melt away—as well as the anger he held towards that damn guard.

The cries of your pleasure would be muffled, either by a pillow or the very sheets you laid upon, as the elven king would lean forward—adding more of his weight into each harsh thrust of his hips.

Yet, there were times when you could not muffle the sounds of your pleasure—even when you desperately yearned to.

At times, the elven king enjoyed proving a point to those he caught with lingering gazes towards you. He would instruct they fetch you from your shared quarters, insisting they bring you to his throne room for something of urgency. And like a good servant to the king, they would.

Within the blink of an eye, you were bent over the twisted throne—your hands desperately clawing at the variously curved wooden throne as the elven king hoisted up your skirts; your dripping cunt on display for all to see, including that damn guard.

The elven king's motions would be swift and fluid, his cock buried deep within your wet, welcoming walls, yet his gaze would not be upon the plumpness of your arse. Instead, his cold, pale sapphire gaze would be locked upon the armored man who dared gaze upon you for too long.

His gaze would be piercing, never leaving the other man as the bones of his hips would snap against the plumpness of your ass, making each thrust sharper than the last—ensuring the swollen tip of his cock would hit against the most pleasurable spongy spot within you.

As your cries of pleasure danced throughout the air, it carried a weight throughout the woodland halls. A reminder to all those who inhabited them that the elven king moved swiftly, and could have you just as swiftly.

──────

-legolas

Kneeling. Due to the ever-changing nature of Middle-Earth, there were very few within it that gave the elven prince a sense of control.

Perhaps it was the nature of irony: a prince who believed he lacked control, heir to a throne yet yearning for more. His logical mind reasoned with this sensation, rationalizing it as nothing more than a search for stability amongst the most recent chaos within Middle-Earth. Yet, the emotional sphere of his mind yelled that it was for something more.

It was a thirst that the elf could not quench nor ignore.

The yearning within him was further than matters of the mind; it felt as if it was in his blood and bones. An unspoken birthright, one burned deep into the very essence of his being—he craved, no, he needed control.

And he found that control in you.

You were one, if not the only, consistency in the elven prince's life. Regardless of what transpired within the woodland realms—or realms outside of it—you were always there, waiting within the secure walls of his chambers, eagerly awaiting him upon the plush bed.

To him, you were a beautiful little doll. His perfect little plaything, the one he adored and showered with affection and treasures. He ensured that you were never left yearning—unless you had been bad that is.

On the days you were good, the elven prince would pull you to the edge of the bed, kneeling between the plushness of your thighs before he buried his smooth face between them. The wetness of his tongue would caress the outerness of your entrance, as the fullness of his slender fingers delved inside of your core.

As the fullness of his fingers would stretch your inner walls, carving and curving into the most pleasurable spots within your textured core, his eager tongue would lap up any droplet of your sweet nectar his fingers would push out. The squelching click of your damped cunt would echo throughout the air, accompanied by your soft mewls of pleasure as the elven prince took his time pleasuring you.

He was precise and calculated with each stroke of his fingers: he knew the inner workings of your cunt better than he knew the back of his hand—knowing exactly which sensitive, spongy spot to press into to make your sweet thighs tighten around the sides of his head. How fast to pump his fingers within you to make your breath hitch from pleasure, and when his lips needed to wrap around that sweet little clit of yours to make you drench his hand—and forearm—with your juices.

But on days when you were bad, or life merely felt bad to the prince: it was you who knelt.

His slender fingers, the ones that once gave you such immense pleasure, would be tangled within the softness of your hair. The grasp he held upon your head depended upon the circumstances of the day—but more often than not, it was firm.

The fullness of his cock would push into your mouth, tainting it with the bitter, salty tang of his precum as he would sink in as far as your throat would allow him—stopping when the vibrations of your gag would echo on his thickened length. Slowly, he would puppet your head upon his cock, making it bob back and forth as he slowly sunk more of his cock into your throat until the plumpness of your lips met the flesh of his abdomen.

"That's it, pretty girl." The elven prince would coo, his sapphire gaze boring down upon you, watching as the thickness of him forced the saliva out of your mouth—stained the faintest hue of white from the mixture of his precum—watching as it rolled out of the inner corners of your mouth and down your chin. "Such a messy little thing." He would continue to puppet your head at an increasing speed, the bones of his hips meeting the flesh of your face as he jutted his hips into your mouth; ensuring he was as deep as he could be within it.

If you had been particularly bad, then he would hold your head firmly in place—thrusting in your mouth at a quickened pace, allowing the weight of his balls to bounce upon your chin, coating them with the sticky mixture his cock forced out of that pretty mouth of yours. As you would cough and gag at the sensation, the elven prince would simply shush you. "Ah, ah, ah," He'd taunt, a purposefully harsh thrust making his balls slap against your chin as he held you steady. "you had such a nasty mouth earlier, why not keep it nasty?" He'd coo, one filled with fake care and compassion—a taunt at your previous actions as he continued to fuck your throat until he painted it white with his seed.

But on the days when you were good and the world was bad, he was far more tender.

Though his grasp remained firm and his thrusts a bit rough, the elven prince was not punishing you. With each gag, cough, or whimper that vibrated upon his cock—he would pull back until the throbbing tip rested upon your plump lips. "That's my pretty girl, such a good girl for me." He'd praise, a hand dropping from the back of your head to softly caress the side of your face until you gave the okay to continue.

A slew of pleased praises would fall from his lips as he fucked your mouth, the weight of his head tilting backward as his grasp remained firm on the back of your head. "I'm going to fill your mouth." He'd gasp out, the tips of his nails digging into the back of your head as his hips stuttered into your mouth. "Swallow it and I'll give you anything you want, my pretty girl." And he did, the warming rush of his salty seed would flood your mouth—making you down it with a choked gag, yet it was still done.

The elven prince would continue to praise you for being a good girl, his good girl, as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The tightness of his grasp dropped from the back of your head, one hand meeting the side of your face to return to the earlier caress as the other wiped away the remnants of his previous actions from your lips—giving him a sense of control as he came down from the highs of his pleasure, the same control he had once sought after.

──────

Want to read one part at a time? Read separately on AO3

Thorin, Fili, Kili, Thranduil, Legolas

Want to read it as book chapters? Read separately on Wattpad

Thorin, Fili, Kili, Thranduil, Legolas

#thorin x reader smut #thorin x fem!reader smut #fili x reader smut #fili x fem!reader smut #kili x reader smut #kili x fem!reader smut #thranduil x reader smut #thranduil x fem!reader smut #legolas x reader smut #legolas x fem!reader smut #the hobbit smut

272 notes · View notes