#fic: nothing left of you (series) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

witchywithwhiskey · 3 months ago

Text

another man’s marks

pairing: toxic!bucky barnes x toxic!female reader

summary: you're texting with your situationship when he asks for a nude photo—but you're covered in marks left by another man. wanting to see what he'll do, you send a photo of yourself, and you're rewarded with a very torturous and enjoyable reaction.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), established situationship, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering (f receiving), masturbation (m), come play, bdsm elements, a lot of biting and marking, orgasm delay, choking, some breath play, some pain play, some dacryphilia, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink, degradation kink, pet names (baby), begging, teasing, some aftercare, taking and sending nude photos, possessive behavior, toxic behavior, jealousy, referenced but not shown situationship between reader and john walker, very anti-john walker behavior

word count: 7.3k

a/n: so this post came across my dash and i had the thought 'ok but what if you sent a situationship a picture covered in another man's marks?' and i started thinking about how toxic situationship bucky might react and then i wrote the first draft of this fic very quickly 🤭 i actually really love toxic bucky but i'm a little nervous to share this because i just want you all to love him as much as i do 🥺 (and, actually, he's not as toxic as i originally intended but y'know what, that's ok i think). i hope y'all enjoy ♡

you ain't my boyfriend and i ain't your girlfriend series masterlist

Let me see your tits, baby.

The text message drew a huff of noise from you, one that was half laugh, half scoff. You were laying in bed, already wearing your pajamas—an oversized tee and panties—and catching up with your situationship, Bucky Barnes, before you went to sleep.

His request wasn’t entirely out of the blue. After asking how your day was, Bucky had started complaining about his day, and you’d known the man long enough to know those kinds of conversations often led to him asking you to send a photo of yourself—though he usually wanted a picture of what panties you were wearing.

Most of the time, you didn’t hesitate to take a picture to send to him. But that time, you paused.

You liked Bucky. You liked talking to him and hearing about his day, and when you were together, you had fun. Plus, you liked sending photos of yourself to him, and you enjoyed the fact that he wanted to see your body when he wasn’t with you. It stroked your ego when he asked for a photo, and he always responded with filthy praise that turned you on.

But that particular night, you had a problem preventing you from simply taking a photo. And, really, the problem was partly to blame on Bucky.

From the beginning, he’d said he didn’t do relationships, he’d told you he wasn’t ready to commit to just one person. He’d been clear and up front about what he wanted, and it was nothing more than a situationship, which was fine with you. You liked him, but you weren’t going to beg for more.

But you’d also decided that if he wasn’t going to commit to you, then you certainly weren’t going to clear out your roster just for him. You weren’t going to be one of those girls sitting at home pining away for some guy. Not even Bucky Barnes.

Which, in a long, winding way, led to your current predicament.

After all, there was a difference between Bucky being vaguely aware you were still hooking up with other guys—since you occasionally referenced your roster—and him seeing the evidence of it. And you had to wonder how he’d react if you took a picture of your tits in the state they were that evening…

It had only been about a day since your last hookup, and your mind wandered to the night before. You’d met up with one of the other guys on your roster, John Walker, and had a decently enjoyable dick appointment. You hadn’t expected Bucky or any of the other men on your roster to ask for pics, so you’d let John do what he wanted to your body.

If there were two things you knew about John Walker, it was that he and Bucky hated each other, and he loved your tits. John loved playing with them, he loved sucking on them, and he loved leaving hickeys all over them. Which he’d done the night before—and then proceeded to give you a not very satisfying orgasm.

Sure, it’d done the trick in the moment, but not even 24 hours later, you were already restless again, your body needing a proper release, which you knew Bucky could give you. But you weren’t planning to see Bucky for at least a couple days, not until the evidence of your hookup with John had faded.

Lifting your shirt, you looked at John’s handiwork. Your tits were dotted all over with at least a dozen tiny little love bites, and your body warmed as you remembered the knife-edged pleasure that came along with each little mark. They were so recent, the bruises were still reddish, not having yet fully faded to a dark purple.

As you looked at them, you had a devious thought—what would Bucky do if he saw John’s marks on your body? Would he blow you off, stop talking to you, maybe even ghost you? Or would he need to see you so badly that he’d come over to your apartment? Would he fuck you and give you the release you needed?

Thinking through your options, you knew it would be the kind, respectful thing to send Bucky an older photo, one of your tits when they were entirely unblemished. You had plenty of photos like that on your phone—and Bucky probably wouldn’t even notice if you sent him the same photo twice.

Or… You could send Bucky a photo of your tits covered in another man’s hickeys. You could, if he asked, tell him exactly who had given you all those hickeys. And then, you could see what Bucky would do about it.

A wicked smile crept across your face as you came to a decision.

Lifting your shirt again, you arched your body toward the light in your room, making sure the marks were clearly visible on your skin, then you snapped a photo of your tits. Before you could talk yourself out of the idea that was probably toxic and definitely a little mean, you sent the photo to Bucky.

His reply was almost instantaneous.

Who the fuck did that to you.

You bit back your mischievous giggle, even if you were alone in your room and there was no one to hear the evil way you wanted to cackle at Bucky’s response. Excited thrills raced through your veins, warmth blooming between your thighs at the anger laced in his text message.

You knew you’d be pushing him further toward anger by answering his question—you knew how much Bucky and John hated each other—but he’d asked. And besides, you were hoping he’d take out all that anger on your body in the most delicious of ways. So you sent a simple response.

John Walker.

You waited for Bucky’s response.

And waited.

But as the minutes ticked by and Bucky didn’t text back, your heart sank more and more, and the delighted smile on your face flattened into a frown. You began to think Bucky might actually be ghosting you.

For only a moment, you let yourself feel disappointed at the way your phone didn’t light up with another text from your situationship, but you wouldn’t allow yourself to be sad over a man like Bucky Barnes. Even if he fucked you way better than John Walker or any of the other guys on your roster. Even if you liked him more than any of the other guys you’d been with.

Hauling yourself up from your bed, you went through your nighttime routine, brushing your teeth and washing your face while listening to music. It wasn’t until you were about to slip into bed and go to sleep that your phone buzzed with a new text message.

Your heart lept into your throat when you saw it was Bucky and you scrambled to read his response, eager to know what had taken him so long. Your breath caught in your throat and excitement buzzed wildly through your veins when you saw what he’d written.

I’m outside. Open your door.

A shiver of anticipation zipped down your spine as you bounded out of bed, an ecstatic grin spreading across your face at the realization that you’d got what you wanted—Bucky was at your apartment. And he was going to do something about the photo you’d sent him.

It took all your self control not to run to your apartment door and fling it open excitedly to greet Bucky. Instead, you forced yourself to take your sweet time padding to the door, your movements deliberately lazy as you unlocked it and swung it open.

Bucky Barnes loomed on the other side, his head hanging between stiff arms, his hands braced on either edge of the frame like he was holding himself back from kicking down your door. His broad shoulders were bunched up, his short, brown hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it. His chest was heaving as he breathed harshly.

When he lifted his head, the stubborn possessiveness in his darkened blue eyes slashed right through to your heart. He’d never looked at you that way before, and you had the terrible, fleeting thought that you could get used to being the only girl Bucky looked at so possessively.

For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other. Then, Bucky stalked forward, crowding you into your apartment and gathering you up in his strong arms while he kicked the door shut behind him. It closed with a rough slam that had your pulse skittering in your veins, your heart already pounding in your chest as Bucky crushed you in his arms.

His gaze held yours and there was something about the emotions swirling his eyes, a mixture of uncompromising possessiveness and lustful determination, that felt dangerous. Not to your body, but to your heart.

“You got a lotta nerve sending me a picture with another man’s marks on you,” Bucky growled as he walked you backward toward your bedroom, his hands groping your hips and ass like every inch of your body belonged to him. “You weren’t trying to make me jealous, were you, baby?”

His words were a furious hiss that he punctuated by ducking down and snapping his teeth at your plump lower lip, biting you roughly enough to wring a gasp from your lungs. Between your thighs, you could feel your pulse pumping needily, your body aching for so much more of Bucky’s rough treatment even as you forced yourself not to cower and submit like you wanted.

Pushing against Bucky’s shoulders until he leaned back and you could catch his eye, you quirked an eyebrow at him in a dry expression of amusement.

“You’re a big boy, Bucky,” you said, before pausing to run your tongue along your lower lip, feeling the tender spot he’d bitten. Dark satisfaction swirled in your chest, but you made yourself shrug indifferently. “And I’m not your girlfriend—so if you’re jealous, that’s your problem, not mine.”

“You let him mark you,” Bucky snarled, an accusation in his tone as he stared deep into your eyes.

For a moment—just a brief moment—you saw a hurt look in Bucky’s gaze, and it pricked at something deep in your heart. Something you refused to look at or examine, especially not with Bucky standing right in front of you. You didn’t want to think about the fact that Bucky might’ve been hurt by your actions, or that you cared about his feelings enough to want to apologize.

But you supposed you could take pity on him. You’d tormented him enough for one night.

“Yeah,” you said, cocking your head to the side, a sly smirk curving your lips. “And what are you gonna do about it, daddy?” You practically purred the final word, knowing how Bucky would react to it.

Just like that, the hurt vanished from Bucky’s expression and heat sparked in his icy blue eyes, a menacing smile pulling across his face.

“You wanna see what I’m gonna do about it?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Oh, baby, you’re not fucking ready for what I’m gonna do to your pretty little slutty body.”

Bucky crowded into you, pushing you backward until your legs hit your bed, and then he was shoving you down to the soft blankets. You crawled backward into the center of the bed while Bucky toed out of his shoes and took off his jacket, leaving him in only a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants.

Once he’d tossed his jacket somewhere in your room, he didn’t waste anymore time, prowling onto the bed and using his hands to push up the hem of your oversized tee. His head fell to your body, his teeth nipping harshly at your soft belly to make you squeal and squirm as he worked his way up. He delivered the same treatment to the curves of your brests and the delicate skin of your collarbone.

When his face finally hovered above yours, his breathing was harsh and his expression was filled with a determination so stubborn, you knew you were going to have a long night while Bucky showed you why you shouldn’t let another man mark your body.

“You’re not leaving this bed until you’ve got so many of my fucking marks on your body that you won’t even think about sending nudes to anyone else,” Bucky growled, tugging off your tee, pushing your legs open so he could settle between them, and descending on your tits.

He found the first of John’s marks and sank his teeth into the skin around it, sucking hard on the already aching bruise. The spot gave a little twinge of pain from Bucky’s rough treatment, but it only mixed deliciously with the pleasure he was dragging from your body, and your fingers threaded into his hair, clinging to him while he sucked on your skin.

Bucky worked the reddish-purple blemish relentlessly with his mouth and teeth until it was bright again, and so much larger than the mark John had left. Then, when he was done, Bucky moved on to the next hickey, scraping his teeth over the bruise and wringing a helpless cry from your lips before he sucked the curve of your tit into his mouth.

It went on like that for you didn’t know how long, Bucky working methodically down and across your chest, sucking and biting every bruise John had left behind on your body until each one was replaced with a new, bigger mark.

If you begged Bucky for more—or tried to push his furious mouth down toward your pussy, which was throbbing almost painfully with need—he’d simply narrow his eyes at you, giving you a look like you’d known exactly what you were getting yourself into when you’d sent that photo to him. Then he’d work his mouth even harder, even more roughly against your body, until you were tossing your head back into your pillows and moaning your pleasure.

By the time he was done, you were nothing more than a whimpering, pleading mess beneath him. Your eyes were filled with tears of desperation, and your inner thighs were sticky with the sheer amount of desire soaking your panties and coating your trembling flesh.

“Daddy, please,” you begged on a sob, shoving at Bucky’s shoulders to get his attention as he roughly kissed a spot in the valley between your tits, licking and sucking a new hickey into your skin.

At the sound of your ragged voice, Bucky lifted his head, but you could already tell by the determined glint in his eye and the stubborn set of his jaw that he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted just yet.

“Hush, baby,” he rasped in a dark, patronizing tone, lowering his mouth back to your chest and sucking on the hickey he’d just left. “Daddy’s just getting started marking your beautiful body with all the pretty little bruises I want.” His voice was a rough growl that reverberated beneath your skin.

Between your thighs, you could feel more of your desire trickling into your panties, which were already soaked all the way through and sticking to your clammy skin. A whine worked its way up your throat and spilled from your lips before you could stop it, your legs squirming around Bucky’s sides, trying to grind your cunt against his body but unable to get the angle right.

While you wriggled frustratedly, Bucky paid you no mind, shifting down your body as he picked a spot for his next mark. When his teeth sank into the soft flesh of your belly, you cried out, arching up off the bed and spreading your thighs wider to make room for Bucky’s broad shoulders.

Your fingers twisted in his soft brown hair, trying to push his head down further, until it was between your thighs, whimpering a soft sob of, “Bucky, please.”

But Bucky was having none of it. Despite your pleading and protests, he took his time, only peeling your panties away from your soppy wet cunt after taking his time leaving a trail of hickeys on your belly.

When he saw how wet you were, Bucky chuckled and murmured, “Such a messy little slut, baby.”

He’d said the words fondly and, if you weren’t mistaken, there was affection in the curve of his smile that had you feeling something you didn’t want to look at too closely. But your treacherous heart beat a little harder all the same.

Then his words sank into your lust-soaked mind and heat bloomed in your face at the gentle degradation. But what little shame you could conjure up only mixed with the burning of your desire as you stared down into Bucky’s darkened eyes, holding his gaze while he took off your panties and tossed them somewhere in your room.

He turned his focus back to the juncture of your thighs, shoving your legs wide open and smirking when you let out a helpless little moan at the feeling of the cool air brushing against your heated, dripping cunt. You were so worked up, you could feel your inner muscles clenching around nothing, needing to be filled with something.

“Your pussy’s winking at me, baby,” Bucky rumbled, laughter in his voice as he spread your pussy open with his fingers. You could feel it, your body winking at the man between your thighs like you were begging him to slide inside you—his fingers or his cock, you didn’t care. “She wants me bad, doesn’t she, baby?”

Bucky’s taunting words had you covering your face and letting out a low, tortured groan even as your hips twitched, your body yearning desperately to be filled, to be fucked. “Bucky,” you whined, drawing out his name pitifully as your hips bucked into his hands, seeking more of his touch.

But Bucky didn’t oblige your body’s request. His hands skimmed away from your pussy and along your thighs to hold you behind your knees, pushing your legs up to your chest so you were bared fully to his heated gaze. When you peeked out from between your fingers, you saw him staring hungrily down at your cunt, but at your movement, his gaze flicked up and caught yours.

“Do ya want me that bad, baby?” Bucky purred, ducking down to nuzzle his scruffy cheek against your inner thigh—so close to where you needed him, but still too far away. On instinct, your hips bucked upward, trying to press your pussy against Bucky’s face, but he held you down, grinning as he went on. “Ya want daddy’s fat cock to pound into your cute little cunt, huh, baby—want it hard and rough so you’ll be feeling me in your pretty pussy for days?”

“Oh god yes—yes, please, Bucky—daddy, please, I need your cock,” you babbled desperately, your hips squirming as you humped the empty air, seeking any part of Bucky that you could grind your aching cunt against. You didn’t care if it was his mouth or his cheek or his shoulder, you needed something.

Instead of giving you that, though, Bucky turned his face and sank his teeth deep into your thigh, hard enough that your pussy pulsed violently and you thought you were going to cum. But you didn’t.

Once the blinding sensation of pain and pleasure passed, you knew you wouldn’t manage to tip over the edge just from Bucky’s teasing. You weren’t going to cum until he finally paid attention to your pussy, and somehow you suspected Bucky knew that.

“Tell me how bad you want me,” he growled, sucking on your skin and beginning to leave a new mark on your inner thigh. His gaze was locked on yours as he stared up your body, past your heaving chest that was already littered with his marks, commanding you with the stubborn, possessive look in his eyes to do as he said.

“Want you so bad, daddy,” you cried, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a bitter autumn wind. Tears of frustration and need were pooling in your eyes again and you knew that if Bucky kept edging you for much longer, they were going to spill down your cheeks. “Want you more than anything—anything—please just fuck me!”

Bucky’s eyes glittered, the possessiveness is his gaze deepening and turning into something feral as he stared up your body. Finally, his mouth pulled away from your quivering thigh—after he placed one last affectionate kiss on the mark he’d left.

“Tell me you want me more than John fucking Walker,” he spit out, shifting his head to your other thigh and sinking his teeth into your soft flesh as he held you pinned to your bed with his thick biceps wrapped around your legs.

Your heart fluttered in your chest and your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected to get such a reaction out of Bucky when you’d sent him that picture of your tits with John’s marks all over them. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. Not when he was looking at you like you were his while he sucked yet another mark into your skin.

“I want you so much more than him,” you murmured. “I want your marks on me, I want your cock and your cum in me—I want you, Bucky.”

The words tumbled from your lips—the ones Bucky had demanded—and you were more than a little surprised by the vehemence in your voice, and how easy it was to admit you wanted Bucky more than John.

Sure, you’d known he was a better fuck than John, but things with Bucky felt right in a way they didn’t with any of the other men on your roster. Like the two of you fit together somehow.

And that scared you. It scared you enough that you rushed on, forcing yourself to raise an eyebrow at Bucky and muster a dry tone as you asked, “Is that what you wanted to hear?” You could detect the hitch of emotion beneath the taunting tone of your voice, but with any luck, Bucky wouldn’t.

Thankfully, he seemed not to notice, responding to your words by growling into the soft flesh of your thigh, his eyes narrowing into a glare. He gave the hickey he’d sucked into your skin one last pull, then pushed himself up.

Before you could beg again for him to fuck you, Bucky roughly grabbed your hips and flipped you over. His teeth sank so hard into the plush curve of your ass, you screeched into your pillows. There was more pain than pleasure that time, but Bucky knew the edge you liked to walk and he didn’t give you more than you could handle.

As it was, even more wetness flooded between your thighs and you writhed beneath Bucky’s big body, all the small stinging aches of the marks he’d left blending with the pulsing throb of need coursing through your veins. It was enough to break the damn of your tears and you sobbed into your pillows.

“Bucky, please, please, I need your dick,” you cried, straining your neck to look at him over your shoulder.

Bucky’s dark blue eyes were narrowed into slits and when he finally pulled his teeth from your ass, he continued glowering at you, looking grumpy and almost entirely unbothered by your pleas. You knew he wasn’t entirely unaffected, though, because his cock twitched against your thigh when he saw your tear-stained face.

“Tell me you won’t do it again and I might consider giving you some dick,” he growled, holding your gaze as he ducked down to lick and soothe the bite mark he’d left on your asscheek.

“I won’t send you another picture covered in John’s marks, I promise,” you rushed to say, arching your back and whining. Your body was moving on its own, trying to present your pussy to Bucky, but he only scraped his teeth over the mark he’d left in your skin.

“Not good enough,” Bucky grumbled, shifting to your other cheek and sinking his teeth into your ass, giving you another bite mark. When you hissed at the pain, Bucky relented, stroking his tongue over the spot as he sucked on your skin. “No one else gets to mark you but me.”

You had to look away to hide the way your eyes rolled at that demand. Bucky wouldn’t commit to you, but he wanted you to promise you wouldn’t let another man mark you. Fucking men. You glared into your pillows, not saying anything and hoping he’d drop it if you didn’t respond.

He didn’t.

“Say it, baby,” Bucky growled, leaning to the side and slapping your ass. He managed to hit the exact spot he’d bitten, which was tender from his teeth and mouth, making you cry out. “Say I’m the only one allowed to mark you.”

“Men who aren’t my boyfriend don’t get to make demands like that, James,” you snarled, turning to glare at him over your shoulder.

The two of you glared at each other for a long minute. You knew Bucky could be stubborn, but you could be much more stubborn when you wanted to be—and you fucking wanted to right then. If Bucky thought you were going to let him dictate what you could or couldn’t do with other men while he refused to commit, he had another thing coming.

Slowly, Bucky shifted up onto his hands, climbing up your body with the languid movements of a predator until his bigger form covered your smaller one.

Still, you glared at each other.

His hand pushed his sweatpants down until his cock bounced free, the stiff length slapping your ass lightly. His precum immediately started leaking into the valley between your cheeks, and your pussy pulsed in desire.

Still, you glared at each other.

“Say it, or you’re not getting my dick,” Bucky rumbled obstinately, pushing his stiff length between your thighs to drag against your dripping wet slit.

You sucked in a sharp breath and arched your back, giving him more of your pussy to rub against—but that didn’t mean you were going to submit to his ridiculous demand. And he wasn’t going to turn you into a liar.

“Say you’re my boyfriend, or you’re not getting my pussy, daddy,” you retorted, putting as much mocking sarcasm into the nickname as you could manage.

Bucky’s eyes flashed with so much annoyance, you couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that curled your lips, which only made his face contort in even more frustration.

His hand reached between your thighs, pressing his cock deep into your slippery folds until the head caught at your tight hole. But he didn’t push inside. Instead, he let the tip slide through your folds to grind against your clit.

Need and desire pounded an unceasing drumbeat beneath your skin, your hands curling into fists in your blankets as you bit back a desperate moan. But you didn’t let your face go slack with pleasure, you kept right on glaring at Bucky over your shoulder, even as he repeated the motion, teasing your tight little pussy with the head of his big cock.

Finally, something in Bucky snapped and he ducked down, capturing your mouth in a savage kiss, his lips and teeth attacking yours until both of you were breathless with need. You were practically vibrating with it beneath Bucky’s big body, and even his arms were trembling when you blinked your eyes open as he pulled away.

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me, baby,” Bucky rumbled, his voice so low and gravelly, you felt its deep tenor roll down your spine and settle deliciously in your core. As he spoke, he tilted his hips just the right amount and pushed the head of his cock into your dripping hole, making both of you groan in pleasure.

“Right back at ya, daddy,” you quipped at him, your voice embarrassingly breathless as you clung to the blankets of your bed and arched your spine, pushing back into Bucky as he pressed forward.

It took one long, glorious moment for Bucky to sink the full length of his cock inside your drenched, sopping wet pussy, and you nearly blacked out at how good it felt after so long of his teasing torture.

He was bigger and thicker than any man you’d ever been with—though you’d never in a million years admit that to him—and it was always a little overwhelming when he first slid inside. But you loved it. You loved the way your body stretched to fit him, the way you could feel your pussy wrapped so snugly around his thick length. You loved the way you could feel him throb and twitch inside you, especially when he was close to cumming.

And you could tell by the way his cock was twitching inside your tight hole that he was already close. That was good, because after all his teasing had worked you up, you didn’t think you were going to last long anyway.

Bucky gave you a moment to adjust to his size while he yanked his t-shirt over his head. Then he was pressing his bare chest to your back and pushing you deeper into the soft blankets of your bed until you lay prone beneath his strong body.

Only then did he pull his hips back, making you feel every delicious inch of his thick cock, before slamming inside again. Wrapping his arm underneath your neck, he tucked his bicep beneath your chin and held you pinned to his chest, forcing you to arch your spine more and feel the way his hips clapped against your ass as he pounded into you.

“I’m the only one who can fuck you like this, baby,” Bucky growled in your ear, grinding his cock into the depths of your cunt until you were whimpering beneath him. “You’re daddy’s good little slut, and only daddy can fuck your pussy the way you need it, isn’t that right?”

“Yes—yes, daddy, you fuck me so good,” you cried out, hands scrabbling at the bed sheets for leverage to push back into him.

“Tell me what I want to hear,” he demanded harshly in your ear, the words sinking into the deepest parts of your brain.

A twisted smile curled the corners of your mouth because you knew exactly what Bucky wanted to hear, and you were only too happy to give it to him. It was safer to admit what you were about to admit because it was the heat of the moment, and you hoped Bucky would think you were just saying it to make him happy. Only you could know that you meant every word.

“You fuck me so much better than John, daddy,” you purred, pushing your hips back into Bucky’s thrusts, forcing him deeper into your cunt until you were so full of him, you thought he was imprinting himself on your very being. “Your dick feels so good, so big, daddy—you’re the only man who fucks me so good, Bucky, you’re the best dick I’ve ever had. ”

“Fuck—fuck, baby,” Bucky bit out, his mouth brushing against your cheek, his stubble rasping against your skin and making you shiver. He fucked you harder, faster, rutting into your slick cunt like he was trying to leave another mark inside you. “Rub your clit for me, wanna feel you cum on my fat cock.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You slid your hand between the blankets and your body, slipping it between your thighs and circling the tight nub of your clit with a viciousness that matched how Bucky was fucking you. Your inner walls clenched down hard on Bucky’s cock, dragging filthy groans from both your mouths as he pushed deeper and began grinding inside you.

“Your pussy feels so fucking good,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “Never felt anything so tight.” He let out a harsh breath, his forehead falling to your shoulder as he kept up his relentless fucking, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of your release. “Feels like you’re choking my cock, baby—I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Choke me, daddy,” the words tumbled from your lips before you could stop yourself, the deepest recesses of your brain responding to Bucky’s words in a plea for one of your darkest desires.

Bucky’s bicep and forearm squeezed the sides of your neck instantaneously, giving you what you begged for and cutting off some of your air so you were forced to gasp for every little breath. You pussy squeezed tighter around his cock, wringing a rasping chuckle from the depths of his chest.

“You’re such a filthy, depraved little slut, baby,” Bucky murmured teasingly in your ear before nipping the shell with his teeth, dragging a ragged cry from your lips. “Ya like it when daddy chokes you, huh? Bet John fucking Walker doesn’t choke you like this, does he?”

“No,” you gasped, your voice hoarse but genuine as you admitted, “He’d never choke me—he’d never treat me like a slut.”

“That’s fucking right,” Bucky growled, somehow managing to fuck you even harder, his hips snapping into your ass so hard, you could hear the sharp clapping of his skin against yours even over his heavy breaths panting in your ear.

“I’m the only man who can fuck you like you need it—dirty and rough. That’s how you like it, isn’t it, baby—you like being fucked like a slut?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, as much in response to Bucky’s debauched question as to the feeling of his cock pounding into your cunt. You were so close—so close you could barely think, but you knew everything Bucky was saying was right. He was the only man who fucked you the way you needed it, and you needed to cum on his cock.

Thankfully, Bucky seemed to want the same thing.

“Cum for me, baby,” he growled in your ear, his hips slamming his cock into your body hard enough to nearly hurt, but the pain-edged pleasure only pushed you closer to your release. “Cum on daddy’s cock while he’s choking your pretty little neck and fucking you like the filthy slut you are.”

Bucky’s words and his cock, and your fingers on your clit, sent you over the edge, your eyes rolling into the back of your head and a ragged scream tearing free from your lips. Pleasure consumed you, body and mind alike, until all you knew was the sensation of ecstasy drowning out everything else.

It went on for one long, endless moment, pleasure pulsing through your being until it finally abated. Then, the world began to reform around you. Slowly, you returned to yourself, Bucky’s cock still driving into you, his thrusts turning wild and desperate as he growled in your ear.

“Fuck, you feel good, baby,” he was rumbling, rutting into you while your pussy squeezed him in a perfect clenching rhythm. “Feels like your cunt’s begging for my cum. Is that it? Ya want my cum that fucking bad, baby?”

“Yesss,” you moaned, your limbs melting beneath him as you savored the feeling of Bucky chasing his release in your body. “Want your cum, daddy, please gimme it,” you whimpered, weakly pushing your hips into his big body in a wordless plea.

Bucky grunted a soft, “Fuck,” and then pressed deep, burying his cock to the hilt in your still pulsing cunt as he came. He let out a long groan, his cock twitching against your inner walls while he emptied his balls into your pussy, the warmth of his cum filling you up.

It felt so good, your lips curled at the edges in a happy smile. Every part of you felt warm and satisfied, and you basked in the unmatched afterglow that came in the wake of getting fucked by Bucky Barnes.

When he was finally spent, Bucky eased his hips back, pulling out of you gently so he didn’t hurt your thoroughly used pussy. You appreciated the effort, even if you did feel a pang in your gut at the loss of him, like your body was mourning his absence.

Bucky rolled off you and flopped onto his back, leaving you limp and sated.

And cold.

The man who’d just fucked you better than anyone else ever had made no move to pull your naked body into his, but that wasn’t surprising. Bucky wasn’t the type to initiate post-sex snuggling, though he didn’t stop you from cuddling into him if you initiated it.

Gathering your strength, you heaved your body toward Bucky, draping yourself on top of him, wrapping an arm over his stomach and hitching your thigh over his hip. Your cooling skin pressed to his heated body as you tucked your face into his neck, cooing happily when his arm curled around your shoulders, holding you against his side.

But a post-sex snuggle wasn’t the only thing you’d been looking for.

Your mouth found the side of Bucky’s neck, your lips working against his skin, kissing and sucking and biting him while he rumbled soft sounds of satisfied pleasure. You didn’t stop until you’d left a hickey, but when you pulled away to get a look at it, you decided it wasn’t enough.

After all, you were literally covered in his marks.

So you went back to work, sucking on the hickey until the bruise was so big, there’d be no hiding it—not unless Bucky suddenly started wearing turtlenecks. Somehow, you knew he wouldn’t. You knew he’d wear your hickey proudly, even if it meant he might not get laid until it faded.

When you were finally satisfied with your work, you brushed one last kiss to the hickey, and settled down at Bucky’s side. Your cheek pressed to his chest and you listened to his heart thumping a steady drumbeat beneath his pecs.

For a moment, you were both quiet, enjoying the feel of each other. Then Bucky fished his phone out of the pocket of his discarded sweatpants, which he’d kicked off at some point. He held the device aloft over the two of you, tilting his head to the side and using the front-facing camera to look at the mark you’d left.

“I guess I deserve this,” he commented, trailing his fingers over the gigantic hickey. There was no anger or annoyance in his tone, though, only amusement. He skimmed his fingers down to your shoulder and gently rearranged your arm until the marks he’d left on the sides of your tits were visible. “Now we’re even.”

A snickering smile curved your mouth and you were about to retort that you weren’t anywhere close to even, but the soft click of Bucky’s phone snapping a photo cut you off.

Reaching up, you tapped the screen to show the picture and you had to admit, it was pretty cute. The hickey on Bucky’s neck was prominent and he wore a cocky grin on his attractive face while you smirked into his chest, his marks dotting your skin even though you weren’t revealing too much of your breasts.

It was the kind of photo you’d consider setting as your phone’s background if Bucky was your boyfriend.

He wasn’t, but that didn’t mean you didn’t still want it.

“Send that to me,” you said, trying to keep your tone light.

But Bucky must’ve heard how much you wanted the picture, because he chuckled evilly, pulling the phone out of your reach. When you lifted your head to glare at him, there was a mischievous glint in his blue eyes.

“If I send this to you, you gotta promise not to let John mark you up again.”

That time, you let him see you roll your eyes while you reminded him, “Only boyfriends get to make demands like that, Bucky.”

Huffing a frustrated sigh and giving you a half-hearted glare, Bucky tapped the screen of his phone a couple times. A second later, your phone buzzed with a text and when you glanced at it, you saw he’d sent you the photo of the two of you.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I just don’t ever wanna see his fucking marks on your body again.”

You nodded your agreement, saying, “That’s fair.” It was the least you could do, all things considered.

Bucky laughed to himself at your easy agreement, then pushed you onto your back and spread your thighs while he sat up on his knees between your legs. “Now, smile pretty for daddy, baby. I wanna take some photos of all the hard work I did marking you up.”

A pleased grin pulled across your face. As much as you enjoyed taking pictures and sending them to Bucky, you loved it even more when he wanted to take pictures of you himself. So you laid on the bed and let Bucky position you how he wanted so he could take photos of his handiwork.

“You gonna jerk off to these when you get home, daddy?” you taunted, staring up at Bucky and smiling for his camera. “Gonna rub your cock to pictures of your marks all over me?”

Bucky’s eyes flashed and his cock twitched between his thick thighs, making your smirk widen. You knew you were provoking him again, but you couldn’t seem to stop.

“You gonna make yourself cum looking at photos of me covered in your marks, daddy?”

Your teasing comments led to you laying helplessly beneath Bucky, his knees keeping your thighs spread wide so you couldn’t grind against anything while he jerked himself off with his fist. The only thing he allowed you to do was knead and grope your tits, your pleasure mixing with aching pain from the bruises covering your skin.

Bucky came like that, his cum covering your fingers and chest in ropes of his seed, marking you all over again.

He took even more photos of the sight of your hands playing with your cum-covered tits, then fucked your pussy with his fingers, sounding very pleased with himself when he teased you for getting off on him making a mess of your slutty body and pushing his cum deeper inside you.

It was late when Bucky finally left your apartment, and you realized you’d been right. It had been a very long night. But even though you knew you’d only get a couple hours of sleep before work, it had been so worth it to text Bucky that photo of your tits covered in another man’s marks.

Over the next few days, Bucky demanded an endless stream of photos of the bruises he’d left on your tits and ass. He was busy at the office and the two of you couldn’t find time to see each other, but he didn’t want to miss any of the progression of the marks he’d left as the hickeys deepened into a dark plum color on your skin.

It turned you on to send so many photos, to see the constant reminder of the marks he’d left on your body, so you indulged Bucky every time he asked for more photos. It helped that he responded with a mixture of sweet degradation and filthy praise that had your heart beating harder in your chest and wetness gathering between your thighs.

Every night for a week, you got yourself off to the dirty things Bucky texted you, the promises of what he was going to do to your body the next time he saw you. But more than anything else, you kept going back to the possessive text message he’d sent the day after he’d been to your apartment, rubbing your clit to Bucky’s words.

Don’t you dare show John fucking Walker your tits with my marks on them, baby. Those marks on your body are all fucking mine, and they’re only for you and me.

you ain't my boyfriend and i ain't your girlfriend series masterlist

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #toxic bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan characters #witchywithwhiskeywork #you ain't my boyfriend and i ain't your girlfriend series

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penascigarette · 2 months ago

Text

Smooth Operator Ch 1. A New Client

Joel Miller x f!phone sex operator

➴wc: 6.7k | summary: You unexpectedly find yourself drawn to a new client during a late-night call, who ignites a surprising wave of desire within you. As you engage in a steamy conversation, you realize this encounter is unlike any you've had before, leaving you eager for more and questioning the boundaries of your professional life.

➴warnings: mdni, phone sex, mxm phone sex, fxm phone sex, m&f masterbation lots of dirty talking, use of princess, shitty moodboard

➴an: hi! i hope you enjoy the first chapter of the first fic I have ever posted. if I have missed any warnings please let me know. feedback is super appreciated! now I will go run and hide lol. and a big tysm to @saradika-graphics for making such lovely dividers!

masterlist | series masterlist | pt. 2

You love sleeping, and just as passionately, you love your bed. Whenever you wake up in the morning, you spend at least ten minutes wrapped up in your duvet, savoring the warmth and comfort as you tease yourself with the idea of a nap.

This morning is no different. The sun shines outside, making your dark purple curtains look lighter than they actually are. If you open your eyes, you know you'll see dust particles floating through the air.

You take a deep breath through your nose and immediately wish you'd opened your windows to let in some fresh air. But you never do, even though you think about it every morning. It's too risky. Open windows are an open invitation to your worst fear—spiders.

Just the thought of their tiny, hairy bodies and long, wiggly legs sends a shiver down your spine. You pull the duvet tighter around your shoulders, practically imagining the creepy crawlies on your skin.

And of course, that's when your roommate, Elliot, decides it’s the perfect time to tickle your ear with one of his long, pink, kinky feathers—used for who-knows-what.

You scream, jump, and scramble off the bed like it’s suddenly caught fire. Your eyes—probably bloodshot with dark bags underneath—narrow at the grinning culprit, who is currently doubled over in a fit of laughter on the right side of your king-sized bed.

“What the fuck,” you huff, too tired to find any humor in this. You were so warm and cozy, and now that feeling is ruined for the next twenty-four hours. “You’re a real dick, you know that?”

“Y-your face!” he chokes out between giggles. He looks far too fresh-faced for someone who’s just rolled out of bed. Still in his pajamas, his messy hair—short on the sides with a wave on top—looks like it hasn’t seen a brush this morning.

“It's not funny!” you argue, your voice rising over the sound of his laughter. You’re this close to stomping your foot at him. “I thought you were a spider!” Standing there in nothing but pink pajama bottoms and a black strap top, your skin prickles with goosebumps. Yet again, you curse him for ruining your warm, safe burrito.

That only makes him laugh harder. It’s hard to believe this man-child is twenty-eight years old when he acts less than half his age most of the time.

At the sound of his snort, you feel your lips twitch against your will. No, you’re pissed at him—there’s no way he’s going to make you laugh. But very quickly, you’re losing the battle. Have you ever tried not laughing with someone who has an impossibly contagious laugh? It’s damn near impossible.

“Whatever!” you say, rolling your eyes as a reluctant smile finally breaks across your face. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to look stern, but Elliot knows he’s won this round

“It’s getting late,” he says, still chuckling. His green eyes are watery from laughing, making them sparkle as he grins at you. Rolling onto his left side, he props his head up with one hand—the one holding the feather—while his other hand runs through his sandy-brown hair, slicking it back. “And you slept through your alarms again, so I thought I’d help you out.”

Damn, have you really? It wouldn’t be the first time. Waking you is like trying to wake the dead.

“Oh,” you say sheepishly. Fair enough, he had to wake you, but—“Did you have to use your kinky, sex feather...thing?” You shiver in disgust. “Who knows where that’s been.”

He shrugs innocently, twirling the offending object between his fingers. “Nowhere gross...” His eyes flick up to yours, and he smiles once more. “Only up Danny’s ass.”

Your eyes widen, and you splutter. “What? Oh, my god—Jesus, that’s just—” You gag in the back of your throat. “You said it hadn’t been anywhere gross!”

He laughs again, sitting up. “I was telling the truth. Danny’s ass was far from gross.” A faraway look crosses his face. “It was heaven,” he muses wistfully before frowning. “God, I miss him.”

“Oh, honey,” you soften immediately, making your way to the bed and crawling toward Elliot to offer some comfort.

You know Danny and Elliot’s breakup was hard on him. He’d been completely in love with that man and was about to ask him to move in—with you both—when Danny decided to end the year-and-a-half relationship. It just wasn’t working was his excuse, but Elliot later found out the truth when Danny updated his Facebook page: he’d left Elliot for someone else.

“He didn’t deserve you,” you say, trying to make him feel better as you drape an arm around his shoulders. Sitting back on your heels, you add, “He was a dick for what he did. You shouldn’t be sad. He’s the one who lost someone who loved him. The only thing you lost was—”

“A twat-waffle who didn’t deserve me, I know,” he cuts you off, reciting your usual line before you can finish. You’ve said it enough times in the past three months since the breakup that he knows it by heart. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but...doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

“I know,” you respond quietly, your thoughts drifting to your own breakup. It’s been over a year now, but the pain still lingers. Your ex had been your first boyfriend—hell, your first everything. You’d met when you were seventeen, and you moved in with him before your next birthday. Everything happened so fast, and you didn’t see the cracks until it was too late. “But we have each other, right?” you say, giving Elliot a little shake.

He glances at you, his expression vulnerable. Big eyes, plucked thin eyebrows, a slight bump on his nose from when a bully broke it in his teens, full lips, high cheekbones, and when he smiles, dimples form on his cheeks.

“Yeah?” he replies, hopeful. “Even if I wake you up with a feather that’s been up my ex’s ass?”

You roll your eyes, pulling away to thump him on the arm. “Fucker,” you mutter as he starts giggling all over again. “Remind me why I love you?”

Grinning, he reaches into the pocket of his pajama shorts and pulls out his phone. "Because I'm adorable," he answers distractedly as he stares at the screen. "Oh, my first caller of the day! And it's Simon," he whispers the last part to you as if Simon could hear. "He sounds like a whale when he comes, but boy, does he have a gorgeous sex voice," he informs you. You snort as he accepts the call. "Why hello there, lover."

While Elliot makes himself comfortable against your pillows, you climb off the bed and head toward your wardrobe. You already have your outfit in mind—a pair of leggings and a plain white shirt.

"Mmm, that sounds so sexy, baby," you hear Elliot purr in the background, and you smile, shaking your head. You can’t imagine what people would think about you being in the same room as your guy roommate while he talks dirty to one of your clients, meanwhile, you're getting changed in the corner.

It’s a strange situation, to say the least.

As you remove your shirt with your back turned to Elliot, you can’t help but listen in to the conversation.

"I'd love to touch your nipples," Elliot hums behind you, getting into character. You know how much he loves talking dirty to guys. It’s a turn-on for him. Unlike you, who only really enjoys sex if it’s with someone you love. Elliot is way more adventurous and has had more one-night stands than you can count. "I'd love to stroke them, caress them, lick them. . .”

"Suck them," you add when you hear Elliot hesitate. You pull the straps of your bra up your arms and hook it at the back.

“Oh, and suck them," Elliot says as you pull your top on.

Since Elliot is still fairly new to this, he needs help sometimes. His situation had been very similar to yours—a broken-up relationship, no job, and forced to move back in with his mum until someone came along and gave him hope. For Elliot, that person was you. For you, that person was your boss, Jane.

Elliot's voice lowers as he talks to his client. "Your body is so pretty, honey. I can't wait to trace my tongue up and down your belly, and then start going lower and lower until I reach your—”

You cough quietly to yourself, trying to hide your smile as you change into your leggings and slip on a pair of fluffy pink socks. You’ve heard Elliot talk dirty loads of times, and he’s heard you talk dirty just as many. Part of training him was him having to listen in on your conversations, and then you monitoring his. Neither of you gets embarrassed around it anymore. It’s more amusing, to be completely honest.

Deciding to leave Elliot to it, you grab your phone off your bedside cabinet and quietly tiptoe to the door. Before you leave, you look over to Elliot and mouth, Coffee?

He nods enthusiastically at you and mouths back, Yes, please!

You’re halfway down the steps when you rub your eye and feel the crumbly sensation of mascara under your fingertip. You’ve forgotten to take your makeup off the night before. You curse to yourself before heading back upstairs to fetch a makeup wipe.

When you reach your room once more, Elliot looks at you questioningly before he notices your face. His lips curl into his mouth in an attempt not to laugh. You roll your eyes and put your middle finger up at him before heading over to your dresser, which sits directly opposite your bed. You open the top drawer and feel through the ridiculous amount of makeup and beauty products you’ve collected over time. As your fingers search, your eyes stare forward at your flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. You can see Elliot's reflection.

"God, you feel so tight around me," Elliot is telling his customer, and you bite your lip in an attempt not to laugh. Finally, your fingers grip the packet of wipes, and you pull them free. "I'm gonna come inside of your ass so damn hard—," Elliot is cut off by a muffled roar, and you turn to look at him questioningly.

He is still sitting on your bed, back against the pillows with one hand holding the phone far away from his ear. He has an uncomfortable look on his face, and it’s then you realize the noise has come from the phone. Or, more accurately, the noise is the loud, animal-like groans of a man coming hard.

Oh my god," you whisper to him quietly, now understanding what Elliot had meant by Simon sounding like a whale when he came.

Elliot uses his other hand to cover the bottom half of the phone, preventing Simon from hearing you speak. "Every. Damn. Time," he replies just as quietly, looking so serious it makes you giggle. He cracks his own smile before bringing the phone back to his ear. "Oh, that sounded like a good one, baby."

You’re glad Simon isn’t one of your callers because you’re not sure you’d be able to stay professional with that sound in your ear. You take care of your makeup before finally getting started on coffee.

Your living room and kitchen are all in one room. The only thing separating the rooms is the counter you eat at. Silver stools with black padded seats sit underneath, four of them for when you have guests over.

You walk past the L-shaped sofa and the counter. Once the coffee is on, you get started on breakfast. You decide on some cheesy, ham-scrambled eggs. Just as you start mixing the ingredients, your phone vibrates where you’ve placed it on the counter. You lean over far enough to see the screen. When no name appears, only a number, you figure it must be a new client since you save existing clients in your phone book.

You accept the call and bring it to your ear. "Hey there," you purr in your sexy voice. You never thought you had one until Elliot pointed it out to you. According to him, it’s a hot one too. "Tell me, gorgeous, what’s your name?"

"Josh." He’s breathing heavily, sounding as if he’s already started the party without you. "I-I'm new to all this…phone stuff," he informs you.

"That's fine, Josh," you say with a slight smile. "My name's Angel, and I’m going to take care of you, all right?" Your name isn’t Angel, but for safety reasons, you’re Angel as far as your customers know. And yes, you’re well aware of how clichéd it is.

"Yes," he tells you, his voice rougher than before. He’s probably getting more excited. Now, all you need to do is find out what he likes.

"Tell me, honey, you like it hard or soft, hm?" you question just as Elliot’s footsteps sound on the stairs.

"God. Hard. I like it hard," Josh answers. "I like it when you take control, with a little pain. Yeah, I like that a lot." In the background, you can hear the sound of his hand working his dick. At least you know he’s enjoying himself.

"Okay, Josh," you nod to yourself, knowing exactly where to go from here. Elliot appears in front of you, his lips forming an 'o' shape when he sees you’re with a client. You nod your head toward the food you’ve been preparing, signaling him to take over as you move away from the counter and toward the living area. Elliot passes you on the way, his hand patting you on the shoulder.

You flop over the arm of the chair and onto the sofa, landing with a bounce on your back. "The first thing I want you to do is to strip for me, now," you order him, reaching toward the coffee table when you spot a magazine there. You bring it over to you and open it. "Are you naked yet?"

"Almost," he practically gasps to you. You can hear some more shuffling, and then he's telling you, "Yes, mistress, I'm naked."

Mistress? You sigh internally. You seriously can't believe how many men are into the whole dominatrix kink. In the beginning, it was kind of fun, but by now, it’s getting pretty old.

Mentally awakening your inner dom, you relax further into the sofa and flip through the magazine. "Good boy," you coo, finding a 20 Sex Tips for Women article. Huh, how fitting. "Now, here's what I want you to do, and you better listen closely, pet."

The call ends up lasting 2 minutes and 28 seconds. Not bad for a newbie.

________

“I might have a date this weekend," Elliot mentions casually, making you glance over the top of your book at him, eyebrows raised.

A few hours have passed since breakfast, and you've had at least seven phone calls since. The two of you are relaxing in the living room, you on one side of your L-shaped sofa and Elliot on the other.

"And why is this the first I'm hearing of it?" you respond, feeling rather hurt. You tell each other everything. You know the penis size of every boyfriend he's had. How can he share that information so easily yet let something like a date stay secret?

He cringes, and you just know you're not going to like what's coming next. "Because..." he hesitates, takes a deep breath, and rushes out, "BecauseitswithDanny." He says it so fast it almost doesn't register, but the name Danny sticks out like a sore thumb.

"What!?" you exclaim, book falling forgotten onto the floor as you sit up. You're completely shocked, and you imagine your expression says everything before you even open your mouth. "How can you—why would you want to after what he did?" You can't understand what's going through Elliot's head, but you seriously want to knock some sense into him.

"I tried hinting to you this morning!" Elliot tells you, sitting up. The magazine he'd been reading earlier falls onto his lap, his attention now completely on you. "I told you I missed him!"

You scoff at that. "A hint is, 'Oh, by the way, I'm thinking of going on a date with my ex.' Not, 'I'm going to tickle you with Danny's ass-feather, complain about missing him, and hope that you get the hint that I'm going out with him this weekend despite the fact he broke my heart!'" You take a deep breath, oxygen running low after that rant. "Look, I know it's none of my business—"

"Of course it's your business. You're my best friend."

"—I just don't want you to get hurt," you continue as you both stare at each other with similar expressions. You're both desperate for the other to understand how you're feeling without wanting to cause any upset. "I love you, honey...and it destroyed you when he left."

"He said he's sorry," Elliot tells you quietly, making you realize just how much they've been talking. A pang of hurt goes through your heart, knowing that Elliot felt like he couldn't talk to you about this. "He said it was a mistake, one he wouldn't make again. But I don't want to jump back into things so...I told him we'll start slow."

"Well," you nod slightly. "That's something, I guess." It comforts you to know that he isn't rushing into the relationship again. Maybe, if they start from scratch, it could work this time. Unfortunately, your gut tells you different. "I'm going to be honest with you, okay?"

Elliot gives you a lopsided smile, causing a single dimple to form on his cheek. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

You smile back for a moment before turning serious again. "I think...you're thinking with your heart and not with your head," you tell him softly. "I think you're in love with him, and you miss him, and you're not thinking rationally about this. Which I totally understand, honey. You love him; I know you can't help that. I just worry that Danny knows how you feel about him, and he's going to use it to his advantage." You watch Elliot's expression closely; he's nodding, letting you know he's listening.

You give your lip a quick nibble before continuing. "But if this is something you feel like you need to do, then I'll support you, you know that."

"Thanks, babe," he responds sincerely, but his eyes are sad. "You're right. I know you're right, but...my heart wants this so damn badly."

"What's your gut telling you to do?" you ask him curiously. You’ve always believed in following your instincts.

"Run," he answers with a painful laugh. "Run and don't look back because he's only doing this as a rebound."

You frown at the information. "Rebound?"

Elliot nods, tears filling his eyes. He crosses his legs underneath him, which surprises you given how skinny his jeans are. One arm goes to the back of the sofa while the other runs through his slick-backed hair. He pulls his lips into his mouth for a moment, a habit of his, before telling you, "Him and Voldemort broke up. Danny says he broke it off because he misses me, but I checked Voldemort's page, and it looks like he's gone and gotten himself a new guy."

You hold back a snort at his nickname for Gary. Voldemort. It suits him. From Elliot's information, you're guessing that Danny is only after a rebound, but Elliot doesn't want to admit it because he still wants to be with Danny.

"Honey..." you sigh, scooting across the sofa so you can give Elliot a cuddle. He immediately returns the gesture but stays seated, whereas you lean up on your knees, making you higher than him. You rest your head on top of his, your arms around his neck. You know you don't need to say anything. Elliot knows he's burying his head in the sand. You think he just needs to find out the hard way; otherwise, he'd always regret not trying.

"I'm here for you," you assure him. This is something he needs to do, and you can't protect him from it, no matter how much you want to.

"Thank you," he tells you tearfully. You can hear how upset he is, but he's trying to hold it back. You squeeze him tighter, wishing you could take away all his pain. "You're the best friend a guy could ask for."

Your lips curve at that. "I know," you joke because really, you're not that big-headed. "Now," you say as you pull away but keep your arms around his neck. "What do you say we turn our phones off for a while, get a Chinese, and watch some crappy chick flicks?"

His eyes are bloodshot and wet with tears, but the smile he gives you is genuine happiness. And that you completely understand because food makes you feel the same way. "I love you so much."

The film you end up watching is beyond cheesy, but the humor is awesome, and you find yourself giggling along. Your Chinese food is now in your overly-stuffed belly, and the only things left are the containers sitting on the coffee table in front of you.

You sit side-by-side with Elliot, shoulders touching, a leopard-print blanket draped over your laps. Both of you ordered a beer with the takeaway. It isn’t enough to get you drunk, but that wasn’t the plan since you need to turn your phones back on for work later.

By the time the film ends, Elliot seems to be in a much better mood. Hopefully, he’ll stay that way for the next few hours.

“Gosh,” Elliot starts, reaching behind the sofa to the side table where a lamp sits. He switches it on, making you both blink against the sudden brightness. “I haven’t laughed that hard in ages.”

“Same,” you say, squinting as your eyes adjust. Your muscles feel cramped, so you throw off the blanket and stretch. As you straighten your body, you begin to slide off the sofa but don’t bother stopping it. You let yourself slip onto the floor.

With the coffee table in the way, you have to arrange yourself so you’re lying between the sofa and the table. The wooden flooring is cold against your right arm, while the left side of your body enjoys the comfort of the fur rug.

“Weirdo,” Elliot snorts from above.

“Don’t judge,” you respond, letting out a yawn. Watching films always makes you tired. Maybe it strains your eyes. The floor is oddly tempting right now—so cozy—or maybe Elliot is right, and you’re just a weirdo.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Elliot speaks again, his foot nudging your side. “Can’t sleep now. We’ve got horny customers waiting.”

It’s only then you realize you’ve closed your eyes. “I’m up,” you mumble, forcing yourself to sit upright. The smell of Chinese food still lingers in the air. It was absolutely delicious, but your stomach protests now, begging you not to even inhale another whiff of it. You pat your belly proudly, knowing it did a good job handling the feast.

“Good,” Elliot says. “We gotta get to work.”

Neither of you moves.

“For fuck’s sake,” Elliot sighs after a moment, making you crack a smile. “It’s so much effort. I hate... effort,” he says, spitting the word as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

You tilt your head to look at him better. “Just think about all those handsome, horny men stroking their dicks, waiting for you to—”

“I’m up!” Elliot exclaims, jumping to his feet. His hands dive into his pockets as you laugh loudly. “Christ, where’s my phone? My customers need me!” He’s being overly dramatic on purpose, and it makes you giggle even harder.

“It’s not funny!” he tells you, though he’s trying his hardest not to smile. “Who’s going to give those guys their orgasms? This is a serious situation!”

You giggle again, but then you try to put on a straight face. “You’re right. There could be a riot!” you gasp dramatically. “I’ll get on the phone to the prime minister right away!”

“And the president!” Elliot chimes in, but then you make eye contact, and the two of you burst into laughter. Sure, you can act pretty silly sometimes, but it’s healthy. At this age, you feel more mature than most people your age, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be childish once in a while.

Once you both calm down, you know playtime is over. It’s really time to get to work. Sighing, you take Elliot’s hand when he offers it to you, and he easily pulls you up from the floor.

“Thanks, kid,” you tell him, standing on your tiptoes to ruffle his hair. You know he hates when you do that.

He lets out a high-pitched squeak and backs away. “You know my rules!”

“No one touches the hair,” you recite dutifully.

“Yes!” he says, rolling his eyes. “And yet you always forget. And what do you mean ‘kid’? I’m older than you!”

“Yes, well, mentally you’re the age of ten, so…”

“Bitch,” he says, lightly punching your arm, and you laugh.

“Is that all you’ve got?” you tease.

He plants his hands on his hips, cocking a hip at you and raising an eyebrow. “Honey, you can’t handle what I’ve got.”

“I’m heading upstairs. Gonna talk dirty to some dudes, grab a shower, change into my pajamas, get some more horny people off, read a book, then go to bed.”

Elliot takes the phone and nods. “Sounds like a damn good plan,” he says, holding up his hand.

You smile and give him a high-five.

One of the hardest parts of your job is keeping things fresh and coming up with new ideas. That’s why you love working with Elliot. He’s a guy; he knows what men like, so whenever you feel like you need something different, he’s your go-to.

New customers are always the easiest to please. No matter what you say, it’s fresh to them. Exciting. It’s your recurring customers who require more effort. There are only so many ways to describe a blowjob before it starts feeling repetitive. When you get that feeling of déjà vu, you worry your client does too.

Oh, and trying to figure out what a guy likes? That’s another challenge. Sometimes, it feels like a seriously fucked-up game of I-Spy.

“I spy with my little eye…” Imaginary-you says in a hopeful voice. “A foot fetish? No? Fuck.” You’re rocking back and forth now, losing hope. “I spy with my little—oh, I know! Voyeurism?” you practically beg, thinking about pulling your brains out with a spoon if this doesn’t work. “…Golden showers?”

Okay, maybe you’re being a bit overdramatic, but you get the point. It’s frustrating, especially when the client is shy and doesn’t know what they like themselves.

Deciding you’re getting cranky—probably because you’re tired—you decide to finish half an hour early tonight. You shouldn’t, especially after already losing a few hours of work earlier, but you’ve made enough money to cover your half of rent and bills this month. You’ve still got a week to earn more for food and anything else you need.

So yeah, you’ll finish early.

Yawning, you pull the covers out from underneath your ass before throwing them over yourself. You’re already in your pajamas—a loose pair of pink shorts and a white strap top—and your book sits next to you, waiting to be read.

But just as you pick up your phone, ready to turn it off, a new number flashes on the screen. You stare at it for a moment, wondering if it’s worth leaving. The problem is, with it being a new customer, leaving a bad impression could mean they wouldn’t come back.

“Damn,” you mutter under your breath, knowing the professional businesswoman in you can’t risk losing what might end up being a recurring customer. As far as you know, this phone call could change your career. You snort at that. Highly unlikely, but it’s going to bring in extra money, which is a good enough reason. “Just this last one, then I’m going to bed,” you tell yourself.

You place the earphones back into your ears and press the green button on your touchscreen. “Hey there, handsome.” There’s a pause, and you briefly wonder if they’ve decided to hang up when he finally speaks.

“Hey,” he responds simply, sounding kind of awkward.

“You caught me just in time,” you say naughtily.

“Oh?” he sounds intrigued, though the awkwardness remains. He’s probably just shy or clueless about what to do. “Why is that?”

For a moment, you’re taken aback by how much you’re attracted to his voice. That’s never happened to you before, and he’s barely said five words. Masculine, educated, and gruff. Swoon.

“Um...” You try to get back into character while scolding yourself. The conversation has only just started; you can’t screw it up already. Get your head in the game, girl. “Because I’m wet and needing a man to help me out.” Internally, you wince. That’s pretty weak considering how good you usually are at this.

He doesn’t seem to think so because he releases a sexy, “Shit. I—” He’s breathing heavily, and you wait for him to finish, sensing he has something else he wants to say. “I don’t know if this was a good idea,” he admits after a moment.

Fuck, you’re losing him, and you’re losing him fast. You need to think quickly if you want to keep him on the line. You don’t want to admit it, but your interest in this man goes beyond the money you’re earning from him. He’s ignited something in you. “Wait! Please,” you breathe. “I—I’m so horny. I need you. Please? Just stroke your dick for me. I need it.” There you go; you knew you could do better.

“Damn it,” he hisses, and then there’s the sound of a belt buckle, and you know you’ve got him. “What’d you need, sweetie? Tell me,” he demands, and for the first time since doing this job, you feel a wave of lust hit you.

Swallowing in an attempt to bring moisture back to your dry mouth—it all seems to have headed south, if you know what you mean—you respond truthfully, “You.” Jesus, you shouldn’t be doing this, but before you can stop yourself, your left hand is slipping underneath your strap top and finding your breasts. “I need you, please—” You pause for a second. You don’t know if it will work, but if you’re right about him, this is going to go down a treat. For both him and for you. “—sir.”

And you’re right because he lets out a loud groan, making you squeeze your thighs together in response. Jesus, you haven’t wanted someone this badly in what feels like forever.

“Fuck, you’re going to be such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You’re already nodding before he finishes his sentence. “Yes, god, yes.” You move your right hand so it’s also caressing your breasts. In this moment, you completely love your headset, which allows you to talk and touch at the same time.

“Mm, you’re so obedient, baby,” he tells you, approval evident in his husky voice. “Tell me, Princess, tell me are your nipples hard?”

Your pussy clenches almost painfully, and you try to remind it to calm down because it’s only just started. “They’re hard. So hard they’re showing through my shirt.”

You’re getting so hazy with lust you’re not sure what to do with yourself, so you pinch your nipples roughly and almost cry out in frustration, knowing it would be so much better if he were doing it for you.

“Damn, that’s beautiful, sweetheart,” he tells you, and your belly does a funny flip. “You touchin’ them? Want you to roll them between your fingers. Not too hard, just enough pressure to leave you needing more.”

It’s not easy to admit, but you think he’s better at this than you are, and it crosses your mind that you should probably be paying him. “I already am,” you confess with a guilty laugh. “Your voice... it’s, uh, fucking hot.” You hesitate because you’re not sure if you can say that to him. It’s not very professional, but then you remind yourself that you’re only second-guessing it because you’re actually getting off on it.

"You that eager for me, princess?" he sounds pretty damn pleased with himself. "Tell me how it feels. You know, I'm stroking my dick to this. Getting hard over the noises you're making, and the pretty picture you're giving me."

The image of this man, who you are undoubtedly attracted to, stroking his hard cock over the thought of you pleasuring yourself drives you crazy. He seems so generous, something rare nowadays.

"It feels..." you breathe, trying to find the right words. "Like it's not enough. I need more. Christ." You throw your head back against your pillows, frustrated with yourself and the way you're acting. Completely unprofessional.

"Shh," he coos softly. "I've got you. I'm going to take care of you. Okay, princess?" He's so freaking good at this. You're practically shivering in anticipation of what he might say next. "I want you to get naked for me. And tell me, baby, you got any toys?"

"Um," you think about his question as you pull your strap top over your head. It gets caught on the earphone wire. "Wait a second." You quickly untangle yourself before placing the earphones back into your ears. Moving on to your shorts, you push them eagerly down your legs. "Yes, I have one of those little bullet vibrators."

"Good. I want you to get it for me, princess."

You bite your lip for a moment, feeling extremely dirty about what you're about to do. "Yes, sir..." you say before reaching toward your side cabinet and opening the bottom drawer. In an old, tiny, purple purse with a single zip sits the bullet. You take it out before getting comfortable on the bed once more. "I've got it."

He hums in approval. "Now, I'm more than happy to go slow, make this last, but I'm sensing that my girl wants to come hard and fast, am I right?"

You suck in an unsteady breath. Being called his girl really shouldn't make you feel as giddy as it does. Why and how does a complete stranger have such an effect on you? You're never one of those girls who fall for a man's charm easily. Yet here you are, swooning over a guy because he's good at talking dirty and has a sexy voice.

Apparently you were easier to seduce than you originally thought.

"Yes," you choke out, wondering if you'd wake up if you pinched yourself hard enough. You wouldn't try it, though, just in case you were dreaming. You really aren't ready for it to end. "God, yes."

"All right then," he chuckles, the sound warm. "I'll do what you want this time. Next time, what I say goes, okay, princess?"

Before you have a chance to respond, he's giving you more orders, and in no way are you complaining.

"I want you to spread your pretty little thighs for me, baby." His voice, and the way he's breathing, gives you the impression that he's getting just as excited as you are.

"Okay," you squeak rather embarrassingly. Cool air hits your most sensitive area as you do what he orders, your hands resting against the inside of your thighs, fingers clutching your vibrator as you wait impatiently for his instructions.

You have yet to turn the bullet on, but it already feels like your insides are vibrating.

"Now, take your hand and spread your pussy lips for me."

And there you go, once again speechless—and breathless—because of this man and his words. Seriously, he could do this job better than you. You have to admit, you're storing parts of this conversation away for both personal and professional use later on.

Your hands automatically do as he says, your body desperate for some kind of release. You feel overwhelmed and don't know where to start or what to do in order to relieve it. Thank God you have him to guide you; otherwise, you might combust. Then again, if he wasn't here, you wouldn't have this problem in the first place.

"Okay," you breathe, feeling more and more like a client than a sex line operator. But taking control is obviously something he enjoys, so who are you to put a stop to this? What’s the saying? ‘Customers are always right?’ Well, you absolutely, completely, one hundred percent agree!

"Stretch yourself out," he continues, his voice starting to strain. "Force your sexy little clit out of its hood. I don't want it hiding when you start fucking yourself. All right, princess?"

Fuckkk. Just when you think he can't possibly get any hotter, he goes and says that. Your pussy feels like it’s on fire; your clit is so swollen it hurts. You wouldn't be surprised if you came the second you put any pressure on your nub.

"Now," he continues. "Turn your bullet on and press it to your clit. You're not allowed to stop until your legs are shaking and you're calling out my name. Got it?" You can hear how hard he's pumping his dick now. For a moment, you feel guilty. Are you neglecting him? But then you remind yourself again that this is what he wants.

You know you're not going to last long. You're too excited. Not to mention, it’s been a while since you've spent some time with your right hand. You twist the top of your bullet, putting it on the highest speed. You know you're worked up enough to take it; usually, you start on low and build your way up because you're overly sensitive. Right now, you know it won’t be an issue.

The bullet starts to shake violently, but the noise is low, like a quiet buzzing. Your left hand holds yourself open, fingers forming a 'V' and spreading your lips as far as you can, just as he instructed.

You don’t need to tell him what you’re doing; the moment you press the bullet to yourself, a half-gasp, half-moan escapes your lips. You’re right—you definitely won’t last long. The vibrations are intense, and you draw small circles on yourself, pushing yourself even closer to the edge.

“Damnit,” he hisses. You’re quickly learning it’s one of his favorite words. “You sound fucking sexy. Wish I could see you. Watch you,” he inhales sharply. He’s just as close as you are.

“What’s—” you attempt to speak but end up gasping instead. Wetness gathers below, soaking your entrance and trailing toward your clit. The added lubrication lets the bullet slide more freely around your nub, the sensation unbelievable. “What’s—”

“Princess?” he chokes, likely having the same problem as you.

So close now. So fucking close. You just need a little more. The rhythm is perfect, and you can hear him breathing in your ear, letting out the occasional groan. It’s too damn much, but you can’t let yourself go—not without— “What’s your name?”

"Joel."

"Fuck - Joel!"

You see stars, as cliché as it sounds. Your whole body breaks into spasms, your left hand falling to the sheets and gripping the fabric desperately. Your right hand forces the bullet between your slippery lips, and your thighs clamp around your hand. Incoherent words tumble from your mouth: “Oh god,” “Fuck,” and Joel’s name.

As you come back down to earth, you can hear that Joel barely followed two seconds behind.

“Damn it, Princess. You’re so fucking good. Sound so pretty. Done so well,” the words spill from his mouth like sweet wine. He probably isn’t even aware of them. The sound of him fisting his dick is irregular and off-beat. “Fuck. Damn. You’re such a good girl.”

You remove the bullet from yourself—if you leave it there any longer, it’s going to become painful—and let out a giggle. Your cheeks are flushed, your body buzzing with pleasure. Lightheaded and giddy, you think to yourself that this guy must be amazing in bed. “That was fucking amazing.”

“Yeah,” he laughs breathlessly. “You can say that again. I can’t believe I almost hung up.”

“That would have been bad,” you reply, wondering if your heart will slow down anytime soon. “Very, very bad.”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees, then pauses before adding, “Let me ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” You hesitate for only a moment. It’s unusual for clients to stick around afterward, but you’ve quickly realized this guy isn’t a normal caller.

“What’s your real name?” he asks. “No way is it ‘Angel.’” He snorts, finding your alias hilarious.

Is Angel that bad of a name? You think it’s kind of cool. The company is called Angels and Demons, with you being the Angel. Elliot’s alias is Daemon because it’s close to “demon” but sounds way better. When a customer calls, they get an automated voice instructing them to press the number for their chosen operator, complete with a brief description.

You’re losing your train of thought; you can’t give him your real name, can you? It’s against the rules. If Jane found out, she’d be pissed. She wouldn’t fire you, but her anger is almost as bad. With the image of facing her wrath in mind, you tell Joel, “I’m sorry, I can’t.” Your tone is regretful because you’d really like to tell him. “My boss would…it’s against the rules.”

“Ah,” he responds, masking the disappointment. “It’s all right. I understand.”

“Sorry,” you apologize again, hating the idea of letting him down, especially after how amazing he just made you feel.

"Seriously, Princess, it’s fine,” he reassures you, easing the guilt. “I had a really good time tonight. You can bet I’ll be expecting a repeat tomorrow.” You just know that if you could see him right now, his eyes would sparkle with mischief.

Your pussy throbs again just thinking about it. God, he makes you insatiable. “I’m really, really looking forward to it,” you tell him honestly.

“Me too.” There’s a brief pause, then, “Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Joel.” Hanging up the phone, you place it against your lips, letting everything sink in. Alone with your thoughts, you can’t believe you just had full-blown phone sex with a client. It’s so unlike you. It’s more like something Elliot would do. Speaking of…

“Elliot, you won’t believe what just happened!” you shout at the top of your lungs.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel x reader

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xiaowhore · 1 year ago

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genshin men as shoujo tropes.

characters. neuvillette, wriothesley, & alhaitham.

note. in celebration of the shoujo renaissance (and also bc im having a hard time finishing the drafts i left half a year ago) i present to you the ideas i had while half-asleep this morning. i dunno if this will ever be a consistent series but here are the first 3! (heads up: female pronouns will be used in this fic!)

neuvilette ; the duke

it has to be said. he's the duke of the north.

you belong to an aristocratic family, but you're basically neglected due to being your father's illegitimate child with a maid and your younger sister is much better than you at every way there is. appearance, etiquette, and intellect—she is far more superior than you at these aspects. countless men ask for her hand in marriage, while none asks for yours.

but honestly, you didn't want to be wed to a noble. you dream of being a commoner, free from the clutches of your family who looks down on you and solely dotes on your sister. you could be a baker perhaps, since you've always had a hobby of making sweets.

yet your parents suddenly announce you're now engaged. and to the duke of the north, of all people! he has made a great contribution for the war against the monsters within the continent, but he is more known for his ruthlessness and harsh temperament. if you were to be his wife, what would happen to you? the duke holds a lot of power, but no one wants to marry him because they're all afraid of him, you included.

as you're being sent to his castle by carriage, you're already trying to comfort yourself. at least you're away from your family now. he couldn't possibly be worse than them. and as ruthless the rumors all say he is, duke neuvillette is not the type of man to beat a woman who has done no wrong.

your first dinner with him is completely silent. the clacking of cutlery pierces through the air, the only sound you can hear other than your heart rapidly pounding in your chest. your head is bowed, too fearful to meet him in the eye, but you can't help sneaking glances at him.

the duke doesn't appear in most events hosted by nobles, too busy defending his territory from monstrous creatures to attend. but you see now that those rumors about him being unsightly could not be any more false. his long hair drapes over his shoulders, not a strand out of place. his gaze is calculating, a fascinating blue you can't look away from, and his nose cuts a high angle—he'd look fetching if he wore glasses as he does paperwork. really... how could this man be your husband-to-be?

as you're busy worrying over how you shouldn't offend him and appreciating his appearance, neuvillette is trying his best to appear calm. the woman of his dreams is right in front of him, whose hand was promised to him if he won against the dragon slumbering in the northern mountains. the woman he had yearned for years on end, the woman who gave him strength as he was on the verge of death during the war, the woman who doesn't remember him anymore—

but he promised you long ago he'll make you the happiest woman in the world, and he's intent on keeping his vows.

neuvilette may appear stoic, but he's nothing but sweet to you. he accompanies you at every opportunity he isn't busy with work, spoils you rotten, and makes you want for nothing. word spread throughout the land that duke neuvillette couldn't be any more smitten with his wife, erasing all rumors that claimed he was heartless. you were intimidated by him at the start, but as you spent more time with him, you learned that there was no reason to be.

...however, that only applies to you. although you never said it outright, neuvillette can tell your family didn't care for you properly. he already had reservations with them, and now he has other reasons to be angry.

when your sister comes to his residence and claims there was a “mix-up” in the marriage, that she should be the one wed to him and not you, he is furious.

but there's really only one ending for this story—after all, his heart only belongs to you.

wriothesley ; the bodyguard

you're the only granddaughter of a yakuza leader and wriothesley is your bodyguard who will protect you no matter what. (not claiming ‘a girl and her guard dog’ energy; there are plenty of other mangas who have this trope too.)

you're just an ordinary girl with a very extraordinary family but you want to live a normal life free of violence and keep your family background a secret. you beg your grandfather to let you attend classes at a normal school, and he allows you in one condition: wriothesley must be with you at all times.

so yeah. this tall and absolutely ripped guy is behind you every time you walk to school, in the corridors, on the way to the cafeteria, and the only time he isn't following you is when you go to the restroom.

very protective. never lets his guard down when you're talking to boys. doesn't understand what you see in the handsome guy that everyone likes when his looks aren't all that great (he's just jealous).

“let's go home. it's about time for the car to arrive... what do you mean you still have something to do? ...there's someone waiting for you at the rooftop? you found a love letter in your locker? ...i'll wait for you at the door.”

he does wait for you at the door, but he also tries to hear the conversation you're having. and maybe he scoffs a little when he sees the guy who's trying to vye for your attention, because clearly wriothesley worried for nothing.

there will be a lot of dangerous events involved (i.e. kidnapping for ransom, attempts to kill you as revenge, wriothesley's enemies trying to harm you because you're the person he loves etc.) but wriothesley will save you each time.

“i'm right here,” he says as he cradles you in his arms, hugging your trembling body. “you don't have to fear anything now.”

it's nothing serious. just a pathetic attempt at kidnapping by a bunch of idiots who want ransom money. you're safe and sound in the car, waiting for him to finish his business with the delinquents, but that fact doesn't make his anger fade at all. “if i see a single scratch on her, i'll kill you.”

his head is bleeding, dripping crimson over his right eye, but all he sees is your bound wrists, the bruise on your cheek, the blood on your lip. he's out of bullets. you're both surrounded by henchmen. he has a single blade in his pocket. still, he roars with uncontrollable rage, “no one touches her!”

(very important detail: he calls you “my lady.”)

alhaitham ; the nonchalant male lead

he's definitely the cold guy who's (at first) rude and blunt to the female lead.

you've liked him since you were kids. your moms are best friends and you live next door to each other. both of your parents seem convinced you're going to end up together, but he rejects every single one of your advances—not that it discourages you from trying again next time.

you try to walk to school with him even though he always goes to the library too early and you're the furthest thing from a morning person. you offer him the best parts of the lunchbox you cook for yourself. you give him a cold drink after gym class. you invite him out to the mall during the weekends to hang out. you doll yourself up everyday with cosmetics and accessories in hopes that he'll think you're pretty.

but alhaitham always just looks... disinterested. especially during dinners where both of your families are present and his mother teases him about dating you for what seems like the nth time that night.

and you know he's not obligated to like you back or anything. but you still want to get his attention. you want to improve yourself to get him to like you.

alhaitham may come across as cold-hearted, but he buys you bread from the convenience store on the way to school because he knows you missed breakfast just to go with him. he keeps an eye out for any stray balls hitting you during gym class because for some reason you attract them like a magnet. he often declines your offer to go outside during weekends, but he's willing to tutor you for the test scheduled next week.

so you like to think of yourself as someone special. because surely, he doesn't do these things for anyone else, right? you must be one of the closest people to his heart, right?

but then the pretty girl from the class next door confesses to him, and you think you've lost your chance. she's tall and gorgeous, her clothes are always the latest fashion, and you're pretty sure she's around the same student rankings as alhaitham. they're talking by the cherry blossom tree, and no one can hear what they're saying behind the wall you're hiding from in your quest to eavesdrop on them.

but then alhaitham leaves first, not giving her a single glance after what you assume to be a swift rejection. the girl isn't crying, but she looks a bit shocked as she returns to school, not expecting the turn of events.

your classmates don't even pretend to be decent; all of them are asking her what happened. “he says he's not interested in dating, that's all.”

and at that, you sigh in relief. even if you're not special to him now, no one else is either.

you don't notice her looking at you, envy burning in her gaze. she didn't say any lies—but she did omit something important.

“i think... i like someone now. the most important person to me.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact imagines #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact scenarios #genshin scenarios #alhaitham x reader #neuvillette x reader #wriothesley x reader #fluff

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endomentendo · 6 months ago

Text

Hello! Goodbye! And welcome to-

From the popular indie show “the amazing digital circus” crossing with the classics from Lewis Carroll “Alice Adventures in Wonderland”

Pomni after chasing a white clown, falls into an old computer that transports her into a digital realm of wacky nonsense and comedic irony. Meeting characters of all sorts, always finding herself in a new situation that’ll leave her second guessing if up is left and right is backwards.

Cast lineup & character bios

(Main cast only ‘for now’)

Come join Wonderland! (Bio card template)

Questions and boundaries

1.Can I ship any characters?: Boyo, go crazy! As long you’re safe and respectful, then set sail.

2. Are any of the characters (besides Pomni) human?: All the characters are ai, even the main cast from the series. But headcannon away cause if it keeps you guessing, then it’s alright.

3. Can I make nsfw art?: YES! Please send them to me by @ me. Please be careful and respectful and don’t go too far in the phalic side. Stay safe ;3

4. May I make fanart/fics/collabs/animations/ect?: I think you can answer that :D

5. Why is a raven like a writing desk?: I haven’t the slightest idea!

================================================

Comics: in a episodic order

Through the looking screen

She forgot how food works

The garden of gloinks

Taking advice from a Mix-a-pillar

Taking directions from a rabbit pt1. Pt2.

Mustard?

Comedy and tragedy

NOTHING? WHATEVER?

Bound in madness Tim burton

================================================

Doodles

the first digital wonderland content

Kinger as the dodo and Pomni

Can you stand on your head?

zooble and kaufmo doodle

Spark of inspiration for gangle

sun and moon doodledum

of stones and stars!

does C&A mean Gay?

poster in progress say hi to Dave for me ;3

oysters in progress?

The red head got people red ;D

The red means they’re in love

Crossover? In wonderland?

SHE DID WHAT?!

Queenie and Kinger’s old designs

The rabbit has stolen a bow tie

A book page bio

old bio design

older bio design

Showtime

Pomni borger

Loolilau as the duchess

Zombni and Wonderland Pomni are besties @etanow

Abstract Bandersnatch?

================================================

Paintings

Fallen down the Digital rabbit hole

Official poster: outdated

We’ll meet in the palace of dreams

================================================

EXPLORE WONDERLAND!

-The mad Tea Party

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stylesispunk · 5 months ago

Text

'Silent Strain' | part I

Outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

next chapter

summary: Joel and you knew that bringing a child into this mad world was a mistake, but he wanted to give you the best that was left of that world after all.

w.c: 12,6k (this was 5k at the beginning)

warnings: established relationship, age gap (Joel is 43 and Reader 32) angst, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of abortion, fluff, not proofreading, sorry. The events of this story happen 10 years after the outbreak.

a/n: New Sunday, new fic? This one was on my drafts and I thought about developing a little bit more because I wanted to write one where Joel wasn't an asshole. This may become a really short series. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. Happy reading.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Mornings in the QZ were far from a story teller, always bleak as any other, somber and carrying the weight of the guilty grieving each people who has survived this far dealt with.

Many people had become the worst versions of themselves, just monsters they never thought they would be. Others woke up with the survivor’s guilt, after years of letting go their people, family and friends.

And others carried all that, but had found a little spark shinning on their path.

That was your case.

And Joel’s too.

You both had found each other just a few years after the world descended into chaos. After that, you become each other’s anchor until now.

Even when days seemed to be grayer, even when Joel seemed a bit lost after losing his contact with Tommy.

Even on days when the world seemed grayer, even when Joel seemed a little more distant—his thoughts lost somewhere along the frayed edges of his mind, burdened by the loss of contact with Tommy—you held on. You knew what he was feeling; it was a familiar ache, a common wound you both carried.

Tommy was Joel’s last person who shared his blood. His brother, his last piece of family and what the old world had left him.

But he also had you, and that made him alive.

You woke up slowly, the thin, rough blanket tangled around your legs, the mattress beneath you creaking as you shifted. The air was cold, seeping through the cracks in the walls, and the faint light of dawn barely penetrated the small, grimy window. Outside, you could hear the sounds of the QZ waking up, the distant, muffled voices of guards changing shifts, the echo of boots on concrete, and the occasional shout. You pulled the blanket tighter around you, trying to keep the chill at bay.

The room you and Joel shared was small, barely large enough for the bed and a rickety chair in the corner. Outside the doors, there was the rest of the old apartment that worked as a roof for the both of you, and Tess.

The walls were stained with years of neglect, paint peeling in long strips, revealing the bare concrete beneath. There was a small table near the window where a lone candle had burned down to a stub, wax pooling on the surface, solidifying in random patterns. It had been another long, sleepless night, the dark hours stretching on endlessly, and you could feel it in your bones, an ache that went deeper than simple tiredness.

You glanced over at Joel, still asleep beside you, his face etched with lines of worry even in rest. He lay on his side, one arm slung over his face, his brow furrowed as if he were fighting off some invisible enemy in his dreams. The mornings were hardest on him, you knew. Waking up to the same bleak reality day after day, the hope of finding Tommy growing thinner with each passing moment.

A wave of nausea hit you unexpectedly, a sudden queasiness that made your stomach twist. You shut your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You hadn't been feeling well for a few days now, just a lingering discomfort you chalked up to the lack of proper food or maybe stress. Nothing in this world was kind to the body or the mind anymore.

You pushed yourself up, careful not to wake Joel, and swung your legs over the side of the bed, your feet touching the cold, cracked floor. The chill ran up your legs, making you shiver. You sat there for a moment, steadying yourself, pressing a hand against your stomach as if trying to calm the unease that rolled there. There was a strange heaviness to it, something that seemed different, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The thought crossed your mind, quick and unbidden, a possibility you immediately pushed away. It was too absurd, too impossible to consider. Not here, not now, not in this broken world.

You rose to your feet, steadying yourself on the edge of the table, your fingers brushing against the melted wax. You glanced back at Joel, who still hadn’t stirred, his breathing deep and even. You knew he needed the sleep, needed a moment of peace, however fleeting. You moved quietly toward the window, peering out through the dirt-streaked glass. The world outside was shrouded in mist, the familiar shapes of the crumbling buildings barely visible in the pale morning light.

There was a time when you might have found the sight beautiful, in a melancholic way. Now it just seemed desolate. Empty.

Another wave of nausea hit, stronger this time, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, swallowing hard. You took a few deep breaths, trying to steady yourself. You felt a sharp pang of fear, a sudden flash of panic that cut through the fog of morning fatigue. You forced it down, tried to stay calm. You couldn’t afford to be anything else.

From behind you, you heard the faint rustle of the bed as Joel shifted, his voice rough and low. “You, okay?” he murmured, still half-asleep, his words slurred with exhaustion.

You turned to look at him, forcing a smile, though you weren’t sure he could see it in the dim light. “Yeah… just a bit cold,” you lied softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He blinked at you, eyes heavy-lidded, and then nodded, seeming to accept it. “Come back to bed,” he mumbled, his voice carrying a warmth that made something in your chest tighten. “It’s still early.”

For a moment, you hesitated, feeling the cold air around you, the uncertainty pressing in. But then you moved back to the bed, sliding in beside him, feeling the heat of his body radiating through the thin layers of fabric. He reached out, pulling you close, his arm draping over you protectively, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of safety as Joel stirred Joel stirred, his hand rubbing small, soothing circles on your back. “Are you sure you are, okay?” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” you whispered, hoping he couldn’t hear the lie in your voice. “Just a headache.”

He kissed the top of your head, the simple gesture sending a pang of guilt through you. “You’ve been getting a lot of those lately,” he noted, concern creeping into his tone.

You forced a smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “Just stress, I think.”

He hummed in response, not entirely convinced but willing to let it go for now. He gently nudged you off his chest, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at you. His eyes searched your face, and you had to fight the urge to look away. Joel had a way of seeing right through you, and you were afraid he might catch a glimpse of the truth you were hiding.

He frowned, clearly not convinced. “You’ve been saying’ that a lot lately. Maybe you should rest today, stay in bed.”

You shook your head, knowing you couldn’t afford to take a day off. Life in the QZ was unforgiving, and everyone had to pull their weight. “I’ll be fine. We’ve got too much to do, and they’re already short-handed at the ration line.”

You forced yourself to follow suit, pushing through the lingering nausea as you pulled on your worn clothes. The headache throbbed with each movement, but you bit back the discomfort, determined not to let it show. Joel kept glancing over at you, as if expecting you to collapse at any moment, but you just offered him a reassuring smile, even if it didn’t reach your eyes.

Once you were both ready, you stepped out into the harsh reality of the QZ. The streets were crowded, people moving about with a sense of urgency, always on edge. You and Joel made your way through the throng, his hand resting on the small of your back, guiding you through the chaos.

At the ration line, the day passed in a blur of monotonous tasks—distributing food, managing the restless crowd, keeping an eye out for trouble. But the ache in your head never fully faded, and every now and then, you had to pause, closing your eyes for a moment to steady yourself.

Joel noticed, of course. He was always watching, always worrying, though he tried to hide it behind a gruff exterior. “You sure you’re alright?” he asked again when you took a brief break, his tone betraying his concern.

“Yeah, just… It’s probably just the air or something,” you said, shrugging it off. But you could tell he didn’t believe you.

“See you later, then?” he asked before parting ways with you to your different duties.

“Yeah, see you later,” you replied, forcing a smile, trying to reassure him. Joel lingered for a moment, his eyes searching yours, he planted a kiss on your lips before turning to head off to his assigned area. You watched him go, feeling a mix of guilt and relief. You hated lying to him, but what could you say? That the world seemed to be spinning just a little bit too fast? That every time you bent over, a wave of nausea washed over you? It would only make him worry more.

The hours dragged on, the sun creeping across the sky, bringing with it a sticky heat that clung to your skin. By midday, your headache had grown worse, a steady throb that pounded behind your eyes. The noise of the crowd seemed to amplify the pain, voices blending into a harsh cacophony. You rubbed at your temples, willing it to stop, but it only seemed to make it worse.

At one point, while lifting another crate filled with canned goods, a sharp pain shot through your abdomen, causing you to drop the box with a loud thud. A few people nearby turned to look, but you waved them off, trying to catch your breath. The soldier supervising the line glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “You good there?” he asked, his tone half-concerned, half-annoyed.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you muttered, bending down to retrieve the cans that had spilled onto the ground. Your hands shook slightly, and you felt a bead of sweat roll down your back. The soldier didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further, turning his attention back to the line.

“Then clean the mess you made” he ordered.

You nodded, swallowing down the nausea that threatened to rise again. “Yes, sir,” you replied, bending down to pick up the cans. Your fingers felt clumsy, and every time you moved, the pain in your abdomen seemed to sharpen, making it difficult to keep your breathing steady. Sweat dripped from your forehead, stinging your eyes, but you pushed through, determined not to draw any more attention to yourself.

As you gathered the last can, another wave of dizziness hit you, and you had to steady yourself against the crate to keep from toppling over. You glanced over your shoulder to see if the soldier was still watching, but he had already turned away, his focus elsewhere.

You took a deep breath, trying to will away the nausea, when you heard a familiar voice behind you. “Hey, you, okay?”

Turning, you saw Tess standing there, her face set in a concerned frown. “Yeah,” you lied, forcing a weak smile. “Just a rough day.”

Tess studied you for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t look so good,” she said quietly, stepping closer. “You’re pale… and sweating like hell.”

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine, just… tired, I guess.”

Tess didn't seem convinced. Her sharp eyes swept over you, taking in every detail — the paleness of your skin, the way your hands trembled slightly as you held the cans. Her frown deepened, and you could practically feel the gears turning in her head.

“Look,” she said slowly, almost carefully, “I know you well enough to tell when you’re lying. And right now, you’re doing a pretty damn poor job of hiding whatever this is.”

Your heart started to pound in your chest, an uneasy thump that only made the nausea worse. You swallowed, glancing away from her probing stare. “I said I’m fine, Tess,” you repeated, but your voice came out too shaky, too uncertain. Even you didn’t believe it.

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “Don’t bullshit me,” she murmured, her tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve been off for days now… the headaches, the dizziness. I’ve seen this before. And I’m pretty sure you know what I’m talking about.”

You stiffened, shaking your head quickly. “No, Tess,” you whispered, almost desperate. “It’s not that… it can’t be.”

Tess’s expression softened, but there was still a hint of stubbornness there, a determination to get through to you. “Listen,” she began, her voice a little gentler. “I’m not trying to scare you, but… you need to face this. If it’s what I think it is… then you’ve got a lot to figure out.”

“Please, Tess. Not now” you pleaded.

Tess hesitated, her eyes searching your face, but she nodded slowly, relenting — at least for the moment. "Alright," she said quietly, though the concern in her voice hadn’t faded. "But you can’t keep running from this forever."

You felt a lump in your throat as you looked away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. "I just… I can’t think about it right now," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "There’s too much going on, and… Joel…"

Tess sighed, crossing her arms. "I get it," she replied softly. "But, you know, you’re not alone in this. Whatever it is, you’ve got people who care about you. Joel might be rough around the edges, but… he’s not going to turn his back on you. Not now, not ever."

You swallowed hard, nodding, though you still felt like you were balancing on a knife’s edge. "I know," you said, though doubt still gnawed at you. "It’s just…"

"It’s scary," Tess finished for you, and you could only nod again, feeling suddenly very small. "But you don’t have to go through it alone, alright?" she added, her voice softening. "I’ve got your back. Always."

You gave her a weak smile, grateful for her support, even if the fear still twisted inside you. "Thanks, Tess," you whispered.

She patted your shoulder, her touch gentle, almost sisterly. "Let’s get back to it," she said, glancing back toward the line. "But promise me… you’ll think about what I said."

You nodded again, though your mind was spinning with a hundred different thoughts. "I promise," you murmured, even though you weren't sure if you meant it.

By the time you got back to the apartment, the sun was already low in the sky, casting long shadows through the broken blinds. Your legs felt heavy, your head still pounding from the stress of the day. As you pushed open the door, you were met with the stale, familiar scent of the small, dimly lit space that you and Joel called home. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the faint creaking of the floorboards beneath your feet.

Your eyes scanned the room, and they quickly fell on Joel sprawled out on the bed, his face slack in sleep. But what caught your attention was the nearly empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table next to him, beside a few scattered, white pills. A flare of anger ignited in your chest.

You walked over and grabbed the bottle, knocking it down onto the floor. The sound of the glass hitting the wood was loud, but Joel didn’t stir. Frustration bubbled up inside you. “Joel,” you called out sharply, but he remained still, lost in whatever numbness he’d sought.

With a forceful shove, you shook his shoulder, your voice rising. “Joel, wake up!” you demanded. His eyes fluttered open slowly, bleary and unfocused. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, and groaned.

“What?” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and whatever haze the whiskey and pills had put him under.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “What the hell, Joel?” you spat out, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and worry. “You’re drinking and taking pills again? You promised me… you promised you’d stop!”

Joel blinked again, pushing himself up on one elbow, confusion and irritation crossing his face. “It’s just… it’s just to take the edge off,” he slurred, running a hand over his face. “You don’t get it.”

“No, I do get it,” you shot back, your voice sharp. “I get that you’re hurting, Joel, I get you want to know where Tommy is but this is not the way.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, some of the grogginess leaving his gaze. “I’m trying,” he muttered, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “I’m doing the best I can, alright? It’s not that easy…”

You took a step closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “I need you, Joel,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I need you here, with me… not drowning in a bottle. We’re supposed to be in this together, remember?”

He looked away, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched between you, heavy and tense. Finally, he let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. “He is my brother, the only family I get left.” he muttered, almost too softly to hear.

“What about me?” you asked, voice trembling.

Damn, why were you getting so emotional.

Joel's brow furrowed, clearly caught off guard by your question. He blinked, as if trying to process your words, and then his expression softened. “What are you talking’ about?” he asked gently, taking a step closer to you. “Of course, you're my family. You know that. You’re everything.” His fingers brushed against your arm, tentative, as though he was still uncertain if you’d accept his touch.

You felt a lump forming in your throat, and you blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Then why does it feel like I’m not enough?” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Joel's thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “You are, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice steady but soft. “I promise you are. I’m just… I’m scared. Scared of what could happen to you… to us.”

You looked up into his eyes, searching for something—an answer, a reassurance, anything to ease the turmoil inside you. "How are you feeling'?" he asked suddenly, his voice quieter, more tender than before.

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, trying to gather your thoughts. "I… I don’t know," you admitted honestly. “Tired…”

Joel nodded slowly, his hand slipping from your cheek to rest on your shoulder. “I know, I get it,” he said quietly. “But you gotta promise me… if there’s something’ wrong, you’ll tell me”

You nodded, “I promise.”

You wrapped your arms around Joel, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of his body against yours was a small comfort, a fleeting sense of security in the chaos that seemed to be swirling around you. As you clung to him, the guilt and the weight of the hidden truth about your pregnancy settled heavily on your shoulders.

Joel held you close, his hand gently rubbing your back, his touch reassuring and steady. “I’m sorry,” you murmured into his shoulder, the words escaping almost involuntarily. “I’m sorry for everything.”

Joel’s arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said softly. “We’re in this together, you hear me? We’ll get through it. We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded against him, feeling a mix of relief and deep-seated worry. The truth about the pregnancy was still looming, a secret that was becoming increasingly difficult to keep. Every time you looked at Joel, you could see the love and concern in his eyes, and it made the weight of your silence feel all the more burdensome.

As you slowly pulled away from the hug, you wiped at your eyes, trying to steady your emotions. Joel looked at you with a soft expression, his worry evident but tempered with the resolve to support you no matter what.

The thoughts of your pregnancy, the uncertainty of the future, and the fear of how this might change everything were still swirling in your mind. You felt a pang of guilt as you remembered Tess's words, and you struggled with the decision of when and how to reveal the truth.

Joel seemed to sense the inner conflict you were grappling with. “If you need space, or if you need to talk about it,” he began, his voice steady, “just let me know. I’m here for you, no matter what.” You nodded, forcing a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Joel. I… I just need a little time.”

He nodded in understanding, and as you both sat down, the silence between you was filled with an unspoken promise of support and love.

You woke up a little later, feeling the soft warmth of Joel’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist. For a moment, you simply lay there, savoring the comfort and the faint sense of security his presence provided. The room was quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of Joel’s breathing.

Gently, you eased yourself out of bed, careful not to disturb him. You tiptoed out of the bedroom, the coolness of the apartment a stark contrast to the warmth you’d left behind. As you walked through the small living space, you noticed that Tess was already up, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee.

She looked up as you entered, her gaze softening. “Hey,” she said quietly, setting the cup down. “How’re you feeling?”

You offered her a small, tired smile. “Better, thanks,” you replied, taking a seat across from her. “I just needed some space to think.”

Tess nodded; her expression thoughtful. “Did you think about what I say?”

You took a deep breath, considering Tess's question. “A little,” you admitted, your voice soft. “It’s just been overwhelming, and I’m not sure how to handle everything yet.”

Tess studied you for a moment, her eyes reflecting both concern and a hint of sadness “And?” she reached across the table, placing a comforting hand over yours. “I understand it’s overwhelming,” she said gently. “But you have to face it.”

You glanced down at your hands, gripping the edge of the table as if it might anchor you to the present moment. The room felt too small, the weight of your thoughts pressing heavily on your shoulders. “It can’t be…I’m scared” you confessed, your voice trembling slightly.

Tess took a deep breath, her expression softening. “Take the test, I’ll go with you” she said, showing support.

“Wha-wha-what? I don’t have any test” you said, voice trembling

Tess gave you a small, understanding smile, her hand still resting over yours. “I know,” she said softly. “But there’s a way to get one. I can ask around… discreetly. I have a contact who might be able to help.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of fear and disbelief coursing through you. “You’d do that? For me?” The idea of someone knowing, of even a whisper of this spreading through the QZ, sent a chill down your spine. But the calm certainty in Tess’s eyes steadied you.

“Of course,” she replied without hesitation. “I’ve got your back, always. We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?”

You nodded slowly, though the tight knot in your stomach seemed to twist even more. “Yeah, I guess,” you muttered, trying to sound convinced, even though nothing had felt quite like this. “But what if… what if it’s true, Tess? What do I do then?”

Tess squeezed your hand gently, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Then we figure it out, step by step,” she said. “First things first, we need to know for sure. Until then, try not to let your mind spiral, okay?”

You swallowed hard, nodding again, though your mind was already a storm of thoughts and worries. You could feel the weight of this new reality settling onto your shoulders, heavier than anything you’d felt before. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll try.”

Tess stood up, giving your hand one last comforting squeeze before letting go. “I’ll see what I can do tomorrow,” she promised. “Go back to bed and try to rest.”

Your mind raced with possibilities and fears as you made your way back to the small bedroom, trying to steady your breathing, to find some calm in the storm of your thoughts.

When you slipped back into the darkened room, Joel was still lying on his side, one arm stretched across the bed as if reaching for you even in sleep. You carefully lifted the blanket and slid back under it, trying not to wake him. But as soon as you settled in, his arm instinctively curled around your waist, pulling you close. His warmth enveloped you, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of safety.

Joel's voice came out in a sleepy murmur, rough around the edges. “Where were you?” he mumbled; his breath warm against your neck. You could feel the weight of his arm, heavy and reassuring, holding you as if he sensed your unease.

“Just… talking to Tess,” you whispered back, trying to keep your voice steady.

His grip around you tightened slightly, his thumb tracing small circles against your side. Even in his half-asleep state, there was a protectiveness in the way he held you. “Everything okay?” he asked, still drowsy, but there was a hint of concern creeping into his tone.

You hesitated for a second, your heart beating faster. You didn’t want to lie, but you also couldn’t tell him—not yet, not until you knew for sure. “Yeah,” you finally replied, trying to sound convincing.

Joel made a low, comforting sound, a mix between a hum and a sigh. He nuzzled closer, his lips brushing lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice trailing off as sleep tried to claim him again. “We’ll figure it out… whatever it is.”

You bit your lip, feeling a lump form in your throat. You wanted to believe him, wanted to let his words soothe the fear gnawing at your insides. But all you could do was rest your hand over his, feeling the roughness of his skin beneath your palm, grounding yourself in his presence.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, more to yourself than to him. “We always do.”

Joel’s breathing began to slow again, deepening as he drifted back to sleep. You closed your eyes, pressing yourself closer against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I love you” you whispered to him, breaking the silence. You were afraid of losing him.

For a moment, there was only the quiet of the room, the soft hum of the distant generator outside, and the gentle rhythm of Joel's breath against your skin. You wondered if he'd even heard you, or if your whispered words had been lost in the space between wakefulness and sleep.

Then, you felt his grip tighten around you, his hand moving to hold you closer, almost as if he was afraid, you might slip away. His lips brushed against your shoulder, a tender, lingering kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. "I love you too," he murmured, his voice a deep, husky whisper in the darkness. There was a raw honesty in his words, an openness that you rarely heard from him, as if he understood the fear hidden beneath your confession.

His lips pressed against your shoulder again, this time firmer, more deliberate. "Ain't nothing gonna change that," he added softly, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb stroked gently over the fabric of your shirt, tracing soothing patterns that spoke of comfort and promises unspoken.

You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you, feeling a mix of relief and longing. The fear still lingered, but in this moment, held in his arms, it felt a little more manageable. You leaned back into him, feeling the strength in his body, the steady beat of his heart against your back.

Joel held you tighter, as if sensing your need for reassurance. "We'll get through this," he whispered. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together. You and me."

You nodded against him, unable to find your voice, your heart swelling with the weight of everything unsaid. "Together," you repeated softly, your hand squeezing his, grounding yourself in his presence.

For now, that was enough.

Joel woke up slowly, his body protesting against the cold air that had settled in the room overnight. He blinked against the dim light filtering through the cracked blinds, reaching out instinctively to your side of the bed, only to find it empty. His hand moved across the sheets, finding them cool, your warmth long gone.

He sat up, a frown creasing his brow as a flicker of worry ran through him. He scanned the room, half-expecting to see you in the corner, maybe getting dressed or lost in thought, but the room was still, too still. He called your name, softly at first, then a little louder. No answer.

His heart quickened as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his jeans from the chair and yanking them on. The apartment was quiet, eerily so, with no sign of movement or life. His boots hit the floor with a dull thud as he pulled them on, his gaze darting around the small space.

Where the hell were you?

He moved quickly to the kitchen, eyes scanning the counters, the sink—anywhere you might have left a note, a sign of where you’d gone. But there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the building settling around him. He glanced toward the front door, noticing Tess's boots missing from their usual spot. A knot of unease tightened in his chest. Neither of you were there.

He ran a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. You wouldn’t have left without telling him, not without saying something. And Tess—she was always up to something, but she never left you behind. He felt his pulse quicken, a gnawing sense of dread creeping in as he grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, slipping it on with practiced haste.

Joel pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway, his boots echoing against the worn floorboards. He looked around, scanning for any sign of you or Tess. The hallway was empty, but a few doors down, a neighbor—a middle-aged man Joel recognized but didn’t know well—was stepping out, adjusting his coat.

“Hey,” Joel called out, his voice sharper than intended. The man looked up, surprised. “You seen them?” He gestured back to your apartment.

The man shook his head slowly, clearly unsure who Joel was referring to. “Nah, haven’t seen anyone this morning,” he replied. “Everything okay?”

Joel forced a tight smile, though his stomach was churning with worry. “Yeah, fine,” he muttered, turning away. He started down the stairs, moving quickly, almost without thinking. His mind raced, a thousand worst-case scenarios flashing through his thoughts. Where could you be? Why hadn’t you said anything?

He made his way down to the ground floor, heading toward the small communal area near the entrance, where a few people were already gathered, murmuring quietly among themselves. He scanned the room, his eyes searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of you or Tess.

“Joel!” A voice cut through the chatter, and he turned to see one of Tess’s contacts—Danny, a wiry guy with a nervous energy—waving him over. Joel’s heart jumped. Maybe Danny had seen you.

“Where’s Tess?” Joel asked as he approached, not bothering with pleasantries.

Danny’s face tightened slightly, and he glanced around, lowering his voice. “She went out early, looking for something… didn’t say what. Figured you knew.”

Joel clenched his jaw, frustration flaring in his chest. “And her?” he asked, his voice edged with urgency. “You see her?”

Danny shook his head. “No, man. I just saw Tess.”

Joel felt a chill run down his spine. He took a step back, his mind racing with questions. If Tess had gone out and you weren’t with her, then where the hell were you?

He turned, scanning the room one more time, then made a decision. He needed to find you, now. Whatever this was, wherever you were, he wasn’t going to wait around and let worry tear him apart.

You sat in Lydia's small, cluttered living room, nerves thrumming beneath your skin like a live wire. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old books, a comforting combination that somehow made you feel more at ease, despite the circumstances. Lydia's place was a small haven in the chaos of the QZ, filled with mismatched furniture, faded floral curtains, and a few potted plants she somehow managed to keep alive. The doctor herself, an older woman with graying hair pulled back into a messy bun, moved around the space with a calm, practiced efficiency. Her hands were steady, her expression focused but kind.

Tess stood beside you, her presence a quiet reassurance. She had her arms crossed, her foot tapping lightly against the worn wooden floor as she watched Lydia prepare a small kit on the table. Lydia glanced over at you, her eyes soft with a mixture of concern and affection. “You look pale, sweetheart,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been keeping up with your food and water?”

You managed a small nod, though your stomach felt like it was tied in knots. “Yeah, just… a lot on my mind,” you murmured. Your voice sounded small in the stillness of the room.

Lydia nodded knowingly, her gaze flicking to Tess for a moment before returning to you. “I’ve seen that look before,” she said softly. “It's not easy, being in this kind of situation… but you’re not alone, okay?”

You bit your lip, feeling a lump form in your throat again. “Thanks, Lydia… I just… I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t know what to do if… if it’s true.”

Lydia came over to you, setting a warm hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said kindly.

You nodded, taking a deep breath as she handed you a small, well-worn plastic device. A pregnancy test. It felt surreal holding it in your hand, the weight of it much heavier than its actual size.

Lydia’s expression softened. “The bathroom is down the hall,” she instructed gently. “Take your time, and when you're ready, come back out. No rush.”

You glanced at Tess, who gave you a reassuring nod. “Go on,” she urged softly. “I’ll be right here.”

Swallowing hard, you stood up, clutching the test in your hand, and made your way down the narrow hallway to the small, dimly lit bathroom. The old mirror above the sink was cracked, reflecting your nervous expression in fragmented pieces. You took a deep breath, feeling the cool tile under your bare feet, and tried to steady your racing heart.

The minutes stretched out as you stood there, staring at the test in your hands, feeling the weight of this decision. You knew that everything could change in an instant—your life, your relationship with Joel, everything you thought you knew about the world and your place in it.

You finally gathered your courage, took the test, and set it on the sink. You watched it like it might explode, the seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness. You could hear the muffled voices of Tess and Lydia down the hall, their words indistinct but soothing in their familiarity.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, you saw the result. Your breath caught in your throat, your knees feeling weak. You stared at it, your mind struggling to catch up, to process what you were seeing.

It was positive.

You felt a wave of emotions crash over you—fear, confusion, a strange sense of disbelief. You gripped the edge of the sink, needing something solid to hold on to, to keep yourself from spiraling. Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden, and you blinked them back, swallowing hard.

You took a few deep breaths, trying to steady yourself before turning back toward the door. You stepped out of the bathroom, your face pale, your hands trembling slightly.

Tess was the first to notice, her eyes widening as she saw your expression. She moved quickly to your side, her hand gripping your arm gently. “Hey… what’s the result?” she asked, though the look on your face already told her everything.

Lydia stepped closer; her eyes filled with empathy. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Just take a breath.”

You looked at them both, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s… it’s positive,” you admitted, your heart pounding. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”

Tess squeezed your arm, a mixture of concern and determination on her face. “Okay,” she said firmly. “We’re going to handle this. We’re gonna figure it out.”

Lydia nodded; her expression warm. “You’re not alone in this,” she reassured you. “We’ll do what we can to make sure you’re safe… and healthy.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the tears spill over despite your best efforts to hold them back. “What… what do I do now?” you asked, your voice shaking. “I don’t want anyone to know this, okay?”

“Joel’s has to know” Tess said.

“No.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended, a flash of panic twisting through your chest. “No,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I can’t… I can’t tell him. Not yet.”

Tess’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her expression remained calm. “Why not?” she asked gently, though there was a hint of insistence in her voice. “He deserves to know. He’s going to find out sooner or later.”

You shook your head, feeling the tears start to flow again. “I just… I’m not ready,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “He’s already dealing with so much, with losing contact with Tommy, and… I don’t want to put this on him. Not when I don’t even know how I feel about it yet.”

Lydia placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, her touch steady and grounding. “It’s okay to feel this way,” she said softly. “But Tess is right. Joel will need to know eventually. He’s your partner… in all of this.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady your breath. “I just need some time,” you murmured, feeling a deep ache in your chest. “Please… don’t say anything to him. Not until I figure out how to even say it myself.”

Tess sighed, a mixture of frustration and understanding on her face. “Alright,” she agreed quietly, but you knew she was lying.

She walked towards the door before you saying to Lydia “I’ll pay you later.”

“There is no need, I’d do anything for this one here” she said, squeezing your shoulder.

Tess gave Lydia a small nod, but her expression was tight, her jaw set. You could sense the conflict simmering beneath her calm exterior. You knew Tess well enough to recognize that she wasn’t pleased with your decision. She paused at the door, one hand resting on the frame, before turning back to you.

“Alright,” she said again, this time her voice softer, almost resigned. “We need to get back. Joel’s probably tearing his hair out by now.” There was a hint of a wry smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. You felt a pang of guilt; you could only imagine how worried Joel must be at this point.

Lydia gave you a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she said softly. “And if you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.”

You managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Lydia… for everything,” you whispered, feeling a rush of emotion swell in your chest.

Tess opened the door and stepped outside, waiting for you to follow. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves, before moving to join her. As you stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, Tess glanced at you, her expression unreadable.

“You know he’s gonna ask where we were,” she muttered, keeping her voice low. “And you know I won’t lie to him.”

Your heart sank a little. “I know,” you admitted quietly. “Just… don’t tell him yet, okay? I need to be the one to do it, Tess.”

She nodded, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease. “You better tell him soon,” she warned her tone more serious now. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

Two days had passed since you were delivered the news, and as you went through your shift, the morning sun cast a pale light over the QZ, and the usual noise of activity buzzed around you. You focused on your tasks, trying to push through the lingering fatigue and nausea. Despite your efforts to stay steady, a wave of nausea hit you suddenly, making your stomach churn violently.

You stumbled to the side, clutching your midsection as you struggled to keep yourself upright. Before you could react, the contents of your stomach erupted, and you doubled over, throwing up onto the ground. The sudden and intense discomfort left you gasping for breath, feeling a mix of embarrassment and distress.

Nearby, a few of your co-workers glanced over, their faces a mixture of concern and discomfort. One of them approached, a frown on his face. “You alright? Maybe you should sit down or get some fresh air.”

You shook your head, trying to regain your composure. “I’m fine,” you managed to say, though your voice was shaky. “Just… give me a moment.”

The soldier supervising the shift, who had already been keeping an eye on you, approached with a stern expression. “What’s going on? You can’t be throwing up in the middle of work. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”

You tried to protest, but your weakened state made it hard to argue. “I’m okay,” you said weakly. “I just need a minute.”

Before you could say more, Joel appeared, his face etched with concern as he hurried over to you. He placed a supportive hand on your back. “You need to go home,” he said firmly, his eyes filled with worry. “You’re not doing yourself any good pushing through like this.”

The soldier gave Joel a skeptical look. “She needs to get back to work. We can’t afford to have people slacking off.”

Joel’s expression hardened, and he took a protective step forward. “She’s not slacking off. She’s sick. You wanna have her work herself into the ground? Take her home, and I’ll deal with it.”

The soldier seemed taken aback by Joel’s intensity but eventually relented, grumbling under his breath. “Fine. Take her home, Miller. We don’t need sick people on duty.”

Joel nodded, helping you to your feet and wrapping an arm around you for support. “Let’s get you outta here,” he said gently, guiding you toward the exit.

As you walked out of the QZ, the cool air was a welcome relief, but the anxiety and guilt still gnawed at you. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Joel glanced at you, his eyes softening. “You don’t need to apologize, honey.” With Joel’s reassuring presence beside you, you made your way back to the apartment, each step feeling a bit heavier as you faced the reality of your situation.

When you and Joel arrived back at the apartment, you were both greeted by the quiet, familiar surroundings. Tess was sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes lifting from a worn-out map she’d been studying. She looked up as you entered, her expression shifting from concern to relief.

“Hey, you’re back,” Tess said, standing up quickly. “How are you feeling?”

Joel helped you inside, guiding you to the couch. “She’s not feeling great,” he said, his voice low. “She had another wave of nausea at work.”

Tess crossed the room, taking a seat next to you on the couch. “Alright, let’s get you comfortable,” she said, her tone gentle. She reached for a blanket and draped it over you, her eyes scanning your face with worry.

You nodded weakly, feeling the exhaustion and the strain of the morning catching up with you. “Thanks, Tess,” you murmured, settling into the couch as Joel stood nearby, his hands resting on his hips, clearly trying to mask his concern.

Tess turned to Joel. “You should take a break, too,” she suggested. “I can keep an eye on her for a bit.”

“No.” Joel glanced at you, “I want to know what’s happening, and don’t lie to me” he demanded, especially to you.

You frightened under his stare. You looked over at Tess looking for a way of reassurance.

Tess met Joel’s gaze steadily, her own concern evident. “Joel,” she began softly, “we need to approach this carefully. We don’t want to push her too hard.”

Joel’s eyes softened slightly, but his jaw remained set. “I just want to understand what’s going on. She’s been sick for days, and I need to know why.”

You took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of both their stares. “Joel,” you said quietly, “I’ve been… trying to manage. It’s been hard to admit, but… Tess might be right. I’m not sure how to handle it all.”

Tess reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “What we’re dealing with isn’t just a simple illness. It’s important that we address it properly.”

Joel’s expression shifted from frustration to deep concern. “What are you saying?” he asked, his voice softer now, but still laced with worry.

“Joel, I…I” you wanted to tell him, but you couldn’t find the words or the courage to do it.

Joel's gaze was intense, waiting for you to continue. Tess’s hand on your shoulder was a grounding presence, urging you to find the strength to speak.

You took another deep breath, the lump in your throat making it hard to talk. “Joel,” you began again, your voice trembling, “I’ve been feeling… really sick, and it’s more than just the usual stuff. It’s… it’s because…”

Again, your voice got cut.

“Because of what?” he demanded.

“She is pregnant, Joel” Tess answered for you.

Joel’s face went pale as he absorbed Tess’s words. His eyes flickered between you and Tess, trying to reconcile the new information with what he had seen in you recently. The silence in the room grew heavy, punctuated only by the sound of your shallow breaths.

Joel’s hands dropped to his sides, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. “Pregnant?” he repeated, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. His voice was a mix of confusion and pain, and he took a step back, needing space to process this revelation.

You nodded, tears threatening to spill again. “I didn’t want to tell you like this,” you said quietly. “I’ve been trying to manage, but it’s been really hard.”

Joel ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly as he tried to gather his thoughts. He turned away from you, his face contorted with frustration. “Goddammit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair again, the tension in his body palpable. “This… this is just too much.”

You flinched at his outburst, tears spilling freely now. “Joel, please—” you began, but he cut you off, his voice rising.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” Joel’s tone was harsh, though there was a tremor of anguish beneath the anger. “We’re barely surviving as it is, and now… now you’re telling me you’re pregnant?”

Tess stepped in, placing a firm hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Joel, this isn’t helping,” she said sharply. “She needs support right now, not anger.”

Joel shrugged off her hand, his frustration boiling over. “I know, I know,” he snapped. “But it’s a lot to take in! I can’t just ignore it!”

You watched, your heart breaking as you saw Joel’s struggle to come to terms with the news. “Joel,” you said, trying to reach out to him despite your own pain, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to add to the stress, but I didn’t know how else to handle it.”

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, the anger in his gaze faltered, replaced by a deep sadness. “I just… I don’t know how to fix this,”

he said, his voice dropping to a strained whisper. “I thought we had a chance to figure things out. Now everything’s just falling apart.”

Tess moved closer; her voice softer but firm. “Joel, getting angry won’t solve anything. We need to focus on what we can do now. What matters is getting her the help she needs.

“We were supposed to leave to find Tommy and now we won’t be able to.” He said, angry.

“What?” you asked, absorbing the new information.

Joel’s gaze dropped to the floor, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. “We were planning to leave for Tommy’s,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “But with this… we might not be able to. We’re stuck here now, trying to figure out how to manage all this mess.”

You stared at him, the realization hitting you like a cold wave. “Wait, you were planning to leave? To find Tommy?”

Joel nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, Tess and I thought it was the best chance for us. Tommy’s got connections, and he might be able to help us get through this. But now…” His voice trailed off, the anger and sadness mixing in his eyes. “Now, everything’s fucked up.”

“When were you planning to tell me?” You asked, hurt.

Joel’s face fell at your question, and he looked away, struggling to find the right words. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to keep it from you,” he said, his voice rough. “Things were just… so complicated. We thought we had more time to figure things out before we had to tell you.”

You felt a pang of hurt at his words. “So, you were just going to leave me in the dark? You were planning to leave without even talking to me about it?”

Joel looked back at you; his eyes filled with regret. “No, that’s not what I meant. Of course you were coming with us.”

“But now I’m a burden.” You uttered a thought Joel perhaps was having.

Joel’s face tightened at your words, the weight of your accusation clearly hitting him hard. “That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his voice strained. “You’re not a burden, never say that again.”

You stood up, your emotions swirling, a mix of hurt and frustration. “Then why does it feel like everything’s falling apart because of me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

You stood up, your emotions swirling, a mix of hurt and frustration. “Then why does it feel like everything’s falling apart because of me?” you asked, your voice trembling. Tears began to spill down your cheeks, the weight of the situation overwhelming you. “I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do. I thought you were going to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay, but—fuck this!” You turned abruptly and walked towards the bedroom, trying to escape the chaos of your emotions.

Joel's heart ached as he watched you go, his own emotions roiling. He hesitated for a moment before following you, his steps heavy with regret and worry. He reached the bedroom door just as you were sinking onto the edge of the bed, your shoulders shaking with sobs.

“Hey,” Joel said softly, his voice carrying a note of desperation. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this. I was just… scared and confused. I should’ve been there for you, and I wasn’t.”

You didn’t look up, focusing on trying to control your breathing. “Leave me alone.” You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, feeling his presence beside you.

“Leave, Joel.” You sobbed.

Joel’s heart sank further as you pushed him away, the pain in your voice cutting him deeply. He hesitated at the bedroom door, torn between his desire to comfort you and the need to respect your space.

“Alright,” Joel said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ll give you some time. I’m sorry.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone with your emotions.

As Joel retreated, Tess quietly entered the room. She found you on the edge of the bed, still shaking with sobs. Without saying a word, she sat down beside you, offering silent support. Tess’s presence was calm and steady, a stark contrast to the turmoil you felt inside.

“Hey,” Tess said gently, placing a comforting hand on your back. “I’m here. Just breathe. We’ll get through this.”

You looked up at her, your eyes red and tearful. Tess didn’t try to force conversation; instead, she simply sat with you, her hand a reassuring presence on your back. Slowly, the comforting silence and Tess’s steady presence began to soothe you. Your breathing gradually steadied, and the tears started to subside.

Tess helped you settle into a more comfortable position on the bed, making sure you were warm and covered. As you drifted off to sleep, the emotional exhaustion finally taking its toll, Tess stayed by your side, her watchful gaze softening with concern.

After a while, Tess glanced toward the door and saw Joel standing there, his expression one of deep regret and sorrow. He looked as though he was trying to come to terms with everything that had happened. Tess gave him a sympathetic nod before turning her attention back to you.

“I know this isn’t the ideal situation,” Tess began, her tone firm yet understanding. “But she needs you now, Joel. More than ever.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking from Tess to where you lay curled up on the bed, still trembling from your tears. “I don’t know if I can do this, Tess,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, filled with the weight of his fears.

Tess placed a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “You’ve got to try,” she urged. “She’s scared, and she needs you to be there for her. You don’t have to have all the answers, but you do need to stay. You need to lay down next to her and protect her, like you always have.”

Joel looked at her, conflicted, the fight still lingering in his eyes. But Tess didn’t back down, her gaze unwavering. “She’s not asking you to be perfect, Joel. She’s asking you to be there.”

For a moment, Joel hesitated, the weight of the decision hanging heavy in the air. But then, slowly, he nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He walked over to the bed, his movements careful and deliberate as he lay down beside you, his presence cautious but steady.

You stirred slightly, sensing his nearness even in your sleep, and instinctively moved closer to him, seeking the comfort you had always found in his arms. Joel wrapped an arm around you, holding you gently, as if afraid you might break. And as Tess watched, she saw the fear and anger in his eyes slowly give way to something softer.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of your breathing, as you finally found peace in sleep. Joel stayed awake, his thoughts still tangled, but his grip on you never faltered. Tess left the room quietly, leaving the two of you to find whatever solace you could in each other.

Joel lay beside you, staring up at the cracked ceiling of the apartment. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind raced, replaying the argument from earlier and the harsh truths he had tried to push away for so long. The room was quiet now, but his thoughts were anything but.

His gaze shifted to you, lying peacefully next to him, your breathing soft and even. You looked so small, so fragile, and it hit him all over again just how much had changed in the span of a few hours. The life growing inside you was a reality he couldn’t ignore anymore, no matter how much he wanted to. He watched you, his heart heavy with a mix of fear, guilt, and something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time—hope.

The thought of becoming a father again terrified him. After Sarah, after everything he had lost, he didn’t know if he could survive that kind of pain again. But here you were, carrying his child, and it was as if the world was asking him to take that risk all over again. He didn’t know if he had it in him, but as he watched you sleep, so peaceful and trusting, he realized that you were counting on him.

Joel stayed awake through the night, his thoughts swirling with memories of Sarah, the life he had lost, and the uncertain future ahead. He wanted to protect you, to shield you from the harshness of the world outside, but he didn’t know if he was strong enough to protect you both from the dangers that lay ahead. The weight of responsibility felt crushing, yet he knew he couldn’t turn away—not now, not ever.

As the first light of dawn began to seep through the cracks in the curtains, Joel’s exhaustion finally began to catch up with him. His eyes grew heavy, and despite his best efforts, he drifted into a restless sleep, his arm still draped protectively over you.

When he finally woke, the apartment was filled with the pale light of early morning. He blinked groggily, his mind still clouded with sleep, but something felt off. The warmth of your body beside him was gone. He reached out, his hand finding only the empty space where you had been.

Panic flared in his chest as he sat up quickly, his eyes scanning the room. The bed was cold where you had lain, and the room was eerily silent. “Where the hell are you?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair as he forced himself out of bed.

His heart pounded in his chest as he searched the small apartment, calling your name, but there was no answer. The sense of dread he had felt the night before came rushing back, stronger than ever. He knew you couldn’t have gone far, but the thought of you out there alone, especially in your condition, made his stomach twist with worry.

Joel threw on his jacket, his movements frantic as he prepared to leave and search for you. He couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you, not when he had just realized how much he needed you. As he headed for the door, he stopped short, his hand gripping the doorknob tightly. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, to think. You were strong, capable—he knew that. But still, the protective urge in him screamed to find you, to bring you back and keep you safe.

With one last glance around the empty apartment, Joel stepped outside, his mind racing as he tried to figure out where you might have gone. He couldn’t lose you—not now, not ever.

Joel knew you had a habit of going to certain places when you needed space—when you needed to clear your head. He made his way through the maze of streets, his mind fixated on finding you. As he walked, his thoughts spiraled. What if you were angry enough to leave the QZ? What if you’d decided you didn’t want to face him again? The guilt from the night before weighed heavily on him, and the fear that he’d pushed you away was overwhelming.

He headed towards a small, secluded spot behind one of the less-used buildings—a place you often went when you needed to be alone. It was out of sight from most people, offering a rare bit of privacy in the crowded QZ. As he turned the corner, his breath caught in his throat. There you were, sitting on an old, crumbling bench, your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

Relief washed over him, so intense it almost brought him to his knees. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in the sight of you. You looked small and lost, your shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world had finally settled on them. But you were safe. You were here. That was all that mattered.

He approached slowly, not wanting to startle you. The crunch of gravel under his boots made you look up, your eyes meeting his. The raw emotion in your gaze—fear, uncertainty, and something that looked like regret—hit him like a punch to the gut.

Joel stopped a few feet away, unsure of what to say, how to bridge the gap that had opened between you. His mouth opened, but no words came out. What could he possibly say to make this better? To fix the hurt he had caused?

“I didn’t mean to leave,” you finally said, your voice small and fragile. “I just…needed to think.”

Joel nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I get it,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion. He took a cautious step closer, wanting to reach out, but unsure if you wanted him to. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have let you leave like that.”

You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It’s not your fault. I just—” Your voice broke, and you wiped at your eyes, frustration evident in the gesture. “I don’t know how to deal with all of this. It’s too much, Joel. Everything is too much.”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

Joel crouched down in front of you, his hand still on your shoulder, his gaze locked onto yours. “We don’t have to have all the answers right now,” he said softly.

“There isn’t a place for raising a baby.” You spoke, looking down at your hands, the thoughts swirling in your mind too overwhelming to express. “Lydia could help me,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “She could help me…terminate it.”

Joel’s reaction was immediate, his voice hard and unyielding. “No.” The word came out sharper than he intended, and he saw you flinch. He softened his tone, but the resolve remained. “We’re not doing that.”

You looked up at him, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and confusion. “But, Joel, what if—” you began, but he cut you off.

“I said no,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “We’re not ending this.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, the intensity of the moment overwhelming you. “But I’m scared, Joel,” you confessed, your voice breaking. “What if we can’t do this? What if it’s too much?”

Joel crossed the room in two long strides and knelt in front of you, his hands gently cupping your face. “I’m scared too,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “But I can’t lose you.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you looked into his eyes, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Joel pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “You’re not alone in this,” he murmured into your hair. “We’ll do it together. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

You clung to him, the fear and uncertainty still gnawing at you, but for the first time since you’d found out, you felt a small measure of comfort. Joel wasn’t backing down, and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

“I love you and I won’t leave you alone, baby” he whispered, kissing your lips.

Joel’s words wrapped around you like a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge of your fears. You clung to him, your grip tight but gentle, as if you were afraid, he might disappear again. The warmth of his embrace, the sincerity in his voice, and the tenderness of his kiss were all anchors in the storm that had been swirling inside you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice thick with emotion. You could feel the tears drying on your cheeks, replaced by a sense of tentative hope. The weight of your worries didn’t vanish, but Joel’s presence made them seem a little more manageable.

Joel gently cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the remaining tears from your cheeks. “We’re gonna get through this,” he said firmly. “I don’t know how, but we will. We’re a team. We’ve faced worse before.”

You nodded, finding strength in his conviction. “Okay,” you murmured, feeling a flicker of warmth in your chest. “I’ll try to believe that.”

Joel’s eyes softened as he leaned in closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “We’ll figure it out together,” he promised. “But right now, my focus is taking care of you and the baby.”

Hours later, the apartment was quiet once again, save for the soft hum of a generator and the occasional creak of the building settling into its nightly stillness. You had managed to distract yourself with small tasks around the apartment, trying to keep your mind occupied and calm. The weight of the conversation with Joel still lingered, but his earlier reassurance had brought a sense of calm you hadn't expected.

You were in the middle of organizing some supplies when you heard the front door open. The sound of footsteps followed, and a few moments later, Joel's voice cut through the quiet. It was a familiar, comforting sound, but this time, it was tinged with an edge of frustration.

“You think this is a joke?” Joel’s voice was sharp, and you could hear the anger in his tone.

You quickly moved toward the front of the apartment, concern etching across your face. When you reached the living area, you saw Joel standing in the doorway, his face set in a hard line. Beside him stood a teenager—a girl who looked no older than sixteen. Her clothes were ragged, and she had a wary, defensive posture.

The girl’s eyes flickered between you and Joel, her expression a mix of fear and defiance. Joel’s anger was palpable, and it was clear that the situation was tense.

“Joel, what’s going on?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though you felt a pang of anxiety at the sight of the girl and the intensity of Joel’s demeanor.

Joel's eyes shifted to you, the anger in them still evident but now mixed with a hint of exhaustion. “She’s got a name,” he said, gesturing toward the girl. “Her name’s Ellie.”

Ellie looked up at you, her eyes wary but hopeful. Joel’s expression softened slightly as he continued, “Turns out she’s supposed to be delivered to the Fireflies.

You glanced at Joel, understanding dawning. “You’re going to take her to them,” you said, looking back at Ellie. “And you’ll have the chance to find Tommy along the way.”

Joel nodded, a hint of resignation in his stance. “Yeah, that’s the deal,” he said.

“But what about—”

Joel cut you off gently. “I know it’s a lot to take in. We need to leave now. There’s an opportunity for us to get out of the QZ and head to a place where things might be better. But it means we have to move fast.”

Ellie shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and Joel. “I don’t want to be a problem,” she said quietly. “If it’s too much—”

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “It’s not that. I just… I’m not sure what to do. I mean, this is all so sudden.”

Joel stepped closer, his expression earnest. “We don’t have much time. We need to move quickly before things get worse. I know it’s hard, but this is our chance to get out of here. To find some place where we can start over.”

You looked at Joel, the weight of his words sinking in. “And what about the baby?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “How will we—”

“We’ll figure it out,” Joel said firmly. “We have to. There’s no time to waste. This is our chance to make a new life, to give the baby a better chance.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the gravity of the situation. “Alright,” you said finally, nodding. “I’ll do it. We’ll go. Just… let’s make sure we’re ready.”

Joel’s face softened with relief, and he gave a nod. “Good. Tess will be back soon. We need to pack up and get out before anyone notices we’re gone.”

As you hurriedly packed, a thought clawed at the back of your mind, growing louder and louder until it burst out of you in a shaky whisper. "But I’ll be a burden," you said, your voice breaking. "I’ll slow you down, Joel. You know it."

Joel stopped what he was doing, turning to face you. "No," he said firmly, the word cutting through the tense air like a knife. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look into his eyes. There was a fierce intensity in his gaze, something raw and unwavering.

"You’re not a burden," he insisted, his voice low and filled with emotion. "You're the reason I wake up every day. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you, baby. Without you… without you, nothing makes sense anymore."

Your breath hitched, and tears welled up in your eyes as you listened to him, his words breaking down the walls you had built around your fears. Joel’s hands trembled slightly as he continued, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek.

"So, if this is the chance I have to give you a life you deserve in this shithole," he went on, his voice steady but thick with emotion, "then I’ll take it. I’ll take you with me and give it to you and our baby. I promise you, I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re both safe. I won’t lose you. Not now, not ever."

You could feel his sincerity, the depth of his determination to protect you and the life growing inside you. You felt a wave of emotions crashing over you—fear, relief, hope, and love, all swirling together. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch, letting his words sink in.

"Joel," you whispered, your voice trembling, "I… I don’t know if I’m ready for this, for any of this."

His grip on your face tightened just a bit, his gaze never wavering. "Neither do I," he admitted. "But we’ll figure it out. We’ve faced worse, and we’re still standing. We’ll get through this. Together."

You nodded slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. "I’m not letting you go," he murmured.

Ellie stood by the door, her arms crossed, an incredulous look on her face. "Are you seriously risking your pregnant girlfriend?" she asked, her voice sharp with disbelief. She looked between the two of you, clearly struggling to understand the situation.

Joel turned his head, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features, but he kept his voice calm. "It's not that simple, kid."

Ellie scoffed. "Seems pretty simple to me," she shot back. "You're dragging her and… whatever's in there—" she gestured vaguely toward your stomach, "—through god knows what to get me to the Fireflies. What if something happens?"

You took a deep breath, stepping forward to meet Ellie’s eyes. "I know what I'm getting into," you said firmly. "I can take care of myself."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and what if you can't? I mean, what if you get sick or something? What if you get hurt?" Her voice softened, just a bit, the worry evident. "It’s not just about you anymore."

Joel’s jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. He turned to Ellie; his tone more measured. "I get it, Ellie," he said. "But leaving her here… leaving her in this place… that’s not an option either."

Ellie threw her hands up. "Great, so it’s a lose-lose situation."

You couldn’t help but let out a small, dry laugh. "Pretty much," you said, trying to inject some lightness into the tension-filled room.

There was a beat of silence, the reality of the situation settling over everyone. Joel reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. "We’ll figure it out," he murmured, more to you than anyone else.

Within a short time, Tess arrived, and the group of you prepared to leave the apartment, stepping out into the uncertain world beyond the QZ. The prospect of escaping to a new place, combined with the responsibility of ensuring the safety of both Ellie and your unborn child, loomed over you.

Joel led the way, his eyes scanning the area as you followed, Ellie close behind. The journey ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for a new beginning.

As you stepped out of the QZ and into the unfamiliar landscape beyond, the weight of your situation pressed heavily on you. The world outside was a mix of desolate ruins and overgrown wilderness, a stark contrast to the relative safety of the quarantine zone. With each step, you could feel the gravity of the journey ahead, not just for yourself, but for your unborn child and Ellie, who now looked up to you as a beacon of hope and guidance.

Joel walked beside you, his presence a constant reassurance in the chaos. He kept a vigilant eye on the surroundings, his hand occasionally reaching out to make sure you were close. Tess, ever practical, moved ahead, scouting the path and ensuring that it was as safe as possible.

Ellie followed behind, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. The harsh reality of the world outside the QZ was a stark contrast to the relative safety she’d known, and she looked to you and Joel for guidance and protection.

The landscape seemed to stretch endlessly, with the occasional remnants of civilization scattered among the ruins. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with potential threats and unknown challenges. Yet, with Joel’s hand firmly grasping yours and Tess leading the way, you found a small measure of comfort in the unity of your group.

As you walked, Joel glanced at you occasionally, his gaze softening when he saw the lump forming in your throat.

With each step you took away from the QZ, you felt a mixture of trepidation and hope. The future was uncertain, and the dangers were real, but you were determined to face them head-on, for yourself, for your child, and for the family you were trying to protect.

1K notes · View notes

talaok · 5 months ago

Text

What did daddy teach you?

Pairing: Step-dad!Joel Miller x Step-daughter!reader x Step-uncle!Tommy

Summary: Joel has decided you need to have practice with other men. Thankfully Tommy is more than happy to step up for the task.(this is part of a series but can be read alone)

Warnings: oh boy, step-incest, manipulation, straight-out lying, hence: dub-con, Perv!Joel, Perv!Tommy, predatory behavior, very very naive and innocent reader |Smut| oral sex (m receiving), face fuking, he forces you down for a bit too long, handjob, 1 slap, anal play, unprotected p in v sex (one right after the other), spanking, hair pulling, coming on face, creampie, degradation (slut, whore), praising, Tommy's mean and rough, and of course loads of daddy-kink.

This is a dark fic, so please for the love of god read the warnings and just scroll if you don't like what you see.

a/n: I should be institutionalized

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3

Mom had gone away on some kind of business trip for this weekend, and normally, that wouldn't have been a reason for you to be particularly happy, but now, with everything that happened in the past month it meant only one thing: Joel could teach you all about making love for two full days.

You were so incredibly excited it was kind of funny.

You had done all your homework already so that nothing could distract you or take time away from your lessons, and immediately once you came home you had changed into the special clothes you only wore for Joel-this time he'd bought you a little tiny dress, not the usual skirt.

It was the kind of white that was basically transparent, especially being you couldn't wear anything underneath it, and it wasn't like it covered much anyway... as always at least an inch of your ass wasn't covered by the fabric, and the top of it was very much more low cut than what you were used to,

But that's the way daddy liked it, and as he was always reminding you, it was healthier for your skin anyway,

Just as you were sitting down on the couch, the doorbell rang.

"Hi babygirl"

"H-hi"

"Hi sugar" Tommy's smirk matched Joel's, the devil lurking behind those eyes- and your heart dropped at the sight.

What is he doing here?

Why is he here?

It was supposed to be just you and Joel- You didn't know he was gonna be here- you were- oh god-

you looked down at your clothes and immediately went to cover up, your arms doing a poor job of shielding your body from their ravenous gaze.

They were eating you with their eyes, and perhaps even enjoying seeing how panicked that made you.

"I-I'm sorry" you gulped, as they stepped inside and closed the door behind them "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd be coming Uncle Tommy"

Tommy's grin only widened, his eyes making little to no effort to avoid falling to your cleavage.

"is that the way to greet your uncle now?" he tsked

Joel chuckled beside him, but you were so mortified you didn't even hear him

"I-I'm sorry I just- I- I should c-change"

It seems Joel was gonna let his brother do all the talking

"why's that?" he frowned, taking a slow step towards you "you look real damn good sweets... ain't there no need to change"

"b-but" your eyes shifted to Joel only to find him already watching you

But only daddy can see me dressed like this

But it's against the rules

"c'mere sugar" was all Joel said

You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel relieved to be walking away from Tommy and his gaze

"W-what's going on daddy?" you whispered, although Tommy could very well still hear,

You were only a few steps away from him, but his focus was entirely on something else as you offered him a sneak peek of your ass

"I-I thought you'd be teaching me another lesson today"

his hand found your back, pushing you flat against him, and your hands went to his chest.

"daddy" you tried to warn him, but he was already kissing you, his lips soft and rough at the same time against yours.

You heard a soft chuckle coming from your left, and you swore you squeaked in surprise.

What is he doing?

Tommy can see us!

"daddy I-" You stole a glance at his brother and found him palming the front of his jeans "he can see us"

Finally, Joel decided to explain, not wasting an opportunity to laugh softly at your naivety first.

"Uncle Tommy's here for you sweetheart"

You could only frown, looking up at him again

"He's here to help you out"

What does that even mean?

daddy's already helping you

"with what? Y-You-"

He smirked, as his thumb traced your lips

"You see baby" he murmured, "You know me well now, you're used to me, to how I do... things" he explained "but a woman needs to be prepared to make love with men even if she doesn't know how it'll be" he said " when I said men like women with experience, I meant experience with different men too, with different mouths and fingers and cocks, you understand?"

You didn't think you did, not fully, but you still nodded.

"now I'm not saying that what you and I do ain't important, because it's real important for you sugar" his eyes were so honest and kind you were starting to forget all about the shock from moments ago "You still have a lot to learn, and I'm happy to help, but today... today Uncle Tommy was kind enough to agree to help me help you out"

You swallowed thickly, focusing on his strong hands on you and your beating heart

If Joel trusts Uncle Tommy, then I trust him too, you thought

"B-but you're still gonna be here right?"

The way he stroked your cheek said everything you needed to know, but he still spoke it into kind, gentle words, as if you'd made him happy by expressing your need for him to be there.

"of course, I'll be right there the whole time baby girl" he promised, softly caressing your back as he raised his chin to point at his brother "How 'bout you show Uncle Tommy how grateful you are he's helpin' you out now?"

You looked up at Joel, your eyes wide with excitement and nervousness while your hands gripped the shirt covering his chest

"I won't bite" Tommy's amused remark startled you.

He was right beside you now, and you hadn't even noticed him moving.

Some of his curly hair had fallen to his forehead, and his hands were in the front pockets of his jeans, patiently waiting for you to accept the offer, although judging by the big bulge in his crotch, it was taking all his self-restraint

Which it definitely was.

He'd wanted to fuck you since Joel first introduced you that 4th of July of what must have been a year ago.

And when his brother had told him of what he'd managed to convince you to do this past month... he didn't think he'd ever been more jealous in his entire life.

Which is why he decided that a few other words of encouragement wouldn't have hurt.

"c'mon sweetheart" he invited "give your favorite uncle some sugar"

And it would have been a lie to say you didn't want to,

Tommy really was your favorite uncle, and it's not like you were blind... he was one hell of a good-looking man.

So glancing at Joel one last time, you turned toward his brother and took a step until you were right in front of him.

He looked even more beautiful up close.

You gingerly placed your hands on his chest, and he didn't even waste a quarter of a second that his mouth was already devouring yours and his hands were gripping your waist to get you flat against him.

Your eyes were still wide in surprise as he let out a low groan and infiltrated his tongue between your lips to taste all of you,

You let him, you let him explore you entirely before you finally recovered from the shock.

I mean you were used to this kind of hunger from Joel, but you expected Tommy to be a little... tamer.

Once you were back, you started reciprocating, whimpering into his mouth as you too, started to explore his.

"fuck, sugar" he groaned, grinning before he went back to kissing you, grabbing your ass as he did.

You squeaked, completely pliant in his hands as he grabbed at you and kissed you like you were his, like his brother wasn't right behind you, watching the whole scene.

And then you felt it- you felt Joel's hands replace his brother's on your waist, and then you felt his lips graze your neck, his soft breath fanning over your skin as his beard skimmed it, sending shivers all over you.

And then...

There was something so sinful about having two men, two brothers, kiss you at once,

but there was something spectacular about it too.

You moaned, like full-on moaned into Tommy's mouth, your knees buckling as your body turned to jelly.

Both men chuckled softly, their intoxicating mists all around you

"please" you whimpered as they pressed even closer to you, sandwiching you between their muscled bodies and the tents in their jeans.

"What was that?" Joel asked, kissing you right below your left ear as Tommy took care of the right side, making you squirm uncontrollably.

"Daddy-" you only whimpered

"I think she likes this" Tommy grinned, his smile one of a shark

"I think she does too" Joel agreed, both talking like you weren't there, "don't you, baby girl? Tell us how much you're enjoyin' this"

Tommy's hands had left your ass to find your tits now, while Joel's hands were busy stroking up and down your sides.

How could anyone ask for a girl's brain to work in this situation?

"I like it so much" you muttered, your voice a single thread of a whisper.

"yeah?" Tommy taunted "Where are you feeling how much you like it sugar?"

Heat rushed to your face, but Joel was quick to intervene at your pause.

"Don't be rude now sweetheart, answer Uncle Tommy's question" he said, continuing to leave hot kisses on your throat

"I feel it- Uhm- down... there" you whispered, your eyes falling to where your dress "covered" your heat.

"you mean, here in your lil' pussy?" Tommy spoke sultry as his hand found its way underneath your dress and cupped your cunt,

your bare, sopping cunt.

Tommy hissed as his digits connected with your slick folds

"mh-mh" you squeaked, both the men snickering again

"no panties, sugar?" Tommy growled, feeling himself harden with every passing second

"T-they're n-not allowed"

"'f course they aren't" he murmured, ghosting your mouth as he continued exploring your heat, thanking his brother in every language he knew inside his mind.

"poor baby" he cooed, faining pity "She's so wet"

"a-and tingly" you stuttered

"oh sugar" he cooed again "You want Uncle Tommy to take the tingles away?"

"y-yes- please"

but all of a sudden his hand was gone

"don't worry, I'm gonna take care of you later" he cooed, his wet fingers tracing your mouth "First you're gonna have to tell me a few things"

Before you had time to protest or question his words, Joel had already spoken

"let's get on the couch," he said, nodding behind him.

And in no time, the pair was sitting in front of you on the sofa, looking at you like both the front of their jeans weren't showing the perfect press of their hard-ons

"W-what do you want to know Uncle Tommy?"

The smile that split his face was almost feline.

He liked it when you called him that way too much.

"What did daddy teach you?" he asked without missing a beat.

"Oh" you whispered, feeling a wave of anxiety hit you

There was nothing wrong with what you did with daddy, you knew that- but it still felt so... personal.

"H-he's taught me a lot of things" you swallowed thickly, your fingers fiddling with the edge of your dress.

"like what sugar?"

Your gaze turned to Joel, who nodded, urging you to answer without having to breathe a word.

"I...uhm-" you bit your lip, trying to find the words while wondering where to even start "Daddy taught me h-how he can make me feel... good with his - uhm" you gulped, avoiding both the men's eyes "his f-fingers, a-and his mouth- and his... private part"

Tommy snorted like you'd just made a joke,

"His private part?" he mocked, his brows raising in defiance.

"I-" you stuttered looking at him

"we've talked about this sweetheart" Joel spoke now, giving you a pointed look

You had. He had spent a whole afternoon denying you the pleasure you were begging for until you were gonna spit out that word, and you certainly didn't want to go through that torture again.

"His c-cock"

It was such a crude word- you felt so out of place saying it.

Joel hummed in approval, while Tommy's smile spread.

"that's it?"

You gulped, shaking your head slowly.

"he-he's also preparing my other hole"

Tommy's growl was hungry.

"Daddy's trainin' your pretty asshole sweetie?"

"mh-mh" you could only nod

"that'll come real handy today" he grinned, only before you could voice your confusion, Joel had already spoken up

"Not today, she ain't ready"

Tommy'd disappointment lasted only so long

"take off your dress baby girl, show Tommy what he's gettin'"

"yes daddy" you nodded without hesitation, the command second nature at this point.

You got as far as starting to pull the top down when Tommy's voice interrupted

"slow sugar, I wanna enjoy it"

And so you did, you watched between them as you unhurriedly removed inch by inch of the dress from your body, only of course, they weren't looking back at you, their focus was on each piece of skin you uncovered, until your dress fell to the ground, and you were fully bare before them.

Tommy hadn't stopped touching the front of his jeans for one second.

"goddamn" he breathed, taking in every part of you "give me a lil' twirl, sweetie"

you did, and a little smile spread on your lips once you heard him let out a low whistle.

"bend over"

It was so weird having to obey someone else's commands other than Joel's, but you wanted to prove how good you were, so of course, you did: you placed your hands on the coffee table before you and lowered your torso until you could feel air hitting your core.

You couldn't see any of them, but you damn sure could feel their stare.

"look at that" Tommy purred "Such a pretty little pussy- so needy"

It was taking all of him not to stand up and taste you right now, and fuck but the urge only got stronger once Joel offered him an even better view.

"Spread your cheeks babygirl, let Uncle Tommy get a good look"

It took a bit of effort to support yourself without the help of your hands, but you were starting to feel desperate.

"fuck" Tommy growled "The pictures don't do her justice, man"

Your eyes widened at those words.

Joel had shown him the pictures!?

You stood up in a haze, turning around quickly.

"Y-you've seen the p-pictures? B-but-" your nerves were getting the better of your mouth "Daddy you said they were only for y-you-"

"I know what I said" Joel stopped you, his voice calm as ever "I only showed 'em to Tommy to show him your progress, to show him how good you've been this past few weeks" he explained, heat inevitably rising to your cheeks at the flattery "so that he could decide if he wanted to help you or not, get it babygirl?"

"O-oh- ok" you hummed, nodding shily.

Of course there was a reason.

"You looked real good in 'em baby" Tommy smiled "You should consider being a model"

You bit down a smile, embarrassed at his kindness

"Even the special kind" he smirked "I know I would pay good money to see all this" he said, gesturing roughly to your whole body.

Heat rushed to your cheek and neck as you bit your lip.

"Now" Tommy propped his elbows on his thighs "You've told me all about how daddy makes you feel good... but nothin' about how you make him feel good"

"O-Oh, I-" you stuttered, fiddling with your fingers behind your back

"My brother's taught you how to suck cock baby?"

"y-yes" you nodded "he did"

"good" he said, spreading his legs "whatcha waiting for then?"

"O-oh" you stuttered, giving Joel a quick look just to have him encourage you in the task, which is why you quickly moved to get down on your knees before your Uncle- well, step-uncle to be exact.

Your hands were the tiniest bit shaky as you started undoing his zipper, and when you looked up, saw Tommy's big hazel eyes looking down at you with such intensity and lust, you couldn't help but feel even more nervous,

Joel was right, you knew everything about him, about how he did all of this, but you didn't know absolutely anything about Tommy... about what you were going up against.

"she always this slow?" Tommy grumbled, looking over at his brother.

"'m doing my best, trust me, but she's a real slow learner" Joel sighed, joining his brother in his annoyance.

You were mumbling a soft "sorry", when with a grunt, Tommy had freed his cock.

You watched him wide-eyed, before panning over his dick- it was almost the same as Joel if it weren't that Joel's was a little girthier, and that he didn't have so much black curly hair at the base.

"what is it now, I need to feed it to ya too?"

He'd become so impatient... so mean and far from the kind man he was just five minutes ago.

"I'm sorry Uncle Tommy" you murmured, hurriedly starting to lick his tip, first the slit, then the whole head, until finally you took it in your mouth, gently massaging the start of his cock with your tongue.

Tommy only hummed, his hand going to the back of your head

"down" he ordered, so of course, you did.

You fed more of him into your mouth, tasting more and more of him, of his skin, the feel of his veins, of the subtle twitches he produced, until you were almost all the way, and an inevitable gag made its way out of your mouth.

But that was normal, it was very hard to get a cock all the way down your throat on the first try, daddy had taught you that, so you did what you knew worked, you started bobbing your head up and down... getting it all wet made it easier to go down your throat.

"faster, sugar"

You hollowed your cheeks, following orders and following the pace Tommy's hand forced on your head with his hand.

"that's it" he groaned "Now show me what daddy taught you, take it all down that pretty throat"

You wanted to tell him that you weren't quite ready yet, that his cock was a new one after all, but you had no time, he'd already forced you down, and you were already choking on his dick.

Tommy groaned, throwing his head back as his hips thrust up like there was any more space for him inside of you.

"Fuck" he breathed, looking down at you while talking to his brother "it's like she was made to suck cock"

"I know right?" Joel chuckled, admiring you too

"The trainin' really paid off"

"Don't I know it..." Joel grinned "Once a day- that's all it took"

"Once a day- fuck- lucky bastard"

And yes of course, in the meantime, you were coughing and choking and spitting on his cock, tears streaming down your face and staining your sight, so much you couldn't even make up what Tommy looked like anymore.

"you look so pretty like this baby" Tommy cooed, his hips still slowly rocking against you, worsening the situation almost as much as the hand that was keeping you down. "cryin' around your uncle's cock like a good girl" he groaned, talking to his brother again "don't she?"

"Looks almost as good as when she's cryin' around mine," Joel grinned as he freed his cock, taking your hand in his only to wrap it around it

"Can't forget about Daddy can ya?" Tommy chuckled, watching you absentmindedly starting to stroke him.

You were pretty sure you were about to faint at any moment now.

"Such an obedient girl" Tommy cooed, before abruptly releasing you "suck my balls now"

You were couching like a maniac, but he was already forcing your mouth close to his balls

"I-I've nev-"

"I didn't ask you to talk now, did I?"

You gulped, feeling the rest of some tears wet your cheeks as Joel guided your hand up and down his manhood

"N-no"

"What did I ask you to do?"

"t-to suck your balls"

"yeah?" he breathed "Then how come you ain't doing that yet?"

that's all the incentive you needed- you bent down and took one of his heavy balls into your mouth.

"Fuck- wasn't so hard, was it?" he groaned, feeling you lick and suck so very diligently.

He was saltier here, and it was kind of a weird feeling... daddy had never asked you to do this.

"That’s right look at me, baby," he groaned, "look at your uncle while you suck his balls- good girl"

Joel had stopped guiding you now, you were doing it all on your own.

"get back to my dick sugar, I wanna feel it down your throat again"

So you did, his hand going back to its previous position and keeping you down as you cried and gagged.

"'s good-fuck"

"babydoll-" joel's voice was stern.

You'd stopped stroking his cock, and you hand't even realized, you were too lost in the mess Tommy was making of you- so lost in fact you didn't even hear his reprimand.

Which is why the slap that Tommy gave your cheek took you even more by surprise, making you cry out.

"Daddy's cock ain't gonna stoke itself, honey"

You tried to blink the shield of tears covering your eyes, but it was all useless- you started stroking Joel again as Tommy taunted you.

"what, 's too hard to do two things at once for that lil' brain of yours?"

Joel laughed, his hips thrusting up to feel even better

"Shoulda seen her tryin' to do her homework with my cock in her pussy" Joel said, causing his brother to grin

"'s just what dick does to dumb lil' sluts" Tommy shook his head, admiring you still choking on his manhood "shuts their brain right off"

"Ain't that right..." Joel hummed knowingly.

They were talking like you weren't even there... although truth be told, you weren't actually able to comprehend most of it- your brain had turned into a fuzzy blob.

Tommy took decisions very quickly, you’d gathered that by now, but that didn’t mean you weren’t left dumbfounded all the same.

“As much as I like your mouth- it’s time i feel that pussy around my cock baby”

And just like that, he’d let you go- giving you a moment to slide his manhood out your mouth, and wipe the spit and tears off your face.

It was only a minute later, when you were done cleaning up, that you realized Joel’s cock was still in your hand.

“I-“ you breathed, shy underneath the men’s gazes “Do you want my mouth too daddy?”

He smiled proudly at you

“‘S alright- today’s about Uncle Tommy”

You nodded, slowly removing your hand and positioning it on your thighs, together with your right one.

You kneeled there, sitting on your heels, waiting for an order.

But you didn't need to wait long.

"You wanna fuck her here?"

Joel sounded as if he was talking about work

"Nah, wanna fuck her in her bed"

While Tommy sounded like he was talking about a hunt.

"you heard him doll" said Joel "lead the way"

It was such a strange feeling walking ahead of them, completely naked, completely wet, as you made your way to your room- and yet it was also thrilling.

Tommy was smirking as he looked around your room- it was exactly as he'd pictured it.

You were looking at him, at them, biting your lip nervously as Tommy rounded the space, while Joel decided to sit on the armchair in the corner next to the bed.

You were looking at Joel to try and grasp what you were supposed to be doing, what he wanted you to do, but he didn't let anything transpire.

Until finally, Tommy turned to you and walked right before you.

Your face was still damp when he grabbed it, squeezing your cheeks.

"You know what's gonna happen now sugar?"

"mh-mh" you nodded

He was gonna make love to you, you thought, but he was already wording it differently

"I'm gonna fuck you" he murmured, his mouth ghosting yours "and you're gonna be real good for me alright?"

"y-yes"

"yeah?" he taunted, his grip tightening

"Y-yes Uncle Tommy"

he let out a satisfied grunt as he let you go, leaving you to stand before him as he stripped of his clothes.

You felt your mouth water at the sight of him naked before you, and the feeling between your legs got much much worse.

his cock was throbbing against his stomach, still glistening from your mouth.

"ya like what you see honey?" he teased you, enjoying the blatant need in your eyes.

"I- yes" you murmured shily.

"bet you do- just can't wait to get stuffed can ya?" He smirked, watching the embarrassment creep up your face "Ain't nothin' wrong with it, 's normal for a lil' slut like you"

You gulped, watching him wide-eyed.

Daddy had called you that before, but it always confused you.

"s-slut?"

"well yeah baby" he cooed, his hands on your hips "you just took care of two cock at the same time, and now you're gonna get fucked back to back by the same two cocks" he shrugged, his lips right before yours "if that ain't what a slut does, I dunno what is"

"O-Oh"

"'s alright" he promised, his hands on your ass now "All that matters now 's that you got your daddy and me to take care of all your slutty needs"

You could only nod before he took a step back

"Now get on the bed" he spoke "face down, ass up"

You frowned then,

That's really not what you were used to doing, you liked eye contact, you liked kisses... you didn't want to be "face down, ass up"

"But Uncle Tommy- I- what if- I- want to look at you?"

he still seemed sweet as he looked at you, as he cooed "Oh baby", but then he'd grabbed your hair, pulling your head down, making you look at him.

"I see daddy hasn't taught you how it works yet" he growled "You're a slut, sweetheart- all you're good for is spreadin' your legs and followin' orders"

"You're not in charge here. If I tell you to get on all fours, you get on all fours- if I tell you to shut up and take it, you shut up and take it"

His grasp was strong, and your eyes were starting to water again, but all you could do was look at him as he spat those words at you.

"we clear?"

You nodded as much as you could given the situation

"say it"

"I-I got it"

He tugged at your hair as he growled in your face

"who's in charge?"

"You are"

And just like that, he'd let you go.

"face down, ass up" he repeated, and this time, you scurried towards the bed and complied.

You didn't dare look back, but you could feel Joel's stare right on your core, and hear Tommy's steps towards you.

"Jesus Christ"

Tommy had passed two of his digits through your folds, finding them completely soaked

"she always this fuckin' wet?" he asked his brother behind him

"You got no idea" he smirked "She leaves a stain on my pants every day she's so needy"

You'd be embarrassed by Joel's words if it weren't for Tommy's fingers plunging into you

"oh!" you moaned, your hands grabbing the sheets.

Finally

He was scissoring and curling his fingers, watching you convulse beneath him, pushing your ass back for more.

Your brain was already starting to get fuzzier when he pulled them out, forcing a whine out of your mouth.

Tommy only chuckled before popping his fingers into his mouth.

"she's sweet alright"

"yeah she is" Joel breathed, wishing he could be eating you out right then, but he'd promised his brother...

You were breathing ruggedly, peeking behind you in time to see your uncle smirk before grabbing his cock and sliding it between your folds.

You bit your lip to stifle a moan

"you want my cock baby?" he teased you, his tip gliding over your clit "You want my cock inside this sweet lil pussy?"

"y-yes" you whimpered

"beg for it"

You didn't need to be told twice, your pussy was fluttering by how much you needed it.

"please" you cried "please Uncle Tommy I- I need it"

"what do you need?"

"Your cock- I need it inside of me please"

And just then when you thought the torture was finally over, when he fisted the hair at the back of your head and positioned his cock at your entrance... he'd played you once again.

"'s alright baby, I got you" he murmured, sliding into you "there- it's inside now"

And he was- but only his tip.

Tears were in your eyes again. You were so fucking desperate.

"n-no please" you begged "more"

"more?" he mocked "this ain't enough? You want my whole cock?"

You tried to move your ass back to get more of him, but one of his hands was keeping you in place.

"Please!" you begged, holding back tears "I-I- please- need it"

A snicker rumbled behind you, and the hold on your hair tightened.

"what are you?"

You knew what you had to say, and you didn't even hesitate a second.

"I'm a slut"

A soft hum of satisfaction

"a lil' louder baby, let daddy hear too"

"I'm a slut daddy, I-I'm a slut"

Even if you couldn't see him, you could hear the smile on his face as Joel cooed "I know baby, I know you are"

But then it all stopped mattering, everything stopped existing because Tommy had thrust his cock into you, and all you could do was hide your face in the sheets as strangled mewls spilled from your lips.

"fuck- 's tight" Tommy groaned as he bottomed out, his dick easily sliding into you because of all the slickness, but stretching you out nonetheless

"told ya" Joel chirped in, making his brother grin before he referred to you again

"this enough for you, this what you wanted baby?"

"y-yes"

"yeah? 's good- now be a good slut and take everything I give you"

And that was all the warning he gave you, before he retracted his hips, and started fucking you like a man possessed.

The sound of his balls slapping against your skin, the squelch of your juices mixing with his, and your muffled cries together with his sick groans were the perfect picture of the most violent attempt at sex you'd ever seen.

He was splitting you open, and from this position, everything felt amplified ten times over, you could feel his cock even in your throat.

"oh my g-god" you were crying, actual tears and drool staining the sheets.

"I know baby, I know issa lot" he growled, one hand on your head and one on your hips "But this 's what you wanted- this is what a slut like you needs"

And then he was forcing your head even more down on the bed, somehow picking up the pace, and making you forget all about your name and what you were even thinking about.

"that's right, like that- take it" he grunted "Take it all in this tight fukin' pussy"

The slap on your ass came out of nowhere, and for some reason was followed by your moan, and your back arching, as if you were begging for more.

Your mind wasn't in control anymore, it was just your body, only your needs driving you.

Which is why when he did it again, and then again, and then again, until your ass was red and aching and your tears had formed a pool on the bed, your walls squeezed around him impossibly tight, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

"Good little whore" he was grinning in the meantime "scream for your uncle baby- like that baby- now stay still-"

It didn't even come to mind to ask why, your brain was too murky, and his cock was still splitting you in half- the only thing you could do was gasp when his wet thumb probed at your asshole.

"Shhh" he shushed you, still forcing your head down "just take it"

And so you did, Daddy had trained you for this kind of stuff, so it wasn't that bad, it was just very unexpected

"she's fucking obedient when she wants huh?" he was talking to Joel again, who was palming his cock through his jeans.

"she's a real good girl when she's fucked out"

"yeah she is"

He was fingering your ass with his thumb as he fucked you, and your eyes were closed as you moaned like a madwoman into the thick air.

It felt so fucking good- it felt so fuckin-

"Oh god-"

he was going faster again, and his finger was deeper now in your ass and it felt so good now that it was... it was too much-

"T-tommy" you tried to speak, but your own moans interrupted you

"sush baby- or Imma have to tell daddy to put that mouth of yours to good use"

Fuck but that image made you tighten even more, and the chuckle leaving his lips meant he definitely noticed

"found yourself a real whore brother"

You were too overwhelmed by everything you were feeling, by your stomach squeezing as Tommy's cock hit that good spot inside you, by the foreign feeling of his thumb in your ass.

"d-daddy!" you cried, begging him for help.

Only Tommy had to come in and crush your hopes immediately.

"daddy ain't gonna help you sweetie" he cooed, your eyes on the back of your head "You just gotta take what I give you, and come on my cock like a good girl"

"can you do that f'me?" he spoke, "can you come around your favorite uncle's cock?"

And there was nothing you could do- it was inevitable

"yes" you whimpered

"I can feel it baby, c'mon " he urged, his thrust even deeper now "give it to me- give it to me like a good slut"

And just like that- your vision went white as a tsunami of sick, twisted pleasure coursed through your body, leaving you out of breath and barely awake as it died down, as you finally came back to earth to realize Tommy had been speaking you for some time.

"this pussy's beggin' me to come inside brother" Tommy was groaning, and you must have been out of it for a while because Joel was now next to his brother, standing on the side of the bed

"Tell daddy how much you want my come inside ya sweetie"

both men were looking at you with pure, glistening lust in their eyes

"I-inside" you finally whimpered

"not inside darlin'" Joel shook his head,

"b-but daddy- I- I wanna be full of him"

Tommy had a really hard time not coming right there after that.

"Yeah man, c'mon" Tommy grinned, his thumb now out of you and both his hands stroking your ass "you heard your babygirl- she wants it real bad"

Joel only needed to shoot him a glance to make him shut up

"Ass, face, or tits," he told him, and although Tommy rolled his eyes, he still chose

"y'know it's face"

Before you knew it you were kneeling on the floor and Tommy was jerking off right before you.

Your mouth was open, your tongue was out, but that didn't matter much... Uncle Tommy's aim wasn't very good.

He came with a loud groan, looking down at you and the masterpiece he was painting on your face the whole time.

"You look real fuckin' pretty like this" he grinned, his voice slightly out of breath as he grabbed your chin to inspect you better.

What he didn't expect was what you did next... Daddy had taught you manners after all.

He watched you as you started collecting his come with your index finger, and then he watched you pop it into your mouth, liking his spunk from it like it was the tastiest whipped cream.

You did it until your whole face was clean, and he couldn't stop fucking smirking.

"what do we say?" You heard Joel speak from beside you

"thank you, Uncle Tommy"

He couldn't help but reciprocate your smile "Anytime baby"

Joel didn't even wait a second before he was helping you up and onto the bed again.

You sat there as Tommy replaced his brother's spot on the armchair, while Joel took off his clothes-

Yes you were spent by all that Tommy had done to you, but you'd be lying if you said your hole didn't flutter around nothing every time you saw your step-dad naked.

"lay down babygirl"

You did, and not even a second later, Joel had pushed his cock inside of you, groaning lowly as he worked himself in to the hilt.

"daddy" you gasped, his dick stretching you out as always.

"I know darlin', I know" he cooed, remaining buried inside you as he pushed you up on the bed and then crawled on top of you "such good lil' girl, takin' it so well f'me sugar"

His words melted you as always, and then when he leaned down and crashed your lips in his... you became a doll at his mercy.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your arm around his neck, keeping him impossibly close.

He smiled as he leaned away

"'m not going anywhere babydoll" he smirked, his soft mouth on the shell of your ear "not until you come for me" he murmured, sending a shiver down your spine "not until I've filled this pussy all the way up"

You moaned at his words, and he smiled as he started moving, slowly picking up his pace, until he too, just like his brother, was slamming into you at a brutal pace.

You were crying out, desperately grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck, while he was kissing your neck, leaving hot, wet kisses wherever he could.

It was then your gaze somehow settled on Tommy, on your step-uncle, sitting in the corner before you, and on his insatiable eyes fixated on you.

He smirked when he caught you.

"daddy feels good baby?"

"y-yes" you moaned

"not better than me right?"

"shut up Tommy" Joel grumbled

You wanted to smile but Joel was pounding you so hard that a whine left your throat instead

"'s alright, daddy can take it, can't ya Joel?" Tommy chuckled "I can tell you miss me already baby" he cooed "miss my cock, my thumb in that pretty ass..."

Joel grunted as he picked up his pace, leaving you breathless and all but able to answer Tommy.

"Do you, doll?"

It was Joel murmuring now, a smirk on his lips as he watched your eyes roll to the back of your head, as he bashed in the feeling of having taken all common sense out of you once again.

"n-no daddy" you promised "y-you feel- so-"

But you couldn't finish the sentence, another moan had interrupted you.

"what?" he taunted, both brothers grinning at your state.

"perfect" you mumbled, eyes closing and belly tightening "s-so perfect"

"that's right" Joel smirked proudly "eyes on me darlin'"

It took a lot of effort, but you managed.

"You gonna come babydoll?"

"yes" you cried "yes daddy- please"

"'s alright, come for me darlin'"

You didn't need to be told twice- you continued looking at him as pleasure took over your body, as fireworks went off and your legs trembled desperately.

You came calling for him, and once you came back to earth, his lips were on yours, drowning the whimpers his cock was still spilling from your mouth.

"You want daddy's come, sugar?"

"yes" you begged, biting your lip as his pace got more and more irregular "Please daddy- need it deep inside me"

"All of it?"

"all of it daddy- want it all- please" you cried "fill me up"

And so he did, your moans becoming one as he shot rope after rope of his come inside of you.

He kissed you again when he was done, still buried inside you to avoid it spilling out right away- but you were in another universe, your eyes were closed and your limbs powerless.

Joel smiled then, finally sliding out of you and standing up.

You wanted to curl yourself up in a sleeping position but his hands stopped you, forcing your legs open for him and his brother to admire his work.

Tommy could only groan a low "fuck" as he took his place beside Joel.

"ain't she pretty?"

"fuckin' beautiful" Tommy murmured, mesmerized by the sight before him.

There you were, laid before him, his step-niece, completely fucked out.

"we wore her out too much" Joel's brother shook his head, his fingers caressing your thighs "I was ready for round two"

Joel's lips stretched into a soft smirk

"give her ten minutes"

"she'll fall asleep in ten minutes"

Joel's smile only widened as he shook his head

"don't worry- she's good at takin' cock even in her sleep"

1K notes · View notes

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

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