#ill set up my theme later
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posting one of my fave Eustace Winner pieces from 2021 to celebrate the good news :)
#ace attorney#sebastian debeste#eustace winner#lol cannot believe im actually tagging him with that#aai2#aa#yumihiko ichiyanagi#oli originals#art#ill set up my theme later#seb tag
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The thing about bbc merlin is that the dynamic that's set up between merlin and arthur is so fucking good that I can't even. What can I possibly draw that's gonna encapsulate the feelings between them?
#its so fucking good. especially when u set it up like#arthur is so so afraid of losing this one person who is is true friend. i cant lose merlin i cant lose merlin#but im too much of a bro to tell him that but also i will give him hair ruffles and light bullying bc i want to touch him#he is my little dweeb who i love. and merlin is just. i mean. hes just merlin. would protect arthur no matter what#my man would and has killed so so many ppl for his king lmao#also arthur kneeling for merlin. just. ya kno. i think thats good. good good good.#ugh but i also want stained glass and weird fucked up religious themes.#ugh. and now im just spiralling bc i dont kno what to draw 1st. god!#im distracting myself from being upset abt another thing. ill think abt that thing later. draw now. while i have thr fucking time#merliiiin DX but also i have so much to color DDXXXX#merlin rambling#see. this is what i fucking do. i have to come up with thr fucking perfect idea. and then i just never do anything bc its not perfect#its dysfunctional. stop that
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[BYOU-SHIN] Esther (House + Sim DL)
Treat #2 and the last treat. Get other treats ☻∔∔ Happy Simblreen @simblreenofficial
"i want that child born in the moon's shadow reborn tonight .... faintly and fragilely falls, you are one ... to the garden beyond reach where you sleep"
Esther _ Eshter's House
20x20, located in Widdenburg
CCS are included, thanks all CC creators
Cheats : bb.moveobjects
╰┈ ⋆。˚ ♱ *· ࿐ ࿔ ˚:⋆ ✧゚
Esther _ Esther & Her Family
Elizabeth Navarrete : Adult (42), Female
Esther Navarrete : Young Adult (18), Female
Julio Navarrete : Teen (13), Male
╰┈ ⋆。˚ ♱ *· ࿐ ࿔ ˚:⋆ ✧��
DOWNLOAD (Patreon free)
Notes !! (Please read) ↓
Note 1 :
bb.moveobjects should be the only cheats I used here, but if it says something is missing, you can type "bb.showhiddenobjects" and/or "bb.showliveeditobjects", because some cc is taged as Debug.
Note 2 :
Build size is around 1,65 gb, it's pretty big yes. There are some cc that couldn't work unless I include the whole set. While the sims size is around 382 mb. If you are pleased by my work, you can download it with heart.
Note 3 :
There are some cc overrides that I included in here because I have them in my game. If you don't want, you can remove these cc overrides :
k-hippie-k707-nature-base-plants-debug-26062021
pbox_liberated-plants_FloweryShrubs
[Moriel] BG_bush_azalea_01_replacement
k-hippie-k707-nature-all-trees-replacement-26062021
Note 4 :
Needed expansion is :
Vampires : for the spandrels
Get Together : for the roof scupltures
Seasons : for the chimmey
Note 5 :
Please note that I'm an amateur at making things, but I love decorating. This house can be said to be a decorative house. Because I myself am a maximalist. I combined southern gothic, european-vintage, morute, shabby, and religious themes in this home. You can call it yourself whatever. If you are happy, you can use it.
Note 6 :
There are some problems while I tried to upload the file on Patreon, so Alt. Download is via Google Drive. You can access it on Gdrive while Patreon still does't work. I wrote the "Alt. Link" on the post. Look it up. I will fix Patreon issue later.
Catatan 7:
Think of this sim download as my Sim Dump 02 (Sim Dump 01 here), as my initial idea was to create a building with sims living in it in the background. The story is that the mother contracted mental illness after her husband died. He often takes out his crazy feelings on his children. However, his older brother always tried his best to protect his younger brother. The dogs bite and lick the hands who feed them.
"i want that child born in the moon's shadow reborn tonight .... faintly and fragilely falls, you are one ... to the garden beyond reach where you sleep"
#sims 4#my builds#download#simblreen#simblreen 2024#sim download#sims 4 house#sims 4 build#sims 4 goth#sims 4 decor#sims 4 gothic#sims 4 vintage#sims 4 religious#morute#my sims#sim dump#fantasy#sims 4 fantasy#egl#egl community#egl fashion#southern gothic#gothic#vintage#showusyourbuilds#religious#christianity#Spotify
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Remembrance of the Wild Boar Rider - Messmer and Gaius were both close with Radahn.
Ritual Sword/Shield Talisman - The gladiatorial games had been banned in the Lands Between by the time Radagon and Marika married.
Duelist Shield - The games were never abolished in the Land of Shadows.
So this pretty strongly suggests that Messmer was banished during or immediately after Godfrey's tenure, right? Since Radahn was already around and old enough to train/bond with Messmer, that would mean that the Carian family and the Golden Lineage not only existed simultaneously, but they were by all appearances on good terms with each other. See Radahn's friendship with Messmer, Rennala's apparent sanctioning of Rellana's service to Messmer, ect.
Pre-dlc I'd been imagining Caria and the Golden Lineage more along the lines of two feuding royal families, loosely stitched together by a political marriage with poor Mal and Miq caught in the middle. It's starting to look more like a blended family, even before Radagon and Marika's union.
Pre-dlc, I'd also assumed that Messmer's existence was some long-buried secret that Rykard discovered and based his cult around. Now it's almost certain that they knew each other personally, and that Rykard was fully aware of why Marika had a sore spot regarding snakes. It's also almost certain that Rykard would not have gotten his job in the Inquisition until Radagon became king consort, i.e. shortly after Messmer's banishment.
Imagine Rykard putting on his most diplomatic face and approaching Radagon. "Father, I understand that this new state of affairs is a necessity, painful though it may be. As a token to show that I bear no ill will, might I take up the burden of the inquisition that Messmer is no longer present to carry? Let me put my talents to use -- I will devise new and more efficient means, and set my own smiths to their construction. Neither you nor my dear stepmother need lift a finger."
Later...
Radagon kicks down the door and bursts into Rykard's study, wild-eyed and nearly tearing his hair out. "WHY IS IT SNAKES, RYKARD? WHY IS IT ALL SNAKES????"
Rykard. "Too late, I already ordered a hundred more. They are in production as we speak." Hands Radagon an invoice for a plethora of snake-themed torture devices and several metric tons of red candles, then walks out.
You know he would be petty like that.
#elden ring#shadow of the erdtree#rykard lord of blasphemy#radagon of the golden order#messmer the impaler
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Nachash || jhs
Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Med Student!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count: 21.4k+ Summary: After the loss of both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell their home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place that she has little memories of despite 10 years of living in Harlem. Her world begins to shift, and she starts to lose sight of dreams and reality, and at the center of it all is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her a strange sense of deja vu, but she can’t help but wonder if he is who he says he is and why a strange bar keeps popping up in her nightmares. Warnings: Strong language, bad medical terminology (I tried), Hoseok has a demon side (like physically different), main character (somewhat) death (graphic), graphic violence, reader slowly losing her mind, heavy religious themes in a large chunk of this, explicit sexual content, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, manhandling, hard dom Hoseok, so much blood, low-key a yandere but not really, blood play, blood drinking, begging for life, extreme emotional manipulation, growling, over stimulation, unprotected sex (wrap it up), DARK ENDING, dubious consent (mind control/mood control/literally cannot leave Hoseok's presence), reader is severely mentally ill by the end of this, demonic possession, Stockholm syndrome, this is not a cute demon romance, read at your own risk, stopping here since there’s a lot just let me know if I missed anything A/N: After posting a teaser for this fic two years ago, I finally got around to finishing it! I’m still working on my smut skills, so I apologize in advance, but I hope you can get down with my favorite (and extremely evil) demon man. Happy Halloween (or, to my fellow Pagans, Happy Samhain)!
Prologue || Listen to the Playlist || Cross posted on AO3: here
Nachash (noun) "snake; serpent". Derived from the Hebrew root n-ch-sh.
July 1997
"How are you feeling?"
I sighed, pulling open another box. Unpacking was always the worst part of moving, like some cosmic joke designed to break you down piece by piece. Plates stared back at me from the box, and I clenched my jaw. The one on top was chipped—another thing on my growing list of replacements. I pulled it out and set it aside, determined to deal with it later. The rest of the plates went away in the cabinet. The broken one would be tossed.
"I don't know," I confessed. "Mom died. I'm everywhere."
My brother's hum of acknowledgment was all I heard. Miles had always been a quiet, distant sort, barely speaking to our parents. Their deaths hit him hard, but more so with Dad than Mom. Dad had been the stable one, while Mom was a relentless storm—never satisfied, constantly pushing, always demanding. To her, a doctor and a lawyer weren't enough. Miles had always seen her as aggressive, unyielding, and ever discontented. And Dad? Well, his complacency had its own way of grating.
Miles had moved to Oregon right after graduating from FSU, never looking back. We'd made the trek to see him a few times, but he'd never returned the favor. My stint in New York had mended our relationship somewhat. He visited frequently and spent his summers with me, and after Dad passed, he made a point to see Mom at least once a year. I didn't mind the trips to Portland; my Jacksonville home had become his family's vacation spot.
"So am I," he said, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue.
They'd been at each other's throats, arguing constantly, with his wife loathing Mom. Yet, I knew Miles held some affection for her despite their tumultuous relationship. He'd never truly made her proud, and that haunted him. I understood, but when I moved back home, the dynamics shifted. Mom used me as a weapon against Miles, making me the favored child, the one who came back. Miles was the ungrateful one who'd married the wrong woman.
Mom always blamed Trinity for Miles' "bad attitude." Dad knew better. I knew better.
"So," Miles shifted gears, "when can we come and visit?"
I smiled, "I'll be out there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So maybe next summer?"
"That's a long wait."
I chuckled, "Well, Rory starts school this year and Trinity's pregnant. You're just as busy as I am."
I'd been the one with the most on my plate for years. Mom, a real estate agent, rarely left home, while Dad ran a plumbing company. When Miles went to college, I was knee-deep in medical school applications. During my residency, Miles was grinding through law school. When I moved back to Florida, I was buried in ICU shifts while he graduated and started his own practice. He met Trinity, and the two became inseparable. Mom despised her, but I saw how they brought out the best in each other. My career-driven life had left me disconnected, and while Mom reveled in it, I resented it.
Kids changed everything for them. Aurora was their miracle baby. Trinity had struggled with fertility for years, and when they finally had a child, it was as if their world had transformed. My brother was spent, and Mom's resentment boiled over. She was always bitter that they hadn't uprooted their lives back to Florida for the grandchild. By then, Miles didn't care. He'd made the trips for Dad but after Mom's cruel comments about Trinity's weight and their daughter being "too pretty" to be her granddaughter, Aurora never set foot in the family home again.
"Aurora is driving me crazy," Miles groaned. "She won't stop talking about the baby."
"As a big sister, I can tell you she's just being a normal kid."
"I know that," I could almost hear his eye roll. "I'm just worried. It's still early, and I don't want her hopes to get too high. Trinity's scared of another miscarriage."
It would be her sixth.
"Try to stay positive, bub," I bit my lip, surveying the cluttered room. I'd never finish today. "If it happens, it happens. But don't go into it expecting the worst."
"Between Mom and this…" He trailed off.
I understood his fear. Trinity was a few years older than me, and her anxiety was palpable. At 38, any pregnancy brought its own set of worries. Last I heard, Trinity was considering getting her tubes tied if this one didn't make it. The heartache was becoming unbearable.
"Hey," I kept my tone gentle, knowing that riling him up wouldn't help. "Keep your head up. Her next appointment is soon. Ensure she's sticking to bedrest, and you'll be fine."
"What if it happens again?"
My heart broke for him. Miles had always been the rock, the one who seemed unshakeable. Seeing him this vulnerable starkly contrasted with the angry kid he'd been in high school. Mom had pushed his buttons mercilessly, and I had vague memories of our squabbles, but they paled compared to the constant battles he faced with her.
I wondered if he ever grasped how I felt. He always thought Mom liked me more, but it was more about her being able to overlook me. While he fought for her attention, nothing I did ever really mattered. It was like a fog followed me, obscuring me from their view. Sometimes, it would lift, and Mom would acknowledge me, but then it would return, and I was forgotten.
"You'll get through it," I assured him.
We chatted a bit more. Aurora was excited about kindergarten and had picked out new uniforms. She was obsessed with Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and her new backpack reflected that. She'd even given her Prince Wednesday stuffed animal to the baby. It was everyday family life, but the emptiness in my chest grew. I longed for laughter and the innocent joy of children in my home.
"Trinity's calling me," Miles said, his voice muffled by distance.
"I'll talk to you later. Love you."
"Love you too, sissy."
I smiled faintly, "Later."
He hung up before I could say anything else. I glanced around the room, eyes narrowing at the boxes that seemed to taunt me with their mere existence. All of them were my own—mainly books, a few other odds and ends. The sadness that gripped me was relentless. I'd always had the most demanding job, the tightest schedule, and the deepest insecurities. Miles was angry, and I was desperate to be seen, so much so that I followed every command without question. Now, here I was, alone, surrounded by regret.
Dating felt like a cruel joke. My time in New York had alienated me more than anything else. That fog of invisibility from my childhood had returned with a vengeance. Coworkers would barely look at me for over a second; people on the street seemed oblivious to my presence and dates. They always ended badly. They weren't evil men but would forget my name within seconds. It felt like I wasn't real, like I existed on some other plane.
The only person who seemed to remember I existed anymore was my brother and his family. Dad's Alzheimer's had robbed him of any memory of us before he passed. Mom, too incoherent at Hospice, never stayed awake long enough to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes, it felt like Miles would momentarily forget me, only for my name to pop into his mind at predictable intervals—like clockwork, only calling on specific days and times, usually if he was planning a trip. It upset me more than I could recall, but now I wondered why.
"This place won't unpack itself," I muttered aloud.
I'd talked to myself so much it felt almost normal. I knew I needed to make friends, that without connections, I'd end up as lonely as my father, but the idea seemed futile. No one saw me clearly. No one ever had. When I searched my memories for anyone who had seen me, I came up empty. No one had ever really seen me. No one ever would. Instinctively, I knew this despite the facade of normalcy I tried to maintain. I had a job, a family, a house. I wasn't haunted. Or… maybe I was just being childish. I was simply forgettable, unremarkable. This I knew.
"I exist," I whispered, the words reverberating loudly in the stillness of my apartment.
The silence that pervaded my life mocked me with its omnipresence.
"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?"
"It's a lounge, sha," came a voice behind me.
What a peculiar dream. I took a bite of my sandwich, returning to the rude awakening that morning. I rarely remembered my dreams, if I had them at all. But last night had been different. I'd found myself in a dimly lit room with a man I couldn't recall clearly, dressed in white and speaking with an accent I couldn't place. I woke up before anything significant happened. The dream had been woefully uneventful.
The floor was almost eerily quiet tonight. Aside from the constant beeps and monitors scattered around and George Gilmore in room 11 watching football, no one spoke. The nurses here seemed less lively than I was accustomed to, their faces vacant, their words few. I kept to my small office most of the night, avoiding their station.
We'd had one death so far—a patient with a DNR who suffered a stroke shortly after midnight. Another woman had been pronounced brain-dead an hour ago. We'd wait until tomorrow to pull the plug, so her daughter could say goodbye. I didn't count her in my tally. The night crew had a way of seeing me even less than the others, and I didn't like them much.
"Hello, Doctor."
I jumped, startled. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. My irritation took me by surprise. I wasn't typically agitated; my feelings were either muted or overwhelming. He pushed his hair back, revealing messy chocolate brown locks, and held a clipboard stained with dubious marks.
"Sorry," he mumbled, shifting awkwardly under my gaze. I was already weary of his presence. "I was told you were new and thought I should introduce myself before leaving for the night. I'm Damon Glass, one of the anesthesiologists."
"Y/N Y/L/N," I replied, my voice flat and uninviting. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," he smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth that reminded me of my father's. It was a rare sight among people my age. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to come to me. Dr. Whitlock is on the floor, and I believe Morgan Fletcher is on call."
I nodded, appreciating the information but ready for him to leave. My distaste had faded, but I preferred brevity in conversations, especially with outsiders. I disliked the feeling of interacting with them. It was why I preferred dealing with the nearly dead; they rarely spoke, and when they did, I knew they'd be too medicated to remember much. The families were more accessible to handle than the ones back in Florida.
It was odd how my thoughts could veer into such morbid territories. Almost as morbid as my enjoyment of overseeing dying patients. It was not as macabre as my unbidden glee at my mother's death alongside my brother, but it ranked high on my list of flaws.
"Have a good night," I said, returning to my computer to refresh my emails.
Dr. Glass seemed to take the hint, leaving with an awkward smile and wave.
August 1997
I stood outside the door, the muffled sounds of grief seeping through the walls like a relentless, jagged current. The family's sorrow was palpable, a heavy fog that followed me down the hallway. I hoped to catch them in a better moment, but the cruel truth of this place was that better moments were rare. With a resigned breath, I raised my hand and knocked. The room fell silent, and a strained voice called out, allowing me to enter.
Elizabeth Fraiser had lived a life filled with grace and elegance. Once a dancer whose feet had carried her across Europe's stages, she met her husband in Paris and married him there. They had settled in New York, where her days of ballet had given way to a quieter role as a ballet instructor in Jersey. She had raised a family, and her pride in her children was as evident as her passion for dance. She spoke of them with a joy that contrasted sharply with the emptiness of my own mother's words.
Now, Elizabeth was in the late stages of lung cancer. Her family had clung to the hope of letting her pass away at home, but the relentless pneumonia and ceaseless pain had pushed them to make the difficult decision to admit her here. Her condition had worsened sharply today, and her family was struggling to cope with the harsh reality.
"Good afternoon," I said softly, a gentle murmur in the oppressive silence.
"Nice to see you," Elizabeth's oldest son, Elijah, managed a weak smile. We both knew he wasn't fond of doctors, but he tolerated me because I didn't overstay my welcome. "Mom's been sleeping for a while."
I stifled a sigh. Her body was crumbling, and delivering bad news was never easy. The small comfort was knowing she would soon feel nothing at all. We planned to increase her morphine dosage and withdraw all other medications. Her family would need to agree, but I wasn't too concerned. Mary, her daughter, had debated extending her mother's life with her brothers.
"We're really at the end, aren't we?" Mary's voice was strained, her husband's arm around her for support. Among them, she was the calmest, but the edges of her composure were frayed. Her eyes were red, testimony to her unrelenting tears. "Will she be in pain?"
I explained our focus on alleviating her suffering. She would be less coherent in the coming days but occasionally rouse enough to interact with them between doses. We aimed to ensure she had the utmost comfort and relief in her final days. The youngest Percy took the news hardest and had to excuse himself. I held Mary's hand, appreciating the warmth of human connection. I prided myself on my bedside manner.
"I know home care wasn't ideal for you," I broached delicately, aware of their crowded lives and young children. "But I'm offering it as an option. Respite care is also available, though I understand it was stressful before. It's worth discussing."
Elijah shook his head firmly. Mary hesitated, but her husband's reminder to care for herself and their baby swayed her. Percy's wife raised concerns about her own health, cementing the decision. Elizabeth would remain with us in her final days. It was probably for the best—she was too frail and in too much agony without constant medication.
"Let me know if you need anything," I said, glancing at the family. The nurses are always available, and I'm on call until six. Is there anything I can get you before I leave?"
"Mom needs a bath," Percy reentered the room. A nurse had come by earlier, asking if we were ready to step out. Let them know they could come in."
The rest of my shift dragged on. Other families were terse and uncommunicative, and their responses were minimal. I understood their grief, but it did little to ease my weary spirit. The nurses seemed as disinterested in me as ever. I had long since given up trying to connect with them.
The air outside was crisp, almost biting. I walked to the subway, the city traffic too maddening to endure. I'd trade bumper-to-bumper frustration for the quirks of the subway any day. Last week, a man in a bunny costume rapped at six in the morning. The week before, a man argued with his reflection in the window. Last night, an elderly woman beside me commented on my disheveled appearance, lamenting that men didn't like that and worrying I'd die alone. I barely remember if I responded. I hated talking on the subway; her parting insult had stung me.
Tonight promised to be different. I left the hospital later than usual, after two code blues and an injury report for a nurse. Overdue paperwork and an insurance squabble later, it was past eight when I left. My walk was short, and the wait at the terminal was OK, but the train didn't arrive until 9:30. When I finally boarded, the car was almost empty.
Then a group of men entered. They were rowdy, pushing each other, their drunkenness a stifling cloud. I almost moved when they sat too close, but I didn't want to draw attention. I could feel their eyes on me. I clutched my bag tightly, fingers brushing the can of pepper spray hooked to its strap. I was almost home. Just three more stops.
"Hey," one of the men called out. I ignored him. "Hey, you."
I hated the subway.
"Leave her alone."
That voice caught my attention. I knew it—or thought I did. When I looked up, I was met with a stranger, yet his presence felt oddly familiar. He was striking, with tanned skin and sharp features that made his brown eyes stand out under the harsh fluorescent lights. He took the seat beside mine, and I didn't stop him. The men were back to their raucous laughter, and I was forgotten. I relaxed slightly, hoping to remain unnoticed.
"Sorry about them," he said, his warm and soothing voice a gentle tenor that evoked a sense of nostalgia. "Are you OK?"
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Something about him tugged at the edges of my memory, yet he wasn't a celebrity, and I was sure I'd never met him before. Perhaps we'd crossed paths on the subway? My brain was playing tricks on me.
"Yes," I said softly. "Thank you."
Despite myself, I stole glances at him. I had to remind myself to breathe when I ventured past his neck. He was slender, but there was a subtle strength beneath his clothes. If he noticed my scrutiny, he said nothing. He returned to his book, but I was convinced that his eyes were still on me when I finally looked away.
I jolted awake, my body wracked with shivers despite the suffocating warmth of the blanket. The room was deathly silent, save for the moonlight streaming through the window like a spotlight on a stage set for a performance I never auditioned for. I rolled over, trying to bury myself deeper into the cocoon of my blanket, but then I heard it—a voice, soft and faint, yet carrying an unsettling authority.
“Oh, Y/N,” the voice crooned, dripping with a sinister allure. “It’s time. Come to me.”
Confusion and dread clawed at my insides as I stumbled out of bed. The room was a far cry from my own—stone walls, thick and oppressive, casting shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent glee. The floor beneath my feet was icy, a stark contrast to the comfort of my bed. My nightgown, white and delicate, felt like a mockery in this alien environment.
This wasn’t my room.
The voice came again, seductive and commanding. “Y/N, come out, come out, now. I’m waiting for you.”
Compelled, I moved to the window. Below, in the moonlit expanse of the lawn, stood the man from the subway. His face was eerily illuminated, his head tilted back as if inviting me to join him in the darkness below. His eyes—glowing a brilliant gold—seemed to reach out to me, promising unspeakable things if only I would take the leap.
I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He raised a hand, crooking a finger in a silent invitation. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling me toward him. Entranced, my feet moved on their own accord. Barefoot, the cold stone beneath me was a cruel contrast to the warmth I’d just left behind. I wandered through hallways and passages that felt simultaneously foreign and intimately known, descending into the shadows where he waited.
As I emerged onto the lawn, his smile made me shiver. He approached, his fingers brushing the side of my face—teasing, tantalizing, yet never quite touching.
“I’ve waited for you for so long,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “So very long. And now, now you’re mine.”
A fragment of my mind screamed in protest, shouting that I didn’t belong to him, that I didn’t even know who he was or why I was here. But a deeper, more primal force tugged at me, pulling me closer until I was nearly touching him. His presence was unsettlingly soothing, and I took a breath, feeling the heat of his gaze.
“That’s right, my lamb, come closer,” he coaxed.
An overwhelming longing surged through me—irrational, illogical, yet so profound that I couldn’t resist. I needed him to touch me, to make the connection complete. I tilted my head to the side, exposing my neck to the moonlight.
He responded immediately, his fingers trailing along my throat, their cool touch sending shivers through me. I gasped, my body lighting up with each delicate brush.
“More,” I heard myself plead, pressing closer.
“Say it,” he demanded, his arms enveloping me in a possessive embrace. “Who do you belong to?”
“You. I’m yours.”
He cradled my head in his hand, leaning in. His lips were smooth against my skin, but his teeth were sharp as they pierced through flesh. I screamed as he drank deeply.
I awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, my hands clutching at my throat, searching for any sign of injury. The skin was intact, unbroken. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my racing heart that felt as though it might burst from my chest.
The lamp flickered on with a click, casting a harsh, unwelcome light that made me squint and shield my eyes. Grabbing my robe and a cup, I shuffled out of the room, the chill of the hallway hitting me like a slap. I closed the door quietly behind me, trying not to disturb the oppressive silence that hung heavy in the air. The bathroom, bathed in the sickly fluorescent glow, was as deserted as I’d hoped.
I filled my cup halfway with water from one of the sinks, then leaned against the cold, sterile tiles, watching my reflection in the mirror as I took slow, deliberate sips. The dream—the one that had shaken me awake—felt so unnervingly real.
I traced the line of my neck with trembling fingers, the blue vein just beneath the surface. What kind of twisted message was my mind trying to send me with that nightmare? It had been a full-on gothic horror—a relic of some crumbling English manor, not the kind of place I ever imagined myself visiting, unless I was buried in a pile of classic literature.
And him. The monster. Even now, as I closed my eyes, I could still see his face—a blend of dark allure and cruel beauty. His eyes, oh, those eyes. They’d held me in thrall, made me willing to surrender to any demand he made. I could almost feel his cold touch, see his smile that promised both ecstasy and agony.
Wasn’t the whole vampire-mother-stuff supposed to be a metaphor for sex? Maybe that’s what my subconscious was trying to shove in my face—sex, or the glaring void where it should have been in my life.
I studied my flushed reflection, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I shook my head, trying to shake off the nightmare’s grip.
The man sat next to me again. It had been a week since I last saw him, and my body still reacted to his presence. Today, I admired his chiseled jawline and elongated face. He was an exquisite oval with a strong profile. This time, he caught me looking and smiled shyly.
"I'm Hoseok."
The name sent a shiver, stirring something familiar and unsettling. I quickly brushed off the uneasy feeling. It was probably my own insecurity.
"Y/N," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from him.
He resumed reading, and I focused on crocheting a stuffed rabbit for my nephew. Miles had called that morning to update me on Trinity's appointment. The toy wasn't perfect—far from it—but I wanted to give it a try.
"How would you feel about dinner?" Hoseok's voice broke through my thoughts.
I paused my knitting. "I enjoy dinner. Who doesn't?"
He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that made me blush. "Cheeky."
I bit my lip, unsure if it was a compliment. I felt a pang of embarrassment, struggling to maintain my composure. The first date I'd been asked on since undergrad, and I was fumbling. Miles would have a field day.
"Would you like dinner with me?"
I hesitated. "Yes."
Hoseok's laughter resonated deeply within me, and I felt a jolt of warmth as he slid closer, his knee brushing against mine. He was impossibly warm. Instinctively, I shifted away, uncomfortable with his proximity. There was something off about him, an unsettling vibe that I couldn't quite place.
But then he smiled, and that soft, disarming grin evaporated all my doubts. He was dazzling. My eyes fluttered shut as his cologne enveloped me, weakening my knees. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was captivating.
"Do you like Italian?" he asked, his voice deeper now.
I nodded, struggling to steady my breath. Panic and embarrassment churned within me, but I couldn't ignore the physical response. My mind was flooded with inappropriate thoughts of Hoseok, vivid and intrusive. I gasped, feeling a flush of heat I hadn't experienced in a long time.
"Does two weeks work?"
Snapping out of my daze, I looked at Hoseok and nodded.
"I'm off on the 27th."
He smiled, and I stared at his teeth longer than necessary. They seemed different—sharper, perhaps, with redder gums. I blinked, reassured that they were just as I remembered. My sleep deprivation must be getting to me.
"Meet you here?"
We agreed to meet at six. I'd catch the 5:30 train to ensure I arrived before him. As the subway pulled into my stop, I waved goodbye and stepped out, only to realize I hadn't asked him where we were going. The thought lingered until the following day.
The voice is louder now, sharper, as if it’s cutting through the fog of my half-sleep. “Y/N? I’m waiting for you. Come to me now.”
I hear it, feel the tug of it dragging me towards him, but fear clamps down on me like a vice. My bare feet are numb on the cold, wet grass as I stumble through the twisting maze of hedges, trying to escape the invisible force that pulls me like iron to a magnet.
My breath hitches, coming fast and uneven, as I sprint around corners, the long white gown tangling around my legs and tripping me up. I’m not sure anymore if I’m searching for a way out or if I’m trying to find him.
I turn another corner, my ankle twists and pain shoots through my leg as I crash into an open space—a small, white fountain sits in the middle, surrounded by benches.
Through the flickering light of the moon dancing on the water, I see him. Not a figment of my imagination, but there he is, standing as he promised, waiting.
Hoseok walks towards me with a slow, deliberate grace. He bends, lifting me effortlessly from the mess of my tangled gown and into his arms. I feel a peculiar sense of completeness as he sits on a bench, cradling me like a precious artifact.
“Were you bringing me your gift? Or were you trying to run from me?” His voice is soft, almost tender, and yet it cuts through me. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes. I’m lost, adrift in confusion.
I’m mesmerized by his flawless beauty. My fingers move of their own accord, reaching towards his face. That smile returns, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes.
“You may touch me.” His lips part slightly, and I press my fingers against them. His tongue flicks out, wrapping around my fingertip and drawing it into his mouth. Before I can react, I feel a sharp bite.
I gasp as he licks the blood that wells up from the small wound. “A small treat,” he murmurs. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
I find myself nodding, helpless under his gaze.
He licks my finger one last time, savoring the taste before swallowing. “They told me you’d be extraordinary, worth every moment of waiting. Yet, your taste is beyond anything I ever dreamed.”
My body reacts to his words and his touch—still innocent but making my skin feel like it’s stretched too tight, like I might explode. I let my head fall back, exposing my neck to him as his tongue traces a path up the sensitive skin.
And then he bites.
I bolt awake, heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. I fumble in the dark, reaching for the light switch, feeling profoundly alone with Rose away for the weekend.
I throw off the covers and stagger to the mirror, desperately checking my neck. There’s nothing there, no sign of the bite.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I grab a blanket and a book, and huddle in the hall lounge, surrounded by the harsh light of every lamp and the incessant flicker of the television, trying to drive away the lingering shadows of the nightmare.
September 1997
I eased into my seat, the familiar weight of my bag pressed to my left side and draped an arm over it as if to claim it for my own. It was the first night off from the relentless grind of being on-call since mid-August and the first real night out in years. I’d never been much for the party scene, and medical school had only sharpened that aversion. The last time I went out for drinks was nearly six years ago, a fleeting memory of bar hopping that I’d abandoned early, too exhausted to keep pace with my friends.
Tonight, however, felt different. There was a nagging sense that I was misremembering that long-ago night, like a foggy half-remembered dream where something vital was missing. My life in New York had become a blur of medical texts and sleepless shifts, the grueling 24-hour days erasing the finer details of my existence. My final year had been a carousel of discomfort, but the specifics eluded me, lost in exhaustion. Perhaps a creep of some sort, some misguided doctor with a name I couldn’t quite grasp—maybe that’s what had soured my memory.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find Hoseok’s contact. The old SeaTAC was still a relic of the past, but I clung to it out of stubborn habit. Despite its age, it was a lifeline to the outside world, a way to escape the pager’s relentless beeping. I longed for the day when I could toss the landline, but the cost of cell phone minutes constantly reminded me of its importance. With his endless chatter, Miles made sure I burned through those minutes with alarming frequency.
“Hello?” Hoseok’s voice was silky, a comforting balm after a long stretch of clinical detachment.
“Hey,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just got on.”
“See you soon,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. I could almost picture the smile on his face, and it made me smile in return. His words seemed more benign over the phone, starkly contrasting the intensity of our recent encounters. “Save my spot.”
The car was beginning to fill up, Friday night revelers claiming their space, making it nearly impossible to save a seat. I promised I’d try, even as I felt the crushing inevitability of the crowd. His chuckle was soft, almost intimate.
“Thank you, sweet girl.”
I bit my lip, the endearment both flattering and unsettling. A tiny voice in my head cautioned me, even though Hoseok had never used his terms of affection demeaningly. The voice grew louder when he wasn’t around, whispering warnings I couldn’t entirely dismiss. It was strange, this constant inner debate.
“I’m going to hang up,” Hoseok said, his voice a sensual murmur. I moved the phone away from my ear, puzzled by the seductive undertone. Was he implying something more?
Was I expecting more from tonight?
“I’m running up my minutes,” he laughed, breaking the spell of my thoughts.
“Oh,” I blinked, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”
The recurring dreams of him were becoming a distraction. My nights were plagued with vivid, unsettling fantasies, leaving me restless and frazzled. I wiggled in my seat, pressing my thighs together to quell the unsettling arousal. Reality would surely disappoint, no matter how compelling he seemed in my dreams. I resolved to hold off on sex for now. I didn’t want to tarnish his allure with premature intimacy.
“Why did you want to be a doctor?” Hoseok asked, his fingers entwining with mine.
The wine started hitting, and the night air was crisp against my skin. Hoseok was the perfect gentleman; the evening was a beautiful respite from my routine. I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, and sighed.
“I wish I could say it was for noble reasons,” I said, my voice tinged with melancholy. “In truth, I just wanted my family to notice me. I thought graduating medical school would make them see me, but it never quite worked out that way.”
Hoseok hummed thoughtfully beside me. I turned my gaze away, feeling a strange mix of comfort and sadness.
“None of us are perfect,” he said after a pause, his voice low and contemplative. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, and my choices haven’t always been noble.”
I leaned closer, savoring his warmth and intoxicating scent. Despite my fatigue, the night felt lighter, almost magical. He was mesmerizing, and I was drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected.
“I have a hard time believing that,” I said with a soft grin, snuggling closer.
“Well,” he said, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You haven’t had me all to yourself yet.”
A shiver ran down my spine, a curious blend of fear and delight. The night had been a rollercoaster of emotions—enchantment and apprehension intertwined. Hoseok’s smile was disarming, melting away my unease, but I made a mental note to reflect on my feelings once I was alone. He seemed almost too perfect, and that nagging pit in my stomach grew again before vanishing.
“I don’t want the night to end,” Hoseok whispered, his breath warm against my ear as we waited for the train. “I’m having such a good time.”
I smiled, “What kind of girl do you take me for?”
“When can I see you again?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine longing.
“Soon,” I promised. “I’m getting the next few weekends off now that the other fellowship student is starting. My supervisor is trying to get me off every Saturday.”
“It’s a good thing my boss is flexible,” Hoseok purred, causing my heart to race. “Otherwise, I’d never get to spend time with you.”
I wanted to be annoyed by his clinginess, to remind him I wasn’t his girlfriend, but instead, I found myself grinning. His words made me feel seen and appreciated. Despite the anxiety he sometimes stirred in me, I was eager to be close to him. He looked at me so intently that I was willing to overlook my reservations. Maybe it was just butterflies?
“Where do you work?” I asked, trying to divert my thoughts.
Hoseok was a bartender at a speakeasy in Manhattan, where he’d worked since it opened. He had hinted at it throughout the evening, teasing me with its obscurity.
“It’s a smaller place,” he said amusedly. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Try me,” I challenged, my heart pounding strangely.
“Dauphine.”
The name hit me like a jolt. Images of dimly lit corridors and crimson hues flashed in my mind. I was sure I’d never been there, but the name stirred a disquieting sense of déjà vu. The dream from July, the man from my dreams—there was a connection, but it eluded me.
As we stood in the bustling, well-lit area, I edged away slightly, unsettled. Hoseok was a charming gentleman, but the name “Dauphine” had ignited an inexplicable dread. Despite his humor and warmth, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something—or maybe I was just afraid of what I might find.
I stole a furtive glance at him, and it felt as though I’d known him far longer than the scant time we’d spent together. His face was oddly familiar, like a recurring image in a dream half-remembered. I had met him before, somewhere.
“No, you haven’t,” his voice cut through the night like ice. It was cold, detached, far from the warmth he’d shown me all evening. A shiver snaked down my spine, and I forgot to breathe. His grip on me tightened as though sensing my legs would buckle beneath me. “You’ve never known me before.”
The fierce scowl on his face startled me. His eyes, glowing with an eerie golden light, seemed to burn through me. Everything about him felt otherworldly like he was something less than human. A fragmented memory of a man sitting alone at a bar surged up, only to dissolve into nothingness.
“I am Hoseok,” he whispered, his voice weaving a heavy spell over my senses. “I am your boyfriend. We’ve been together a long time, and we’re in love. You just tripped and hit your head.”
A sudden jolt of pain made me wince and try to pull away from him.
“Does it hurt?” His voice was deceptively tender, and I sighed through the pain.
“Yes,” I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “Does it look bad?”
Hoseok’s grin was unsettling, a blend of fake sympathy and amusement.
“You were lucky this time. Just a barely noticeable red mark.”
I chuckled at my own clumsiness. I wasn’t usually this awkward, but my heel caught on a pavement crack. I gingerly rubbed my ankle and was relieved to find it unscathed. Even my heel had survived.
“Jeez,” I said, looping my arm through his. “I completely forgot what we were talking about.”
Hoseok’s smile broadened, clearly enjoying my disoriented state. I rolled my eyes and reached over to gently tap his chest. He responded by sticking out his tongue, which only made me scoff at his childishness.
“We were talking about work,” I said.
I nodded as if on autopilot. “How’s the bar?”
Hoseok worked at a swanky speakeasy in Manhattan, though I was trying to remember its name. Despite being together for what felt like ages, I had never been there. I was never one for bars, while Hoseok reveled in the place’s gothic charm. The name eluded me again as I tried to recall it.
“Tae’s excited,” he chuckled. “With Halloween around the corner, business will pick up.”
I hummed, my thoughts still lingering on the name. I had thought his boss was Tristan, but I must have misremembered. I shrugged off the nagging thought.
“You should stop by the bar,” I heard myself say, sounding oddly mechanical.
“Sounds fun,” he replied, his tone laced with a predatory edge.
Looking back on that night, it’s almost laughable how easily he swayed me. The way he possessed me was undeniable; soon, he would own every inch of me. Those dreams of him were his twisted way of showing love—how much he craved to touch me, to keep me bound to him. It’s sick and vile, and the thought of what we’d become makes me nauseous, yet to him, it’s love.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, his arm wrapping possessively around my shoulders.
I remember leaning into his side, kissing his cheek as if I was floating. His presence was intoxicating. Even now, I can feel the ghost of his touch and his body's heat. It’s a twisted sort of longing I have for him. This place is cold and dark without him, without his reminders of how much he cares and wants me to scream for him. Here, time stands still, and life continues in a strange loop. I can’t say whether I’m alive or dead, but I know it no longer matters. Once I entered this world, my life ended and began anew. Hoseok made me feel both alive and dead simultaneously.
And as I write this, my heart aches for him. My fingers tremble at the thought of him returning to claim me again. The pain he inflicts makes my heart pound and my stomach clench. I miss him.
It both sickens and excites me.
October 19, 1997
My bones groaned and cracked like ancient floorboards beneath my weight as I fought to catch my breath. Sweat slicked my skin, and I began patting myself down, half-expecting to find something tangible to anchor me to reality. My surroundings slowly came into focus. The harsh fluorescent lights above stung my eyes, but their sterile brightness offered an odd comfort. I was at home, cocooned in thick blankets that had twisted themselves around my legs. The bed beneath me creaked with the effort of supporting my restless form. I sighed, flopping back down, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that still clung to me like a shadow.
The dreams had become relentless, evolving from vague echoes of past terrors into something far more insidious. These weren't fueled by mere fear but by an overwhelming, consuming desire that felt dangerously close to swallowing me whole. The weekends were the worst, and after seeing Hoseok, they had turned almost infernal. He was always there in my dreams, his skin smooth and flawless, his deep brown eyes burning into mine with an intensity that left me gasping for air.
Every time I closed my eyes, his image flickered behind my eyelids like a dark, seductive film. The scenes always ended the same way: I would climax, my body convulsing in a fevered rhythm, while I looked up to see his face contorted in ecstasy. His deep, guttural groans would reverberate through me as his grip tightened on my skin. He would finish inside me, and my spent body would collapse beneath him. He would drape himself over me, showering my chest with tender, lingering kisses. The setting varied—my bed, a chilling, unfamiliar void, or a dimly lit lounge—but the conclusion was always the same.
With a sigh, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers brushing the cool surface. An email from Hoseok awaited me, and a smile crept across my face despite the haze of exhaustion. He was the epitome of a perfect gentleman—never pushing beyond my boundaries, never demanding more than I was willing to give, always accommodating his schedule to mine. Even in matters of intimacy, something many men would aggressively pursue, he always respected my pace. In the hectic blur of the past month, we hadn’t had a moment alone. He hadn’t even broached the topic. As I thought about it, I couldn't recall the last time we'd been intimate outside of these dreams.
From: Hoseok Jung Subject: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 03:05 To: Y/N Y/L/N Good morning, love, I'm sorry for the early message, especially since this is one of your rare mornings off. I hope I didn't wake you. I'm heading home from work and couldn't stop thinking about you. Taehyung is throwing a simple Halloween party this year, and luckily, it falls on a Friday. Would you like to join me? I think it could be a lot of fun. I love you. Hobi
I grinned and began typing my reply.
From: Y/N Y/L/N Subject: RE: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 04:15 To: Hoseok Jung Hobi, Don't worry, you didn't wake me. I was tangled up in strange dreams and was deep asleep when your email arrived. Sadly, I doubt I'll fall back asleep anytime soon, so I plan on catching up on Buffy or Beyond Belief—whichever's on. Hopefully, I won't get stuck with reruns of Seinfeld, not really my thing. Lucky for me, I'm working mornings this week. I'd love to come to your party. Call me when you wake up. Love you, too. Y/N Y/L/N, M.D. Palliative Care Physician, New York-Presbyterian Hospital
It barely registered that, to my knowledge, I had never said "I love you" to him before. I had never really pondered the oddity of our relationship. My memories of our time together were a disorienting blur, but I never questioned it. It wasn't entirely my fault—he had ensnared me, body and soul, and any unresolved threads might make it harder for him to maintain control. Regardless of our tangled history or how elusive it seemed; I was simply glad he wanted to see me at that moment.
I lay huddled in my bed, my body a coiled spring of anticipation, each nerve ending tingling with the foreboding that had stalked me all day. His voice had been a persistent whisper, a sultry hum that turned my name into a haunting lullaby. It was a melody wrapped in an insatiable longing, a caress of words that promised more than I dared to imagine.
Tonight, I wanted to resist. I tried to muster the strength to ignore the insidious pull, that relentless tug drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. The very idea of defying him churned my stomach with a nauseous dread. But the threads of his influence were woven so tightly around me, it felt like trying to escape from silken chains.
Then it came, cutting through the murkiness of my thoughts like a scythe. His voice, now sharper, more insistent, shattered the fragile veneer of my resistance.
“Y/N. Come to me now.”
With a sudden jolt, the pretense of defiance evaporated. I threw off the blankets as if they were chains, leaping out of bed and flying through the darkened hallway. My feet barely touched the ground as I hurtled down the stairs, each step propelled by an unrelenting force, dragging me inexorably toward him.
He waited for me in the foyer, bathed in an eerie glow that made him look like an apparition from a fevered dream—or perhaps a nightmare. His smile was both welcoming and chilling, a promise wrapped in malice. When he took my hand, his lips brushed against my fingers with a cool, electric touch that set my entire body aflame.
The intensity of my reaction embarrassed me, but he tilted my face up to meet his gaze, shaking his head with a look of almost pity.
“Your blood knows what it wants, my lamb. You must let your mind follow.”
My face burned with fierce heat, but the compulsion pulling me to him was too overpowering to resist. He guided me through the meticulously manicured gardens to a secluded alcove framed by dense, sculpted hedges. He seated himself on a bench, drawing me onto his lap with a practiced grace that made me feel both cherished and helpless. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, never left mine, promising secrets I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“Are you ready, my lamb?”
Without a second thought, I bared my neck to him. The desperate craving for the bliss and torment of his bite had consumed me completely; waiting was no longer an option.
He lingered, his tongue tracing a tantalizing path along the delicate skin of my throat. The sensation was almost unbearable, and I found myself begging with a voice that sounded alien, strained.
“Please.”
And then he bit.
I shot awake, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. I had fallen asleep hunched over my desk at the hospital, my neck stiff from the awkward angle. Rubbing away the ache, I cursed the book that had plagued me with such vivid nightmares. I needed to talk to my brother again; this couldn’t be anything but a cruel trick of the mind.
The glowing digits on my alarm clock mocked me with their late hour. I stood up, stretching and feeling my heartbeat slowly return to normal. I changed into a t-shirt and shuffled toward the bed, determined to banish the lingering unease.
As I passed the window, something froze me in place. I looked down into the parking lot and saw him standing under a flickering lamppost, his gaze locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.
It was Hoseok—or at least, it looked like him. But the resemblance was grotesquely twisted. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, a sickly luminescence that cut through the night like a malevolent beacon. His skin was peeling away in ragged strips, as if he were shedding himself like a decaying husk. This was no longer my Hoseok. He was a creature of nightmares, a monster forged from my darkest fears.
My fingers clung to the windowsill as I stared, my body paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to run to him, to give in to the magnetic pull of his presence. I watched as his lips moved, shaping a single word that seemed to echo through the chill of the night.
“Soon.”
I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the vision to vanish. When I opened them again, the parking lot was empty, the lamppost casting its pallid light over a sea of unmoving cars. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, snatched my blanket and pillow, and stumbled back to the on-call room, desperate to escape the sinister call that still haunted the dark corners of my mind.
October 28, 1997
"What should I do?" the nurse asked, her name slipping from my mind like a shadow lost in the night.
"Give them some space," I replied, my gaze fixed resolutely away from the room across the hall. Elizabeth had just passed away, her DNR a cold, ironclad barrier that left no room for last-ditch efforts. Her family needed their final moments with her while we waited for the body to be transported. Mary was still wailing into her husband's chest, and Elijah looked like he'd been dragged through a storm, barely able to stand. Percy stood like a marble statue, his eyes glazed over while his wife clung to him. The sight of Percy’s frozen, unseeing expression twisted my gut in a way I couldn’t ignore. It reminded me too much of what I feared—and I needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of grief.
"Should we get them out of the room?" another nurse asked, her thick southern drawl hinting at Memphis. "Seeing her like that can’t be good for their mental well-being."
I shook my head. "Let them have their last moments in peace. Offer condolences and check on them regularly."
I fiddled nervously with my ID card, the familiar unease gnawing at me. My wounds from the day seemed too fresh. Miles surfaced in my thoughts again, and I resolved to call my brother on my way home tonight. Hoseok wasn’t working tonight, so he wouldn’t join me on the subway.
"I'm going to check in with 211," I murmured, watching Percy leave the room, clutching his phone like a lifeline. "I’ll be back in 5-10 minutes to see if the family needs anything. Just make them as comfortable as you can."
"You got it, doc."
The subway ride home was a silent affair. My headache throbbed like a relentless drum, and my stomach churned uneasily. The day had been heavy with more deaths than usual. Elizabeth’s family had eventually calmed down, but their kindness on their way out hadn’t eased the knot in my chest. I knew their pain intimately.
I called my brother as I made my way to the subway. Despite his complicated feelings about our mother, he was always supportive. The conversation ended abruptly when Aurora entered the room, demanding his attention. Miles had never truly understood my emotions; I doubted he ever tried.
The short walk home from the subway was a blessing, though the cold night air bit at my skin. I was grateful for the proximity of my apartment, but the streets were alive with noise—tourists laughing, gang members shouting outside their apartment complexes. I was relieved to escape the chaos, though my street wasn’t entirely free of foot traffic. My old apartment in East Harlem had been more of a hustle, with late-night carpooling with a coworker whose name eluded me. I knew it started with an 'A,' but the memory only worsened my headache. I set the thought aside for another time.
After selling the family home in Florida and vacation properties scattered across the country, I’d managed to buy a house on Astro Row at 100th and 30th Street. It was an old building—too expensive for its size, and initially, it seemed far from beautiful. But over time, it grew on me. I loved the brownstones, the front porches, the grand trees, and the quiet streets. I couldn’t imagine leaving. Even the renovations I’d planned were postponed. The charm of the old place had won me over, and I’d made peace with its quirks. I even got along with my neighbor, a small but welcome relief.
Tonight was quieter than usual, and none of my neighbors seemed awake. I missed the old man at the end of the street who used to sit on his porch, sipping coffee and waiting for dawn. It was nearly 4:30 AM. I shrugged and continued; my mind focused on the comfort of my bed.
Fumbling for my keys, I cursed quietly when my pockets were empty. My purse, a cavernous mess of clutter, swallowed everything. As I dug through it, a sudden burst of laughter behind me made me freeze. Two women strolled down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing off the walls. They were both stunning, their pale skin glowing under the moonlight. One of them locked eyes with me, her gaze piercing through the darkness. She looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew me.
"Hello," she said, her voice as light and tinkling as a bell.
"Hi," I replied, feeling strangely off-balance.
The other woman seemed perplexed. Her beauty was almost ethereal, with blonde hair as pale as her skin and eyes as dark as night. Her gaze swept over me with an unmistakable disdain, her teeth bared in a slight sneer. Yet, despite her apparent coldness, she was undeniably beautiful.
"How are you?" the first woman asked, her voice soothing.
"Fine," I responded, my throat dry. "And you?"
The nagging headache intensified as I tried to make sense of the encounter, a sense of déjà vu wrapping around me like a tightening noose. The women moved on, their laughter fading into the night, leaving me with a lingering unease that clung to me like the shadows of my dreams.
She studied me, her face a shifting canvas of emotions before settling into a look of genuine confusion. I tried to place her but struggled. There was something crucial I needed to remember, something just out of reach, but my mind remained stubbornly blank. A frantic urge to call Hoseok seized me.
The realization hit me like a cold slap. Why did I think I needed him? I tried to convince myself I could handle this alone. But deep down, I knew I needed him here. He could make this headache vanish, soothe the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in my chest. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…
“What's your name?” she asked, her smile both disarming and unsettling, making my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.
“Y/N,” I replied, feeling dazed and disconnected.
“Cold night, Y/N,” she purred, her gaze never wavering. “You should get inside.”
I nodded absently, my words failing me as I fumbled with my keys. The blonde woman's giggle, filled with an eerie excitement, made me shiver. I wanted to retreat, to escape this strange encounter. I shoved the key into the lock, eager to shut out the unsettling night.
“Y/N,” the first woman’s voice halted me, her tone chillingly smooth. Neither of them had moved since they stopped. The blonde’s smile remained fixed, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet the other woman’s eyes. “Be careful out here. You never know who’s wandering around.”
I nodded, turning the doorknob, but her voice stopped me again.
“I work at a bar in Midtown,” she said, her words snagging my attention like a hook. I had always known she worked at a bar, but why was it important? “It’s called Dauphine. Ever heard of it?”
Yes, I wanted to say. That place haunted my nightmares, a dark shadow that clung to the edges of my memory. But I couldn’t piece together why. Hoseok would know. He’d make everything better. No, my mind screamed—he’d only make it worse. I couldn’t say how I knew this, but I wanted to listen to the little voice inside me tonight. Something was very wrong.
“You should come by sometime,” she offered. “We’re on 1st and East 54th in the far corner of the Diamond District. If you need anything, just ask for ‘Bootsy.’”
Bootsy…
“Are you okay with cherry liquor?” she asked.
I let go of the doorknob and turned to face them fully. I couldn’t meet either of their eyes. The sensation was all too familiar. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the answer I didn’t want to hear.
“Do you know Hoseok? He’s my boyfriend.”
The blonde hissed sharply. Bootsy gasped, her face a mask of surprise and something darker, more shadowy. It was clear that Hoseok was connected to these people, tangled up with my memories of New York, the root of all my confusion. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…
No, I shook my head. Was that what he wanted me to believe? I wasn’t sure anymore.
“Yes,” Bootsy finally replied. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”
Before I could second-guess myself, I slammed the door shut and locked it. The blonde finally moved, stepping away from Bootsy and muttering something I couldn’t catch. She disappeared down the street, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.
“What’s wrong with me?” I muttered through the door, my voice tinged with desperation.
Bootsy’s response came through with a sorrowful edge. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, my headache pounding with such intensity that I could barely keep my eyes open. “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s like I remember things but not really, and everything goes blank every time he’s around.”
Bootsy’s eyes, a deep crimson, darted around nervously. They seemed to glow faintly, like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly, glossy and sleek. Bootsy wasn’t human. What she was, I couldn’t say. But she was somehow tied to the nightmares that plagued me, and Hoseok’s shadow loomed larger than ever.
“He’s a demon,” she whispered hurriedly, her words laced with a fear that seemed almost tangible. “I can’t tell you exactly what he’s done. I’ve never known him to keep someone around for this long, but whatever you’ve done to make him want you seems to have spared your life. You should have died back in ’92 with your friend.”
A friend? Someone else had been involved? Hoseok was a demon? The fragments Bootsy offered were like pieces of a shattered mirror, reflecting a reality I could barely grasp. I believed her, though. I had no reason not to. My memories felt like they were being twisted, distorted by Hoseok’s manipulations.
Then I thought of the creature outside of the hospital and felt my knees go numb. I hadn't hallucinated anything. It was real. It was him. Oh my God.
“We can’t talk for long,” she said, a look of pained urgency on her face. “He won’t sleep for much longer.”
“What can I do?” I begged, clutching my head as if I could squeeze out the pain. It was unbearable. “God, it hurts.”
“Nothing,” Bootsy’s voice trembled. “Hoseok wants you, and he’s never lost a game. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do; he will win. Whatever you’ve been doing has kept you alive this long, but I don’t know how much time you have left.”
Her words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing over me and dragging me under. I had been a pawn in Hoseok’s twisted game, my life manipulated by his cruel whims. What did he want from me? My body? My soul? The realization was suffocating.
“Go to Dauphine and find Taehyung,” Bootsy instructed, her voice carrying a chilling finality despite its almost maternal tone. “He had a soft spot for you back then. If you’re lucky, he might be able to change you, make you like us. That might be enough to satisfy Hoseok.”
Taehyung. The name cut through the fog in my mind like a beacon, easing the throbbing in my head, if only for a moment. He had haunted my dreams, his image vivid: a white button-up shirt, his gentle hands, his voice firm yet tender, saying he didn’t want to share me. He had left me in that bar, but the details were fuzzy—how or why I had ended up there was a blur. All I knew was that I was lost, and he had once been my guide.
She paused, her eyes darkening with a weighty empathy. “You’d be luckier if Taehyung agrees to end your life before the demon does. I wouldn’t wish this half-life on anyone, nor would I be glad to see you die, but those are your choices. I can’t guarantee you’ll make it through this.”
“What happened in ’92?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, thick with desperation.
Bootsy shook her head, her expression darkening with sorrow. “He killed your friend and tried to lure you away. That's all I know, and I don't have time to explain the rest. The sun’s about to rise, and your demon will be waiting for you to fall asleep. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. If he knows you’re aware of him, he might decide to kill you.”
It felt wrong to just let it happen. What would this mean for me in the end? Would knowing about his influence change anything? I couldn’t be sure, but if I wanted to buy myself time, I had no choice but to take the risk. I needed answers, a plan, anything to regain control.
“Y/N,” Bootsy’s urgent voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Your memories won't come back unless he wants them to. Let it go. Either way you'll be dead.”
With those final, haunting words, Bootsy vanished as quickly as she had appeared. The weight of my predicament pressed heavily on my shoulders, my impending doom looming like a dark cloud. I stumbled back to the porch, unlocked the front door, and sought refuge in the sanctuary of my bed. Bootsy’s grim mantra echoed in my mind as I tried to push aside my troubling thoughts about Hoseok, grappling with the uncertainty that lay ahead.
He appeared to me then, in a vision that was both intoxicating and horrifying. His eyes sparkled with a predatory thrill, his touch setting my skin ablaze, igniting waves of pleasure that crashed over me with ruthless intensity. His worship was ceaseless, his lips warm and insistent, as if trying to devour every shred of my resistance. I was swallowed by him, lost in a whirlwind of passion that twisted the love I once felt (at least, I believed I felt) into something darker, more insidious. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…
Bootsy’s words had struck me like a death knell, sealing my fate in an irreversible descent. She had unwittingly set my downfall into motion, transforming innocent affection into a ravenous lust that consumed every corner of my mind. When I awoke late in the evening, the decision to call off work for the rest of the week came with a grim resignation. The struggle to stay awake was in vain; it was becoming starkly clear how deeply Hoseok’s control had embedded itself within me. The inevitable was no longer a distant threat—it had already begun to unfold, dragging me into its dark embrace.
October 31, 1997
I tugged nervously at my skirt, my fingers trembling despite the cool night air that should have been a relief. The address that had arrived this morning was burned into my mind, glaring at me from the top of the paper—Dauphine, the bar Bootsy had mentioned. My plans were clear: find Bootsy, get directions, speak with this Taehyung, and figure out my options. But the gnawing truth was unavoidable—no matter what I did, it felt like my life was already slipping through my fingers.
Sleep deprivation had become my relentless tormentor. My eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by leaden exhaustion, and my attempts to feign illness to dodge work had morphed into a grim reality. It was a battle to stay awake each day, and I feared that simply making it to this bar would be a Herculean task.
I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust the wig perched precariously on my head. I’d opted for a lazy Halloween costume—a half-hearted Cher from *Clueless*. The yellow plaid blazer was a thrift store find, the skirt a serendipitous discovery. But the wig made me look more like a grotesque caricature than a character. Frustrated, I yanked it off and tossed it onto the floor. I’d have to go without it.
Yawning, I fought the overwhelming urge to collapse back into bed. My cab was on its way, and I had to be ready. I gathered my essentials—purse, house keys, phone, and a spare outfit—preparing for a night that could very well be my last. I steeled myself for the confrontation, even if it felt like a hopeless, losing battle.
My daily struggle with myself had turned into a monotonous grind. My feigned illness had kept Hoseok at a distance, but it had only given me more time to spiral into despair over his influence. My mind was a battleground, where fragments of my past life clashed with the twisted desires he’d implanted in me. Every morning, I awoke to a gnawing need, a desperate craving for him that left me feeling sullied and repulsed.
I stepped outside and drew a shaky breath of the crisp night air. Calling my brother was both a comfort and a torment. There was a chance this could be the last time I spoke to him, and the thought tightened my chest like a vise. I fought back tears as I dialed his number.
“Hello?” Miles answered, his voice warm and familiar.
“Hey,” I forced a cheerful tone, though it felt hollow. “Still out Trick-or-Treating?”
“We just got back,” he said. “Rory wants to talk to you.”
My heart ached at the sound of my niece’s voice. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, her voice sweet as ever. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too, baby,” I sniffled, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah!” Aurora’s excitement was a bright spot in my darkness. “I was Katerina, mommy was Miss Elaina, and daddy was Daniel Tiger.”
“That sounds amazing,” I wiped away my tears. “What about your baby brother?”
Aurora’s voice took on a scolding tone. “His name is Corbin, Auntie,” she said as though I should have known better. “He’s still in mommy’s belly, so he wasn’t anything. Mommy’s giving him candy.”
I laughed, though it was tinged with sadness. “How’s your mommy?”
“She says ‘Hi,’” Aurora replied. “We got the best candy! A lady was giving out big Starbursts. Daddy’s letting me have all the pink ones because I’m special.”
“You are special, sweet girl.”
A painful thought intruded—would Hoseok make them forget me if I asked him? The idea was almost too agonizing to bear. He’d kept me alive for five years, a perverse form of flattery that I struggled to appreciate. My self-loathing deepened as I thought about the life I was about to leave behind.
“Daddy says I have to go,” Aurora pouted. “Bye, Auntie.”
“Bye, Rory girl,” I choked out, my voice cracking as the tears welled up. “I love you.”
“Love you more,” Aurora’s sweet voice drifted through the line, a beacon of innocence in my storm of dread.
I gasped, the floodgates opening as I fought to keep my composure. “Impossible,” I managed to whisper, my throat tight with sorrow.
“Why?” she giggled, her innocent curiosity slicing through my resolve.
“Because,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “I love you more than the world.”
Aurora’s laughter began to fade as she handed the phone back to Miles. The sound of her giggles and her mother’s laughter echoed in the background, a cruel reminder of the life I was about to lose. My heart clenched painfully at the thought of never hearing those sounds again.
“What’s up, sissy?” Miles asked, his tone tinged with concern.
“I was just heading out,” I said, forcing a tremulous cheerfulness into my voice. “Thought I’d call before my cab gets here. I’m leaving a little early.”
There was a heavy pause on the other end, a silence that spoke louder than words.
“Everything okay, Y/N? You sound upset.”
“No, no,” I hurried to reassure him, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. “Just tired. You know how it is.”
“You sure?” Miles pressed, his concern palpable. He was always too perceptive for his own good, but he never pushed too hard. I hoped he wouldn’t miss me too much.
“I’m positive, Bubba,” I said, my eyes darting to the cab pulling up to the curb. “My ride’s here. I love you.”
“Love you too, sis. Call me later?”
“I’ll try to remember in the morning,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat despite the crushing weight in my chest. “I know it’s late for you guys.”
I closed my phone with shaking hands and stuffed it into my purse, the weight of my decisions pressing down on me. The cab driver approached, his face a blur through my tears.
“Where to?” he asked, his voice a lifeline in the growing storm of my fear.
“1st and East 54th in the Diamond District,” I replied, offering a weak, strained smile.
“Dauphine?” The driver’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, a hint of something unsettling in his gaze. “Ever been there before?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying to steady my breath. “I don’t remember it all that well. Guess I had too much fun last time.”
“Watch yourself,” the driver said, turning on the radio with a slow, deliberate movement. “That place is crawling with freaks.”
“Welcome to New York,” I muttered, more to myself than him.
He chuckled, his voice a touch too jovial. “Been here my whole life. My name’s Jimin. Call me if you need a getaway driver.”
The car rumbled with the low hum of R&B, Jimin fiddling with the radio as if trying to mask the creeping anxiety that gnawed at my insides. I mouthed the lyrics, trying to drown out the terror that threatened to consume me.
My thoughts were a twisted mess of fear and longing. The image of Hoseok, tainted by his manipulation, flickered through my mind. The desire to escape him was overpowered by the suffocating grip of my own confusion. Taehyung was my last, desperate hope—a fleeting chance at redemption. But deep down, a gnawing realization settled in I was already damned, teetering on the edge with no way back.
The mantra echoed relentlessly in my head: I miss him, love him, and need him…
I was spiraling, caught in a web of my own making, and the thought of facing what awaited me at Dauphine was almost too much to bear.
“We’re here,” Jimin's voice cut through the thick fog of dread that enveloped me.
“Thanks for the ride,” I muttered, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the cash. I handed him a generous tip, a feeble attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy.
The alleyway stretched before me, a grim path between the upscale buildings of the Diamond District. It looked less menacing than I’d imagined, but its familiarity offered no comfort. Dim street lamps cast weak pools of light that barely touched the encroaching darkness. I hoped—prayed—that Hoseok wasn’t already here. The fading daylight gave me just enough visibility to navigate, and the murmur of voices outside the bar was a small, shaky comfort. I clung to the hope that these voices belonged to ordinary people, potential witnesses if I needed to make a quick escape.
As I approached, the group of people outside fell silent. My stomach churned violently, and bile rose in my throat, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face them; their gaze was almost a physical presence, making my skin crawl even though I never looked directly at them. A low, sinister snicker from one of them sent a shiver down my spine, amplifying my fear. I hadn’t even seen their faces, yet their mere presence was enough to make me quake.
The bouncer at the gate eyed me with a scrutinizing glare.
“Password,” he demanded, his voice flat and unyielding.
“I-” I stammered, my mind racing to recall the password Hoseok had given me. “Audubon.”
The gate creaked open, and I slipped past the security guard, my heart pounding like a drum. Despite my nervous bravado, the bouncer’s indifference did little to soothe me. Once inside, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, escaping the unsettling stares.
I gripped my bag tightly, knuckles white, and started searching for the bar. The interior was starkly underwhelming—plush couches and private booths scattered haphazardly, with red neon signs pointing to the restrooms. The oppressive red and black color scheme was heavy, but thankfully devoid of any overtly horrific scenes. I had no desire for strobe lights or dance floors; the thought of walking into a trap was more than enough to keep me on edge.
Navigating through the dimly lit space, I felt like I was moving through a maze. The long hallway ahead seemed to stretch into an abyss, the darkness intensifying with each step. The oppressive gloom and the eerie silence made my nerves jangle. The jazz music that had been softly playing in the background had faded, leaving me in a disquieting void.
At the end of the hall, the emptiness was almost a relief. The silence was oppressive but meant I wasn’t walking into a room full of hostile eyes. Perhaps this was how I’d met Bootsy—wandering aimlessly until she had found me and guided me out.
The bar seemed to stretch on forever, an architectural labyrinth that added to my growing sense of dread. I held my breath as the walls seemed to close in, my anxiety a tangible weight pressing against my chest. The high ceilings and claustrophobic spaces combined to create a sensation of being trapped. My heels clicked sharply against the linoleum, the sound echoing eerily in the silence. The place felt more like a mausoleum than a bar. Every step heightened my unease, and the hairs on my neck stood on end as I glanced around, trying to ignore the creeping terror that threatened to overwhelm me.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling as it cut through the oppressive silence. “Is anybody here?”
The sudden sound of a voice behind me made me jump, my heart racing as I spun around with a gasp that morphed into a shriek. My balance faltered, and I slammed into the wall, scraping my arm against the rough surface. The sharp sting of pain was immediate and searing. I clutched my injured arm, the pain and the shock making my vision blur. I turned to face the figure who had startled me.
He stood there, his white button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the dim surroundings. His tall, lean frame was framed by broad shoulders, and his long fingers seemed to move with an effortless grace. But it was his smile that made my blood run cold—a wide, boxy grin that stretched unnaturally across his face, his eyes glinting with a mischievous, unsettling light.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I glared at him, struggling to steady my breathing and regain my composure. “It’s fine. It didn’t kill me, did it?”
He chuckled softly; a sound that felt more sinister than soothing. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his gaze dropping to my arm.
I looked down and saw blood seeping through a tear in my blazer. The sight of my own blood was like a cruel reminder of my vulnerability. The pain, combined with the sight of my blood, pushed me to the edge. My hands shook as I raised them to my face, tears welling up uncontrollably. The enormity of my situation crashed down on me like a tidal wave. Everything felt chaotic; my life had been turned upside down, and the relentless pounding in my head was unbearable. I should have stayed home. At least Hoseok’s presence, while twisted, had been a semblance of comfort.
The despair was suffocating.
“Are you okay, sha?” His voice was soft, but his touch on my arm was disconcertingly gentle.
I laughed, a hollow, despairing sound. “Does it look like it?”
“No, you look upset,” he replied, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of sympathy and amusement.
“You don’t say?” I snapped, rolling my eyes and jerking my arm away from his touch.
Despite my evident distress, he remained unnervingly calm, his smile lingering like a dark shadow. His pleasure at my discomfort was unsettling, and the aura around him felt eerily similar to the disquieting presence of those outside. His attractiveness was overshadowed by a deeply disturbing quality that made me want to flee. It was as if fear had paralyzed me, pinning me in place.
Suddenly, a chilling realization hit me. As I forced myself to examine his face more closely, I recognized him from the shadows of my past. He was strikingly beautiful in a haunting way, like Bootsy. His pale skin was almost luminescent, and his eyes, once hidden in the darkness, now revealed flecks of red that seemed to glow with a menacing, otherworldly light. They were mesmerizing yet horrifying, a dangerous allure that made my skin crawl. The spell he cast was broken as quickly as it had begun, and I struggled to look him in the eye again.
“You’re looking for me, aren’t you?” His voice was a silky whisper that seemed to wrap around me, tightening with a sinister intent.
Embarrassed by my earlier outburst, I nodded slowly. My hope of finding help felt increasingly elusive as the night grew darker and more menacing. All I wanted was to escape, but the hope that things might improve clung stubbornly to me. Taehyung exuded a disorienting blend of warmth and menace, a mix of comfort and dread that left me feeling more lost than ever.
“I’m sorry for being snappy,” I said, my voice quivering as I wiped away a tear. “I don’t remember you all that well.”
Or at all, my mind whispered in the encroaching darkness. The more I looked at him, the more I felt Hoseok’s oppressive influence tugging at my thoughts. Images of Hoseok’s touch, his voice, his eyes—each one flared in my mind with an insidious intensity. He misses you; he loves you, he needs you…
“Requiem was wrong,” Taehyung murmured, his fingers chillingly cold as they cradled my face. “You’re too far gone.”
“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling and my head spinning. His touch was both numbing and intoxicating.
“Bootsy,” he cooed, his breath a mix of cotton and sweet pine needles. “She said you had a chance, but she was mistaken. My friend has already completed the bond.”
“W-what?” I whispered, dazed and confused. The throbbing ache in my head resonated with Taehyung’s presence. “What bond?”
“Maybe not,” he whispered, his proximity making my pulse race.
When his lips met mine, they were like ice, yet the jolt of electricity that surged through me made my knees buckle. His laughter was dark and twisted as he wrapped an arm around my waist, his tongue brushing against my lips. I mewled, clutching his shoulders as the electric sensation overwhelmed me. His groan sent shivers through my entire body, and the echo of Hoseok’s voice in my head was relentless. He misses you, he loves you, he needs you…
Suddenly, I shoved Taehyung away, gasping for air as a searing pain exploded in my head. It felt as if a sledgehammer had struck my temple. My vision swam, and I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably.
“Poor child,” Taehyung crooned, kneeling beside me. His scent, soothing yet oddly comforting, did little to ease the tremors wracking my body. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot help you.”
“I’m going to die,” I sobbed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “The pain will lessen once you accept it; accept him.”
“What does he want?” I managed to choke out.
“Can’t you see?” Taehyung’s eyes glittered ominously in the dim light. “He believes he’s in love with you. It’s a pity, really. I want nothing more than to keep you, but I can’t risk angering him. He would destroy Requiem for revealing his secrets; she is my most cherished friend. Do you understand?”
Numbly, I nodded. I’m going to die. I miss him. I’m going to die. He loves you. I’m going to die. I need him. I’m going to die. I love him. He needs you. I’m—
“Your eyes look just like his,” Taehyung marveled, his gaze softening. “He’s bound to you in a way I’ve never seen before.”
As I stared at Taehyung, my vision began to blur, and the voices in my head whispered louder in the dark corners of my mind. Their weight pressed down on me, my eyes rolling back until all I could see was a void. When I came to, I was horrified to find vomit splattered across Taehyung’s pristine white shirt. His expression twisted in horror and pain as he watched me unravel.
A dark, malevolent presence loomed near, its acrid stench of soot and kerosene overwhelming my senses. My head throbbed as if it had been cleaved in two, and a grotesque, pecking sensation gnawed at my exposed, vulnerable insides. Taehyung’s icy touch against my rigid form offered little comfort as I lay helpless against his chest, terror seeping in with every passing second.
“There’s my girl!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the haze of despair, and just like that, the pain evaporated.
I exhaled, sinking into Taehyung’s embrace. His body felt like ice against my fevered skin, a chilling contrast that brought an unexpected relief. His cool fingers traced my scalp, their touch a soothing balm amidst the chaos.
“I hope you understand Bootsy’s decision,” Taehyung’s voice was as cold as his touch, carrying a weight of finality. “She thought you were still playing games. But she was wrong.”
A deep, resonant rumble filled the space, and Hoseok’s voice emerged from the darkness like a spectral echo.
“Requiem has every right to her judgment,” Hoseok said, his voice a smooth caress laced with menace. “If it were anyone else, I might not care. But Y/N’s suffering is a consequence of her meddling. I had hoped to keep her alive.”
“Why?” I croaked, the question barely escaping my lips.
“You’re my special girl,” Hoseok purred, his voice dripping with a twisted, cruel fondness. “So innocent, so malleable. You’re perfect.”
A strange calm enveloped me as I lay against Taehyung, the tumult of emotions and pain fading to a low murmur. Hoseok’s presence hung over me like a dark, oppressive cloud, his words a cruel mockery of the comfort I desperately sought.
Taehyung’s fingers moved through my hair with a cold, almost clinical precision. “You’ve been chosen,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “It’s a rare bond that neither Bootsy nor I can undo. I wish there was something more I could do for you.”
My vision blurred, shadows of past anguish swirling around me. Hoseok’s voice echoed in my mind, a haunting lullaby that twisted my insides. “You’re mine, Y/N. No matter how you struggle, you are woven into my essence.”
The room seemed to constrict, the walls inching inward, shadows elongating and darkening. A biting chill settled over the space, the whispers of the damned intertwining with my deepest fears. I could almost see their forms, spectral and menacing, reaching out from the darkness.
I struggled to my feet, the world spinning dizzily around me. My head throbbed with a relentless ache, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. I stumbled away from Taehyung’s unnervingly composed presence, my eyes darting frantically for any sign of escape or salvation.
“Y/N,” Hoseok’s voice was a dissonant blend of soothing and threatening. “Don’t run from me. You belong here, with me.”
My breath came in ragged gasps, the overwhelming urge to flee battling with a stubborn thread of hope tangled in my despair. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, clinging to the faintest possibility of survival amidst the encroaching darkness.
I turned to Taehyung, my gaze pleading, desperate. “Is there no way out? Is there any hope left?”
Taehyung’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and sorrow. “Try to enjoy your final moments.”
Footsteps echoed ominously down the corridor, each step deliberate and foreboding. My heart leaped as a figure emerged from the gloom. Bootsy. Her presence was both a flicker of reassurance and a shadow of dread.
“I’m sorry,” Bootsy’s voice was a murmur of regret in the darkness.
I looked at her, then back at Taehyung, and finally at the encroaching shadows that seemed to reach out with a ravenous hunger. The weight of the choice, of my impending doom, pressed heavily on my chest, threatening to crush me under its gravity.
With a shuddering breath, I steeled myself. “I can’t let this happen to me,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “I don’t want this.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the darkness thickening. Hoseok’s laughter echoed through the void, a low, mocking sound that sent icy shivers down my spine. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be writhing on the floor if you didn’t.”
The shadows deepened, the walls closing in as if reality itself was warping to ensnare me. A cold grip tightened around my soul, a force dragging me back into the abyss I had fought so hard to escape. An aching chill settled below my diaphragm, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My head spun again, his voice a soft whisper in the recesses of my mind. I miss you. I love you. I need you…
Don’t leave me.
Taehyung’s expression hardened into one of grim resignation. “You’re already bound to him. The bond is too strong.”
As I fought against the invisible chains tightening around me, the futility of my struggle became all too apparent. The darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me back into the depths I had desperately tried to escape.
“Please,” I whispered into the void, but the darkness consumed my plea. “Please, no.”
Hoseok’s voice filled the void, smooth and victorious. “Welcome home, darling.”
The last glimmers of light vanished, leaving me in an eternal night, a prisoner of my own choices and the dark forces that had ensnared me. My mind fractured under the weight of the consuming darkness, and as the final remnants of my resistance crumbled, I faced the harrowing truth.
There was no salvation. No escape. Only the endless, consuming dark.
And in that darkness, I was utterly, irrevocably alone.
I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped in this suffocating darkness—hours, days, months, or maybe even years. Time has become an abstract concept here, slipping through my grasp like the thin veil of reality that separates me from the void. The only link to the world beyond this prison is Hoseok, a ghostly presence who appears with a gleam in his eyes that chills me to the bone. His voice, carrying the weight of a thousand tortured souls, always asks the same haunting question: How are you feeling?
We were never friends. Each passing day has sharpened my memories into a cruel clarity. I don’t know where my physical body is—doubtful it’s anywhere near this place. The ink and paper I use to write materialize out of nowhere whenever I need them, appearing and disappearing like phantoms in my disturbed mind. This place defies all logic and reason.
Initially, I fought Hoseok with every ounce of my being. Each refusal brought excruciating pain that felt like it would tear me apart. My screams echoed back at me from the oppressive void, unanswered and ignored. Hoseok would slip into the darkness with a silent, predatory grace, his hot hands roaming over my shivering body before I even knew he was there. I would scramble away, howling and begging him to take me home, but he always left without a word.
Eventually, I gave up the fight. I accepted that escape was impossible, even though my soul still ached for my old life. The pain eased only when I surrendered, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent. They were filled with idle chatter about his plans for me. I learned he was a demon, and I was destined to become one too. The possession would erase most of who I once was, but when I awoke, we would be forever linked as master and shade. My freedom would only come after I took my first human life, but that day seemed impossibly distant. Hoseok savored every bite of my soul with a mournful delight.
What I felt for Hoseok wasn’t love—it was an obsession, a malignant force that had seeped into every corner of my being. “A natural reaction of a shade to its master,” he said. I was bound to him, and escape was nothing but a cruel illusion.
The first signs of my unraveling appeared when Hoseok vanished for days on end. In the infinite darkness, where time had no meaning, his absence was a torment of its own. Despite his power to bend reality, he chose to leave me here, dependent on his presence for any sign of change. I began talking to myself, my voice the only sound in the oppressive silence. I spoke for hours, my throat raw and hoarse from the effort, desperately trying to fend off the encroaching madness.
I felt like an addict in withdrawal. I don’t recall when hallucinations began, but soon I was conversing with a phantom chorus of voices. Deep down, I knew it was Hoseok orchestrating these illusions, but my fractured mind twisted reality into something I could barely comprehend. My hatred for him only served to cloud my already distorted perception.
As time dragged on, I grew weary. My speech turned into riddles, convinced I was a prophet receiving divine revelations. Raised Catholic, I had long drifted from faith, but the darkness reignited an obsession with God. I clung desperately to fragmented Bible verses. Hoseok, ever the manipulator, provided me with a Bible. If I weren’t so far gone, I might have questioned his uncanny ability to fulfill my twisted needs.
When I told Hoseok about my religious background, he laughed, and the darkness morphed into a cathedral. For the first time, there was something tangible to focus on during his absences. It was both a prison and a gift. The pews were filled with spectral congregants, and every day became Sunday. I feverishly wrote sermons, warning of the apocalypse. Hoseok attended with a devotion bordering on reverence, but he always left too soon.
The withdrawal pangs paralyzed me, but incessant talking kept the crushing loneliness at bay. I remember the first encounter after becoming accustomed to this madness. My body trembled with need, yet my mind remained alert. Each denial of release brought physical agony, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent and prolonged. My breakdown was inevitable.
On the day of my final descent, I felt his presence before I saw him. My struggle had reached its nadir. Despite my lingering hope for escape, Hoseok’s presence shattered my resolve. I became an all-too-willing participant in his dark designs. Even now, as I lie prostrate in my despair, I can’t escape the haunting reality of my existence.
The words of the prayer rolled off my tongue like a ghostly murmur in the dim, solemn church. Each syllable was a desperate plea, a sacrament of my crumbling faith:
“Soul of Christ, sanctify me.”
“Body of Christ, save me.”
“Blood of Christ, inebriate me.”
This prayer was a twisted sacrament, a litany of sacred pleas that felt increasingly like cries into the void.
“Water from Christ’s side, wash me.”
“Passion of Christ, strengthen me.”
“O good Jesus, hear me.”
I bowed my head, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. My hands gripped tightly in a futile attempt to hold onto my sanity. I prayed not just for absolution but for a distraction, for him to stay away, for the sinful thoughts to dissipate like smoke in the sun.
“Y/N,” a voice whispered, spectral and insistent, urging me to rise, to accept, to finally bend to its will.
Reluctantly, I dragged myself to the pulpit, my legs trembling. I focused on the Gospel before me, the rhythm of my breath, the rehearsed words of today’s homily. I could hear murmurs of anticipation swelling in the pews, bouncing off the stone walls like echoes of forgotten promises.
Did they know? Did they sense the darkness creeping into my soul?
To be honest, I was unsure if anyone was really there or if my mind was playing tricks on me. This place had a maddening ability to distort my perception. I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, offering a fleeting smile to the choir’s children—figments of my fractured mind. Their eyes, hungry for guidance, believed in my wisdom, though I felt utterly unworthy. Their gaze was a reflection of my own inner torment.
My eyes locked on a figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, as I beheld him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—an irreverent defiance slicing through the sanctity of the church. His gaze was a burning, unholy fire that cut through the darkness with unnerving clarity.
In that moment, the last vestiges of my sanity crumbled, leaving me exposed to the consuming darkness that had become my prison.
I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, and offered a fleeting smile to the choir’s children, who I no longer believed were real. My gaze wandered over the congregation, each face a testament to a faith I felt unworthy of. Their eyes, brimming with expectation, seemed to pierce through me, demanding guidance I could no longer provide. I questioned my own sanity, wondering if anyone in that room could see how profoundly empty I felt.
I once had everything figured out. Before this… before him.
My eyes locked on a single figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat. There he was: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—a casual defiance that sliced through the church’s sanctity like a blade. His legs were crossed, hands poised by his sides, eyes ablaze with a fire that seemed to burn straight through my composure.
No holy book in his hands, no righteous smile on his lips—just an unspoken, rebellious challenge. His presence was a magnetism that pulled me toward a pit of temptation and sin. I forgot my sermon. I forgot the vows and promises etched into my soul. The solemn pledges made to men of faith and to God. Promises I had written daily to stave off the creeping insanity.
Those promises now felt like distant echoes, overshadowed by him. His eyes, his lips, his rebellious aura—an inferno of forbidden heat that ignited a longing I could no longer contain. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to escape the searing image of him. Abs, legs, an all-consuming heat that seemed to draw me into its vortex.
When I opened my eyes again, the fire remained. A cough from the crowd jolted me back to the present. I tugged at my collar, the symbol of my childhood and a cruel gift from Hoseok. It used to offer comfort, a sign of belonging, but now it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.
The faces of the congregation were a sea of silent, unspoken questions. Their eyes bored into me, filled with unvoiced suspicions and judgments.
Shit.
My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the pulpit, trying to anchor myself amidst the spiraling chaos. The eyes of the congregation felt like spectral judgments, each one a reminder of my spiraling failure. Hoseok’s presence, fixed in my peripheral vision, was a constant, unsettling pull—a dark promise of chaos just beyond the edge of reason. It pressed heavily on my chest, a suffocating weight threatening to collapse my fragile sanity.
I forced my gaze back to the Gospel, attempting to focus on the familiar lines of scripture, hoping they would restore my fractured resolve. But the words on the page blurred and twisted, tangled in the storm raging inside my head. Each verse felt like wading through molasses, and a bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the cold sweat already gathering at the base of my neck. I cleared my throat, trying to regain control, but the sound emerged as a strangled rasp.
The whispers grew louder, like rustling wings pressing against the walls of my sanity. My heart pounded like a funeral drum, each beat a reminder of my mounting desperation. I could almost hear the devil’s laughter, mocking my feeble attempts to maintain a façade of righteousness.
Hoseok’s gaze was unwavering, a predator’s gaze that seemed to sear through my composure. His movements were fluid, deliberate—like a hunter preparing to strike. My mind raced, desperately searching for an escape from this hellish vortex. I glanced at the crucifix behind me, its hollow eyes and outstretched arms now a pitifully inadequate shield against the encroaching darkness. The sacred symbol that once offered solace now seemed like a cruel joke, highlighting how far I had strayed from purity.
The murmurs of the congregation grew insistent, a chorus of impatient whispers that echoed like an unholy chant. The church, once a sanctuary, now closed in around me, its weight suffocating. I took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of my willpower. I forced myself to meet Hoseok’s gaze again, confronting the fiery rebellion in his eyes. He offered no sympathy, only a silent taunt that echoed my own guilt.
With a trembling hand, I reached for the microphone. My voice cracked as I began to speak, the words spilling out in a disjointed stream. I struggled to reclaim my authority, but with each passing moment, my grip on sanity slipped further. The congregation’s expressions shifted from curiosity to concern, then to alarm. Their faith faltered under the weight of my unraveling composure.
Hoseok’s gaze remained fixed, a dark star in a sea of light, drawing me inexorably towards his gravitational pull. My voice faltered, becoming increasingly erratic, reflecting the chaos within. The church fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rustling of the congregation’s uneasy shifting. I felt every eye on me, their silent judgment a palpable force.
My final words came out as a barely coherent murmur, a defeated whisper lost in the oppressive silence. I stumbled away from the pulpit, my mind a tempest of confusion and dread. As I retreated from the glaring scrutiny of the congregation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stumbling towards some dark, inevitable reckoning. Hoseok’s gaze followed me, a constant, unsettling presence as I fled the sanctuary.
I collapsed into the shadows behind the altar, my breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed through the oppressive silence of the church. The darkness around me felt like a living entity, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing, threatening to suffocate me. Hoseok's eyes lingered in my mind, their haunting intensity a constant reminder of the sin and torment that had become my existence. The certainty of my spiraling downfall felt inescapable, and every breath I took seemed to deepen my dread.
The pews had emptied in an instant, leaving the room cloaked in a suffocating silence. My heart pounded as I watched Hoseok move toward me. The man before me was no longer the mortal guise he had once worn; his true form emerged, dark and unnervingly compelling. His eyes, once warm and inviting, now burned with a shadowed hunger that quickened my pulse with a mix of terror and something I couldn’t quite name.
“Y/N.” His voice, soft and reverent, seemed to carry a sacramental weight that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There was a truth hidden in those syllables, a meaning only he understood. As his nearness intensified, confusion and fear danced across my features. His calm, deliberate hand cradled my cheek, the touch both tender and overwhelming. The heat of my skin seemed to beckon to him, an invitation that terrified and enthralled me simultaneously.
"You're so lovely," he whispered, his voice a gentle murmur that barely masked the wild intensity in his eyes. His touch guided me backward with a grace that felt almost otherworldly. The church seemed to dissolve around us, melting away into a space that was unsettlingly familiar—a fragment of my life from New York. The red brick of the two-story house brought a strange, bittersweet comfort, like a fragment of a life I had once known. It calmed my racing heart with its eerie familiarity. He led me to the front door, his touch both comforting and possessive.
The lock yielded effortlessly, and as we crossed the threshold, the gravity of the situation settled like a stone in my stomach. The house, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in with a menacing intimacy.
"So perfectly lovely," he murmured again as he closed the door behind us. I stumbled back, my nerves crackling with an unsettling energy. It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was something darker and more confusing. A part of me ached for normalcy, for escape, while another part was drawn to him with a desperate, confusing need. The line between terror and an inexplicable, forbidden desire blurred beyond recognition. I clung to the last shreds of my sanity, even as I felt myself unraveling under the weight of my own conflicted emotions.
"Why are we here?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of breathlessness and an unspoken longing. My heart pounded with a confusing blend of fear and desire. It was as if clarity had returned to me for a fleeting moment, yet I was still tethered to the confusion Hoseok had woven into my days. His promises of relief had begun to erode the pain, even as they wrapped around me like a vice. I remembered the dreams he'd planted in my mind, their seductive whispers blurring my sense of reality.
"I thought you might feel more at ease here," he said softly, his tone smooth and soothing as he followed me through the cluttered living room. Each backward step I took seemed to draw him closer, his presence an inescapable shadow. "Do you like it?"
I hesitated, glancing around at the artifacts of my past—family photos, treasured mementos, relics of a life that now felt so distant. The room was a museum of a future slipping away from me, and Hoseok's eyes seemed intent on taking it all. "Yes, I do," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. The room, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a stage for his dark play.
"I'd like a drink," I said, placing a hand over my racing heart. I clung to the pretense of normalcy, desperate to maintain some semblance of control. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a flicker of my old self. "Is there anything here? Surely you would... like one... as well."
Hoseok, having long since discarded any pretense of humanity, closed the distance between us with unsettling swiftness. His movements were almost too fluid, his presence too intense. His hands, warm and steady, framed my face with a possessive grace, his gaze fixed on the pulse in my neck, the rich, inviting blood beneath my skin.
"Oh, Y/N, my sweet, innocent little lamb." His voice, a velvety murmur, sent a shiver down my spine. His touch, trailing down to my neck, felt both magnetic and maddening. His eyes lingered on my flesh with a hunger that was almost palpable, a craving that seemed to consume him as much as it did me.
I trembled in his embrace, my conflicting desires mirrored in his touch. A soft moan escaped my lips, my breath warm and trembling with a heady mix of fear and desire. His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes as he encircled my waist, his touch moving possessively lower, tracing the curve of my hips and thighs. The tension between fight and flight heightened the charged atmosphere, leaving me both desperate and disoriented.
His eyes traced the flush of my lips, a reflection of the flush between my legs. The scent of my arousal mingled with my anxious heartbeat, a call to the beast inside him. His senses seemed overwhelmed by the promise of my warmth, the floral sweetness of my skin, and the earthy musk of my desire.
"You don't want... a drink?" I stammered, struggling to grasp the situation, to find a shred of reason amid the chaos of my emotions.
"Oh yes, Y/N. I very much desire a... drink." His smile was amused, his lips hovering just above mine. The taste of his breath, mingling with his tantalizing scent, sparked a deep, primal hunger within me. I was alive with all these unfulfilled needs, caught between an overwhelming desire and a paralyzing fear.
I inhaled shakily, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. "What... would you like?" The question was a desperate plea for clarity, a tenuous grasp at the last vestiges of control in a world that had become a tumultuous blur of lust and dread.
A low laugh rumbled in Hoseok’s throat as he brushed his lips over mine, savoring the teasing trace of my flavor. "I want you, Y/N. I want to drink you." His honesty was laced with a raw, consuming need, a plea that mirrored the chaotic mix of longing and fear surging through me. It was clear he had no intention of letting me escape—not now. His tongue traced the corners of my mouth, and his body pressed against mine, making his heat seep through every layer of fabric that separated us.
I trembled, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions. The scents of my home—the cheap cotton sheets, synthetic pillows, and lingering traces of my perfume—led him with a haunting familiarity. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me with a purposeful stride, and placed me gently at the foot of my bed. The moonlight offered only a weak shield against the encroaching darkness that seemed to swallow us whole.
My heart raced, feeling like a delicate butterfly trapped in a predatory web. As he dropped his coat to the floor and drew me into a deep kiss, my earlier uncertainty dissolved into a raw, electric need. Each touch of his fingers against my body made me shiver, a mix of anticipation and dread coiling tightly within me.
The bed was unmade, its disarray a silent testament to my disordered state. His scent lingered in the tangled sheets and blankets as he lowered me onto them. My sweat-dampened palms gripped his hair, my fingers exploring the nape of his neck and shoulders. The buttons on his shirt came undone beneath my trembling hands, my desire growing bolder despite the icy grip of fear that clenched at my chest. His groan as his teeth grazed my throat made me arch my hips, pressing closer, driven by a need I couldn't fully understand.
My clothes fell away under his hands, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. His eyes devoured every curve of my body, his gaze as palpable as his touch. His mouth descended on mine, hungry and insatiable, and I was enveloped by him, lost in a swirling tempest of our shared desire. His touch became a language, one that read my body with an intimate knowledge I was helpless to resist.
As he explored my secret places, my soft sighs turned into desperate pleas. His searing touch brought goosebumps to my skin, but I pressed closer, overwhelmed by the pleasure he was giving me. I was caught between wanting more and the creeping dread of losing myself entirely.
"Y/N," he groaned, his voice a dark promise. "I want to consume you." His words were a growl, a warning wrapped in seductive desire.
"Yes, I want you to. Do it. Take me," I panted, clutching at his shirt sleeve. My body spoke louder than words, arching upwards in desperate need. I knew I didn't fully understand what I was asking for, but the awareness was drowned out by the intensity of my longing.
His hands covered my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples. I gasped, pushing closer as his mouth found each tip, his low growl sending shivers through me. My heart raced beneath his lips, the rush of blood whispering of more delights to come. I arched again, my body twisting off the bed, craving more.
His mouth sucked at my nipple, his tongue flicking to heighten my pleasure. His thigh pressed between mine, the fabric of his jeans rasping over my nakedness, igniting a desperate heat. I moaned and bucked against him, my fingers digging into his arms as I convulsed beneath him, reaching the peak of my desire. The exhilaration of the moment was punctuated by the fear that clawed at the edges of my consciousness, a persistent reminder that I was teetering on the brink of something both irresistible and terrifying.
The climax left me gasping, trembling, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and overwhelming need. Each wave of pleasure only heightened my fear, and my body’s reaction seemed to betray my mind's desperate protests. His touch, relentless and insistent, found a rhythm that both seduced and terrified me. I cried out, unable to stop the sounds that escaped my lips, but a part of me wanted to resist.
I tried to pull away, my hand grasping his wrist with a frantic intensity. "What... what are you doing to me…?" My voice was a ragged whisper, trembling with a blend of confusion and fear.
He looked at me with a dark, hungry smile, his eyes alight with a dangerous fire. "Y/N, don’t lie to yourself," he said softly, his fingers curling in ways that made my body shudder. "You’re not overwhelmed. Your body is telling me you want this. You’re close to coming again. I can feel it."
My protests dissolved into incoherent moans as his touch stimulated a spot deep within me. The pleasure was a cruel paradox, blurring the line between ecstasy and dread. I could barely think, my mind clouded by the intensity of his actions.
"No, Hoseok, it’s too much," I whimpered, struggling to catch my breath. "I can’t..."
His mouth moved to mine, his lips teasing, his breath warm against my skin. "You’re a beautiful little liar," he murmured. "It’s not too much. You crave this. You know you do. Beg for it."
The force of his command broke through my haze of desire. "Please, Hoseok...," I gasped, my will crumbling under his dominance. My words felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t stop myself from begging. "Please, just... take me."
His satisfaction was palpable, a dangerous hunger in his eyes. His touch grew more urgent, driving me to the brink of madness. I was lost in a maelstrom of sensation, my mind screaming to pull away, but my body’s response only seemed to draw him closer.
The moment of his thrust was jarring, a mix of pain and pleasure that overwhelmed me. My body reacted instinctively, my hips rising to meet him even as my mind struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening. The intense pleasure was intermingled with a profound fear, a dread of losing myself completely.
His movements were urgent, almost desperate, as though he were chasing an elusive climax. I was limp in his arms, my breathing ragged, torn between an unbearable desire and an escalating terror.
Despite my growing fear, I clung to him, my hands fumbling for some semblance of control. My kisses were desperate, seeking to anchor myself amidst the chaos. His touch was relentless, and every stroke seemed to heighten the conflict within me.
He pressed closer, his hands exploring with a possessive intensity. My body’s reactions were at odds with my thoughts, creating a tumultuous storm of sensation and fear. My mind raced, grappling with the realization of what was happening, but the pleasure was so consuming that it blurred the line between consent and coercion.
As the moment approached, I felt his breath on my neck, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked beneath his seductive veneer. The final act was a blur, my fear mingling with an overwhelming rush of sensation.
I was a walking paradox—caught between heaven and hell, life and death, sin and redemption. His presence was a fiery furnace, consuming me with the heat of stolen life he had been deprived of for so long. My body clenched around him, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to drive him to the edge of his sanity. His pleasure was overwhelming, a torrent of sensations that painted the world in a chaotic blaze of colors.
“Hoseok, please…” I whispered, my voice a fragile breath against the overpowering cacophony of sensations. I wasn’t sure if my plea was for him to stop or to continue, a desperate cry from a place deep within me that I couldn’t fully comprehend. My fear was a gnawing presence, clawing at the edges of my desire, but the confusion of what I wanted and what I was willing to accept blurred together.
His eyes were dark with a twisted satisfaction as he sensed the last of my climax and my blood draining from me. The thought of taking me to the brink of death both exhilarated and haunted him. His grip tightened, and with a guttural snarl, he pulled away from my neck, his fangs retracting with a mixture of frustration and reluctant restraint. The rush of his thirst roared inside him, but he forced himself to temper his need.
I was an indulgence he wouldn’t be denied again, a forbidden pleasure he was determined to claim. He gently laid me back on the disheveled sheets, my heartbeat weak and fluttering. He licked the last drops of blood from my skin, his breath ragged and uneven. Each touch was deliberate, sealing the wounds with a final, lingering caress—a practical necessity for a demon who wanted to savor every part of me.
“Mine,” he growled, his voice a low, dark promise that vibrated through my core. “You are mine, Y/N. From now until death claims you, until I claim you.” His breath was warm and heavy against my face. My eyelids fluttered, barely able to focus, but his words penetrated my haze. “If any other man dares to touch you, I will tear him apart. Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to.”
“Hoseok,” I murmured, my voice a faint echo of surrender. His satisfaction was palpable, a twisted delight in my obedience and submission. He rose and slipped out of the room, leaving me tangled in sheets and blankets. From across the street, hidden in the shadows, he watched and listened, his gaze a persistent weight on my fragile state.
As dawn’s first light crept through the blinds, it painted the room in a sickly, eerie glow. I lay amidst the tangled sheets, each twist revealing new bruises and bite marks—a grotesque map of the night’s events etched into my skin. The aftermath was a haunting blend of pleasure and torment, an unsettling reminder of what had transpired.
Hoseok’s presence lingered in the room like a shadow that refused to lift. The darkness he brought with him clung to the corners, an inescapable reminder of the nightmare I had just lived through. My mind, once a storm of fear and confusion, now spun in a twisted acceptance—a deranged serenity that felt as liberating as it was unsettling.
The door creaked open like the groan of an old house settling into its own despair. Hoseok reappeared, his eyes still gleaming with that predatory glow, but now softened by an unsettling tenderness. He moved towards me with a deliberate grace, each step imbued with a dark reverence that made my heart pound with a blend of fear and reluctant desire.
“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive murmur that slithered across the room. “Do you understand now? You are mine, every inch of you.”
I looked up at him, my smile a grotesque reflection of the twisted contentment that had taken root in me. It was not a smile of joy or freedom but a shadowy acknowledgment of a reality I could no longer escape. My old life had withered into obscurity, replaced by the suffocating reality Hoseok had imposed upon me.
“Yes,” I breathed, the word barely escaping my lips. “I belong to you.”
The truth of my submission felt like a heavy, warm blanket, pressing down on me with an oppressive weight. Despite the enormity of what I had given up—my freedom, my chance to reclaim any semblance of my old life—there was an undeniable satisfaction in surrendering wholly to him. The pain and loss had twisted into a perverse form of fulfillment, filling the void in my chest with a dark semblance of love.
Hoseok’s smile widened, a dark curve that spoke of unyielding possession. He reached out, his hand caressing my cheek with a gentleness that clashed violently with the ferocity of his claim. The room seemed to close in around us, the air thick with a palpable tension, as if the very walls bore witness to my surrender.
“You will never leave me,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine with an unbreakable determination. “You are mine, forever.”
I nodded, the movement small and almost imperceptible, but it was enough. It was a surrender, a relinquishment of my will to the dark force that was Hoseok. He pulled me into his arms, and I felt my resolve melt away, my body becoming a canvas for his power, intermingling with the strange warmth of our shared connection.
As his darkness enveloped me, I felt a disturbing sense of belonging. In the shadows of the night, under his control, my fears and desires tangled together, creating a new reality that was both terrifying and intoxicating. In that moment, I understood there was no turning back. I was his, bound in body and soul by the twisted threads of fate and desire.
Hoseok’s eyes softened as he pulled me close, his cold skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own body. His embrace was a strange sanctuary, a place where I felt both ensnared and cherished. My mind, once a battleground of conflicting emotions, had slipped into a state of blissful madness. In Hoseok’s dark embrace, I discovered a twisted joy that defied all rational thought.
“I’ve given you everything,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. “We are bound now, Y/N. Forever.”
His words were a chilling promise that resonated through the marrow of my bones, a haunting echo that left me trembling uncontrollably. I clung to him, my grip a mix of desperate need and profound terror, as a disturbing form of happiness took root in the darkest corners of my mind. The loss of my old life, the sacrifice of everything I had once held dear, seemed like a fevered dream compared to the unsettling contentment I felt in his arms.
As the first light of dawn filtered into the room, casting long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed, I looked at Hoseok with a gaze that was both adoring and disturbingly fractured. The vibrant world I had once known had dissolved into a distant memory, replaced by a nightmarish existence defined by the twisted love and passion we shared. My heart swelled with a love so profound it overshadowed any lingering regret, even as my mind spiraled further into chaos.
Hoseok’s final words were a chilling promise wrapped in disturbing tenderness. “Remember, Y/N,” he whispered softly, his voice a ghostly caress in the dim light. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.”
As the door creaked shut behind him, the morning light seeping in like a reluctant witness, I was left enveloped in the oppressive embrace of the darkness we had forged together. My smile, twisted and unnatural, reflected the bizarre, unsettling happiness I had found in the abyss. I was forever bound to the night, my soul tangled in the shadows of Hoseok’s dark desires.
The room seemed to breathe with the remnants of his presence, each corner cloaked in an oppressive stillness that mirrored the void he had filled within me. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of fragmented thoughts that raged in my mind. Now, there was only the echo of his words, the haunting promise of a future forever intertwined with his darkness.
I lay there, wrapped in the aftermath of our twisted union, my body marked by the evidence of his possession. Each bruise, each bite mark was a grotesque map of the new life I had been forced into. The pain was now a distant echo, overshadowed by the profound and disturbing contentment that gnawed at my chest—a contentment born of both surrender and madness.
As the minutes ticked by and the morning light grew stronger, I found myself replaying his final words in my mind, my thoughts fracturing with each repetition. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.” The truth of those words reverberated through me like a haunting mantra, a binding contract signed with my very essence, even as my grip on reality slipped further away.
There was no turning back, no reclaiming the life I had once known. I was irrevocably his, a willing participant in the dark dance we had begun. The thought brought a grotesque smile to my lips, a smile that spoke of a happiness found in the shadows, a contentment born of surrender and madness.
At least, I wanted to believe it was madness alone that made me forget how afraid I was.
October 31, 2024
The house had become an enigmatic beast, its former guise of normalcy utterly transformed. From the street, it looked like any other home—silent and shadowy against the midnight sky. But within its walls, it was something else entirely. The shutters were clamped shut, keeping out any unwelcome glimmers of daylight. The curtains, heavy with dust, obscured the outside world, making everything inside a surreal, dreamlike blur.
Within this labyrinth of darkness, the house seemed like a twisted echo of a familiar nightmare. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old incense and stale dreams, creating a heavy, almost intoxicating atmosphere. Flickering candlelight cast eerie, jittery shadows that danced and twisted, as if mocking my attempts at normalcy. Silence pressed down on me, almost alive in its oppressive weight.
Days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the next in a fog of disorientation. Hoseok’s routines had become my own, though I couldn’t quite remember how or when they had taken over. My existence revolved around small tasks—cooking, cleaning, and performing acts of devotion—that had evolved into a kind of ritualistic pattern. It was as though each action was a silent offering to the enigmatic darkness that had enveloped our lives.
When I glanced in the mirror, the person staring back was a ghostly apparition of my former self. My face, serene to the point of being unsettling, bore a look of eerie contentment. I was a wraith, drifting through my days with a confusing mix of dread and satisfaction.
As night fell, the house came alive with an almost palpable energy. Hoseok’s presence was overwhelming, filling the space with his dark, commanding aura. His arrival was always marked by the ritualistic locking of doors, a subtle reminder of his control. The sensations of pleasure and pain that accompanied his touch had become a surreal symphony, a haunting reminder of the path I had chosen.
One particularly cold night, as the moonlight filtered through the grime-covered windows, Hoseok and I stood together, looking out into the void. The world outside was a distant blur, an irrelevant expanse that felt disconnected from my reality. The sky stretched above us, a vast, unyielding black, reflecting the emptiness of my existence. We were bound together by something primal and deep, though its true nature remained elusive.
Time inside these walls seemed to warp and distort. The house, once a symbol of normalcy, had turned into a crypt of our peculiar existence. The outside world had faded into obscurity, replaced by the certainty of Hoseok’s presence. I had found a strange form of happiness in this eternal night, where the terror of the outside world had been replaced by the dark, enveloping comfort of Hoseok’s embrace.
As I settled into my favorite worn leather chair, the house seemed to pulse with anticipation for Hoseok’s return. My knitting supplies were spread around me, with a scarf for Hoseok in progress. I hummed softly, my heart beating with a sense of calm and eager expectancy, as if I were awaiting a beloved dream to resume.
I replayed our last conversation in my mind, Hoseok’s words lingering like a haunting melody. “An old friend is coming for a visit,” he’d said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “She’s good at dealing with werewolves.”
I couldn’t suppress a bubbling laugh, the sound rising unbidden. “Isn’t she the one Namjoon’s obsessed with?”
His kiss on my temple had been darkly tender, sending shivers of pleasure through me. “Clever girl. It will be fun.”
I teased him playfully. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”
His laughter resonated through me, sending a thrill down my spine. “When have I ever been nice, lamb?”
“Nice to me,” I’d replied, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Very, very nice.”
Settling back into the leather chair, the hearth’s flickering light casting long, shifting shadows, I resumed my knitting with a serene focus. Each stitch felt like a small act of devotion, a testament to my growing obsession. I hummed softly, my heart a silent witness to the peace I had found in this twisted, eternal night. The lines between fear and love, sanity and madness, had merged into a strange, intoxicating tapestry that I no longer fully understood.
Hoseok said I was perfect. His praise was a balm to my disoriented soul.
I smiled, pushing away any lingering doubts about my sanity. I was fine. I was perfect.
Pager Codes:
110 307 - Go To Bar
209 - On My Way
08 - OK
420 - You’re in trouble
3011 - Be Careful
221 - Where are you?
419 - I don’t understand
100 - Come Back
© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.
#bts fanfiction#bts#bts fanfic#bts x reader#jung hoseok#bts fic#bts fanfction#bts smut#bts demon au#bts x y/n#bts x you#bts x fem!reader#taehyung x reader#hoseok x reader#hoseok x y/n#hoseok x you#kim taehyung#taehyung fanfic#hoseok smut#hoseok fanfic#hoseok scenarios#hoseok demon#taehyung vampire#bts vampire au#bts supernatural au#bts scenarios#hoseok fanfiction#bts yandere#yandere hoseok#doctor reader
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Confidentiality - Chapter 2. - yandere!ATEEZ OT8 x f!reader
Introduction: Joining a peer support group for mentally ill was a good idea for the last two times you were there. Then it's only natural for the third time to go well too, right?
Pairings: yandere!Hongjoong x reader, yandere!Seonghwa x reader, yandere!Yunho x reader, yandere!Yeosang x reader, yandere!San x reader, yandere!Mingi x reader, yandere!Wooyoung x reader, yandere!Jongho x reader
T/W: This story will include talk about mental health struggles such as body dysmorphia, paranoid thoughts and more. Dark themes are to be expected.
A/N: Big thank you to everyone who read the first chapter and reads this one! This chapter has a lot of focus on Jongho. I'm honestly not happy how this turned out, but I hope at least someone will find it enjoyable! I appreciate feedback, so if the story feels too slow for example, please tell me. Also, don't worry; there will be more about the other members later on in the story! I just don't want to make the pace or character development too fast or overwhelming. Please, forgive me; English isn't my first language.
Word count: 3 477
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Sometimes you really wished you had a car. If you just had the nerves to drive you wouldn’t have to wait for the bus in the icy air.
There was nothing wrong with the waiting itself. At least you usually had time for your own thoughts and breathing to settle down, when you waited for the bus, for your psychiatrist to invite you in, or for work to start. You always arrived to your work place an hour too early to minimize the risk of being late.
So sure, there was nothing wrong with waiting. The problem was that Jongho was standing next to you.
You had wished to not meet anyone from the peer support group before the inevitable. Life was already hard enough, and you didn’t need any more stress by seeing one of the madmen from the group on your free time. Although Jongho was seemingly less insane than Yunho for example, he was in the group for a reason.
You noticed how Jongho’s breathing was much calmer compared to yours. It would have seemed like he wasn’t breathing at all, if the soft fog didn’t form in the air near his mouth. That’s how silent he was.
The little glances you took in his direction weren’t probably as secretive as you thought, but you didn’t care that much at the moment. He looked mesmerizing as the sun was soon to set in the horizon, casting light on his handsome features.
Although he looked irritated that the Sun was shining directly in his face, you didn’t turn to look away. He narrowed his eyes, and you took advantage of the fact that he was blinded by the Sun and its rays reflecting from snow.
“Stop staring at me.”
You turned your gaze away quicker than it was humanly possible. How was Jongho able to see you looking at him? There was no way you could explain your actions without embarrassing yourself even more, so you just hung your head in shame. Maybe it would hide the blush on your cheeks. At least you could lie that it was just the cold air making your cheeks red, if Jongho happened to notice.
It felt like the silence would never end. A few cars passed by occasionally, and you almost wished one of them would have picked you up and saved you from this uncomfortable situation.
Suddenly you felt Jongho moving closer to you. A woman had squeezed in the bus shelter Jongho and you were already in. The small bus stop was getting way too crowded to your liking, although only three people were seeking shelter from the cold under it.
Jongho stood so close to you. You noticed his breath had quickened. His gaze was directed straight forward strictly. Even if you exploded next to him without warning, he probably wouldn’t move his eyes. He was clearly determined not to look at you.
The woman who just arrived could probably sense the awkward atmosphere too.
“Why didn’t you tell your last name?”
You didn’t know whether to be startled by his question, by the fact that he talked or that he even remembered that situation a whole week after it happened.
Jongho wasn’t as suspicious as Yunho but something about him made a shiver run down your spine. Even his way of standing was enough to make you think he was untrustworthy.
But it was possible – unlikely, but possible – that he was nothing more than socially anxious just like you. You knew at some point of your life you would have to trust people. Even the ones you had just met for the first time. Your whole life so far had been wasted by no-one else but yourself, because you were too afraid.
“I’m worried that people will use my personal information against me,” you answered, already preparing yourself to be laughed at.
It was so stupid. But it was inevitable for Jongho and the others to know about your condition and thoughts at some point. There was no use of a peer support group if you never opened up.
Against your expectations, Jongho just nodded thoughtfully.
“I see. It’s true that many people might do exactly that.”
Your eyes widened a bit. Getting confirmation that you were in possible danger was new to you. Your psychiatrist and therapist always told you to believe good about people unless they proved you wrong, but Jongho was telling you otherwise.
“You have to choose wisely who to trust. If anyone.”
“Do you trust anyone?” you asked Jongho before you could stop yourself.
Jongho was able to surprise you many times that day. You had expected him to get irritated by your question, to push you into the snowbank or under a car. Actually no, that was something Yunho would do.
Jongho’s face was stable and emotionless, but his voice betrayed him miraculously during the one word he said.
“No.”
“Can I ask you a question as well?”
“I wish I could say no,” Jongho replied to your nervous question.
You raised a confused brow. It’s not like you were some tyrant, so why didn’t he refuse if he so wanted to? You asked your question anyways.
“Are you going to the same bus as I am?”
“Yes,” Jongho put his hands in his pockets.
Before he could hide them inside the long, beige jacket, you noticed how red they were from the cold. He must have been freezing but played it off cool.
“Do you want my other mitten?” you asked.
Jongho couldn’t hide his surprise, and you were shocked at your own words as well. It was not like you to offer something of your own for a practically stranger to borrow. There was always a risk of him running off with your precious glove. He took a glance at your mittens.
“They’re really warm,” you hoped your attempt to persuade him would turn out successful.
A hint of something soft flashed in Jongho’s eyes before disappearing like it had never been there. He just put his other hand out, gesturing you to give the other mitten to him.
As you gave the glove to him, your fingers brushed against his cold skin.
“How did you know which bus I am taking?” you realized to ask.
There was a possibility that you couldn’t ignore; Jongho could be stalking you. In just a week after the first session, he could have found out everything about you, including what bus you always took!
“You already used your turn to ask a question.”
Why was he avoiding answering? It made you even more suspicious.
You made sure to sit as far away from him as possible on the bus.
When you arrived to the therapy room, you had sincerely hoped you and Jongho would be the first ones there. The thought of someone, especially Yunho, looking at you as you walked in through the door made anxious, acid bubbles pop in your chest.
“Y/N! Sit next to me and San today!” Wooyoung practically ran to you the moment you pushed the heavy door open to enter.
Glancing at San who was sitting on one of the chairs already, you noticed him flash a smile in your direction. It was a bit reserved yet kind unlike Yunho’s almost smothering, intrusive one.
Speaking of Yunho, you felt a tall presence looming behind you. Who else could it be? That rapper “Mingus Dingus” didn’t seem interested in tormenting you, and the others weren’t that tall. You could almost see Yunho’s shadow in front of you as he stood behind you.
“We should keep our original seat arrangements, don’t you think?”
Someone could have mistaken Yunho’s voice as gentle but it had a sprinkle of tension.
You flinched as Yunho put his hand on your shoulder to turn you to look at him. His grip was squeezing you almost like he was trying to control himself.
To Wooyoung and San’s disappointment, you nodded nervously to Yunho’s suggestion. Oh, how you wished you could have run off to hide from him behind San’s muscles, but you didn’t know how he would react to that if he was this irritated already.
“She’s just too afraid to say no to you,” Wooyoung pouted, “And I don’t blame her.”
Apparently, you weren’t the only one to notice Yunho’s scary antics.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The atmosphere felt suddenly freezing as Yunho’s usually cheerful voice dropped to a low, icy one.
“You’re hogging her all to yourself,” San chimed in.
Everyone in the peer support group had arrived and was watching your conversation intently. Luckily, the realization of that made Yunho back off. With one last glare sent to Wooyoung and San, he retreated back to his chair.
You sat between San and Wooyoung as the session started.
“Let’s start the meeting by telling everyone how we’re feeling right now.”
At Charlotte’s directive, the first turn was given – more like forced on – to Jongho.
“I feel neutral. Too calm, even. My thoughts, goals and wants are clear.”
“Do you think that’s a good thing?” Charlotte inquired.
“No.”
Charlotte looked intrigued by Jongho’s answer but gestured the person next to him to reveal their mood.
Yeosang cleared this throat nervously before speaking, “Nothing that different from the usual. I feel scared. The only thing different is that I feel hopeful.”
“Could you tell us why you’re hopeful?”
“There’s a person I’d like to get to know. But I’m afraid I’ll make a fool out of myself in front of them.”
If you had to choose someone who to trust in the group, it would be Yeosang. He was open about his feelings, which you knew isn’t easy, but seemed like he wouldn’t be dangerous.
You wouldn’t let him fool you into thinking he was completely harmless though. Any of these men could outpower you easily but you wouldn’t let them outsmart you.
“Okay, next is Mingus Ding- I mean Mingi,” Charlotte corrected herself quickly but already managed to earn a few chuckles.
You knew the stage name was silly, but still felt a pang of sympathy in your chest at how embarrassed Mingi looked, when people found the name humorous. It wasn’t an unknown feeling to you to get ridiculed, so you could relate.
“I was feeling pretty excited first but now I’m embarrassed.”
“What made you feel excited?” Charlotte asked curiously.
“I’m releasing a new single tomorrow.”
Wooyoung’s interest piqued, "How many listeners do you have on Spotify?”
Mingi’s face flushed red, “I’m a SoundCloud rapper.”
Yunho pat Mingi on the shoulder comfortingly and started describing his own mood next.
“I feel happy. I had a nice day at work!”
It was hard to figure out what to feel about his revelation. Just a few minutes ago he had been fuming, and now he sat there with his beaming smile. Had his mood really changed that quickly or was he tricking everyone as usual?
“Oh, great! What happened at work?”
“That’s a secret. We have a professional confidentiality agreement at work.”
“Just like here,” Charlotte smiled.
You could barely focus as Seonghwa started talking about his frustrating work day at a game store, because of Yunho looking at you.
Well, at least now you knew that his happy mood had been just a skillful act. His intense stare served as a reminder that you had made the wrong choice to sit next to Wooyoung and San.
“I feel stressed out. There’s still so much I have to do at work,” Hongjoong’s tense voice brought you back down to Earth.
“Did you relax during weekend?”
“No. I worked. I have to keep my company relevant in the eyes of the customers.”
It seemed to you like Hongjoong was some kind of workaholic. You shouldn’t have felt ashamed because workaholism was a real, possibly life-ruining condition, but you couldn’t help the feelings of embarrassment. Hongjoong was so successful while you had your ordinary work and no ambitious goals other than to feel better someday.
It was San’s turn to speak, “I’m sad and insecure. Some people at the gym looked at me weird again.”
You couldn’t understand why someone would look at San weirdly. Sure, you were intimidated by how handsome he was but when he smiled at you today, your heart was about to melt. His eyes were so pretty.
“What do you mean by weird?”
“Like they thought I was scary or would hurt them,” San answered Charlotte.
His sad tone broke your heart. He seemed shameful for making some people afraid of him, but was it really his fault since he didn’t act threateningly?
Before the pause got awkward, you realized it was your turn.
What could you tell? If you spoke the truth and said you were a little scared, would Yunho realize it was thanks to him?
But it was about time to start opening up. All these people were here because of their own problems. All of them had been mentally unwell for years probably, and now focused on only getting better, not planning to murder you. Even Yunho. At least you hoped so, because you were about to reveal your feelings for the first time.
“I’m feeling...” you looked around the room, trying to analyze everyone’s faces but your sight was getting blurry, “scared.”
“And why is that, Y/N?”
“Everything makes me scared. But I recognize it’s just my overthinking. There’s no real threat.”
Convincing others was much easier than convincing yourself. You could see other people nodding in sympathy at your words.
“I don’t think that’s just overthinking,” Jongho suddenly spoke up.
Charlotte turned to look at Jongho with warning eyes. You were already such a mess with your paranoid thoughts that there was no need for Jongho to fuel the fire.
“Everyone is a possible threat. There is possibly one even among us,” he continued.
“Jongho, stop.”
But Jongho didn’t care about Charlotte’s demand.
“Someone who presents themselves as a leader of justice may as well be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Your heartbeat accelerated by every word Jongho let fall from his lips. Did he know something you didn’t?
Eyeing the room, you could see thoughtful, worried looks on everyone’s face. Everyone, including Yunho himself, knew who Jongho meant by “a leader of justice”. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Still, no-one dared to speak. An unwritten agreement of silence hung thick in the air, crushing you under its weight.
“Let’s move on to the next section,” Charlotte informed after a few moments.
“No! I haven’t had my turn yet,” Wooyoung whined, and for a good reason.
Soon enough, Wooyoung was describing his mood and past week, paying attention to the important details like what color the car that passed by was and how long he brushed his teeth.
The story continued for many minutes, and you were sure you’d be listening to him talk for the rest of eternity. Wooyoung’s next comment suddenly woke you up from your slumber.
“I also saw you, Y/N. You were so beautiful on your evening walk.”
A bit creepy, to be honest, but his intention was probably just to be sweet. You gave him a sheepish smile in response.
“Oh! I almost forgot to mention; someone was following you.”
Your smile dropped as you heard Wooyoung’s words. Feeling like you were being watched had always been a thing you suffered from, but that was just work of your “wild imagination” based on what your psychiatrist always told you. But despite all the medication he had prescribed you, the feeling had stayed.
Maybe you weren’t as crazy as you had thought.
“Oh, come on. Don’t scare Y/N like that,” Charlotte scolded Wooyoung.
“But it’s true!”
“Stop. We are moving on to the next section.”
You had never seen Charlotte so tense. But she masked her frustration well and changed the topic skillfully, like she had probably had to do many times before with difficult patients.
You couldn’t stop thinking about Wooyoung’s revelation during the other section as well. Yeosang was your partner in the next section, but your focus was completely on different things while he was talking.
“A-Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Yeosang’s sad voice finally pulled you back from your anxious thoughts.
An instant regretful feeling filled you, and you hurried to apologize, “I’m so sorry, Yeosang. I’m... still thinking about the fact that someone had been following me.”
Yeosang’s body seemed to relax a bit, but his hands were still wrapped around his stomach as usual. He stole a glance at your face before staring at his shoes again.
“Okay, I understand. I would be worried too. Well, I am worried for you as well. It’s not like I don’t care about your well-being. I mean, I’m not in love with you! But people can still care although they don’t love each other, you know? But that’s not to say I would never be able to love you. I think you’re lovable. Everyone is. Well, maybe not everyone, but you definitely are!”
Wow. You did not expect that logorrhea to escape his pretty lips.
Your shock was clearly evident because Yeosang hid his face immediately and murmured almost inaudibly, “I’m sorry. Did I make you uncomfortable?”
It was official. Yeosang was the one you trusted the most. Even his rambling had been cute, but his sincere, caring apology made your heart ache in a way that wasn’t sadness.
You were surprised by your own attitude as well. It wasn’t like you to consider trusting someone after a second meeting. Although you’d be careful, you felt more at ease with Yeosang’s presence already.
“No worries. I think it was funny – in a good way.”
Yeosang smiled shyly in response and even managed to meet your eyes for a split second.
You two continued chatting away, at least tried to, although it was hard with both of you being so shy. Despite the moments of silence, you didn’t feel awkward. Anxious, yes, but that was because you genuinely hoped for your potential friendship to bloom. The instant connection between you two was as clear as day.
Sadly, everyone did not appreciate the fact that Yeosang had gotten closer to you than anyone had so far.
The house was starting to get void of people after the session finally ended. Your boots and jacket were on, your hand on the doorknob, ready to open the front door and freeze in the breeze of a winter night.
“There you are. I thought Yeosang had snatched you away.”
You turned around to see Jongho standing at the top of a staircase. His face wasn’t visible due to the low lighting in the room, but you recognized his stable voice.
“I’ve been waiting to get you alone,” he started descending the stairs by taking one step down.
“Why?”
Your ever so slightly trembling voice didn’t faze Jongho.
The stairs creaked a little as he took two steps down, “Do I make you nervous?”
“A little, to be honest...”
Jongho didn’t answer you. Only after he had taken three steps down, you gathered the courage to repeat your question.
“Why did you want to get me alone?”
“Make a guess.”
It wasn’t that you couldn’t come up with any reasons. You just couldn’t make any sense of the mess inside your head.
You saw Jongho taking more and more steps, getting closer. Like frozen in place, you could just watch him approach you. His blank expression left you clueless, having no idea what he could possibly want from you.
And soon enough, Jongho stood in front of you, looking in your eyes. You had felt much more comfortable with Yeosang’s avoiding eyes than the intense yet emotionless gaze Jongho was forcing on you.
The room was dimly lit and the lights formed shadows on his face. Earlier today, you had seen him at the bus stop with the sunlight shining on his face. It had been a beautiful sight. Now, the light was completely different. It was artificial, and although warm, it made Jongho look like a different person.
He reached for your hand before you could flinch away, and placed something in it.
It was the mitten you had lent him.
“Next time, sit beside me,” he said.
You were left alone, standing like a fool, as Jongho disappeared into the night. Millions of thoughts raced in your head, but eventually you pulled the mittens in your hands.
Just as you slipped your hand inside the warm mitten Jongho had given back to you, something fell out of it.
Your winter jacket rustled quietly as you reached down and picked up the object from the floor.
It was a small piece of paper. There was a handwritten sentence on it.
“You’re not as observant as you think you are.”
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<- Chapter 1.
Chapter 3. ->
Masterlist
#kpop fanfic#kpop x reader#kpop yandere#kpop#ateez yandere#ateez fanfic#ateez fic#ateez x reader#ateez#yandere ateez#choi jongho#choi jongho x reader#choi san#choi san x reader#jung wooyoung#jung wooyoung x reader#jeong yunho#jeong yunho x reader#kim hongjoong#kim hongjoong x reader#park seonghwa#park seonghwa x reader#kang yeosang#kang yeosang x reader#song mingi#song mingi x reader#yandere x reader#ateez ff#jongho#san ateez
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FL-inspired book recs!
brought to you by hotel wi-fi
Locations
The Royal Bethlehem: “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and “The Room in the Tower” by E.F. Benson. these are short stories, not novels, but they are fairly quick reads and are about locations where reality becomes twisted. the yellow wallpaper deals with mental illness and medical neglect, while the room in the tower is more about the overlap between dreams and the real world.
Port Carnelian: Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. ok, hear me out on this one. if you’ve ever thought port carnelian would be great if it actually dealt with British colonialism and racism in a meaningful way and also had a murder mystery, you might like this book. a much younger Mycroft Holmes goes with his friend Cyrus Douglas to Douglas’s home in Jamaica to investigate a series of mysterious deaths.
Ladybones Road: The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley. Nathaniel Steepleton finds a gold pocket watch in his bedroom one day, but he cannot open it or even hear it ticking. six months later, it opens on its own, and an alarm goes off at the precise time that a bomb explodes in Scotland Yard. he then goes in search of its maker, Keita Mori, who claims the watch was stolen from his shop. Mori has a gift for elaborate clockwork, and though he seems kind and relatively harmless, Nathaniel is sure he is hiding something.
Ambitions/Major Storylines
Early Light Fingers: The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz. it’s a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, but it can still be understood and enjoyed even if you don’t share my Sherlock Holmes autism. I specified early light fingers, because the mystery of what exactly the house of silk is, and the theme of corruption in highest levels of society, reminds me a lot of exploring and learning about the orphanage. just a heads up, this book is centered around a murdered child, and deals with the systemic abuse and neglect of children in victorian london. its biggest content warning is also its biggest spoiler, so I won’t give it here, but feel free to ask me. I had it spoiled for me on accident and still liked the book a lot.
Late-game Nemesis: “The Moonlit Road” by Ambrose Pierce. another short story, it recounts in three parts the murder of Julia Hetman, as told by her son, her husband, and Julia herself. it specifically reminds me of the dreams of the dead section of nemesis.
Evolution: Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant. Tory Stewart becomes obsessed with mermaids after her sister Anne’s disappearance. Anne was filming a mockumentary about mermaids in the Mariana Trench, but the ship she was on disappeared, and was recovered weeks later with no trace of the crew. footage was found that appeared to show the crew being murdered by mermaids, but it’s largely believed to be for the movie, not real. seven years later, Theodore Blackwell recruits Tory as part of his mission to return to the Mariana Trench and capture a live mermaid. it hits sort of the same spot for undersea survival horror that the diving bell section of evolution did for me.
Exceptional Stories
The Bloody Wallpaper: Sign Here by Claudia Lux. hell is an office. literally. Peyote Trip sold his soul while he was alive, and now works in hell, convincing other people to do the same. he’s one deal away from a big promotion, and all he needs is the soul of one last member of the Harrison family. normal laws of space and time don’t apply, the real hellscape is capitalism, and secrets don’t stay hidden forever… sound familiar? in terms of violence and body horror, I don’t think it gets much worse than the text of the bloody wallpaper. one of the main characters does have a pretty brutal backstory involving christianity-related child abuse though.
Totentanz: Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. set in late 1920s Mexico, the story follows Casiopea Tun and the Mayan death god Hun-Kamé on a journey across Mexico and eventually into the underworld. Casiopea finds Hun-Kamé’s bones in a chest in her grandfather’s house, and when she cuts her finger on one of the bone shards, Hun-Kamé becomes bound to her. together, they must find the rest of his body, which has been scattered around Mexico by Hun-Kamé’s brother Vucub-Kamé, who took over control of Xibalba from him. Hun-Kamé intends to retake Xibalba, but he and Casiopea must face sorcerers, demons, and twisted family dynamics- and that’s before they even get to the underworld.
#aelan speaks#fallen london#book recommendations#pleaseeeeee feel free to come talk to me about any of these or request more recs#i love books
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(It's finally time I start posting on this dreaded website.)
The Illustious Client story breaks my brain in many ways but something that faszinates me so much is the Picture of Dorian Gray references Doyle slaps in there at the end, after the evil guy got hit by the toxin.
Like: - The features which I had admired a few minutes before were now like some beautiful painting over which the artist has passed a wet and foul sponge. They were blurred, discoloured, inhuman, terrible. - I could have wept over the ruin had I not remembered very clearly the vile life which had led up to so hideous a change. - “The wages of sin, Watson—the wages of sin!” said [Holmes]. “Sooner or later it will always come. God knows, there was sin enough,”
The entire theme of sin and evil in the end turning someone ugly. The first quote literally comparing the scene to a painting. Also the guy previously being described as very handsome ("He was certainly a remarkably handsome man. His European reputation for beauty was fully deserved. In figure he was not more than of middle size, but was built upon graceful and active lines. His face was swarthy, almost Oriental, with large, dark, languorous eyes which might easily hold an irresistible fascination for women. His hair and moustache were raven black, the latter short, pointed, and carefully waxed. His features were regular and pleasing, save only his straight, thin-lipped mouth. If ever I saw a murderer’s mouth it was there—a cruel, hard gash in the face; compressed, inexorable, and terrible. He was ill-advised to train his moustache away from it, for it was Nature’s danger-signal, set as a warning to his victims. His voice was engaging and his manners perfect. In age I should have put him at little over thirty, though his record afterwards showed that he was forty-two." - thanks Watson, very heterosexual of you). The parallels are so strong.
Like, I know for a fact that Doyle read The Picture of Dorian Gray, he mentions it in his autobiography.
I don't know what to do with that. Just find it curious.
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broken promises, shattered hearts, but you and me. -b.c ✩ !
prologue ✿ next !
pairing : bahng chan x fem!reader
info : series fanfic , uni au , a LOT of angst , drama , feelings , humour , fluff , age gap (about 2 or 3 years), reader's brother's (minho) best friend , mature themes , suggestive.
characters : chan , reader , minho , hyunjin , felix , jisung , changbin , seungmin , jeongin ; more will be revealed later.
personas ! chan as a passionate music enthusiast, singer / songwriter / producer ; reader's brother (minho)'s best friend ; in uni's senior year, aged 22 ; and his usual genuine, insomniac self. reader as another music lover, songwriter / producer / singer ; freshman in uni, aged 19 ; minho's younger sister.
word count : 507
warnings : mature themes !
notes at the end ! 🍥
The very first time he laid his eyes on her after years of being apart, it stung like a fresh wound. Or rather – a promise or memory, that broke but never mended.
A memory that left his heart in a buried hole and his body shaking.
Earlier that day, 14:14 pm. — ❀
Chan had one final class left for the day, set to begin in about ten minutes. Earlier this morning, wanting to find solace at his usual sanctuary, he was at the university’s music studio; where he’d spent almost all of his time, whether it be a short break between lessons, or leisurely in the evenings, far from the bustle.
In his haste to leave, the usually-sincere raven haired; apparently had forgotten his black binder, its cover page rather empty; a stark contrast to its contents. And there he was again, after four back-to-back lessons, walking alongside the wide university halls of the familiar arts building, each step echoing softly against the polished floors.
As he hurriedly neared the music studio with his precious Rockson ST electric guitar in black, slung on his back, the strumming of an acoustic guitar hugged his ears in a soothing embrace. Curious, he noticed the door of the studio that was left slightly ajar.
Him peeking only made him pause in his place. Sat there, was a figure, her back facing the entrance as her fingers caressed over the guitar tenderly. The sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden aura around her, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck and the way her hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders. Each chord she played seemed to float in the air, weaving a tapestry of sounds that was both haunting and beautiful.
Not wanting to intrude on her reverie, Chan remained still at his stance, a silent observer to her enchanting performance. Soon, her soft strumming transcended into silence, each chord fading away into the tranquil stillness of the studio; only for it to be shattered by a sudden low sound.
*clatter*
The pen Chan had been holding, slipped from his fingers, falling gracefully to the floor. His ears turned a deep shade of red, mirroring the blush that had crept across the girl’s cheeks as the sound cut through the calm like a sudden gust of wind, causing the girl to jerk her head toward him with a swift, startled grace.
But the moment their eyes locked, their surroundings seemed to blur.
Y/n Lee.
His best friend’s younger sister.
After three whole years.
The air between them crackled with unspoken memories and unresolved emotions. They were no longer just fragments of the past; now, they were here, in the present, face to face once again.
The years that had separated them melted away, leaving behind the lingering ghost of their shared past, a past that had never truly been forgotten.
"Y/n.." He whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Chan." She replied, her tone a soft echo of his, laced with the tremor of his heart.
𓈒 ◌ 🧸 ⃝ ֹ 𓈒
﹙🤘﹚ author's note !
OH MY GODDDDD FIRST CHAPTER IS OUT !! YES ITS PRETTY SHORT IK IM SORRY BUT LIKE JS FOR THE SUSPENSE YK :33
ill try to post up the second chapter tmr or the day same time !!
well then thank you for reading, please look forward to the series !
i appreciate it ! have a good day ~~ ♡︎
— ny ! ✩
#skzfluff#skzff#skz x reader#skz fluff#skz#oneshot#drabbles#hanjisung#leeminho#bangchan#bang chan#bangchan x reader#skzsmut#skz imagines#skz ff#skz series ff#uni au#hyunjin#changbin#jeongin#seungmin#felix#stray kids#fanfiction#stray kids ff#stray kids fanfiction#stray kids x reader#skzxreader#straykids#straykidsff
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50 SHADES OF FUCKED UP | CH. 1
Pairing: Christian Grey x innocent!reader
TRIGGER WARNINGS!: TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, reader is kind of a bimbo, heavily detailed smut, basically porn, loss of virginity, harsh language, anger issues, stalking, obsession, jealousy, controlling behaviour, DOM-SUB themes, BDSM Expand considered to be portrayed with incorrect/poor etiquette, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse/assault, statutory rape.
Tell me if I missed anything...( As you can see most of the warnings will appear in future chapters. )
I apologize for any grammar mistakes...
Y/M/N: Your Middle Name
Y/L/N: Your Last Name
Y/N/N: Your Nickname
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*𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙋𝙊𝙑*
┅┅
𝐈 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐋 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐈𝐍 the reflection of the mirror. Damn my hair—it just won’t behave! And also damn Isabella Clark for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission.
I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at my reflection in the mirror, you blow dry your hair into oblivion and with the help of some hairspray you managed to put your soft curls into place.
Now you finally look somewhat presentable.
Bella is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered.
I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no–today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious—much more precious than mine–but he has granted Bella an interview. A real coup, she tells me.
Damn her extra-curricular activities.
Bella is huddled on the couch in the living room. “Y/N, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Bella begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice.
How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
“Of course I’ll go Bella. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?”
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about him,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.
“The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Bella, would I do this.
“I will. Good luck. And thanks Y/N/N – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”
Gathering my things, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Bella talk me into this. But then Bella can talk anyone into anything.
She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and she’s my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Bella’s lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK.
I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Mercedes is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grey’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Grey House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors.
It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
“I’m here to see Mr. Grey. Y/N Y/L/N for Isabella Clark.”
“Excuse me one moment, Miss Y/L/N.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Bella’s formal blazers.
My outfit definitely didn't suit for something like this, but at the same time I've neve done anything like this.
I love my skirts, basically all of my closet is filled with skirts, dresses, sweaters and the occasional jeans and formal pants.
For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.
“Miss Clark is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Y/L/N. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators pastthe two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.
“Miss Y/L/N, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my bag, and go through them, inwardly cursing Bella for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I’m about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty.
The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Y/N. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It’s like Stepford here.
Taking a deep breath, I stand up.
“Miss Y/L/N?” the latest blonde asks.
“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident.
“Mr. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your coat?”
“Oh please.” I struggle out of the long black coat.
“Have you been offered any refreshment?”
“Um – no.”
Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
“Would you like tea, coffee, water?” she asks, turning her attention back to me.
“A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.
“Olivia, please fetch Miss Y/L/N a glass of water.” Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
“My apologies, Miss Y/L/N, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes.”
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
“Here you go, Miss Y/L/N.”
“Thank you.”
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.
Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I’m wondering idly if that’s legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door. “Golf, this week, Grey.”
I don’t hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more nervous than me!
“Good afternoon ladies,” he says as he departs through the sliding door.
“Mr. Grey will see you now, Miss Y/L/N. Do go through,” Blonde Number Two says.
I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my bag, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
“You don’t need to knock – just go in.” She smiles kindly.
I push open the door and stumble through the impressively giant office. I notice a man his face hidden behind the computer. But in a moment he raises his head and approaches me.
That's when I see his face.
Holy Cow, his young nothing like I'd imagined him.
“Miss Clark” He extends a long-fingered hand to me. “I’m Christian Grey.”
So young – and attractive, very attractive. He’s tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
“Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static.
I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. “Miss Clark is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.”
“And you are?” His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.
“Y/N Y/L/N. I’m studying English Literature with Bella, um… Isabella… um… Miss Clark at Washington State.”
“I see,” he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I’m not sure.
“Would you like to sit?” He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.
His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
“A local artist. Trouton,” says Grey when he catches my gaze.
“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
“I couldn’t agree more, Miss Y/L/N,” he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the person who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Bella’s questions from my bag.
Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he’s watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he’s trying to suppress a smile.
“Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”
“Take all the time you need, Miss Y/L/N,” he says.
“Do you mind if I record your answers?”
“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?”
I flush. He’s teasing me? I hope. I smile shyly, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Did Bella, I mean, Miss Clark, explain what the interview was for?”
“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”
Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree.
I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
“Good,” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“I thought you might,” he says, deadpan. He’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
“Business is all about people, Miss Y/L/N, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” He pauses and fixes me with his gray stare.
“My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”
“Maybe you’re just lucky.” This isn’t on Bella’s list – but he’s so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Y/L/N. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing theirenergies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’ ”
“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Y/L/N,” he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he’d stop doing that.
“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things,” he continues, his voice soft.
“Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control Freak.
“I employ over forty thousand people Miss Y/L/N. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility. “Don’t you have a board to answer to?” I ask, disgusted.
“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” He raises an eyebrow at me.
I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he’s so arrogant. I change tack.
“And do you have any interests outside your work?”
“I have varied interests, Miss Y/L/N.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Very varied.”
And for some reason, I’m confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”
“Chill out?” He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.
“Well, to ‘chill out’ as you put it – I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits.”
He shifts in his chair. “I’m a very wealthy man, Miss Y/L/N, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies.”
I glance quickly at Bella’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”
“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”
His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me. “Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”
“Why would they say that?” I ask, intrigued by that information.
“Because they know me well.” His lip curls in a wry smile.
“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Bella’s list.
“I’m a very private person, Miss Y/L/N. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews,” he trails off.
“Why did you agree to do this one?”
“Because I’m a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Miss Clark off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.”
I know how tenacious Bella can be. That’s why I’m sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”
“We can’t eat money, Miss Y/L/N, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”
He shrugs, very non-committal. “It’s shrewd business,” he shrugs, though I think he’s being disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense – feeding the world’s poor? I can’t see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.
“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle. I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.”
“So you want to possess things?” You are a control freak.
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”
“I am.” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t help thinking that we’re talking about something else, but I’m absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to be over.
Surely Bella has enough material now? I glance at the next question.“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?”
Oh, this is personal. I stare at him, hoping he’s not offended. His brow furrows. “I have no way of knowing.”
My interest is piqued.
“How old were you when you were adopted?”
“That’s a matter of public record, Miss Y/L/N.” His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap.
Yes of course – if I’d known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. I move on quickly.
“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question.” He’s terse.
“Sorry.” I squirm, and he’s made me feel like an errant child. I try again. “Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”
“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”
He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Shoot. Why didn’t I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell him I’m just reading the questions?
Damn Bella and her curiosity!
“No Y/N, I’m not.” He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does
not look pleased.
“I apologize. It’s um… written here.” It’s the first time he’s said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.
He cocks his head to one side.
“These aren’t your own questions?”
The blood drains from my head. Oh no.
“Err… no. Bella – Miss Clark – she compiled the questions.”
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?”
I have nothing to do with the student paper. It’s her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. “No. She’s my roommate.”
He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me. “Did you volunteer to do this interview?” he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? His eyes burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth.
“I was drafted. She’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic.
“That explains a great deal.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”
“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.”
Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She’s appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It’s not just me.
“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.
“Where were we, Miss Y/L/N?”
Oh, we’re back to ‘Miss Y/L/N’ now.
“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” His gray eyes are alight with curiosity.
Where’s he going with this? He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow.
“There’s not much to know,” I say, flushing again.
“What are your plans after you graduate?”
I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Seattle with Bella, find a place, find a job. I haven’t really thought beyond my finals.
“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.”
Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze. “We run an excellent internship program here,” he says quietly.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job? “Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I answer, completely confounded. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.”
Oh no. I’m musing out loud again.
“Why do you say that?” He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruffy, and I’m not blonde.
“Not to me,” he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers.
What’s going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
“Would you like me to show you around?” he asks.
“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive.”
“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” His tone is stern, authoritative.
Why should he care? “Did you get everything you need?” he adds.
“Yes sir,” I reply, packing the recorder into my bag. His eyes narrow, speculatively.
“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.”
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” he says, polite as ever.
As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.
“Until we meet again, Miss Y/L/N.” And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I’m not sure which. I frown.
When will we ever meet again? I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.
“Mr. Grey.” I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.
“Allow me to escort you outside.” He gives me a small smile.
He's so polite now.
“Sure, Mr. Grey,” I smile, and his smile widens. Together, we walk into the foyer. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.
“Did you have a coat?” Grey asks.
“Yes.” Olivia leaps up and retrieves my black, which Grey takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on.
Grey places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.
The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he’s leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It’s distracting. His burning gray eyes gaze at me.
“Y/N,” he says as a farewell.
“Christian,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.
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[ series masterlist ]
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HIII>< Good day to you my dearest🤗🤗 Have you eaten? Drink? If not then please do! I know I said It might not be able to interact with you but like the weather is so bad in my country(there's like three storm rn), also some volcanic activities and some freaking illness going around rn😭😭 Whatever spiritual power there is hates my country cause what is this😭😭. Anywayyyy, I lost track again°>° well uh I just got suddenly curious on how, when, where fyodor and his darling got married. Like what was the process of it, the preparation, the people invited and such. I'm imagining it as somewhat very private event and very intimate (It's fyodor obv) Probably not a lot of people invited. It'll obviously be in a cathedral of sort with a priest and such. Ohh now I wonder how it'll work considering different cultures and religions (of darling). Like in my culture you can invite the whole village! Your distance cousin's friend might even be there😆 I'm kinda exaggerating but it does happen. Also the wedding clothes of darling and Fyodor! Ahhh I'm imagining Fyodor rn🥰🥰🥰
Also I'm really really sorry🙇🏻♀️🙇🏻♀️🙇🏻♀️🙇🏻♀️ for overwhelming you with my ask! Well that's the end of it! Ig??? I'm going to do my projects now... Thank you for listening to my yapping and being so kind! 🫵❤️❤️❤️Truly you are amazing. I hope you have/gotten a good day🙏
Sincerely —🧛🏻♀️🫀Anon
Good day, my love, 🧛🏻♀️🫀-anon! ♥️ I’m doing well and hope the same for you. Please take care—it sounds truly concerning. 🥺
Regarding your request, I must admit I never thought about it either, lmao. By the way, you can invite the whole village in my culture too—though I wouldn’t do that! 😭 Close family and friends are all I need. ♥️ I wrote some headcanons, I hope you enjoy reading them!♥️
Also, I’ve come up with pictures for my 🍷💝-anon who needs visualizations.
Fyodor x ideal type fem!darling, marriage, wedding, visualisation, religious themes etc.
Fyodor & his darling’s wedding
The process would be very thorough, with high security measures and many people involved in the preparations.
As Fyodor’s little princess and soon-to-be bride, you won’t experience any discomfort because of it.
There will be plenty of people handling the arrangements for you.
All you need to do is relax, choose your wedding gown, select your jewelry from the exquisite vintage pieces Fyodor orders from around the world, and provide your preferences for the cake flavors and the flowers.
You’ll only need to engage in the preparations that interest you—your fiancé ensures that you’re always comfortable with everything that’s happening.
I don’t see either of you inviting many people due to security measures, and honestly, Fyodor has no one to invite.
So, it will likely be just the two of you, your close family (such as your parents and siblings), and the priest along with the staff who will be serving you.
Since you’re marrying Fyodor, it will naturally be very intimate and private. We can’t expect much glamour or razzamatazz.
The vows would be exchanged in the cathedral, and later you’d move to a medieval-themed setting for the wedding celebration.
There, you’d enjoy a meal and your wedding cake. Perhaps you might even dance to your favorite waltz—who knows?
Considering different cultures and his ideal type, your darling, being introverted and easygoing, would likely embrace Fyodor’s vision of their wedding.
This means there might be no village invitations, which could seem a bit sad, but it’s all part of Fyodor’s unique way of doing things.
~
Those are elegantly feminine. Fyodor would certainly admire the lace, as it’s traditionally seen as a symbol of femininity—something he would appreciate for its delicate beauty and timeless charm.
Those gowns are fine, but they show the maximum amount of flesh permissible for a cathedral setting, especially when marrying a traditional, possessive man like Fyodor.
You’d definitely need a veil if you choose to wear such a wedding gown.
Fyodor could wear just about anything, but here are some classic groom outfits. I can definitely see him opting for the white one, as most of his clothing is white and he associates himself with the color.
However, the darker outfit could also suit him, especially considering the official picture of him in a fancy dark-colored tuxedo.
Cathedral of Christ the Saviour in Moscow
#bungou stray dogs#bsd#bungo stray dogs x reader#bsd fyodor#yandere bsd#bungou stray dogs fyodor#fyodor dostoyevsky bsd#fyodor dostoevsky#fyodor x reader#fyodor x you#bsd wedding#fyodor wedding#🧛🏻♀️🫀 anon#🧛🏻♀️🫀anon#🧛🏻♀️🫀-anon
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MORE MARQUIS MOREEEEEEE I LOOOOOOVED IT, L - O - V - E - D ITTT!!!!!!!
le marquis et le moineau - (ill)fated
Marquis de Gramont x f!reader
synopsis: one of several short stories, set up as a prequel to this oneshot of le marquis et le moineau. This is set in the early days, depicting the beginning of what would turn into a dangerous mutual infatuation.
more of moineau: le marquis et le moineau ▪︎ first dance ▪︎ other works
word count: 2.5k ▪︎ themes/warnings: slow burn, mentions of violence (it's the John Wick universe ofc), language
"Welcome to the New York Continental. How may I be of service?" Charon asks in his flawless genial manner.
You stand behind him, his shadow in training. After only 3 short months as the 'Assistant to the Concierge' - (a title you picked over 'Assistant Concierge', in reference to a certain beloved TV series) - you've come to learn the ins and outs of the Continental.
What makes it tick. The demands of its peculiar crowd of usual guests. What is required to keep such an establishment up and running.
In truth, it takes a lot of fucking work. Much and more need to be swept under the rug so as to not attract attention. Guests need to be kept satisfied, their particular requests adhered to. As long as it is well within the rules of the High Table, of course.
The only thing separating you from the animals.
As if everyone in this sort of life has not already become animal. Well, isn't ignorance such bliss.
The man who introduced himself as Chidi says, "I have come ahead of my superior, the Marquis de Gramont. Needless to say, we must ensure that everything is well-prepared for his stay here in New York. Wouldn't you agree, Charon?"
"Of course, sir." Charon tilts his head. "I will personally see to that, don't you worry. Is he still set to arrive tonight at the planned hour?"
"He should be here at 6 this evening. I trust that the... agitator is being dealt with?"
Charon walks in front of the counter, taking a parcel from a bellhop. He keeps his gaze trained on Chidi. "With compliments of the Continental, sir. The proprietor has ensured that the liability will be brought to the penthouse of the Marquis."
"Very good." Chidi taps Charon on the shoulder once, before walking away, a satisfied sneer on his face.
"Just remember, sir," Charon calls out to him, making his stop in his tracks, "that no business may be conducted on Continental grounds."
"Hmm."
After a moment, you move to stand beside Charon.
"So, sir, what was that all about?"
He turns his head towards you fondly. "I'm sure you've heard of Marquis Vincent de Gramont."
"Well, I've heard that he comes across as a pompous ass, if that's what you mean."
Charon simply raises his eyebrows at you, already accustomed to your blunt, sarcastic manner of speaking. "Well, he will be staying with us for a couple of days, as he has some... business to deal with."
"I won't even ask."
He moves to stand in front of you, finding your eyes. "Dear child, might I suggest steering clear of the Marquis and his associates whilst he is in residence with us here? It would simply be for the best. His reputation does preceed him."
You can't help but smile at Charon's nickname for you, one that heralds back to when your family first moved across the hall from him in one of the High Table sponsored apartment buildings in downtown Manhattan.
You had been only 12, but you were already well aware of your father's line of work. One that required him to be away on business to faraway cities each month, and caused him to rub elbows with the dregs of the underworld.
Not all of them were bad though. You grew fond of some of his associates, namely Charon, of course. And the one they called the Baba Yaga, but to you he was just Johnny.
John Wick hated the name, but he liked you, so the name stayed. Him and his then wife somehow became your second set of parents, with your dad never around and your mother usually drowning in her fancy liquor.
More than a decade later, your father met his end on one of his jobs. One that was only supposed to be "quick and easy". He promised he would be back to you in no time, with a box of your favourite chocolates from Paris.
But he never came. And neither did the fucking chocolates, which truthfully, you now hated. Your father lost his life in that city, so you grew to loathe everything about it.
And now comes the Marquis, the man practically in charge of all of Paris. Not to the public eye, of course.
If Charon asks you to steer clear of him, it must be for good reason.
But you've never been good at following orders. Or staying out of trouble. Or keeping your mouth shut.
"Whoever this Marquis is, I can handle him," you say determinedly. "I'll just act normal, do my job, go about business as usual."
Charon takes a deep breath, resigning himself. "Very well. Just try not to catch his eye." A tenant raises her hand, demanding his attention, so he starts to head her way.
"You know me," you call after him, an impish grin on your face. "I'm only a shadow."
The Marquis de Gramont stands in the ornate lobby of the Continental, surrounded by his posse. Clad in an impeccable three-piece cream suit, his hair perfectly coiffed, his polished shoes gleaming to the naked eye.
He is never beating those pompous ass allegations. You can't help but smirk from your post behind the concierge desk.
You look down briefly, smoothing out invisible creases on your black button-up shirt. Don't laugh. You roll out your shoulders. Compose yourself.
Winston and Charon had greeted his entourage upon entering, and they've been hashing out the details of his stay for the last minute or two. Apparently, the Marquis has some very specific demands. Of course he does.
Those in the group exchange some final words, nodding to each other, seemingly satisfied. Charon raises his arm, directing the Marquis. "Right this way, if you please."
Hands on his hips, the Marquis makes his way over to the private elevator. Which only means that he will have to pass by your post.
You try to keep your head down, as a practiced sign of cordiality. Also, so that you don't let out an impromptu sneer. But you can't help it. Right when he passes by, you raise your head.
And he is already looking straight at you.
The corner of his lips is in a downturn, as if he is judging you where you stand. Pompous prick.
You don't let it faze you. "Welcome to the Continental. We hope you enjoy your stay," you greet him, eyes not leaving his in some sort of defiance.
"Hmm." He walks by, slowly, and you only want to urge him on. But just when he is clear of the reception desk, he turns on his heel.
"What is your name?" He asks, a perfect brow raised in anticipation.
You answer him, keeping your voice steady. You've learned a long time ago not to allow men like him the chance to intimidate you.
A momentary pause, before he repeats your name. You want to hate the way he says it, as if he testing it on his tongue, seeing how it tastes.
But hell, that French accent can make anything sound heavenly.
"Is there a problem, monsieur?" Charon has moved to your side, wary of the attention from the marquis.
Marquis de Gramont barely acknowledges Charon with a sideways glance, before looking back to you. "Non, no problem at all."
He finally walks away. But of course, of course he has to drive a chill up your spine as he calls over his shoulder, "Have her come up to me in twenty minutes."
You grit your teeth in an attempt to maintain cordiality. "Excuse me, sir?" He could have at least addressed me himself.
Nothing. He doesn't even look back at you as he enters the elevator, head dipped in hushed whispers to his security team.
"So much for your being 'only a shadow', hmm?" Charon echoes your sentiment, which has just been apparently disproven.
Winston draws closer, worried look on his face as he says, "Quite a conundrum, dear one. I'm considering sending someone else in your place, however, he did ask for you markedly."
Your stomach churned. "Maybe he just needs some attending? Room service? Basic cleanup? I don't know..." Basic cleanup being clearing the blood of the surfaces of his penthouse, especially after he deals with the man the establishment had caught and presented to him.
Deals with. But not kill. Never that. Not whilst on Continental grounds, that is.
Winston responds, "Perhaps so. I trust that you will handle it? I know you can, child."
You straighten yourself. "Of course I can. He's just some overgrown French brat."
But what the fuck does he want?
"If anything," Winston adds calmly, "and worst comes to worst, your dear Uncle Johnny would surely be happy to lend a hand."
Of course he will. Feeling much lighter, you shoot a smile at Charon and Winston, before returning to your post behind the desk.
18 more minutes.
The Marquis stays in the biggest penthouse of the Continental. The most exclusive part of the property, made even more opulent per his request.
New pieces of artwork are hung on the walls, requested from some New York Baron's private collection. Not that he had a choice.
The man - the traitor - known as Laurent had been staying at the Continental in the week prior, stupidly believing that he is free of the Marquis.
It only took one phone call, and of course, Winston had to relent. They kept Laurent in one of their best suites, lulling him into a false sense of security, all while preparing for the Marquis' arrival.
Then Laurent's room was filled with nitrous oxide, and he was tied up and taken to the Marquis' penthouse.
Laurent sits in a lone wooden chair, nearly unconscious in the middle of the drawing room as you enter, a gash of deep red on his temple.
Chidi sits directly in front of him, seemingly carrying out the interrogation. His superior, on the other hand, lazily sits on the plush couch on the far side of the room. Looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but here. As if there isn't a man being tortured right in front of his eyes.
One of his men announces your arrival, but you sense the Marquis has already noticed your presence.
You clear your throat. "You asked for me, sir?"
"Mmm," he hums, and tilts his head. "Tell me, what was so funny?"
"I'm sorry?"
"When you first saw me in the lobby," he stands, stalking over to you, "you smirked. I wish to know what it was that brought you to react in such a manner."
This is why he asked for me? Because I smirked? Oh, for fuck's -
He steps forward, closer. "Cat got your tongue?"
"No, sir, I... I must admit, I don't quite remember what you speak of. I smirk to myself all the time. I've got plenty of inside jokes and all that."
"To yourself?"
"Yes."
"Are you... well in the head?" He twirls his fingers beside his temple. The bastard.
"Yes, Marquis." You take a deep breath, but you can't help yourself. "But I assure you I'm just as demented as you are."
A gloom falls over his face, and you sense his security team tense up. Preparing for him to say the word.
Your eyes trail around the room, and continue, "And everyone else in this world of ours."
The Marquis stares at you. Half-indignant, and dare you think it, half-amused.
His lips twitch, fighting back a smirk of his own, and his eyes rake your figure. From your uniform shoes to your hands to your lips. Then back to your gaze.
"Fair point." He shrugs, and the room settles once again. His men look away from the pair of you.
He turns, beckoning you to follow. A few feet in front of Laurent, he asks, "What do you make of this?"
Of this? You mean of him? The way the Marquis speaks, as if Laurent is merely a thing to be dealt with and not a person, bothers you. But such is the way of your world.
"Laurent Castillon. French-Italian sommelier. If I understand correctly, he cheated you out of what would have been successful dinner plans."
Sommelier, an arms dealer. Dinner plans, whatever you can concoct with the use of guns. You're more than accustomed to the language, having picked it up over the years.
"Excellent." The Marquis clasps his hands, pleased. "Now, what do you make of this? What would you do, if you were in my shoes?"
He is testing you, prodding you on. Seeing if you would curl back in your shell or flinch.
Is there a wrong answer here, or is this all just some game?
"I would set things right, I suppose."
"You suppose?" He repeats, dissatisfied. "We don't deal in half measures."
"I would - ," you look him directly in his eyes, "I would make him pay."
Something sparks in Marquis de Gramont's eyes. Recognition? Appreciation? Excitement?
"Won't that be a waste?" He takes a step closer, eliminating the space between you.
Stand your ground.
You shrug, "Such is life."
He smiles, "Indeed, petit moineau."
In a flash, without breaking your gaze, he takes a handgun from the inner lining of his jacket and shoots Laurent in the knee. He keels over, screaming.
The familiar sound rings in your ears, making you dig your nails in the flesh of your palm.
The Marquis does not even flinch, does not even look at Laurent who is writhing on the floor in pain.
"And what now?" He rubs an eyebrow with his thumb, still holding his gun carelessly with that hand.
"That depends." What the fuck did he call me? Moineau? "How gracious do you feel tonight?"
"Why?"
"Well," you say carefully, knowing the wrong word might set him off, "you could let the fool go. You've already taught him a lesson."
A long, torturous pause. He does not seem to like that suggestion.
"Take him away." He gives a sudden order, and all his men rush to obey. Seconds pass, and Laurent is out of your sight. Only Chidi and two other men are left hovering in the corner.
"Leave us," the Marquis finally says. Well, shit.
The door shuts behind the men, and you are left alone, with one of the most notorious men in the city. Perhaps the world.
"What's going to happen to him?" You find yourself asking, to fill the silence and also because you're genuinely curious.
He looks at you in confusion, as if the answer is the most obvious thing. "He dies, of course."
You swallow, a picture of forced composure. "Of course."
He rolls his eyes. "Sure, not here on the Continental and all that nonsense. But it does not matter. He dies anyway."
He dies. He says that so easily, like a life means nothing. It probably means nothing to him. Your father would probably have only been another life to spend, just another one in the roster, in his eyes.
"I hope you aren't busy," he says, walking to the other room.
"What did you have in mind?" Why can't he just send me away already?
"We shall dine together. I could use the company."
You grumble under your breath, "So much for being a shadow."
"Pardon?" He asks, just before reaching the archway to the dining room.
"I said, it would be my pleasure."
"Hmm."
Two can play at this game, Marquis.
And even more to come - taglist open!
Next in moineau...
More Marquis, just as it should be.
My HotD series works are not going to be discontinued. The next part to fire like yours will be up next, but don't hold me to it 🖤😉
#marquis de gramont#marquis de gramont imagine#marquis de gramont x reader#marquis vincent de gramont#marquis vincent de gramont x reader#marquis vincent de gramont imagine#john wick 4#bill skarsgård#bill skarsgård x reader#bill skarsgard imagine#vincent de gramont#vincent de gramont x reader#vincent de gramont imagine
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HI . GET ON THE DISSECTION TABLE. taking your brain RIGHT NOW OH MY GODDDDD. OH MY god ,,, everything in the zine,,,,,
obviously the quality of your work, the art itself is so good ,,,, but OUGHHGGGGHGH i need to bang my head into a wall until im unconscious . like the title itself, starting off . woe mama we are in for a fucked up roboty treat . your comps . your writing . in the most respectful and awestuck tone possible . i need to kill you
my favorite i think is how you draw gemerl ,, all the robots you nail their expressiveness but oughh ,, him in particular makes me kick my feet . 'you are everything i fear becoming' makes me actually tear the fucking floorboards up the themes of autonomy ,,,,,, ,,, and how you storytell through your comic panels,,, the 'what a fool you are to think the doctor is gone' panel set makes me drink 2 Monsters and eat glass
THE . THE IMPOSSIBLE GOAL COMIC RAGHHHHHH. FAV FAV FAV . geninely shaking and trembling looking at it like jesus thats so fucked up ,,, your mind . your writing is so everything !! i would love to get any insight for how you workshop it because it is consistently breathtaking it sticks with me so heavily,,, one time i accidentally stole a line of dialogue word for word from your Never turn back zine comic and had to change it dfhjd,,,,, (wow this line is so cool ! ...a little toooo cool. squint.) but yeah god the last comic wow,, your panel compositions are banger after banger you are so good at consistently writing evocative stuff,,, tragic, rlly funny, hopeful, its so inspirational
thank u so much for putting together such a cool zine, would love to have it physically one day !
GOD. THANK YOU SO MUCH THIS EDIT IS KILLING ME. this is such a rewarding ask to get, i'm so glad you picked up on these things!!
my writing work shopping style is. hm. a bit all over the place. i have a lot of thoughts about it i'll put under a cut if you're interested. there's a lot of little things i've picked up that help me out so so much that i would really love to share!
ok FIRST i should note that it took me so goddamn long to write this thing. like i had the very very VERY first concepts for metal sonic good future like. a year ago. the first scrawlings are literally in a notebook right after some thumbnails i was using for dance in fire and i was editing dialogue up until two days ago. i'm ill
BUT!!! there are a few things i like to keep in mind when i write/edit that have really helped me!
GET OTHER PEOPLE TO READ YOUR STUFF. ESSENTIAL STEP. i get stuck in holes with my work a lot and having beta readers and other eyes on this thing made it like a million times better
sometimes you have to kill your baby. there will be certain lines or moments that you ADORE that simply don't fit into the larger piece, and you gotta just cut it out to make it better sometimes. but usually this gives birth to an even cooler and more epic baby. or sometimes your killed baby is also resurrected later to be used in a different scene. does this make any sense
figuring out what emotion you want a scene to make people feel is very important - with this in mind, i also pay really close attention to how my writing or scene concepts make me feel physically. i think this is the thing that has helped me most with work shopping anything i want to be evocative. does a line make me tense my jaw? make my teeth vibrate? make my chest tight? do i suddenly feel the blood in my hands? if it makes me feel something within my body, i try to draw on that physical sensation when forming the rest of the scene.
ok this last one is. stupid. as i was wrapping up this thing i went through a final edit phase i'd call "Garten of Banban Vision." Garten of Banban is an indie horror game that has uhhh kinda mid dialogue. a lot of it focuses on exposition, and any emotion in it feels a bit hollow. with this in mind, i read through everything one last time and imagined like all of the lines were from a Garten of Banban game and spoken in the character's monotone voices. if the line felt like it could fit a little too well in the Garten of Banban world, i considered editing it. but if i started thinking "oh shit this is pretty good for a Garten of Banban game" i knew it was fine. do you understand what i was alluding to when i said my writing process is a bit all over the place
in conclusion. writing hard
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The Sandman Works Masterlist
Hello there! I figured it was about time that I made a comprehensive list of all my fics set in the world of The Sandman so here it goes ❤️
Remember Me, Special Dreams
Table of Contents and Playlist - Self-insert. You're having trouble with recurring night terrors and Morpheus pays you a visit. (Warnings: language, angst, mentions of graphic night terrors. Smut in later chapters.)
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Sometimes It's Fated
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 Coming Soon
Self-insert. AFAB reader. Dark Morpheus. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark Morpheus, smut, possessive behaviour, voyeurism, dub con/non con.)
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One Shots
Healed - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You hurt yourself at home and Morpheus tends to you. (Warnings: injury, blood.)
Fever Dream - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You develop a flu-like illness resulting in fever dreams. Morpheus helps you with the nightmares and cares for you. (Warnings: sickness, nightmares, physical intimacy.)
Decisions - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. You and Morpheus are due to attend an Endless family gathering and you ask Morpheus for points on what to wear. (Warnings: physical intimacy, suggestive themes.)
Low - Angst/comfort. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus attempts to bring comfort to a dreamer who is managing depression, while in his cat form. (Warnings: angst, talk of depression.)
Autumn - Fluff. Gender neutral reader. Morpheus has made you a dream based on one of your favourite things and you explore it together. (Warnings: physical intimacy.)
Don't Stop - Smut. You and Morpheus are in the exploratory stages of your relationship. Morpheus asks to worship you, and all is going well. At least, that is, until you start to wake up... (Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut.)
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#the sandman#the sandman 2022#the sandman netflix#sandman#sandman fic#the sandman fic#fanfiction#the sandman imagine#morpheus#morpheus x reader#morpheus/dream#morpheus/dream x reader#dream#dream x reader#dream of the endless#dream of the endless x reader#the dreaming#the endless#tom sturridge#sandman smut#dream smut#dream of the endless smut#sandman x reader#fluff#angst#comfort#sandman masterlist#the sandman masterlist#saskia writes sandman
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M!Crush x F!Reader: Stressed Out
THEME: Fluff, teensy bit of Angst
WARNING(s): Fainting, Medical Scare
"Hey, beautiful." your boyfriend greeted you as you walked into the bedroom. "Oh, baby, you don't look too good. You okay?"
He noted how little energy you had when you set your stuff down. Your hair was flat. Your eyes were sunken in. You'd been extremely stressed about a lot of things and the stress was making you physically ill.
"Yeah I'm fine."
"Babe," C/N walked over to you and wrapped his arms around you. "don't lie to me. I'm not trying to sound like an asshole, but you're looking rough. Are you sure everything's okay?"
"Yeah I'm just stressed." you said nonchalantly.
"Aw I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
You really didn't. You didn't have the energy to talk about anything right now. You simply shook your head before resting it on your boyfriend's chest.
"Alright..." he put a kiss on your forehead. "but remember I'll be here to listen when you're ready to talk about it."
"Mhm."
C/N holding you felt great, but you were starting to feel a little woozy. It felt like the room was spinning. Your feet were starting to feel like they couldn't support your legs. Then everything went black.
Crush's POV
"Shit!" I yelled as I felt her go limp in my arms. "Baby? Baby, can you hear me?"
She was unresponsive. In a panic I scooped her up in my arms and carried her to the bedroom. I set her down on the bed. I put a pillow under her feet to keep them elevated.
"Come on, Y/N..." I softly pleaded, feeling a tear well up in my eye. "Wake up...please..."
I knew she had been stressed about work, but I didn't think she was stressed enough to pass out on me. I took her hand in mine and gently squeezed it. For good measure, I checked her wrist for a pulse. Luckily I was able to find it. A few minutes later, I saw her eyes flicker open. Thank god for that.
Your POV
You were confused. You didn't know what in the world just happened. C/N was holding your hand, a relieved smile plastered across his face.
"Hey, baby." he softly said. "You just fainted."
He handed you his water bottle, prompting you to drink from it. You did so, your mind slowly coming to with your body.
"You gave me quite the scare, my love." he gently caressed your cheek with his other hand. "When I felt you go limp, I honestly thought the worst. I thought you were gone. You have no idea how happy I am that you're okay."
He raised your hand up to his lips and sweetly kissed the back of it. He helped you to sit up. You felt kind of guilty about scaring him. The poor man thought he had lost you.
"I'm sorry." you weakly apologized. "I didn't mean-"
"No." he cut you off. "None of that. Don't you dare be sorry. Sweetheart, this is not your fault. Work clearly has you stressed out of your skull. Let's just relax tonight. We can watch a movie and cuddle on the couch. Maybe while we're cuddling you can tell me all about what's got you so stressed out. Does that sound good?"
You nodded. God, he was so sweet to you.
"Okay." he paused to kiss you. "Let me take care of you tonight. I love you."
"I love you too."
#boyfriend imagine#boyfriend x reader#crush imagine#crush x reader#m!crush x f!reader#fainting#tw: fainting#stressed reader
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The Sleepy Kitten Cafe 🐱💤
(The Drakes Spoiled Brat. (im sorry dad))
Ill solidify an actual layout design later (since this will become a major setting for most of the fic) BUT for now you get a shitty collage design Edit- Fuck it I was gonna wait till post chapter 7 but I decided to publish now so here you go!
Info (may or may not become relevent in the fic, I just think is neat also for my own reference)
Located on The Narrows of Gotham city
All utensils and containers are thrifted so none of them match
Upstairs lounge is a mini library/book store
They sell baked goods and have a shitty service window where you can order diner style food/snacks
Regular game nights/other events (including jazz night which Tim vehelementaly refuses to attend)
Not uncommon for random strays to come hang out (no one tell their manager)
Have a photo wall of regular customers (it took several weeks of begging before Tim allowed Gwen to snap his pic and pin it up)
They have a whole buisness card holder on the counter people can advertise their shit
Owned by a former hippie from Washington and her husband from Sikkim
Almost gets robbed once a week but hey its Gotham, what can you do? (emphasis on almost)
Employees (named thus far, who I will also probably draw later)-
Gwen Parkins she/her- Main Barista Alans (Tims) BFF, utter sweetheart, but will cry if yelled at. Also plans like 80% of the work events. Wears clips in her hair that are "on theme" for whatever event is for the day (cat ones for work obvi) Never checks her bank account so doesnt notice Tim slipping in an extra 500-3k every month (tax free of course) and she ends up saving or donating half of it anyways. From the Narrows.
Zeek (Ezikel) Zoref he/they- Cook/Security Very open stoner, likes bullying his friends (kinda an asshole, but will apologize if too far), also loves Gotham for the fact he can and will fist fight customers given the oppertunity, and there are PLENTY of oppertunies. Carries around a bat. Almost became a Joker Goon out of nessesity but by sheer happenstance he tried robbing Alan who somehow got him an interview at the Cafe, even with zero experience. (Owes his life, but will never admit it) Allergic to mint and mourns mint gum everyday. From Crime Alley.
Obsidian Fowler they/them- Manager/Barista The reason shit gets done, newly recognized artist, meticiously does inventory because they find it fun. Gets stressed about hygine when his coworkers keep sneaking random strays in the cafe, but weak to begging. Did not give in when they brought in a Raccoon. Keeps offering Alan a job because "Please I cannot be the only competent member here" From Old Gotham.
#trash tim au#the drakes spoiled brat#tim drake#FULL NAME TIME WHOOO#gwen parkins#zeek zorof#obsidian fowler#the sleepy kitten cafe#tim drake angst#timothy drake#cardinal dc#my fic#batfam au#batfamily#batfam fic#batfam angst
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