#inflatable monster head

[robthepensioner]

A Halloween inflatable monster and Blackpool Tower peering over the Winter Gardens in Blackpool.

[robo-writing]

Logan with a praise kink <3 (18+)

There’s something deep inside him that he refuses to acknowledge—maybe it’s instinct. A need rather than a want, one that has been neglected for far too long. One that he hadn’t even realized until you became a part of his life—the need to feel wanted.

“Logan, could you—“

He’s on his feet within before you can finish your sentence, almost hovering over you. “What’dya need?”

You point to the plates on the shelf, farther than you can manage to reach. You smile at him when he grabs them for you, giving a kiss to his cheek when you take them from his hands.

“Thank you baby,” you say, and his heart melts.

For the longest time he believed he was a lone wolf, solitary and isolated. He did better without anyone dragging him down, or so he thought until he was shown otherwise. The X-Men, and then you—he especially enjoys being with you. Makes him feel fuzzy and warm inside knowing you actually want him around.

It feels good. He doesn’t realize how good until he’s balls deep inside you.

You’re always so pliant for him, willing and ready to indulge his every sinful desire, arms open and legs spread. Inviting. Between tangled sheets and hushed whispers you make him feel alive. You make him feel like a man, and not a monster.

“Make me feel so good,” you moan, running your hands through his hair. His ego inflates with every word, hypnotized by you.

“Yeah? Say it again for me darling,” he says, bringing you further and further onto his cock. Your eyes roll back, barely able to respond when his dick makes it hard to breathe, thrusting up into you like a man starved.

“You—fuck—make me feel good—“

You cry out his praise like worship, too lust-adled to give a damn about your volume. Maybe it’s the saccharine tone you use, or maybe it’s the aphrodisiatic look you give him, but he needs more of it—more of you.

Without warning his hips move against your own, grinding into your pussy. Slow, calculated, he watches your eyes roll back in pleasure as he presses against your soft spots each and every time.

“Say it again baby, tell me how good I make you feel,” he grunts, enjoying how you thrash around his cock. His words alone make you embarrassingly hot, your head falling to his shoulders as you weakly cry his name.

Your voice hiccups with each thrust, every noise that escapes you directly in his ear. “S good Lo’, need you—please—“

His grin stretches wide at your words. “You need me baby, is that it?”

“Yes,” you moan, “need you to fuck me—“

You beg him so nicely, nails climbing up his back in search for more. Your hips find a rhythm of their own against his, a silent plea to fuck you like you need it.

His words alone make you embarrassingly hot, your head falling to his shoulders as you weakly cry his name. Your voice hiccups with each thrust, every noise that escapes you directly in his ear as you come, coating his dick in your juices—

Yeah, he could get used to this.

[inklore]

— the stranger / qimir x f!reader. the jedi have hidden many things from you about the dark side. like how good pleasure can feel and he is more than happy to show you. contents: dubcon, fingering, blood, death, light choking | wc: 881+

Everyone’s dead. 

The other Jedi. 

Your master. 

Your friends.

Everyone’s dead, and you’re….you should be dead. Your blood should be pooling around your lifeless body, painting the green of the grass into something opaque and poetically mixing with the blood of your friends.

The friends you trained with. 

The friends you love. 

You should be lying lifelessly beside them. With honor and pride for fighting till the very end. That should have been your fate. Your ending. How this bloodbath too its close.

Not this. 

Not backed against a tree by the monster who killed those friends you love so much, making you feel….good. 

Good when you’re surrounded by death. 

Good when you can smell burning flesh with each shuddering inhale that inflates your shaking body, 

"It's really simple. So simple. The Jedi like to teach that it’s complex. Light, dark. As if the two can’t mingle, change. Warp. Meld together as one thing entirely. I can show you.” He had said as he stepped closer. Each syllable coming from his mouth matched his foot steps until he was right in front of you, and there was no longer anywhere to go. 

Your saber long gone. Destroyed in the chaos of blood and bodies. The safety of a weapon, of an escape, is gone when there’s no space left between the two of you. 

“It won’t hurt,” you flinched away from his fingers when he brushed them against your cheek. A twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Quite the opposite. There is more to the darkness than your precious Jedi have taught you. It can heal. It can teach.” His eyes swept over your heaving chest, following a trail up the column of your neck to your mouth, making a chill prick the bottom of your spine. “It can please. Give you a type of pleasure not even the flow of light can bring to you. Let me show you.” 

Your jawbone ached when he grabbed it after you had shaken your head. After you all but spat in his face about how much of a monster he was. How he’s going to regret what he’s done. Making a stand for yourself with a voice as weak as you felt. 

“You Jedi, so closed off in your ways. Never open to something more enlightening. Accepting the other possibilities of being. Of feeling. How can you be all knowing?” His fingers moved from your jaw down to your neck, and the race of your heart accelerated when he wrapped his fist around it. The light pressure had been enough to make your body go into fight or flight. Your hands coming up to grip his wrist. “Let me teach you. I can feel it,” his thumb tapped your pulse point, “in your blood. You’re not like the others. You’re smarter. Be smart.” His head tilted further into your space, making his mouth inches from yours, “you might find by the end of it you want me to show you more.” 

That’s how you got to where you are now. 

The Strangers hand between your thighs, while the other still holds its grip on your neck. His jaw twitching with every moan you try to hold back. His grip on your neck tightening when you try to bite your lip to stop yourself from letting any noise slip out. Making your mouth pull open, his mouth following the same motion in a pleased smirk. 

You’d realized half way into this, half way through the haze, that you could have slipped loose. He’d given you a proper opening to do so. But you hadn’t. Had let yourself be tempted and consumed, willingly.

The fact only adds to the churning in your lower stomach.

The hand between your thigh making your legs shake, your body contorting against the tree. Rolling against his palm, your swollen clit rubbing along the heel of his hand as the two fingers inside of you curl and make you cry out into the night. 

Your mind is a mess of pleasure and darkness that not even closing your eyes helps you sift through. To bring you back to the light you’ve had inside of you since birth. To ground yourself enough to use the many skills of the force you’ve been taught. 

Each time your eyes close, the pleasure feels worse. More intense. Like the deadliest kind of hallucinogen—his voice, his fingers, his face are there. Images of his mouth on your neck, body, lips, replacing his hand, projected through your head like a fog engulfing your entire being. 

It completely engulfs you, and you almost forget what it is like not to be consumed by the allure of darkness. Making your body ultimately crave more.

You don’t know if it’s real or not when you feel his lips brush against your ear and he says, “things that are this reactive to something so minuscule compared to everything else that can be given to it were meant to feel this good.” You shake your head, the walls of your pussy fluttering, swelling around his fingers. “You’re about to come on my fingers, what’s more proof than that that your body seeks the truth. You were meant for all the things the darkness can give.” 

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Zombie! MW2 w/ a Human Sex Slave

Warnings: 18+, Monster Fucking, Zombie Fucking, Implied Initial Dubious Consent, Stomach Swelling, Cum Inflation, Unprotected Sex, Brief Worry of Infection, Rough MW2, Gentle MW2, Zombie! MW2, Human! Reader, Sex Slave! Reader, Captive/Captor Relationship, Implied Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, Descriptions of Smut, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Zombie! MW2 who found you scavenging alone one day out in the wasteland, entirely unaware of their presence.

Zombie! MW2 who capture you soon after, not ones to waste time.

You were the first lone human they’d seen in months, and they’d be damned if they were going to let you slip through their fingers.

Zombie! MW2 whose intentions with you are unclear. Until you notice the bulge in their trousers and the purr in their groans as they watch you writhe against the restraints, watch you helplessly struggle against a fate they’ve already decided for you.

Ghost, König and Soap are the roughest with you, often the ones to just tear a your pants off when they’re desperate, filling you not long after.

They’re rarely gentle, instead opting to take you raw and use you for their own ends, slamming their hips into yours until you hear them release a guttural roar, emptying days’ worth of semen inside you.

Your first time with Ghost almost left you feeling like you were about to burst with how backed-up he was, his balls almost bursting and slapping the skin of your backside red and raw with each thrust.

He’d made sure to leave his mark on you, the prominent bulge in your stomach slowly deflating as his semen leaked out of you.

And while Soap and Ghost’s loads are somewhat palatable given how frequently they use you, König almost always leaves you feeling like you’re about to burst.

Given his height, he’s the biggest of all your captors. Not only that, but his cock is thick enough to leave you feeling like you have rocks in your stomach whenever he forces himself into you, his strokes long and pounding, making sure you feel every inch of him.

Price, Gaz and Alejandro are a lot more gentle, understanding that, while you’re human, you’re still fragile.

They’re soft and slow with their thrusts, giving you time to adjust to their size before continuing.

While they can’t talk, they do try to comfort to as best they can.

They’ll stroke your head, press their forehead to your shoulder (only to feel you tense beneath them, anticipating a bite) — anything to try and make you feel less like you’re a sex slave and more like a friend with benefits.

Of course, you worried the first few times they had their way with you that their pumping you full of their seed would infect you, turn you into one of them.

However, after weeks went by, you were still you. No rotting skin, no cannibalistic thoughts, no loss of autonomy.

But, much to your horror, you felt as if they’d infected you with an idea, a feeling.

That being that you enjoyed what they were doing to you, ravaging you, pumping you full of their load until they were satisfied and your stomach was swelling.

And while your sanity tried to reason your way through your acceptance — that you were being held prisoner by literal parasite-infested corpses — your mind, for better or worse, didn’t care.

Not when they were providing for you, bringing you food, clothes, blankets — things you were certain would be nigh impossible to obtain were you roughing it alone in the wastes.

Or, perhaps you were rationalising your willingness to stay here with them, to live as their human sperm bank, reduced to an existence of bending to the will of militant captors whose semen dripped down your thighs, whose hands forced your face into pillows or made you bounce on their cocks while looking at them, giving you a glimpse into their eyes, the people they once perhaps were: whose surprising stamina and strength left you whining, crying and almost begging for more whenever they finished, more often than not forcing orgasms out of you, too, making you push back into them, body willing to take every ounce of their cum and inch of their cocks.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[kabr0ztrousers]

Would love a chubby fem reader who comes across a hurt monster (whatever you feel like writing for) in the woods and helps it. In return the monster drags her back to his den and breeds her. 🫶🫶🫶

Ask, and you shall receive, dear reader!

Kabr0z Writes Episode 27: The Wounded Beast

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: creampie; inflation; mild gore; size difference; enthusiastic consent; pregnancy mention; human X feral (fantasy);

A/N: Sometimes when I write asking you folks to ask for what you want to read, I get requests in return! I'm aiming to write one of these a day for a whole year! If you have an idea, it's pretty likely to get made if you only ask!

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You've been ranging these woods for years, today you're tracking a poacher. Since the council made this section of forest a monster sanctuary, bandits kept marauding through, trying to nab a few illicit heads to turn in for bounties. This bastard was leaving traps. You know you'll still be finding them for weeks after you get him, even if they do make it comically easy to track his movements.

You hear a clang, then a yelll. You break into a sprint. The your soft body rolling as you barrel through the undergrowth and over roots. People expect a ranger to be swarthy and limber, not be 200 pounds and built to toss cabers. Always surprises them to get blindsided by a woman twice their size. You burst through to where you heard the trap, a small cleared patch. The bandit got there before you, poor fuck. He'd probably expected to get a hobgoblin or a lurker. Caught in the jaws of his trap was a minotaur, a big, ornery alpha male. This beastie is covered in blood, only some of it his. It's gnawing on a femur, torn from the bandit currently strewn around the glade.

A wounded minotaur is the most dangerous beast in these woods. Thankfully you know a few tricks from living out here. You took off your top, baring your big tits before stepping out, bowing low and mooing as best as you can. If it thinks you're a cow it won't attack you, at least until it figures out the ruse. You make it to the trap. It's a simple bear trap, normally used by fur trappers up North. Maybe he was from there? You press down on either side of it, forcing the jaws apart and getting the minotaur's hoof out before allowing it to snap shut again. You knelt and inspected the wound. The big brute was barely hurt. Minotaur skin is tough, and their bones are like iron. A quick strip of cloth to keep the wound clean and you're on your way. Not a moment too soon either, it sounds like he's nearly done with his bone and you don't want to be next on the menu.

You turn to leave. A huge hand closes around your ankle. Your blood runs cold.

The beast hefts you above its head, dangling you upside-down and staring into your eyes. You'd never seen a minotaur so close up. You can feel its hot breath on your face, the smell of blood and rotten meat making bile rise in your throat. With a snort, it tosses you over its shoulder. You shake with his steps, even built as you are, he's carrying you like you weigh nothing at all. Nothing challenges him as he carries you back to his den.

It's quiet. Normally a minotaur bull would have a harem of cows, each kept in a state of permanent pregnancy by his frequent rut. This one must be young, and decided you were convincing enough to take with him. You feel him moving you off his back, yelping as he drops you onto the threshed floor. The grass is warm on your back. He's above you, huffing and grunting as his cock edged out of its sheath, long and thick, a pronounced flare at the tip. From here you can see his balls, as big as apples, churning in anticipation.

When in Rome, as they say.

You reach out to the twitching cock in front of you and start rubbing the shaft. His grunts got faster as soon as you touched it, the lengthening cock in front of you responding. The flare bulges before you, ready to start rutting into you, but you'll need some more prep of you don't want to hurt yourself. You pull off your trousers and rub at your pussy, spreading the wetness around. You start licking his flare, getting as much spit and drool over it as you can. Every bit of lubrication will help, and the thick drops of precum rolling out of him are definitely going to help. You can feel yourself dripping your own juices, the sound of you fingering yourself mingling with his grunts. You're as ready as you'll ever be.

You pull away from his cock and turn around, bracing yourself on the cave wall and presenting your rear to him, you've seen minotaurs rutting before, but never imagined you'd be on the receiving end.

He gripped your waist, taking great handfuls of your supple flesh and lining himself up. You're on your tiptoes, and can tell he's aiming downwards to get at your pussy. You arch your back as he forces the flare in, stretching your cunt around it. You stay there a moment. This must be his first time, he's getting used to you before he fucks you properly. A roll of your hips reminds him what to do as he grips harder and lifts you up. You're pulled upright as he holds you above his cock, moaning as you're lowered down onto it. Your legs twitch as he hits your cervix, skewering you on his cock before lifting you up again. He's picking up speed, lifting and dropping you, using you like a cocksleeve to get off. Your hands aren't idle either. One is groping at your tits and the other rubbing your clit faster and faster, delighting in being filled so thoroughly. He drops you down hard, forcing the air out of you and bringing you to a gasping orgasm. You start squeezing with your pussy, desperate to feel him fill you with his cum. You don't have to work too hard. He grabs your tits as he leans over, keeping you pinned to his belly as his cock spurts straight into your womb. You can feel the huge flare plugging you up as he fills you. Your needy womb fills fast from the sheer volume he pumps into you, starting to bulge and distend as you cum again from the feeling of the hot seed pumping into you, jet after jet.

He keeps you clutched to him. The cock in you isn't deflating yet, still twitching and spurting occasionally, the volume of semen in you causing some to leak out around him. Your legs are dangling uselessly below you, you're held up entirely on his cock. You can feel it start to shift and retract. Pulling gently out until the flare comes out of you with an audible pop. A gush of thick cum and a gasp from you accompany it. He sits and lays your head in his lap, playing with your hair as his cum leaks out of your pussy.

Being a minotaur's wife doesn't seem so bad, on reflection

#####################################

And that's another one in the bag!

Again, if you want me to write anything, anything at all, ask, ask, ask! If you don't ask you might not get, and if you send an anon ask, you can get me to write as many as you like! I won't know it's the same person asking, now will I?

Also, do we prefer fantasy stories or sci fi? I can't guarantee the line won't blur occasionally, but it'll be nice to gauge interest

[stllmnstr]

sacred monsters: part two

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

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

part two word count: 12.4k

part two warnings: swearing, more blood and other vampire-y things, me forcing you to read extensive vampire lore, the supernatural elements are ramped up a notch (or, like, eight notches), semi-graphic descriptions and depictions of violence

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

note/disclaimer: and to absolutely no one’s surprise, I cannot stop talking about vampire heeseung, so this story will be more than two parts. this is not the end. I want to say it will be around 4-5. potentially more. (yay if you’re excited, and my apologies if you’re not.) again, I want to name the sources I used to help me create this: the dark moon webtoon is where lots of the lore comes from, and influences from twilight are also scattered throughout. okay I think that’s it. for now at least… as always, happy reading ♡

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

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

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

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Everything hurts. 

As your consciousness slowly begins to trickle back in, pain is the most prominent sensation. It comes in slow, steady waves. With a certain kind of deep ache. 

Eyes still screwed shut, your brow furrows. The movement only inspires anothing intense wave of throbbing pain that thuds against your temples. 

As senses begin to emerge, you can tell that you’re horizontal. Lying down. The surface beneath you is soft. It dips and curves, gives to the shape of your body. A bed, maybe. 

Delicately, you try moving your right arm. Wiggling your toes. Both are responsive, but there’s a profound soreness sitting deep within your muscle that makes you strain against a whimper from even the tiniest of movements. 

And your throat. It’s so dry. Scraped raw as if someone has taken sandpaper to it. As if you’ve been screaming. 

You inhale deeply, assessing the way air inflates the lungs beneath your ribs. Even there, deep within you, there’s a dull, muted ache. A pain that lingers. As the ensuing exhale leaves your body, you note another sensation. 

The emptiness of your stomach. The deep pangs of hunger that roll like nausea. 

With no small amount of reluctance, you begin the arduous task of opening your eyes. One slow blink that bleeds into another. 

At first, the only thing you see is a vast expanse of white. Blinding light makes you want to squint. Close your eyes again. But it’s nothing but a trick of your own senses. Causes by eyes that have gone unused for an extended period of time. 

Slowly, the space above you begins to take on its true tone. A soft, even light gray that coats the expanse of the ceiling. Turning your head to the side, you ignore the protest of pain from your neck. 

You let your eyes wander for a minute. But as the space around you begins to come into focus, you’re left with more questions than answers. 

Your earlier assertion had been correct. You are lying in a bed. But it’s not the one you’ve grown used to. This isn’t your apartment. 

No, the bedroom around you is an unfamiliar one. But that’s undoubtedly what it is: a bedroom. Threadbare maybe, but with small touches of life. Aside from your current resting place, there’s a desk on the opposite side of the room. A nightstand right next to you. A small lamp that emanate a warm, golden glow. 

Forcing your body into an upright position, you wince at the effort it takes just to sit upright, to maneuver every aching limb into place. 

More details of the room come into focus. A computer monitor and keyboard on the desk. The small stack of books next to it. A record player. A small dresser. Little trinkets of personality, but nothing that serves you now. 

Even through the haze in your sleep-addled mind, you’re sure you’ve never seen any of it before. Why are you here? Where is here?

And why does your body hurt so damn much, nerves under your skin singing like they’ve been wrung out to dry?

The fog in your mind refuses to clear. Soon, another emotion begins to emerge alongside the confusion as the reality of the situation sets in. 

You’re alone. In an unfamiliar room. Hungry as if it’s been days since you’ve eaten. 

Judging from the way your limbs respond to even the most minute of movements, you’re injured. Badly. 

Flexing your left leg again, you wince. Can you even walk right now? 

This is bad. This is very, very bad. 

The beginnings of panic begin to trace your mind. Again, you’re searching the room. This time, however, you focus on memorizing the layout. Finding anything that might be of any use to you, that might help you identify your location. That might help you craft an escape.

Your search turns up two doors, one to your left and one directly across from the foot of the bed. Both are unmarked. Both are pulled shut. 

It’s possible that your panic is premature. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that this was nothing more than the bedroom of a rather minimalistic university student. But if that were the case why did you wake up here alone, head pounding, body aching?

That alone is definitive. Something is very wrong. 

Instinctively, you try to retrace your steps. You must have gotten here somehow. But the more you try to walk back through your memory, the hazier things become. The inside of your mind is like a murky labyrinth, dead ends at every corner. Rearranging and shifting the more you try to focus. 

It’s as if a dense fog has clouded over your ability to think, to recall. No matter how close you get to a memory, you can’t see anything. 

That alone is enough to send another fresh wave of panic straight to your bones. Alone, injured, and you can’t remember any of the events that led you to this strange place. 

Gingerly, you turn your body so that your legs hang off the side of the bed, bare feet resting lightly on the floor. That movement alone requires several of your deep inhales. 

Slowly, you try putting weight on your feet, your legs. It’s not pleasant by any means, but they hold steady. Or at the very least, they don’t buckle beneath you. Aside from the soreness, there’s a distinct fatigue in your extremities. One that gives them a slight shake the longer you try to stand. 

You doubt you can run, but at least you’re not completely immobile. Maybe, given enough adrenaline, you can walk. Crawl. 

But now you’re faced with another dilemma. Two doors. Two points of entry, two potential routes to escape. Or two paths to further danger. Trapped in a windowless room, you have no way of knowing which of your two choices, if any, is better. 

But you can’t just stay here. Backed into a corner, practically a sitting duck. Eyes darting between the two doors, you steel yourself for the inevitable flash of pain fully standing will inevitably cause. 

The door to the left of the bed. The door at the foot of the bed. 

Just as you’ve decided to veer to the right, muscles tensing in anticipation, a knock rings out. Your breath catches in your throat, panic reaching its peak as your heart beats a furious rhythm in your chest. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go.One rap against the door to your left. Two. Three. 

You won’t make it to the other door in time. Not on your legs. 

There’s a moment of suspended silence. And then, the door is opening. 

Instinctively, you push yourself backwards on the bed., trying to put as much space as physically possible between you and the stranger that enters. 

And a stranger he certainly is. With a tentative sort of slowness, a boy peers around the edge of the door, squinting in the low light. 

When he sees that you’re upright, he pushes into the room fully, closing the door quietly behind him. The glimpse you get over his shoulder doesn’t reveal much. Another room, maybe, but it’s gone too quickly to be certain. 

“You’re awake,” he nods, more to himself than anything. “I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up.”

Back pressed against the wall, you have nowhere left to go. Still hunched as if that will do anything to protect you, you stare at the boy in front of you. 

Maybe, you think. Maybe you could move fast enough to grab the lamp from the nightstand before he realizes what’s happening. Could use it as some sort of weapon, some meager means of self-defense. 

“Who are you?” Your throat is scraped raw. It hurts to speak, to think, to do much of anything. “Where am I?”

“Oh.” The boy pauses for a moment. For the first time since he entered, he stops to look at you. Really look at you. The extent of the terror that’s embedded in your features, written in the positioning of your body. 

Immediately, he stops in his tracks. Retreats a few steps until he’s back at the far edge of the room, just in front of the door he entered from. “Sorry, I guess it was probably quite the shock to wake up here. My name is Jake. You’re in our…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Well, our home, I suppose.”

For a moment, you just look at him. Chest still rising and falling rapidly as you struggle to even your breathing. You can still feel your pulse in your neck. 

If the situation weren't so disorienting, so terrifyingly confusing, you might be mildly amused by the almost… sheepish look that crosses his features. Where he avoids eye contact with you from the doorframe, this boy certainly doesn’t look like a threat. 

If you had to guess, you’d say that he — Jake — is around your age. With dark hair that falls across his forehead and wide, dark eyes, he has a distinct sort of beauty that almost reminds you of… 

Suddenly, in the confines of your missing memories, you’re grasping at straws again. 

“Specifically,” Jake adds, realizing the information might be pertinent to you, “this is Heeseung’s room.”

Heeseung. You know that name. You think it’s the one you were searching for. 

Heeseung. 

It sparks something. A flicker of a memory. A ghost of the answers you seek. 

You feel like you’re on the verge of a revelation when you ask, “Where is he? Heeseung?”

Jake’s expression betrays no surprise. He’d expected you to ask him that, you realize. It does, however, suddenly appear a bit more guarded. “He’s recovering. That poison he got out of you really did a number on him.”

For a moment, his words do nothing but reverberate in your aching skull. And then—

“Poison?”

Jake just looks at you for a second, brow pulling down in confusion as if you’re the strange one in this situation. As if poison and Heeseung’s apparent removal of it should already be old news. Then, a flicker of realization crosses his features. His brow softens. 

“That’s right,” he mumbles. Again, it seems more for his benefit than yours. “I always forget that moonflower can cause memory loss in humans.”

Moonflower? In humans? 

“Memory loss?”

“It’s only temporary,” Jake says, as if that’s enough to make everything better. “Everything will start to come back soon, I’m sure.” He pauses, frowning. A flicker of sympathy enters his gaze. “I feel like I should warn you, though. Judging from the way you and Heeseung came in here a couple of nights ago, it might be a lot to take in all at once when they do.”

A couple of nights ago. Which means—

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Just over two days. It’s Friday night now. Almost midnight.” While the shock of that settles into your system, Jake continues, “Which reminds me, I brought you some things I thought you might need.”

He turns away from you, opening the door. When he closes it behind him again, he now has two bags in his hand. Carefully, like one might approach a wounded animal, he takes slow footsteps towards you. 

Setting the bags down next to the nightstand, he explains, “This one has water and food. I wasn’t sure what you would like, so feel free to have whatever, and let us know if there’s anything else you want.”

Looking at the second bag, he adds, “I also brought you some clothes. We didn’t really have anything for a girl here. I mean, Sunghoon had a couple of things, but I didn’t really think you’d want them. Sunoo and Niki went out and got some stuff. I’m sure they did their best, but, uh,” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “No promises.”

Jake nods towards the dresser that sits by the desk. “If you hate everything, you can also look through whatever Heeseung has in there. I’m sure he wouldn't mind.”

That name again. Heeseung. There’s nothing solid in your memory, but heat finds itself on your cheekbones anyway. The thought of wearing his clothes just feels like something that should warrant that reaction, even if you’re not sure why. 

“There’s also a bathroom through that door.” Jake jerks his chin towards the door across from the foot of the bed. And maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t have enough time to craft an escape through there, you think. This conversation might have been significantly more awkward in a bathroom. “Feel free to use anything in there, including the shower, if you want. There should be clean towels in the bottom drawer.”

He takes another long look at you, that same sympathy from earlier coloring his gaze. It feels weighted, heavy. As if he’s forseen some great tragedy you’re not yet privy too. As if he knows something you don’t. “I’m sure you have a million questions, but I think you’ll feel better with some food and water in you.” He nods towards the bags he set close to you. “And a fresh change of clothes.” 

He’s probably right. With the urgency of your former panic subsiding, you still don’t feel at ease. But neither fight nor flight seem like appropriate responses to this situation. Which leaves you stuck with a third one: reluctant trust. 

As you make your peace with it, something begins to press at the fog in your mind. It swirls, collects as if being pressed against a glass window. Your memories are still evasive, but there’s something there, in that haze. Syllables stuck on a loop, a constant repetition that begs your attention. 

Heeseung. 

There’s a sudden urgency in your gut. The distinct feeling that things will start to make sense again if you can just see him, talk to him. Jake said that he’s recovering. From poison. But you don’t know what that means, don’t understand what kind of gravity it might hold. 

Vague sentiments conveyed through a messenger are hardly enough to satisfy the tugging in your mind. 

So you ask, “Can I see him? Heeseung?”

Something flickers across Jake’s gaze, too fast for you to catch it fully. Concern maybe. A premonition of fear. Still, he says, “He’s okay. I promise. You’ll be able to see him soon.” For a moment, Jake falls into silence, weighing words on his tongue like he can’t decide if he should share them or not. “But he’s not really in the best shape for visitors right now. Take care of you first, and then we can talk more if you want. And when you’re both ready, you can see Heeseung, too.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer, but Jake holds the cards here. You have nothing to leverage, nothing to bargain. 

Before he leaves, he reiterates, “I’m sure that your memories will start to come back soon. Like I said, it might be a lot all at once. I’ll let you eat and get changed, if you want. The door locks.” He nods to the door handle. “So does the one on the bathroom door. And please, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be just outside.”

Gently, Jake opens the door, pulls it shut behind him. And then you’re alone again. 

Gone is the frantic terror you awoke with, and left in its wake is a gentler sort of fear. A deep sense of unease that refuses to fade. 

Pushing it aside for now, you attend to your baser needs. Heeding Jake’s advice, you retrieve the first bag he left for you, pulling it up onto the bed. 

The first thing you see is a bottle of water. You make quick work of pulling it out, removing the cap, and taking a long sip. It’s cool, refreshing. Soothes your aching throat before settling heavily at the bottom of your empty stomach. 

Taking another handful of gulps, you replace the cap before setting it on the nightstand. Opening the bag further, you reveal its other contents. 

It’s possibly the strangest assortment of food that you’ve ever seen. Frowning in confusion, you take stock of what you’ve been given. It just gets weirder the more you look at it. It’s as if Jake went to the grocery store and just grabbed the first thing he saw in every aisle with no regard for how they would fit together. As if he hasn’t made himself a meal since the day he was born. 

The first thing you pull out is a box of dry pasta, completely inedible without cooking utensils you currently have no access to. Jake did say you could ask him for anything, but even boiling water has a way of feeling like an insurmountable task in your current state. You move on. 

What follows is hardly better. There’s a singular, unripe avocado, an entire family sized bag of clementine oranges, three boxes of breakfast cereal, a loaf of bread, and — you pause a moment to count — eight different kinds of granola bars. 

Pushing past the strangeness, you figure you don’t need a Michelin star meal to ease the hunger. For now, you decide that one of the granola bars and a clementine look the most appetizing. 

After a few minutes, the blunt edges of hunger lose their sharpness. But even with a bit of food in your system, the nausea hold steady. 

Mind addled, you curse yourself for not asking him the most obvious question. What the hell happened to you? 

But he did say your memories should be coming back soon, and you decide you’ll just have to trust in that for now. 

Next, you reach for the bag of clothes. You didn’t think it was possible, but it somehow manages to be even stranger than the food. 

To your shoppers’ credit, they are girls’ clothes, yes, but it seems that was the only criteria for selection. It’s the dead of winter, and the first two things you pull out are a pair of denim shorts and a sundress. Frowning, you refold them both, placing them back in the bag. At least they still have their tags. Hopefully the two boys Jake mentioned kept their receipt. 

That leaves you with your other option. Glancing over at the dresser, his dresser, you’re at an impasse. 

Even with gaping holes in your memory, it feels invasive, far too intimate to look through his things. To go through his clothes until you find something that suits you. To wear it without his permission. 

Taking a sidelong glance at the pair of denim shorts, you decide you don’t have all that much pride left to barter, anyway. After all, you work up disoriented, weak, and missing all of your memories in the boy’s bed. What’s a spare change of clothes in comparison with that?

As you gingerly pad your way to the dresser, you decide it feels less like snooping if you only reach for what’s on top. Luck is on your side. The first thing you see when you open the top drawer is a sweatshirt and matching pair of sweatpants, both of which are ridiculously soft. 

Stolen goods in tow, you continue towards the bathroom door. Pulling it closed behind you, you see that Jake was telling the truth. The lock slides into place with a small click.  

Like his bedroom, Heeseung’s bathroom is fairly nondescript. Devoid of decor, it holds what he needs and little else. Opening the bottom drawer of the vanity, you find a clean towel and set it down on the counter, next to the clothes. 

Lifting your head, you catch your reflection in the mirror. It’s enough to have you double take. You almost don’t recognize yourself. The tangled mess of hair and dark circles of exhaustion beneath your eyes are things you could forgive. Two days of straight sleep is enough to wreak at least a little havoc on anyone. 

But that’s not what has your reflection freezing. 

Delicately, as if the truth will somehow be less awful if revealed slowly, you tilt your head to the side. Pull your hair away, tuck it behind your ear. Expose the dark, mottled assortment of discolored marks that extend all the way from your jaw to the base of your neck. 

Bruises. Deep, dark bruises. 

And on top of them, uneven, flaky patches of multicolored crimson. Dried blood, you realize as your stomach gives a sickening lurch. 

Is it yours? Heeseung’s? Someone else’s? 

The fog in your mind suddenly feels like an enclosure. Holding you hostage and dangling your forgotten memories just out of reach. Trapping you in the darkness and offering no way out, no way through. Just a dim candle against the vast, midnight darkness of terror. 

You’re too wrung out to cry, too confused to so much as gasp. As reality unfolds, devastation seems to be the norm, not the exception. Even if your throat weren’t raw, you’re not sure you’d scream. 

With trepidation, you raise a hand, watching the way your fingers tremble in your reflection. And then your run a gentle touch over the evidence of destruction, a war waged on your skin. Once it nears your jaw, you feel something. A small bump that has you hissing at the contact. 

Leaning forward, you examine it closer. It’s a tiny wound, barely perceptible. It reminds you of a vaccination at the doctor’s office. Neat, sterile. 

Enough to be confusing, yes. Arguably even concerning. But it’s not what has you reeling. 

Because around the tiny mark are two more puncture wounds. Perfectly circular still, but decidedly larger. Rougher. Deeper. They’re embedded into your skin on either side of the smaller wound. And if you didn’t know any better, if your mind had any more capacity for the impossible, you’d almost think they look like…

You’d almost think they look like bite marks. 

The longer you stare, the more sinister they appear. The more hopelessly horrified you feel. What happened to you? Why does the side of your neck look like a watercolor painting of violets? Why does it look like you’ve been bitten?

If this is what you look like, what kind of state is Heeseung in? Jake said it himself that he’s in no condition for visitors. 

What if he’s not recovering as well as Jake said? What if it’s your fault—?

No. You won’t let yourself spiral there. 

Memories, you just need your memories. 

Which means you just need a little more time. 

The shower, to your relief, has plenty of hot water to spare. For long minutes, you just stand there, letting it pour over you, your skin, your aching muscles. As water seeps through the drain, it carries some of your tension with it.

You watch as the water that circles the drain runs red before it clears again, blood washed away from your skin.

It’s instinct, mostly. The desire to confirm what you already know, that has you retracing the strange marks on your neck. 

A hiss of pain is the only thing that ensues in response at first. But then something else comes. 

A flicker of a memory. 

A strange place, a dark room. 

New Haven. The publishing house. Because you had gone there to meet Professor Kim, to show him your draft, to see the space you’d won an internship in. 

It’s coming back now, in fragments. 

There had been something strange, though. It was dark when you arrived. Dark and empty and quiet until—

Until suddenly it wasn’t. Until Heeseung was there with you.

Warm water traces steady lines on your skin. Your memory reappears in tangled, discombobulated jumbles. Things clicking into place as you do your best to sort them chronologically. 

Heeseung was there, but he wasn’t supposed to be. You had gone there to see Professor Kim. Why wasn’t he—?

The sudden flash of memory is sickening. Has another bout of nausea threatening the contents of your stomach. 

It all comes back, all at once. Replaying like a nightmare, like a scene plucked from a horror film. 

Blood dripping from your professor’s mouth. Clothes tattered on his body. Heeseung shielding you, protecting you. 

But Professor Kim wasn’t himself. He wasn’t right. He threw something at you. Something that hit you right where he intended. 

Without your permission, your fingers are back on the slippery skin of your neck. The blood is gone, but the wound remains just the same. The wound that Professor Kim gave to you. 

You remember the feeling of floating, of being distant from your body, removed from reality. Mind on some other plane of existence. 

You remember gentle, insistent, desperate hands on your waist. Your jaw. Your forehead. 

Heeseung, bent over you, consuming your limited plane of vision as your eyelids became too heavy to remain open. 

Pain in your neck. Sharp at first. Then dull, numbing. 

Heeseung. Heeseung bit you. Held you in his arms as consciousness drained from your body along with your blood. 

Poison, Jake had called it. ‘Poison he got out of you.’

It’s all so strange. They’re your memories, yes, and you’re sure of them, but why was there poison in your neck? Why was biting you the solution? How did his teeth leave such perfectly circular marks on—?

The final puzzle piece clicks into place. 

Vampire attacks. You had been worried about Heeseung, relieved to see him safe and sound at New Haven. Because you had just read about vampire attacks. 

Robotically, you turn the water off. Step out of the shower, wrap a towel around your body. 

His clothes are soft against your skin. 

Heeseung saved you. Of that, you’re sure. But what about the three people at the river? The three victims of a vampire attack?

It can’t be true. It can’t. You don’t know him, not really, but he’s just… Heeseung. 

An annoyingly competent poet and a massive pain in your ass. Someone that walks you home when you stay too late in the library. Someone that calls your writing awful when it is, when you need a cold, hard reality check. 

He’s… he’s just Heeseung. He’s not a—

You can’t even bring yourself to finish the thought. 

But your memories are back, and there’s a alertness to your mind that only sharpens as the fog clears. 

At the edge of your mind, Jake’s voice replays. Something you glossed over in your confusion, something you fixate on now. 

“I always forget that moonflower can cause memory loss in humans.”

“I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up.”

The strange assortment of food. Jake’s undeniable, uncanny beauty. The kind you’ve only ever seen in one other person. 

Jake was right. You do feel a bit better with food and water in your stomach. With the last three days of horror washed off of your skin. But your mind is alert now. The memories are coming back. Puzzle pieces rearranging and clicking into place with alarming accuracy. 

And as the dust settles, you’re suddenly very, very afraid of the reality that greets you. 

In your mind, the facts play on a loop. 

You don’t know where you are. You don’t know how to leave. Jake has been nothing but kind, but if he so wished, you’re sure he could overpower you easily. And he insinuated that he’s not the only one here. 

You need answers. You need to leave. But Heeseung…

You have to know. 

Is the boy you’ve been trying to outwrite for months, the boy you shared a moment under a moonlit sky with, is he a… a vampire?

Why was he at New Haven that day? Did he know about Professor Kim? Did he know about the deaths at the river? Was he complicit in them? Was he responsible for them?

Clothed in determination and a fleeting moment of bravery, you undo the lock on the bathroom door, passing through the bedroom, his bedroom, on furious footsteps. The second door opens just as easily as the bathroom had, and suddenly, you’re in the room you caught just a glimpse of before. A living room, of sorts. Some sort of common area. 

True to his earlier word, Jake sits nearby. Planted on a navy sofa, he looks up when you enter. “How are you feeling? Do you need any—”

Manners are the last thing on your mind when you interrupt him mid-sentence. “What are you?” Not ‘who are you.’ That won’t give you the answer you seek. The difference is subtle. The difference is cavernous. 

Jake’s mouth falls shut, presses into a line. Hesitation paints his features. “I don’t think this is the best—”

You won’t hear it. “What are you?”

Jake holds up his palms in surrender. “Your memories are starting to come back, I take it. Look, we can explain everything, just—”

On the far end of the room, another door opens. Another boy enters. Just like Heeseung, just like Jake, he’s beautiful. Moves with that same unnatural grace that you used to admire when you thought no one would notice. Now, it has another surge of nausea rolling in your stomach. 

Jake glances at the new arrival. He sighs. “This isn’t really a good time, Sunghoon. Why don’t you—”

The boy, Sunghoon, never hears Jake’s suggestion. Instead, he cuts him off. And once again, your world is spinning. 

“He’s back.”

…..

You are the last to enter the strange room. On the heels of Jake and Sunghoon, despite the former’s insistence that you wait and see him later, you take in your surroundings. 

Odd enough was the long, winding hallway that led you here, but this is even stranger. Instead of a proper door, the room is guarded by long, thick metal bars. They stand ajar now but bear a rather impressive lock. You have the distinct impression that this place was designed to keep people out. Or maybe rather to keep someone in. 

You hear him before you see him. Memories recovered, the sound of his voice is something you’re well attuned to, even if it flickers with a strong tone of annoyance. 

“Yes, I’m fine. I told you, it’s a ridiculously strong sedative at its core. We’ll react strangely, yes, but it’s not the same as bloodlust—”

“Still,” another voice argues. “We all saw how she looked when you brought her in. You had to have drank a considerable amount—”

“I told you I’m fine, Jungwon,” Heeseung counters. “Do I look out of control to you? Would I be sitting here having this conversation with you if I was?”

“Fine.” It’s the same voice. Jungwon. “If you’re alive and well, then maybe you can answer my question. What were you doing at New Haven? Do you know how long we’ve—”

It’s probably stupid, shoving past people in their own home. People that you suspect are dangerous, that might not really be people at all. But you have to see him. You have to know. 

Once you finally get around Sunghoon, your view of the room opens up. Sparsely decorated, dimly lit, and there are four other boys you don’t recognize. You pay them no attention. 

Because in the middle of it all stands Heeseung. Maybe, if you squint, you could argue that he looks a little worse for wear. There’s a pink flush under his eyes, a slight disarray to his usually perfect hair, but other than that, he paints the perfect, untouchable picture he always has. 

At the commotion of your sudden movement, all eyes in the room turn from Heeseung and land squarely on you. For a moment, seven gazes just look at you. All of them are blank. Lost. Out of depth. 

All except for the one you match. 

Where he stands, Heeseung stares at you with an intensity you’ve only seen once before. In a moment you wish you could forget. In a fragmented memory you already know you’re cursed to carry forever. 

Slowly, his eyes scan the length of your body, something in his jaw tightening when he notes the clothes you’re wearing. His clothes. 

Jungwon is still pressing him for answers. Heeseung doesn’t bother to provide any. 

Instead, he says, “Give us a minute.”

He’s still looking at you. Frozen in place, his eyes trace the line of your neck, ghosting over the array of bruises, the twin wounds he left there. His voice betrays no emotion, but his eyes flash with something that looks all too much like regret, shame. 

Jungwon balks for a moment. “No, I’m not giving you a minute. You could have jeopardized everything we’ve been working towards—”

Heeseung does break eye contact with you then. Turning to the boy that stands next to him, he says, “What’s done is done, Jungwon. A few more minutes won’t change that. You can shout at me some more in a minute.”

“Ouch.” A boy that you don’t recognize winces. 

“Right?” another one of the strangers agrees. “A pretty human over five hundred years of brotherhood.” He shakes his head. “I’d expect that from Sunghoon, maybe, but—”

Behind you, Jake sighs. “Is this really the time, you two?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon agrees, arms crossing his chest as he pouts. “And I take offense to that, you know. I would not put all of your hard work in danger for a human.” Sunghoon takes a sidelong glance at you. “No offense.”

“Just give us a minute,” Heeseung repeats again, more command in his voice this time as he slides a palm through his hair in frustration. “Please. All of you.”

There’s enough authority in his voice time. Or maybe enough pleading. Whatever it is, the rest of the room files out, one by one. Even Jungwon, although he does cast one final, warning look over his shoulder. 

It’s lost on Heeseung, who has already turned his attention back to you. “Are you okay?” 

An echo of the past, a reminder of why you’re here. Of why your throat threatens to close up now, just looking at him.  

Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how you’d answer him. Physically, you’re sore. Tired even though you’ve been sleeping for days. Temporary aches. Things that will heal with rest and time. 

Mentally, though… Your mind is spinning a million miles a minute. Even now, face to face with him, you can’t reconcile all of the pieces of Heeseung you’ve gathered. 

Indifferent student. Brilliant writer. Honest reviewer. Maybe even a friend. 

Vampire. 

You don’t know what to make of him. You don’t know how to piece him together. 

He’s here, standing in front of you. You used to stare at the back of his head during lectures. Used to fantasize about him giving you a minute of his time. 

And now, it’s just the two of you. Alone. His eyes search your face, his focus consumed by you. And he’s never felt further away. 

You don't answer his question. Instead, you ask one of your own. 

“What’s going on?” Your voice is small, holds none of the command you wish it could. “And don’t… don’t you dare lie to me.”

Across from you, Heeseung exhales. There’s a distinct sorrow in his eyes. “I won’t. But it’s a long story. And there are parts of it I’m not sure you’ll like.”

“I don’t care.” But you do, so much that it hurts. You almost wish you were still begging for scraps of his attention. At least then, you knew where you stood. “I want the truth.” That much, at least, is honest. 

Heeseung nods, as if any of this is simple. “Then you’ll have it.”

A beat of silence passes. You remember the question you had asked Jake less than an hour ago. What are you? You can’t quite bring yourself to ask it now. Not with everything that has passed between you. Not when it feels like more of an accusation than an inquiry. 

You wear his wounds on your skin. You don’t know why you still want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Still, you ask, “Who are you?” The difference is subtle. The difference is cavernous. 

Heeseung doesn’t smile, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’m not undercover. My name is Heeseung.” The flicker of amusement dies. He knows what you’re really asking him. He knows it’s not an easy answer to give, not an easy truth to receive. “But I’m… different. I was born with a strange ability.”

You breathe. “What kind of ability?”

Heeseung looks down at his hands. Studies them for a moment before turning back to you. “It would be easier to show you, if you’ll let me.”

Instinctively, your hand finds the wound on your neck. 

A dark shadow crosses Heeseung’s features. “That’s not the ability I’m referring to.” 

There’s a chair in the room, just behind him. He walks to it and sits down at the edge, knees wide. “Come here.”

You shouldn’t. You should stay as far away as space allows. You shouldn’t let him do anything. In every sense of the word, he holds the advantage here. You’re in his home. He has knowledge you don’t. The only thing you have left to leverage is the distance between you and your decision to maintain it. 

But every inch between you was doomed to be a losing battle. Steady, slow footsteps erase the distance between you as you come to stand directly in front of him. 

At this angle, with your positioning, he’s forced to look up at you. Chin lifted, he whispers, “Hold out your hand.”

You could try to fight. You could question him. You don’t. Resistance was always going to be futile. In no time at all, your hand is outstretched. 

Once again, Heeseung studies his own fingers. A shudder traces the length of his spine. Hesitation spills from every minute movement, every microexpression you’re allowed. It’s straining him, you realize. This ability is not something he’s excited to share. 

You can’t decide if that eases your worry or increases it tenfold. 

But after another wasted moment, his right hand reaches out to encircle the skin of your left wrist. For a few stilted heartbeats, it’s just the two of you in a strange room, a cage of sorts, your wrist cradled in his loose grip. 

Then, your vision begins to flicker. At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. Something lingering side effect of a long sleep as everything begins to go out of focus. 

But as the room around you fades, something takes its place. It takes a moment to manifest completely, for your eyes to adjust. 

In front of you, Heeseung still sits in his chair, gaze trained on your wide eyes. But the two of you are no longer in the small, threadbare room. Instead, you stand in an open field, freckled with wildflowers and teeming with butterflies. Above you, the sky is blue and vast, the late summer sun casting a vibrant glow over everything. 

In your shock, you nearly wrench your arm out of Heeseung’s grip. He senses the movement, tightens his fingers around your wrist before you can pull away. 

“Sorry.” He glances at where you two are touching. “It’s better not to break contact once you’re in. It’s quite disorienting if you do. And it will give you awful motion sickness.”

Once you’re in where? Turning your head, you look for something, anything, that makes even the tiniest bit of sense. But all you see is grass. The vast expanse of an open field that only ends where it meets the sky. 

“Where are we?”

“Still in the same room,” Heeseung says. “Physically, at least.” He takes a deep breath. “This is the ability I referred to. It’s a bit difficult to describe, but I can… project my consciousness, I guess. As long as we maintain physical contact, I can show you things from my mind. Memories, visions, anything I dream up. What you see now is the field where I discovered my ability, actually. A friend and I were playing here. I was ten.” He pauses, looks at you. “The year was 1534.”

The full weight of his words barely has time to settle before the vision is morphing, the scene changing into another. 

“It’s difficult to know where to start, but I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any. In the Kingdom of Celedis,” he narrates, “there were eight noble families that had been feuding with each other for over a century. As a result of their petty infighting, the common people suffered. There was constant strife throughout the kingdom. Pains that caused immense suffering but left the nobles untouched. There were frequent blockades, limits on trading, restricted movement, and nasty skirmishes along the borders. Petty crime ran rampant, unchecked. People weren’t safe anywhere, not even in their homes.”

You see it just as he imagines it. Tired, hungry, exhausted people. Mistreated and left to the whims of whatever best suited the nobles’ current desires. 

And the rulers, the nobles themselves. Eight men, adorned in finery, showered with gifts and praise and fine wines while the people just outside the walls of their ornate homes suffered just to survive, starving to death while they gorged themselves on luxury. 

You wouldn’t consider yourself an expert in history, and it’s not like the scenario is exactly uncommon, but you still find it strange that you’ve never heard of this place, not even in passing. 

“Celedis?” You frown. 

“It’s been erased now,” is all Heeseung says. “From both existence and memory. But it was real, a long time ago. And it was where I was born.”

Again, the scene around you starts to take on that odd, unfocused quality. It’s changing again. By now, you almost feel accustomed to the way images and light start to distort as one vision bleeds into another. 

“Celedis was a strange kingdom,” Heeseung continues. “Full of old magic. Ancient rituals and rites that faded from most places but held true there. The land was, in many ways, just as alive as you and I. And it grew weary of seeing its people suffer.”

You see a man now, dressed in simple clothes, tucked in the back corner of what appears to be a shop. He’s surrounded by crystals, trinkets, and old, leather-bound books. 

“One night, the eight noble lords received a message from a seer, one that claimed to communicate with the land, to speak for Celedis as its messenger. The seer told them that the old magic of the land would grant them a single wish on one condition: There had to be peace in the kingdom by the night of the blood moon. A night that comes only once every hundred years. When the moon itself shines bright red.  

“Seven of the lords, eager to have a wish granted, did as the seer advised. They ceased their fighting, recalled their troops. Began to support and protect their people once again. The eighth lord, however, did not.”

After a moment, you’re plunged into darkness. Above you, the night sky of Heeseung’s mind twinkles with distant stars and a distinct, crimson red moon. Seven men, all dressed in finery, stand around an oak tree. The rules of Heeseung’s ability don’t seem to be governed by the laws of physics. You watch as an eighth man appears, seemingly out of thin air. The same man from the crystal shop. 

“The seven who heeded the seer’s advice gathered on the night of the blood moon to pass along their wish — they wanted their bloodlines to endure forever. 

“The seer passed this message along, but old magic is a fickle thing. You have to be precise with your words, or things will be lost in translation. Interpreted in strange ways.”

Now, you stand in a nursery. There’s a crib in the corner. A pregnant woman bends over it, singing a soft lullaby. 

“Within the year, each of the seven noble lords gave birth to a son. They took this with great joy, a sign that their wish had come true. Before the year reached its end, each of the seven had procured a strong, healthy heir to succeed them.”

Suddenly, you’re back in the endless field from before, watching two young boys play in the distance. 

“But these were no ordinary sons. And around the age of ten, each of them revealed a special ability, a supernatural gift.” 

The two boys are playing a game, you realize. You can’t decipher the rules, but you watch as they throw their heads back in a burst of carefree laughter. The first young boy grabs his friend by the wrist. A harmless gesture. A meaningless touch. 

The second boy recoils as if he’s been burned. Hand back at his side, he doubles over in pain, emptying the contents of his stomach. 

In front of you, Heeseung looks away. 

In the distance, another version of Heeseung apologizes profusely as the other child turns his back. 

He changes the scene before you can watch any further. 

You’re in a bedroom now, watching a young man put on a jacket. It’s startling, almost, how similar he looks. The two of you watch as Heeseung, because it is undoubtedly him, pulls the jacket over his back, slides his arms through the sleeves. 

The resemblance is so uncanny that the only thing that sets this Heeseung apart, really, is the style of his clothing. The coat that obviously belongs to another century, lost to time. 

“And once each son reached their twenty-first birthday,” Heesung says. “They stopped aging.”

Heeseung and his jacket dissolve, change into something else. The new scene you look out upon is somber. Heeseung is there again, this time dressed in all black. The clothes of a mourner. Aside from that, he looks exactly the same. 

Then you see the casket. The portrait standing next to it. It’s her, you realize. The woman from the nursery, the one who hummed the lullaby. Much, much older though. Fifty years older. Maybe sixty. 

You look at this vision’s Heeseung again. He hasn’t aged a day. Still the epitome of youth, even as he mourns the death of his mother. 

“This was the interpretation of the wish, how it was warped through old magic. The bloodline would endure forever, because each son that had been born in the year of the blood moon was born immortal. But by doing so, the seven lords’ wish had also effectively ended their bloodline. Their sons would never grow old, never bear children. And none were ever given a sibling. 

“The eighth lord, the one that did not agree to peace and therefore did not receive a wish, had not yet foreseen this tragedy. He didn’t understand the implications of immortality, the terrible burden it brings. All he saw was an opportunity that he had lost. In his eyes, it had been stolen.”

You watch as the eighth lord bangs on the door of the crystal shop, face red, fury obvious in every inch of his visage. 

“When he discovered the nature of the gift the other lords had been given, the eighth became enraged. He went to the seer and demanded that he pass along his wish to the old magic of the land. That his son, born as an ordinary human, would also be given the gift of immortality.”

In front of you, the lord lunges at the seer, rage in his eyes. The seer raises his hands in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. 

“The seer pleaded with the lord. He tried to explain that he had no way of passing his request along. That the ability to communicate with old magic was not something he could do whenever he so pleased.”

The scene changes, the seer and his shop disappearing. Again, you see the oak tree. This time, though, it is only the eighth lord that stands before it. His eyes are sunken, shaded with deep, dark shadows. A mad desperation is painted across his features. 

“After murdering the seer for his insolence, the eighth lord went to the oak tree, a place rumored to be full of old magic. He wished for his son to become like the other seven sons, and he gave the seer’s blood as an offering.” 

The scene morphs again, fading until you’re surrounded by the ghastliest thing you’ve seen yet. You and Heeseung are in a small room. In the center, there’s an ornate dining table adorned with expensive cutlery and fine china. Lined with a lacy white tablecloth. 

And blood. The room, the tablecloth, the plates, are covered in dark, red blood. 

“There was one last thing that the eighth lord did not yet understand about immortality. About the other seven sons.”

One by one, you watch as they appear. 

Jake. Sunghoon. Jungwon. The others whose names you do not yet know. Heeseung.

Their mouths, clothes, faces, are all covered in it, dripping with it. Blood. 

“The old magic, above all, favors balance. In exchange for eternal life, it deemed that the only thing capable of sustaining it would be the life of others. Their blood. Once a year, on the anniversary of the day the seven noble lords cast their selfish wish, their seven sons would need to feed. To consume blood. This would sustain them for the rest of the year. They did not need to eat, drink, or sleep on any other day.

“But that one day, every year, they would always need blood.”

The horror of the bloody dining room fades. Now, you see the eighth son. Your eyes widen in fear as the image continues to develop in front of you, one ghastly scene traded for another. He is in a throne room, back bent unnaturally, a predatory glint in his eyes. Blood covers his mouth, his jaw. And as he rises to his full height, the rest of the horror is unveiled. 

He stands above the pale, drained, lifeless body of his father. 

“As I said before, old magic is a fickle thing. It listened to the eighth lord’s request that his son ‘become like the other seven sons,’ but not everything was the same. He was granted immortality, yes, and he also needed to consume blood to sustain himself. Unlike the original seven, he needed to feed frequently. Consume blood often. If he didn’t, the urges would drive him mad. Send him into a frenzy. 

“It was in such a state that he killed his own father. Murdered the rest of his family and every other living soul he found in the castle.”

You now stand in the dim light of a castle corridor. Beams of moonlight cast a cool glow as a soft breeze rustles tree branches just outside the window. It’s quiet, eerily so. In front of you, a person lies motionless. The wound on their neck matches yours, but instead of bruising, it’s surrounded by fresh blood. 

You watch in silent horror as the eighth son’s victim begins to twitch. At first, it’s just the fingers of their left hand. A spasm that shakes their shoulder. And then their mouth opens, face contorted in agony as they let out a long, blood curdling scream. 

Heeseung spares you the burden of hearing it.

“One of his victims, however, he did not drain fully of blood. Lost to his instinct, he had gorged himself so full that he could drink no more. This human, nearly dead, began to transform. And after long hours of acute agony, turned into a vampire of the same nature as the eighth son. Uncontrollable. Frenzied. And full of bloodlust.”

It reminds you of a montage, the scene that plays next. Still standing in front of Heeseung, your wrist still between his fingers, you watch as villages appear and fade. Families, lovers, children running in fear as the domino effect begins to take place. As one vampire becomes ten. As they fall into bloodlust, leaving a bloody path in their wake. 

The image of a young woman, mouth agape and features frozen in terror, remains imprinted on the backs of your eyelids as the small, dark room of Heeseung’s home comes back into view. As the last of the illusion fades, he releases his grip, freeing you from his ability. 

Your arm falls limply to your side. 

“For years,” he tells you, and there’s no image to accompany his words now. Nowhere to look but his eyes. “We just existed. Tried to carve meaning into our lives, tried to find a reason to keep living once it became apparent that was never something we would need to fight for. 

“But terror continued to reign. Vampire populations continued to spread and after three hundred long years of acting only in our own self-interest, we decided to intervene. To help the human effort to eradicate vampirism and the blight it had become. 

“But we never wanted to become judge, jury, or executioner. And playing god was never something we found pleasure in. We let many live. Vampires that demonstrated restraint, that chose to live far away from humans. Vampires that we came across on days we were tired of killing. Of being monsters.”

His words hang heavy between you. Was it a mistake, not finishing the job? Was it mercy?

“Professor Kim is what brought us here, actually. He has an unnaturally high level of control over his instincts. One we’ve never seen from a descendent of the eighth son.”

You inhale, more pieces beginning to fall into place. “So you enrolled in his course—”

“With the intention of winning the internship, yes,” he confirms. “Of getting a chance to study him up close.” 

Heeseung smiles wryly. “You were quite the pain at first, actually. After those first few days of class, I wasn’t so sure I could outwrite you.”

You have no idea what to say to that. An apology feels strange, but he’s just told you that you essentially foiled a grand plan to reduce the threat of vampires, to better understand their nature. “I…”

Heeseung pushes on, “It didn’t end up mattering, though.” He frowns. “The last day of the semester, the day I was late. I’d been following him. Trailing him from his house when he…” He trails off. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what happened. But I think he scented me. Or somehow realized I was on his tail.”

You frown. “Is that unusual?” You remember Jake’s words earlier. I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up. “I thought that vampires had heightened senses.”

“We do,” Heeseung clarifies. “But there are differences between us — the original seven — and all other vampires. Our senses are much stronger. They still have sharper senses than a human, yes, but I accounted for that. He shouldn’t have been able to detect me.”

“What are the other differences?”

“The seven of us are the only ones with any kind of additional abilities. We each have one, and they’re all different. We only need to feed once a year, and we have far more control over our instincts. We don’t experience bloodlust nearly as strong.” He passes you a meaningful glance. “Unless we’re feeding.”

Looking around, Heeseung confirms your suspicions.  “That’s what this room is, actually. A precautionary measure. It hasn’t happened in the last five hundred years, but we like knowing that there’s somewhere we won’t be able to escape, should the need for that ever arise.” 

“And you’re in here, because you… you drank my blood.”

Heeseung’s expression is unreadable. “Yes. The others thought it would be wise. It was precautionary. And ultimately unnecessary.” Again, he glances at your neck. “I didn’t experience any bloodlust. I was weak for a couple of days, but that wasn’t because of you. The dart that the professor shot you with had traces of moonflower in it. It’s poisonous for us.” 

As he looks at you, he explains, “Humans can ingest it safely in small doses, usually. Some brew it as a tea. You just have to be careful not to have too much, since it can cause temporary memory loss. But injected straight into the bloodstream, the effects are unknown.” His eyes flicker with a memory. You, crumpled in his arms, losing your grip on consciousness. “But it didn’t look good.”

So he had sucked it out of your neck. 

Your neck. Where he bit you.

Another piece of the vision he’s just shown you comes flashing back. 

“You bit me.” 

Heeseung meets your gaze. “I did.”

“Am I…” It’s hard to quell the panic once the realization starts to set in. Flashes of faces contorted in agony swim across your vision. “Am I going to change?”

“No,” Heeseung shakes his head. Leans forward, as if to reach for you. He thinks better of it, letting his hand fall back to his side. “No, that’s another difference. The seven of us can’t create new vampires.”

“Oh.” As the panic ebbs, you find yourself at a loss again. He saved you. Knowingly ingested a substance that could harm him to do so. Gratitude feels in order, but you can’t quite bring yourself to express it. 

The truth you want most to avoid dances on the tip of your tongue. “And you only… feed once a year.”

Again, Heeseung nods. “It doesn’t hurt us to ingest blood more frequently, but it’s not necessary. And like I said, we avoid it. We’re better at maintaining our inhibitions, but blood still has power over us. When we feed, it’s in a room like this. One we can’t get out of until we have complete control again.”

The questions that arise are morbid. How much blood is required to satisfy a year’s worth of thirst? How do they choose? Who lives, who dies for the hunger that binds them to this world? In the last five hundred years, how much blood has been washed from their hands, from his hands?

You can hardly ask him, but the truth still remains. “You’ve killed people.”

Heeseung’s gaze falls to the floor. “I won’t pretend to be innocent.” There’s a distinct edge of self-loathing when he says, “I won’t pretend that I’m not still… a monster. But the blood we ingest comes from animals, not humans.” 

He looks back to you, gaze searching as if he craves something from you. A flicker of trust. The reassurance that you’re not appalled by him, by everything he’s told you. 

You match his eye, and he hates the fear he finds reflected there. 

A moment of stilted silence passes. Another. The weight of a million revelations and a thousand unanswered questions rests heavily between you. It’s a lot to digest all at once. Too much. So much that your mind struggles to bear the weight of it all, to organize the information you’ve received into categories that give sense to the illogical, the impossible. 

Outside the barred door, you hear the whisper of a scuffle. 

“Stop that!”

“Move over. It’s been way more than a minute. I don’t care what he says. I’m going to—”

Heeseung sighs, rolling his eyes as he turns towards the door. “Just come in if you’re going to.”

Six boys tumble through the door in an excited heap. It reminds you a bit of overenthusiastic puppies. Again, you find the differences hard to reconcile. Killers. Monsters. Immortals beings with unnatural powers. 

And they look about as threatening as a gang of kittens. 

“So,” Jake starts, glancing between the two of you. “Did he tell you everything?”

You spare a look at Heeseung. The long fingers that rest at his side. “Showed me, actually.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Jake’s features. “Oh.” He tamps it quickly. “That is more efficient, I suppose.”

“Well,” another boy pipes up, one you don’t yet have a name for. “At least now you know why he’s been following you home like a lovesick puppy every night. You can rest assured he’s not just some crazy stalker, and he—”

“Jay,” Heeseung bites. “Would you shut up already?”

“You’ve been following me?”

“Oh.” Jay winces, realizing the misstep a moment too late. “Sorry, man.” 

Heeseung exhales again. “We were worried Professor Kim might do something,” he explains, looking at you. “It was a precautionary measure.” 

Behind you, you hear a snicker. “Precautionary measure, my ass.”

But you’re too caught up in a sudden realization. Your professor. “It was Professor Kim, then. Those bodies at the river…”

“No, actually.” Jake shakes his head. “We don’t think he was responsible for the bodies at the river.” He nods towards another boy. “Sunoo had eyes on him that night. He was home when the attacks occurred.” 

You frown. “So who was?”

“We don’t know.” Jungwon’s ire may not be directed at you, but you feel it all the same. “We have no idea, and your professor was our best shot at figuring it out.” He looks at Heeseung. “Thanks to the stunt you pulled, we have no way of getting closer to him now.”

Heeseung glares back. “If by stunt, you mean saving someone’s life, then yes, I pulled a stunt.”

“And now there have been three more attacks in the last two days!”

“Wait.” For a moment, your voice reverberates off the walls as all seven of them fall into silence, gazes turning to you. Your face heats at the sudden influx of attention. Finding your words again, you state the obvious oddity. “But it doesn’t make any sense that Professor Kim is a vampire. He hates vampires. Everything New Haven has published is essentially just anti-vampire propaganda.”

“That’s another mystery,” Heeseung says. “Something else we were trying to figure out. And honestly, Jungwon, I don’t think it would have mattered. I told you, he scented me that day, so I’m sure he already knew—”

“That’s impossible.” Jungwon scoffs. 

“And yet it happened.” Heeseung frowns. “There’s something strange about him.”

Jungwon’s lips pull into a thin line. “Something that we’re no closer to finding out. It will take months for another one of us to get any sort of trust from him. Never mind access to New Haven.”

With the urgency of an alarm bell, an idea starts to take form in your mind. Rough around the edges but solid in shape. “I think I can help with that.” Again, seven pairs of eyes fall on you, all in varying states of disbelief. “I’m interning with him. At New Haven.”

Heeseung is the first to break the silence. “Like hell you are. Or did you forget that the last time he saw you, he shot you with poison?”

Sunghoon nods. “It does seem like a pretty bad idea.”

“No, it doesn’t.” You shake your head. “Think about it. He shot me with something that’s poisonous to vampires. And I think it’s because he saw Heeseung. If he really did… scent you, then he knew you were a vampire. I think… I think he might have been trying to protect me.”

The room is quiet for a moment, your inference settling into the air. It’s a long shot maybe, but it’s starting to come together. 

After a minute, Sunoo says tentatively, “She might be right.” No one else speaks up, but you see a few heads nod in agreement. 

Heeseung is quick to shut them down. “No way. No fucking way. Those are terrible odds, and I’m not betting on them. None of you should be either.”

But the more you think about it, the more it makes sense to you. Why else would your professor shoot you full of something poisonous to vampires? 

You try to think of the scene from his eyes. He walked in on you and Heeseung alone in a dark room. You were frightened out of your mind, and in the split second he had to analyze things, he could have misjudged the source of your fear. One vampire for another. 

So you double down. “I’m serious. This could be the in we need.”

“There is no we,” Heeseung shakes his head. “You’re not a part of this.”

His dismissal makes you bristle. If what Jungwon said is true, the attacks are only increasing, leaving more victims in their wake. And your professor may have unusual amounts of control, but he certainly wasn’t demonstrating that two nights ago. 

“So what, I’m supposed to go home, pretend that everything is normal, and just let people keep dying?” Your gaze meets Jungwon’s. “That’s what will happen, isn’t it? You said there were three more attacks just in the time I was unconscious. How many people have died now?”

Jungwon’s lips are tight. “Eleven.”

“Eleven people,” you echo. “If I go to Professor Kim and tell him—”

“You’re not going anywhere near that man,” Heeseung counters. “We’ll take care of it. It’s what we do.”

But his excuses are wearing thin in your mind, turning flimsy the more you consider them. “How? If he can identify you as vampires, then there’s no way you’ll ever get close enough to figure out how he might be connected to all of this.” You turn, addressing all seven of them. “I, on the other hand, have a draft written about the intrinsic evil of vampirism. I have a bite mark healing on my neck. If I go to him and say that I hate vampires too, that I was attacked by Heeseung, and his poison was the only thing that saved me, then I’ll earn his trust.”

Heeseung just scoffs, shaking his head. “Are the rest of you hearing this?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth hesitantly. “I mean… she kind of has a point.”

Heeseung glares. “Besides you.”

Sunoo frowns for a moment, parts his lips. 

Heeseung doesn’t let him get a word out. “Don’t even try it.” He turns to the others, something pleading in his gaze. “Jungwon, Jay, Niki, Jake, you have to see how insane this is. She’s a human.”

Your lips pull tight. “A human that’s standing right here.”

Jungwon maintains an even tone when he restates the simple fact, “If this professor truly can scent us, we don’t have any way of investigating him further. Not without using force.” He turns to look at you, gaze assessing. “Do you really think he’ll believe that you’re on his side?”

Do you? Maybe Heeseung is right. Maybe you’re betting on ludicrous odds, wasting the last of your luck on a game that was rigged from the beginning. But why inject you with a substance poisonous to vampires? Why publish all of those anti-vampire stories?

You match Jungwon’s eye. “I do.”

“Okay.” Jungwon nods, mulling it over in his mind. “Okay.”

Heeseung watches the exchange with heated eyes. “Absolutely not—”

“You’ve been overruled,” Jay interjects. 

“Six to one,” Niki agrees. Glancing at you, he amends, “Make that seven to one.”

Heeseung is still seeing red. “This isn’t a fucking group vote. We’re not deciding which coffee table to put in the living room. This is a life.” Turning to you, his voice softens, an edge of pleading in his tone. “This is your life.”

“Exactly.” You’re begging too, for a bit of understanding. “It’s my life. A week ago, it was completely consumed by winning an internship, getting my writing published. And now there are vampire attacks ravaging my city. The professor I wanted to impress so badly might just be one of them. Even if I walk away from here and vow to never go near New Haven again, my life won’t go back to what it was. I won’t be safe. So I’m going to do what I can to get back to the things that are important to me.” Eyes heating, you add, “So yes, I am a part of this now, whether you like it or not. And I have the marks on my neck to prove it.”

“Damn,” Sunghoon whistles lowly. “That was kind of beautiful.”

“You have a way with words,” Sunoo agrees. 

“Of course she does,” Jay nods. “Remember how frustrated Heeseung was a few months ago after she presented her analysis or whatever in class? He was so stressed he’d lose out on the internship bec—”

Heeseung’s glare could freeze hellfire. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“It’s late,” Jungwon interrupts, sensing the response that builds on Jay’s tongue. Pouring water over the flames before they can escalate into a full blown argument. Again, he addresses you. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight.” He glances around the room, and you imagine he’s trying to see things from your perspective. “Or any one of us would be happy to take you back home, if that’s what you prefer.”

There are aspects of your apartment that appeal to you. Sleeping in your own bed comes to mind. As does getting some distance from all of this. From him. You’ve taken in far too much information in the span of a few hours, and the throbbing against your temple has yet to ease. 

But your apartment is also empty. Quiet, isolated. With recent events in mind, you’re not sure it would feel like such a safe haven. If you’re quite ready to be truly alone. 

Still, you’re tentative. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re not,” Jake shakes his head. “It’s been a long few days. I’m sure you could use some rest.”

“Hasn’t she been asleep for, like, two days straight?” Sunghoon whispers to Jay. 

The only thing he gets in response is an elbow to the ribs. 

Jungwon ignores them. “You’re not overstaying anything. You can go home when you’re ready.”

“Ugh,” Niki grumbles. “Does that mean Heeseung’s gonna try and hang out in my room again? Because—”

He falls silent when at least three matching glares turn in his direction. 

Suddenly sheepish, you offer, “I can sleep somewhere else.” Glancing at Heeseung, you add, “I’m sure you want to sleep in your own bed again.” 

Heeseung just gives you a strange look. Niki bursts out laughing. 

“Damn,” Jay says. “Two hundred years really is a long time, I guess. Humans these days don’t remember anything about vampires.”

Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you realize your mistake. Of course. Not only are the boys in front of you blood-drinking immortal beings that have been alive since the early sixteenth century, but they also don’t sleep. 

Mollified, you feel the urge to defend yourself. “Why do you even have beds, then?”

This time, it’s Sunghoon that erupts in a fit of laughter. The other six avoid your gaze pointedly. 

You didn’t think it was possible, but once the realization sinks in, your cheeks heat even further. 

“Oh, cut the poor girl some slack,” Sunoo scolds. Turning to you, he’s kind when he explains, “We don’t sleep, but we do relax. An old force of habit, I suppose. It’s nice to just lay down sometimes.”

Jay can’t help himself. “Among other things, right Sunghoon?”

“Ignore them,” Jungwon advises. “Five hundred year old children.”

“Hey!” Sunghoon protests. “We’re not the ones that couldn’t handle a sex joke—”

Heeseung just sighs, a stray strand of hair falling over his eyes. For a moment, he looks like the boy you used to sit behind in class. Dreamy. Moody. Untouchable. So painfully out of reach that spite made you want to try anyway. 

He’s here now. Within your grasp. And when he looks at you, the quiet words he whispers are meant only for your ears. “I can walk you to my—er—your room, if you’re ready.”

You’re not ready. You don’t think you ever will be. But even a life spun on top of its head has a way of unfolding in predictable ways. Such is the nature of things, and so flows the progression of time. 

You don’t say anything, but you do nod. 

Trailing after him silently down the hallway you came from, you’re not sure if it feels more right to fall into step beside him or let him lead you. In the end, he makes the decision for you. Without breaking stride, Heeseung slows down until your shoulders are aligned, eyes facing forward. 

He doesn’t say anything as the two of you track a steady path to his bedroom. Mind leaden with the weight of the last five hundred years, you remain silent as well. Finally, you pass the common room again. 

He opens the door to his bedroom, steps to the side to let you walk in first. 

Unwittingly, your eyes land on the most conspicuous piece of furniture in the room. Your cheekbones are flaming again, and finding sleep in that bed suddenly feels like an arduous task. 

Heeseung follows your gaze. The golden glow of his skin remains the same, but his eyes flash with embarrassment. “You don't, uh…” He trails off. Even poets struggle with finding the right words at times. Finally, he settles on, “Not all of us live like Sunghoon.”

“He seems nice,” you say, desperate to draw your minds away from where they’ve wandered. 

“That’s one way of putting it.” But there’s affection in his voice when he says it. Brothers, you think. All of them. They seem like brothers. 

Heeseung’s eyes scan the expanse of his bedroom as if he’s looking at it for the first time. “There’s not much.” He seems almost apologetic for it. “But help yourself to whatever you like. The computer doesn’t have a password. And there’s books on the desk, too.”

“Thank you,” you tell him. And you mean it. He’s not someone you expected to be generous with their space, their belongings. Another aspect of him you had all wrong. 

“I’ll let you have some space then.” He pauses at the door. “Don’t be afraid to let me know if there's anything you need.”

“Okay,” you whisper. 

He hesitates a moment longer. You can see it in the curve of his lips, the arrangement of his features. There’s more he wants to say. Something else he wants to tell you. 

Instead, he closes the door behind him on his way out. Gently, so that it hardly makes a noise. 

His bed is comfortable when you lay down, even if your mind is still racing a million miles a minute. Distantly, you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat now. What he thinks of the way it picks up speed every time certain moments replay in your head. 

But despite yourself, despite him, despite everything, you manage to drift off after only a few long minutes. Tucked away in the corner of a strange home, the sleep that greets you is blissfully dreamless.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: WHEW. This is the most info-dumpy we'll be getting, so I hope this made for an enjoyable follow up to the first part regardless. The relationship between our two leads will really start to take off in the next part, as will the remaining aspects of the ~mystery~ now that (most of) the lore/backstory is covered. as always, I love to know what you're thinking!

[retiredteabag]

Unknown Rivals

Pairing: Sukuna x Reader

Synopsis: There was only one thing worse than being paired with Sukuna for an important school project, and that was realizing the slacker somehow had a higher class standing than yourself.

Tags: Academic rivals, enemies to eventual lovers, type A reader, anxiety, college!au

pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - next part

One thing was for sure about the past weekend, and that was the fact that your advisor knew not to assign you any future classes with this monster of a man.

You had three finals coming up, one of which came in the form of a presentation. And you had yet to practice said presentation and your partner scheduled that particular event at the most inconvenient of times. The whole endeavor was drawing a lot of your current anxiety. Of course, you didn't ask to reschedule.

You had looked over the combination of slides in your PowerPoint, waiting by the day for Sukuna to finalize his speaker notes, and everyday your distress only grew.

It was not uncommon for the dunning kruger effect to take hold of the arrogant men in your lectures. He may have brought up concerns about your own public speaking ability, but you have yet to see the man speak in full sentences before anyone.

Over inflated head, self-important, Oscar Wilde level egomaniac-

The class's presentations were split into two groups; the first half of the class would present on Thursday, and the latter half, on Friday. You were one of the unfortunate teams that would go first.

The nerves were getting to the point of being sickening every time you passed the auditorium. The hollow heartbeat swelled in your chest and you felt nauseated. Too soon, you would be in there, on that stage, stood beside that arrogant prick.

Being one of the first groups to speak might be better than having to be last; just get it over with... still, it wasn't great for gauging the audience, competition, or topics.

You were to present before the faculty, classmates, and employers looking for interns.

Maybe Sukuna had been correct. Yes, you could be "anal about this stuff", sure, but you had put too much money into your education to not put in equal effort. Since when was it a crime to try?

For the fifth time that week, you looked over his slides...still, no speaker notes on the later half.

He did look like the type to wing it. Read the SparkNotes and assume he could sound intellectual with the insertion of pauses and emphasis on basic information. For a normal assignment, a professor might be non the wiser, but for something as important as this final? He needed to know his stuff.

And what then, if he was asked a question? What if he didn't prepare? What if he crashed and burned? The smoke would affect you too.

That's why you find yourself waiting inside a private study room in the library that Wednesday. You had arrived right on time to the room you had reserved and were unpacking the contents of your bag when a pack of giggling students retched the door open.

There was a moment of silence that passed between all before you cleared your throat, "Sorry...I reserved this room..." the group looked around at each other, making pouty faces.

Eventually one of them spoke up, "Do you really need it?" They all shared a pitiful look, "Theres a lot more of us, we really need the room..."

You stood there for a moment, expecting someone in their friend group to have a speck of sense. It quickly became clear that none of them did, "Right... well, I'm sorry but I need the room too."

"Every other room is reserved by a group, this room is just you." One of them pointed out, speaking far too loudly to have the door open to the library stacks.

"I'm here to work with my project partner." You huffed, as if that made a difference. The room was yours! There was no way you were going to back down. You would be presenting tomorrow and needed a space to practice. "That's why I reserved the space."

They make faces as if you have committed some kind of hate crime, throwing their arms in the air in offense. "Your partner isn't even here, can't we just use it? You could literally go anywhere else."

The group nods at the boy who spoke up, fully supporting his argument as if he just slam-dunked you with a killer 2AR. You sigh looking down to check the time on your phone. If Sukuna wasn't here, you might as well just leave. Who’s to say he’ll come anyway?

You weigh your options, he hadn’t responded to your email this time either.

"Pretty sure it's you who can go anywhere else."

He wasn't loud, but his voice rang with conviction. Speak of the devil. You look away from your watch and observe his effect on the group.

Sukuna pulled the door back wider, he stood at least a head taller than the largest among them, and while he was never found with a smile on his face anyway, he looked particularly harsh in this moment.

"Can't we just-" one of the girls leaned into Sukuna, grabbing his bicep, "take the room?" She smiled sweetly, tracing an index finger over his arm, "There's a lot of us, you know?"

Sukuna practically jolts off of her, tearing his arm out of her grasp, and making a twisted face in the group's direction. "Get offa me." He moves through the rest of the students, tossing his bag onto the table with a bang.

You make brief eye contact before he watches you turn to see the pack of freshmen resolutely standing in the doorway. He swings back, rolling his eyes, "Now get out."

There wasn't any room for argument in his tone. The lot of them huffed and griped but made no real fuss as they crossed their arms and whispered insults. The door slowly slid shut.

You plug your laptop into the adapter, muttering, "Good to see you've finally showed up."

"I didn't have an attitude when you were late to the library."

He just stands there. Unzipping his bag on the ovular table in front of the projector.

You look at him, recalling that day well, you want to snip at him again but you cant help the short, somewhat shocked, laugh you let out.

He walks to the other side of the room, pulls out his notebook and looks at the screen. "So are we practicing, or what?"

"Oh, we're practicing, all right." You mutter to yourself.

You bring out the sheet from the first week you met in the library. It outlined the topics that each of you would need to cover. You open up the PowerPoint and turn to look at him, comfortably sitting down.

"We should probably start with introductions."

"We roleplaying this?" He sat with his legs spread on the swivel chair, arms crossed.

"You were the one who asked to practice." You point out, motioning for him to get up. "At the presentation, the students will have nametags, but we should still open up with a greeting so they know who to call on for questions."

He sighs, lifting himself from his seat like it took a great effort, he stood beside you, looking to his mock audience, he points to himself,

"Sukuna, Ryomen." Then he turns to look at you, jutting out his thumb in your direction, and as if it is the most natural thing in the world, calls out your full name.

It was so strange, you got caught searching for words. You had no idea he knew your name. If there was one thing obvious about Sukuna, it was his blatant dislike of his peers. It wasn't uncommon to see him rolling his eyes, or avoiding the fellow students that followed him around all the time.

"Right, okay, we'll smooth out that part later, for now, lets focus on the first few slides." You lean down and point out the screen of your laptop, "I'll go first. I’ll give my thesis as a roadmap for my information, then you can do yours."

You turn your face to the side, expecting him to still be standing behind you, listening to your explanation, but pull back in alarm to find his face right beside yours, he was focused on what you were pointing out on the slide.

You jolt back, taking a moment to regain your thoughts, "…I’ll get into my half and allow for a segway into yours.” He follows your motion, standing straight. “We'll have clickers.” You continue, “Let's just say that whoever finishes explaining the slide will be responsible for clicking to the next one, okay?"

He was so watchful, it was unnerving. Had he always been like this? Seeming bored, he gives you a nod. "Sure."

The following two hours flew by. It was actually nice to not have to dance around issues, you could be confrontational and know he wouldn't get offended. He was well versed in his area of the presentation, easily paraphrasing what he wanted people to grasp from his slides. It wasn't until he sat down, asking you to present for him that you started having issues.

"What?" He leaned back in his chair, spinning slightly, "Give your speech, do it like I'm the audience."

"No." You huff, "not if you don't." You point at him.

"I'll do it, but you go first, you we're the one who wanted to start us off anyway." He’s brought this on you somewhat out of nowhere.

You look around the room, feeling suddenly anxious. You had practiced both you and Sukuna’s parts to the point of near memorization. You had recorded your speaker notes and listened to them before bed nightly. You knew what to say. But you were feeling suddenly…shy?

"Don't act like I've put you on the spot," He waves a hand, "We're here to practice."

"I know." You look at your shoes, feeling small, stupid. It was embarrassing to have him watch you. He just screamed judgment. You huff, "Fine. Turn around."

He looked almost insulted at the notion. "What? No."

"Would you just do it?"

Assuming he wouldn’t complain, you wait for him to turn. He just squints at you,"I knew you worried over nothing but do you have stage fright too or something?" Sukuna leans down, elbows on his knees.

You didn't really know what the issue was. Performing on stage, you could probably disassociate long enough to not feel so uncomfortable, but here, alone, with only his eyes to see you, it was different somehow. "No...maybe... I don't know."

"Well." He shrugs, "Now's a great time to shake off those nerves. Go on, I'm sure you have all your information down."

He motions your way, and you force yourself to go over your work, starting from the top. You try to focus on your cadence, intonation, and scripted pauses from your recording. You turn to look in the corner of the room, mimicking the intentional body language you had meticulously practiced in front of your bathroom mirror.

You spent the time expressing what you would say rather than pretending to teach him. Having already used the room for hours, you simply focused on the main points of contention, explaining your slides with practiced ease. Once you finished, you moved onto his starting slide and cantered passed him to one of the opposing chairs.

He did not take your cue, getting up to present, however, opting instead to open his body language, "I woulda thought you had a script in front of you."

"Like you said, I actually know my information." You snark, huffing out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Starting to become tired and stressed at the idea of the upcoming exams.

He simply rolled his eyes as the suggestion that he might not, "You can't make eye contact."

He was speaking as if stating a fact. Your brows furrow, having been doing exactly that what he said you apparently couldn’t do. "When you're presenting, you don’t look at me" He continues. "It's weird, you have no problem with watching people but when you know that someone is watching you, you can't seem to acknowledge it."

Your mouth twists into a mock smirk; he reminded you in that moment of your previous first-year psych student roommate, who genuinely believed themself a genius among feckless plebs.

"When we're on stage, we won't be making eye contact with anyone really-" You were about to defend yourself before being interrupted.

"See. You’re doing it again. You can't look at me." He narrows an accusing finger in your general direction. Moving to stand, he grabs the clicker off the table and shifts into a teasing tone. "Here's how it's done."

You were still somewhat reeling from him pointing out a habit you didn't even know you were taking part in. Wondering suddenly if others had noticed it and if so, why nobody had said anything.

You felt suddenly irked and wanted to prove to him that, no, you very well could make intentional eye contact with someone making a point to notice you.

It was a grueling task, and, as you would find out, your brain seemed to be sending every 'I am uncomfortable' signal to your body while attempting it. You couldn't seem to stop swallowing, voluntarily blinking, or forcefully making your hands stop moving.

All these small tasks took up some serious mental effort but despite that, you were still able to take in his oratory skills.

For a man so lacking in the interpersonal communication sphere, he presented with poise, confidence, and knowledge on his subject. He paced himself well and it almost seemed as though his speech was conducted in a way that made note-taking ideal. He seemed aware of his space and motioned accordingly.

When he wasn't gesturing or looking back at the slides, he was looking at you, as if he was lecturing you with the information you had tirelessly slaved over when studying his speaker notes.

And on the topic of speaker notes? He totally strayed from them! He didn't even follow the same roadmap that you had seen nights before. You hated it, but none could deny, he was still a compelling speaker. You couldn't make a sensible complaint because of how undeniably well he spoke.

Besides, what kind of anal, control-freak, dictator of a school partner memorized someone else's speaker notes?

The issue arose in you suddenly that Sukuna doesn't need to make an effort like you do. He doesn't care to, he simply has the confidence in himself. He seemed to hold no anxiety and no care for how he was perceived. The only issue was, these types often flunked out of school, and here he was thriving.

While he wrapped up his slides, he crossed his arms over his chest, pointedly looking your way.

You think back to your previous interactions, Sukuna must see himself as so terribly generous, allowing you the time of day to practice with him. He likely thought the concept stupid. And worse? His efforts didn't ease your nerves, and they did not qualm your worries.

Your thoughts are cut off by the brisk striking of his knuckles on the table. You look up at him, "Get out of your thoughts." He slides past you to his bookbag, putting away a notebook. "We're in good shape."

You aren't sure what to say. You don't feel like you're in good shape but you don't want to discourage him, not that you thought it possible for him.

Before he slips out of the door, you turn to him, "I'm going to send you a list of mock questions so you can prepare some answers." He wouldn’t look at the email, you were sure.

He snorted a laugh, "Good to know you were paying attention."

And he was gone.

--

Sukuna was not terribly fond of school, that is, in the typical sense. He did enjoy learning and was dedicated to his area of study, sure, but being around people? He found it exhausting.

You hadn't stuck out to him, but it was hard to not notice you. You sat in the front of every single lecture, pristinely on time. You were one of the students that the professor felt inclined to call on. And he saw you in the library, often.

It was not until he had been enlisted as your partner for the practicum that he started to see why you had taken his notice.

At first, he shook it off, thinking himself crazy, but after three sessions in the library, it was clear what it was. You reminded him of someone.

You were just like his nephew.

Wednesdays and Fridays in the library, you would be rambling on about something, going over the expectations for the project draft, explaining the sources you wanted him to utilize, and he would be listening, sure, but he would be seeing Yuuji.

The little boy was a little shit, and despite being wildly more extroverted that yourself, he too was nervous about everything.

Sukuna was like a second parent to the boy, and as much as he would complain, he wouldn't change it for a thing.

It was weird, to see the kid in you. At first he stocked you up as a try-hard, but in reality, he assumes you're just scared. You really are just like that little boy.

--

You did not sleep well last night. You got to bed early but you simply couldn't slip away. And when you finally did pass over into restless sleep, you were promptly woken up by your own hyperactive consciousness.

You checked the clock each time. Had you really set that alarm? You would go over your script and the more you did, the sicker you felt. You craved more time to practice, you craved for your body to stop jittering with nerves, you craved to just fall asleep damn it!

After a few more hours of waking only to have found rest in literal minute increments, you arose. Dressed yourself and began to get ready.

Everything around you spoke of a good day, the weather was perfect, you looked great, and you had all the rehearsed information at the ready.

Still, internally, you couldn't reach peace.

Once you arrived at the auditorium, you spotted your professor and retrieved your nametag from him. Sukuna was no where to be found which only added to your panic. You paced in the box, the private room for speakers, behind the theater, and repeatedly touched your hair.

Even with potential hours to go, you were feeling overwhelmed, you were at the point of wishing you could just go first and be done with it all.

You were squeezing water out of a thin paper towel and placing it on your neck when the door creaked open.

You flipped to him, "Where have you been?!" You hissed.

You had plenty of time before you would be introduced but you couldn't hide the frustration in your voice.

Sukuna was dressed in a Mandarin suit, he looked perfectly relaxed and the notion only fueled your anger. "I had a class..."

He comes forward and sets his (backup) flash drive on the circular table in the middle of the loge. "Well, why didn't you say that before?” You make an exasperated face and feel your heartbeat quicken, “And where is your nametage?"

Even you could hear the hysterical twinge in your voice, you took a deep breath and told yourself to relax. He didn't say anything, just raised his brows while reaching behind to retrieve the very thing from his back pocket.

Embarrassed, you tear the makeshift cloth from your neck and rush to sit on the couch. You scrap the towel to shreds before disposing of it.

"Everything's in order, we'll be alright." He didn't come to join you on the sofa but watched from the side of the box. He didn’t sound comfortable but he certainly seemed to believe his own words.

"It doesn't even really matter." You had been telling yourself this very thing for weeks when someone took notice of how concerned you were. Not a part of you believed it but you hoped the phrase would ease your mind anyway.

"Oh, it matters." Sukuna laughed.

You wanted to be mad, but in all reality, he was just saying what you knew, him lying would not have comforted you. He started to come over now.

"It just isn't so important that you need to kill yourself over it." You rolled your eyes, knowing what he was saying.

"If we bomb, then that's that, so what?" He tossed his hands up slightly.

You looked at him, and without even needed to study his face, you knew he meant it. He believed it. ‘So what?’ You roll the words around in your brain, shaking your head. You couldn't have stopped the words from escaping.

"I hate people like you." You mutter it, undertones of a laugh there, nothings amusing. "Seriously, I hate how you can just say that."

He isn't mad. The bastard grins, "Oh, trust me, I know."

And then he’s leaving the room. You don't have much time to wonder about what exactly he was doing. You hadn’t thought he would be upset at your declaration. Then again, you hadn’t exactly been thinking when you said it.

What had he meant, that he knew? I guess a guy like him just assumes everyone who isn’t perfectly relaxed at all times is a suck up.

When he returned, he was carrying water bottles and complimentary fruit from outside the auditorium doors. This time around he does come sit, right next to you.

"Have some."

You don't feel thirst but you still accept it when he cracks open the bottle for you. He places the fruit on the table before you both and takes a drink himself.

"I didn't really mean that, I'm just jealous of how you live." He's leaned back and his suit pants clung to his legs.

He purses his lips and shifts his head from side to side, smirking, Mmm, I don't know, I think you actually meant it."

You both chuckle, the nerves are still getting to you. "I still hate you for what you did earlier this semester." You lighten your voice but glance his way to show you do mean it.

He turns his head now, brow raised but still comfortably leaning against the back of the couch. "What did I do earlier this semester?"

You laugh, rolling your eyes. It takes him a moment before he sees you’re not gonna reply, "No, what did I do?"

"The whole beginning of this project." You muse. He still isn't catching what you're saying so you motion with your hands. "Our meetings, in the library? You never told me you were top of the class."

“Should I go out and advertise it?" He clearly isn't getting what you mean.

"No, Sukuna, it sucks because you never told me that you were well versed in the class material.” He still doesn’t seem to grasp the issue, “I’m saying, it made me feel stupid to find out that the guy I thought I was tutoring was actually competing with me."

"It made you feel stupid?"

"In a way. Like you were mocking me."

Sukuna frowns, he leans onto his knees. "I wasn't mocking you."

"You say that." You poke his shoulder and he looks at you quizzically.

In all actuality, it was nice to be able to tell him these things, you didn't feel that anger anymore. As of it had rolled off, only shame lingered.

"I never minded our sessions in the library. I guess it made things easier, you're so..." he reaches for the word,

“Anal?” You recount when he had called you that very thing.

He rolls his eyes, "Organized."

"Thanks." Your voice is low, sarcastic.

He shrugs. Some of the nerves have left you, but suddenly you're hearing voices in the auditorium, one specifically telling people to file in through the doors, and you know you'll be speaking soon.

He turns to look at you again, legs parallel to your own, his palms flat on his thighs, "You care too much about what others think."

He's doing that thing, that I'm-going-to-make-intentional-eye-contact-with-you-and-it-will-be-an-unspoken-comeptition-to-prove-you-can't-do-it thing.

"Maybe you're too carefree." You offer silently.

Soon, someone will come through the doors before you with mic packs and you'll have tape on your face. Your heart pounds. "You should feel okay without having to prove that you’re worthy of validation from others."

He reaches forward for his water bottle, voices can be heard above you, to your sides. People are taking their seats. "You're a smart girl."

And for the second time this week, he says your name and it feels just as strange as it had that first time. "And you didn't have to prove it for me to see it."

And with everything else occurring in this moment, you feel the most upset about the fact that the obnoxious Sukuna Ryomen might just bring unshed tears to your eyes.

You’re silent as you stand, brushing unseen dust off your clothing. Sukuna is stood there by the door that leads to the area behind the stage, his hand is outstretched.

You look around frantically, turning to find his clicker that he must have left on the table, but before you can start searching, he scoffs.

He leans forward and grabs your arm, spinning you gently. He robotically shows you his hand again and places your own in it.

Oh.

He tightens his encompassing palm around your own and makes a tugging sensation to pull you ahead of him through the door he held open.

People in the tech crew were setting everything up and called you each over to get your mics on.

When he lets you go, your hand twitches involuntarily.

You hadn’t realized how cold you were until you felt the warmth of his hand. And for some reason, you couldn’t think of much else as you got mic’d up, despite the ever growing voiced in the audience.

〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰〰・♡・〰

Tags: @blueyesuguru @monimonster57 @p1nkfl0wers @giasssslife @csolya @esmedelacroix @sukubusss @v1sque @clp-84 @snowsilver2000 @blueemochii @bitchyfestivalbouquet @rodeorun @chosolovrrr @minethy

(if your name is here but you didn’t get tagged. I think it’s either because your blog is new/blank/empty where you need to check your privacy settings.) :[

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Dom!Steddie x Sub!Reader | Includes: threesome, anal, monstercockSteve™, oral (f receiving) masturbation, spit, piss, praise, degradation | I don’t know what happened; I was jotting down a thought, my finger slipped, and this ended up in my notes app at 3 AM…

Eddie’s fingers are on your ass, keeping your cheeks spread wide, his breath blowing cool against your lips when he says, “Go on, baby. Sit down.”

He makes his request sound so effortless when in reality, taking Steve Harrington’s cock up your ass is anything but easy. You wiggle your hips, carefully sinking over Steve’s tip…the wet squelch of lube and Steve’s grunt of pleasure, his hot breath on your back, making your clit throb.

Eddie’s cock is in his hand, slicked with lube as he fucks himself…watching you slowly impale yourself on Steve’s monster of a cock… Your tight little asshole has somehow managed to swallow his tip, but Eddie knows you can do better. He strokes the pad of his thumb along your bottom lip, pulling it downward gently and spitting into your mouth. You swallow obediently for Eddie, even as you’re being split in half by another man’s cock. “That’s a good girl,” Eddie murmurs with a grin. “I knew you’d take whatever I give you.”

Eddie looks over your shoulder to meet Steve’s eyes as he strokes himself. “Right now, I’m giving you Steve’s cock,” Eddie says. “So be a good girl, and fucking take it.”

Steve’s big hands leave your hips for a moment. You hear him uncapping the bottle of lube, and seconds later, a generous amount of the slippery liquid lands between your ass cheeks. Steve tosses the bottle aside, his hands returning to your hips…he gently guides you up and down on his cock, slowly pumping your ass full of the added lube. Everything is much smoother now; the friction is gone. You’re able to sink further down Steve’s shaft, till you’re sitting on his lap, his massive cock buried inside your ass.

The look of pride and wonder on Eddie’s face has you beaming, any previous discomfort completely forgotten, eclipsed by the high of knowing you’ve pleased him. Steve is on a high of his own, his head dipped back, not moving his hips at all. He’s basking in the grip of the tightest hole he’s ever filled. His hands are still on your hips, squeezing the pudgy meat of your upper thighs. Eddie is positioned across from you and Steve, his cock pointed at your tits as he jerks it.

Eddie leans forward, bending slightly at the knees so he can rub the tip of his dick against your clit. You shiver as his skin meets yours. Eddie’s plump tip is slick with a mix of lube and precum. He rubs himself around your clit in slow circles, dipping his tip between your lips, spreading them apart purely for his own amusement. You begin to whine, a pitiful, pathetic little plea that strokes Eddie’s already-inflated ego.

“Awwww,” he coos condescendingly. “Is it because I’m not playing with your little clit anymore? Poor baby.” Eddie spanks his cock against your clit, making you buck on top of Steve, a low groan leaving you both. Eddie kneels in front of you and presses his mouth into your cunt. The sounds you make are absolutely primal, desperate grunts of pleasure and pain, as Eddie eats you mercilessly, sucking your clit so hard it’s swelling between his lips.

He jerks himself to climax while eating you, spilling his release on the floor between your feet and Steve’s. Eddie sits down across from the two of you, admiring his work…the way you’re an absolutely fucked-out mess already…your head fallen back against Steve’s shoulder, lips parted, eyes rolled back inside your head. Steve’s hands are groping all over you, the curves of your stomach, the swell of your breasts, one hand settling around your throat as he plants hot, open kisses against your neck. His thrusts are gentle at first, making sure you’re comfortable, building to a point where he’s drilling you raw. Eddie is intoxicated by the view in front of him, the way you bounce like a puppet on Steve’s cock, his big hand clamped over your throat holding you in place like a collar, like he fucking owns you.

And a girl like you should be owned, Eddie thinks to himself, should know she’s loved and protected and safe with her men. You have their complete trust, and they have yours.

So when Eddie decides to relieve himself on your pussy, you don’t object at all. It fucking gets you off, watching Eddie stride over to you, stand between Steve’s knees and aim his cock at your pussy…a hot stream of piss emptying onto your clit and trickling between your lips…joining his cum on the floor with a loud spatter, making an absolute fucking mess… And Steve is so busy splitting your ass in two, he doesn’t even register what’s going on… When he does, when Steve realizes that Eddie just pissed all over you, it’s so fucking filthy that Steve comes immediately. He pumps your ass full to the brim, overfilling you till semen is oozing out of your hole and onto Steve’s lap.

Eddie grabs two towels, tosses one on the ground over his piss and cum, and hands the other to Steve. Taking your hands in his, Eddie helps you slowly work your way off of Steve’s dick, while Steve cleans up the mess left behind on his lap. The three of you stagger to the shower, clean up, then fall into bed for the deepest sleep of your lives…

[wakeup01]

Two Twinks, One Wish

“So Charlie, what did you wish for Christmas?”

“Really? Can we just watch the movie?” I say, annoyed.

Daniel had been my boyfriend for about a month now and had recently moved into my flat, just in time for Christmas. Since then things had been a struggle, he would continually whine about my inadequacies - how I didn’t tidy enough, didn’t appreciate him and most of all how I was a terrible top.

See, the problem was, we were both twinks. We had the same skinny body type, with barely any muscle definition. The only real difference being he had the better ass. Admittedly, I had a severe lack of confidence in the bedroom, frequently failing to get in the mood. Daniel on the other hand was very particular about what he liked and what he expected.

“Come on! You must be able to think of something. God knows there’s enough things you can be better at…” Daniel chastised.

Even now he had turned a harmless movie night into another chance to take petty digs. We were on the couch watching some cheesy xmas film, where the protagonist makes wishes that magically come true. Now he was insisting for me to make some stupid wish.

“Why don’t you go first? You seem to have a lot of ideas in mind.” I shoot back, not taking my eyes off the screen.

“Hmm, I got the perfect one! Charlie, I wish… you were a better top!” He laughs and nudges into my shoulder.

I roll my eyes, of course, I should of guessed this is where things were heading. Ugh. Out of nowhere I feel a chill wash over my whole body and a tightness take hold in my chest. After a moment the feeling subsides.

“Very funny. Have you been thinking that one up all night.” My voice dripping in sarcasm.

I shift in my seat slightly, a dull warmth emanating from my crotch. I must be feeling unwell, I’m definitely not being turned on by his degrading remarks. But the heat doesn’t fade, in fact it only grows in intensity. I get the impulse to grope at my growing bulge, the tightness straining against my jeans. Daniel would never live it down If I did, but it was becoming rather uncomfortable.

“You look a little flustered there… ah. I see. Are you really getting horny from this? Christ, you’re pathetic.” Daniel scolds, reaching his hand down.

Before I can object he unzips my trousers and pulls down the waistband of my briefs. My cock bursts forth and slaps against my chest, pre already leaking from it’s tip. Except it’s not my cock, this monster is almost twice my normal size. And my balls are inflating in front of my very eyes.

“What the hell?” I shout.

“Woah, oh shit, it’s working. It’s a Christmas miracle!” He exclaims in barely contained glee.

“Daniel, what did you do!” My voice cracks.

My dick continues to snake up my torso, going from 5 inches, to 7 then to 8. As it grows, so does my hornyness, overpowering my head as I fall into a drunken stupor. This is the most intense erection I’ve ever felt. My hand rubs up and down the entire length and I attempt to wrap my fingers around it, before discovering its girth is now thicker than my hand.

“Nice cock ‘bro’. Good tops are well equipped downstairs. And now, you are too. Hahaha” I look over and see him smirk at me.

He’s enjoying this far too much for my liking, but I’m in no position to fight back. Why did he make that stupid wish, I better not be stuck with this forever. At this point I don’t think my cock would even fit into any underwear I own. How exactly can I walk around with this thing swinging between my legs.

“You know who makes good tops? Jocks. That cocky attitude and carefree nature, coasting through life without thinking.” Daniel suggests, wistfully.

Jocks are also narcissistic morons. And I’m certainly not going to be one just to be a better ‘top’. I’m suddenly distracted by a chafing from my rear, a pair of straps seem to be cupping the cheeks of my tight butt. Below my balls now sits a stained pouch, the smell of musk rising from it hits my nose and I recoil.

“I think it’s jockstraps only from now on Charlie. And woof, sweaty ones at that.”

All of my senses are being overpowered, it’s like my head is in a vice that keeps on tightening. The film in front of me becomes a blur, my focus shattered by the intense pleasure from my new cock.

“Cock.” I blurt out.

I hear Daniel laughing from out of view.

My head is starved of oxygen as all the blood rushes to my groin, I’ve never been this horny before. I feel the strangest sensation as my brain thickens, filling up with throbbing meat. All the space padded out until I’m holding up a heavy dumbbell on the end of my neck. My thoughts were still there, somewhere, but it took so long to find them. It was quicker and easier to just embrace jockdom, stop worrying so much and just go along with the flow. If I was unsure of what to say then bro, I’d just say ‘bro’! A bro can fill in sentences with ‘bro’ and everyone will know what a bro they are. And bro? Being labeled as a dumb bro means no one expects anything meaningful from me. Brawn over brains is the mantra of my life dude.

“Jock’s also like to wear their bro-hood on their sleeves, and in your case, quite literally.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth I feel a sharp pain, as if a hundred needles are stabbing down my arm. I brace myself before glancing down. And there it was, 🍖 the meat emoji tattooed on my left hand. Huhhuh, awesome bro. Branded a meathead for life.

“Bro?” I ask slowly, my voice now considerably deeper.

“Yeah ‘Chad?’” Daniel emphasises.

The name immediately sticks to me like glue. Chad. I am such a Chad. I have some distant recollection of being someone else, but I can’t be bothered to search my brain for it. There’s a more pressing concern.

“Bruh, I need to empty my balls.” I grunt. The pressure from my engorged member becoming unbearable.

“Then you know what to do. Good muscle tops have their cocks milked every day.”

I grip my cock and begin pumping in earnest, my jaw hanging open. As I masturbate, my hands and arms bulk up with muscle. I see my veins very noticeably pop out. I feel a desperate urge to flex, letting one hand go from my dick. I ball it into a fist and raise it to the side of my head, squeezing my biceps. My arm pulses with meat, sending a vain satisfaction to my pleasure center.

“Good dumb tops spend all their time in the gym or on the field. Sculpting their body into the perfect chiselled shape.” His nasally voice instructs.

Muscle continues to form all over my lithe frame; my shoulders broaden and my chest ripples into a tight 6 pack. My clothes are loudly ripped to shreds. Memories enter my head of spending hours working out, of hanging with the other jocks and forming a vacant facade of a personality. Sweat drips from my hairy armpits, staining the couch under me. The room quickly starts smelling like a gym, my rank feet tearing free from my socks. My face cracks as it squares out into a more defined outline, brow growing heavy above my distant eyes. My body is now taking up most of the couch as Daniel budges over to the side. I quicken my pace, pumping now with both hands. My balls tighten.

“Fuck yeah brah.” I roar, reaching climax.

My cock spurts rope after rope of musky cum directly at my face, I’m left covered in my own seed. Daniel leans over to me and begins to eagerly lick at my face. He savours my taste on his tongue before swallowing. The sign of an expert bottom, huhuhu.

“Mmm. Great Tops know how to take control. And you’re a great top Chad.” Daniel moans in lust.

He’s right.

“Dude, this film is fucking dull. I’m changing to the sports channel bro. There’s a sick game playing today.” My hands take the remote and switch to a noisy football game.

I grab Daniels’s tiny little body and force him onto my lap. I flex again and push his face into my armpit. His tongue drags along my wiry dank hair. He moves his hand between my legs and starts passionately fingering his hungry ass hole, using my cum as lube. I hear him panting heavily like a dog. Man, my boyfriend is such a whiny brat…

“Bro, it’s my turn.” My cocky voice booms.

“What?” I hear his muffled voice cry out.

“Uhh… I wish… I wish you were a Bro like me, Bro.” I smirk.

“Wait, noooo!” He screams.

His body shudders and contorts as I hold his face to my pits with my newfound strength. He packs on pounds of muscle in a matter of seconds. Dan’s moaning turns to grunts. He’s going to make for such a Good. Arrogant. Dumb. Bro.

I watch his dong stretch down his leg, his balls sagging between his thickening thighs. The head of Dan’s veiny cock leaking like a faucet. A pair of juicy pecs push out from his chest and his adam apple swells. I pull away the remains of his clothes, letting them fall to the ground.

Dan’s dainty feet beef up to a size 12, sweat gathering between his toes - smelling like a real man should. I feel his previously fat bubble butt tense with lean muscle on my lap. With a squeak, his thoroughly abused fuck hole tightens shut, never to be stretched open again. He only tops after all, like me.

I release my grip on him and he pulls away, my sweat covering his square jawed face. He stuffs his junk into a jockstrap, looking barely concealed as it throbs with need. His messy hair has receded into a clean as fuck buzzcut. We now look almost identical, except that his meat emoji 🍖 tattoo is engraved on his right hand.

“Bro!” Dan’s voice deepens.

“Let’s go find some sluts to breed, bro.” We both smirk at each other and flex.

[diamonddeputy]

Okay I put this together for a buddy who couldn’t make it so I may as well put it here too now that I have it all in one place

All the dev commentary I picked up from the UTY anniversary stream

PLEASE REBLOG WITH ANYTHING I MAY HAVE MISSED

• It apparently took them FOREVER to solidify a design for Decibat. One of the early concepts was a literal baseball bat with wings and I enjoy this fact very much

• They originally had an idea that Dalv would accidentally try and move into Martlet’s house after leaving the Ruins LMAO

• They expanded on this piece of concept art that had been floating around: there were never really plans for the Feisty Five to be evil, they just made their own wanted posters to inflate their own egos LOL

• I didn’t really write any of the specifics down, but listening to them talk about the Flowey fight was so interesting because they were all chiming in about who worked on what parts and where the inspirations were from and where they sourced their materials. Some details I remember off the top of my head:

- Flowey’s voice lines were pulled from the same McDonald’s commercial as his canon ones

- The audio for the scene where Martlet melts before Meta Flowey was a combination of a stock laugh and a clip one of the devs just so happened to have, when they used to edit for a YouTube channel, and the file got corrupted and just randomly made that sound

- The heartbeat monitor sound that plays during the Organic speciman is taken from the frequency of an actual human heart. Don’t remember the story about how they acquired that one

- The graphics for the Polygonal speciman were inspired by PS1 horror, Ben Drowned and that meme that went around in the late 2010s of a gif of a bug that made it look like a bug was on your screen (in specific reference to the little Flowey gremlins that crawl down the screen)

- They originally had plans to include a spectrogram in the fight, but decided it would make them seem too tryhardy

• There were plans for an underwater segment that were scrapped extremely early in development, something about a bridge in Waterfall breaking

• The comment Starlo makes in the Wild East about there being a fourth mission that was scrapped from the regimen is a reference to a literal fourth mission that the devs cut because they felt like it killed the pacing, where Virgil would kidnap the Feisty Five and tie them up in places around town and you had to go rescue them and it was a stealth game type thing

• - The designs for the Feisty Five have a lot of funny inspirations

- Ed was originally designed to be a normal monster, but they liked his design so much they used it for something more important

- Initial concepts of Moray’s design had them in a fisherman’s cap or a paper boat hat, to show how unserious they were about this. Also, they weren’t originally designed to be Angie and Gillbert’s child, a playtester just made that assumption and they were like y’know what sure we’ll roll with it

- Mooch’s design originated from a Minecraft RP OC that one of the devs had that she never got to use. Which is iconic tbh

• Mo was inspired by this lil dude, who showed up and had babies in one of the devs’ attic. Additionally, while coding the game, there were little variables they put in for fun like a timer. One of them was a number that just incrementally increased, and was labelled “Crimes that Mo has committed”

• The fact that sparing Dalv doesn’t abort Geno, that everyone chalked up to being a genius narrative decision, was AN OVERSIGHT??????? It was a coding error caused by the fact that they were initially gonna make everything that happens in the Dark Ruins not count towards any route, like Flowey implies in his dialogue, but they went back on that decision and fixed it for everyone except Dalv. They made a comment on stream like “we should really fix that” and everyone in chat was like PLEASE don’t LOL

• There were never really concepts for a Geno Starlo fight. And a lot of it is the reasons the fandom talks about that he’s a coward before his character development and it makes more sense for him to back out in the face of real danger. But also because in terms of power level, it didn’t make sense for him to stand a chance. And also because they were making all the routes at once and designing the boss fights at equal times and this was the first chance they got to make a boss fight for Ceroba LOL. But the plan was already set by that point that it was gonna be her instead of him

• No one truly knows the origins of the super faded silhouette standing in the background of the UG Apartments shop in Geno. Apparently the dude who made the CG just. Put it there

• We got more insight into the Martlet transformation animation. It was made with SO much purpose. If you look closely, she starts to melt and the determination puddles underneath her, but then she gains control of it and the puddle ABSORBS BACK INTO HER, then shoots out in a burst when her first wing transforms. THAT’S SO COOL

• Additionally, they also canonized that Martlet took the determination before Alphys had any of the fallen-down bodies, and that she had no idea what it actually WAS, other than that it had something to do with the human SOULs. Which makes this even MORE impressive because she wasn’t intrinsically prepared to control determination, she just DID it

• Additionally, they also canonized that Martlet took the determination before Alphys had any of the fallen-down bodies, and that she had no idea what it actually WAS, other than that it had something to do with the human SOULs. Which makes this even MORE impressive because she wasn’t intrinsically prepared to control determination, she just DID it

• The dive-bomb attack Martlet does in her first-phase Zenith fight was inspired by Dyna Blade, as a Kirby fan that fact just made me happy lol

• Retribution was the last song made for the game, and was composed in just a couple days, which is WILD to me

• We got confirmation that Flowey is still in control of saves after defeating Axis in Geno, and Clover’s text in the overworld/after dying is just them being so focused on their mission that they’re drowning out everything else

• CANNOT forget The Jincident

[sneksnack]

What if Monster Hunter had a Leviathan based on a Moray Eel?

Echidnodroth is an eel-like Leviathan that usually inhabits rocky reefs and shallow seas, but it will come ashore to beaches and wetlands to hunt and attract mates.

It's most notable for its set pharyngeal jaws that lash out at blinding speeds to snag both prey and Hunter alike.

When agitated, it fills a special organ in its throat with air or water, causing it to become inflated like a balloon. Extra precaution must be taken when it becomes inflated, as Echidnodroth will slam it's spiky head around like a club.

This wyvern's hard scales make it resistant to fire and thunder attacks. It also moves incredibly fast both in and out of water. Take advantage of this Monster's cold blooded body by utilizing ice weapons, which will impede it's movements. It large, seratted middle talon is used like a scythe, but break it to slow this slippery devil down.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The housing emergency and the second Trump term

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveill ance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/11/nimby-yimby-fimby/#home-team-advantage

Postmortems and blame for the 2024 elections are thick on the ground, but amidst all those theories and pointed fingers, one explanation looms large and credible: the American housing emergency. If the system can't put a roof over your head, that system needs to go.

American housing has been in crisis for decades, of course, but it keeps getting worse…and worse…and worse. Americans pay more for worse housing than at any time in their history. Homelessness is at a peak that is soul-crushing to witness and maddening to experience. We turned housing – a human necessity second only to air, food and water – into an asset governed almost entirely by market forces, and so created a crisis that has consumed the nation.

The Trump administration has no plan to deal with housing. Or rather, they do have plans, but strictly of the "bad ideas only" variety. Trump wants to deport 11m undocumented immigrants, and their families, including citizens and Green Card holders (otherwise, that would be "family separation" and that's cruel). Even if you are the kind of monster who can set aside the ghoulishness of solving your housing problems by throwing someone in a concentration camp at gunpoint and then deporting them to a country where they legitimately fear for their lives, this still doesn't solve the housing emergency, and will leave America several million homes short.

Their other solution? Deregulation and tax cuts. We've seen this movie before, and it's an R-rated horror flick. Financial deregulation created the speculative mortgage markets that led to the 2008 housing crisis, which created a seemingly permanent incapacity to build new homes in America, as skilled tradespeople retired or changed careers and housebuilding firms left the market. Handing giant tax cuts to the monopolists who gobbled up the remains of these bankrupt small companies minted a dozen new housing billionaires who preside over companies that make more money than ever by building fewer homes:

https://www.fastcompany.com/91198443/housing-market-wall-streets-big-housing-market-bet-has-created-12-new-billionaires

This isn't working. Homelessness is ballooning. The only answer Trump and his regime have for our homeless neighbors is to just make it a crime to be homeless, sweeping up homeless encampments and busting homeless people for "loitering" (that is, existing in space). There is no universe in which this reduces homelessness. People who lose their homes aren't going to dig holes, crawl inside, and pull the dirt down on top of themselves. If anything, sweeps and arrests will make homelessness worse, by destroying the possessions, medication and stability that homeless people need if they are to become housed.

Today, The American Prospect published an excellent package on the housing emergency, looking at its causes and the road-tested solutions that can work even when the federal government is doing everything it can to make the problem worse:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-tackling-the-housing-crisis/

The Harris campaign ran on Biden's economic record, insisting that he had tamed inflation. It's true that the Biden admin took action against monopolists and greedflation, including criminal price-fixing companies like Realpage, which helps landlords coordinate illegal conspiracies to rig rents. Realpage sets the rents for the majority of homes in major metros, like Phoenix:

https://www.azag.gov/press-release/attorney-general-mayes-sues-realpage-and-residential-landlords-illegal-price-fixing

Of course, reducing inflation isn't the same as bringing prices down – it just means prices are going up more slowly. And sure, inflation is way down in many categories, but not in housing. In housing, inflation is accelerating:

https://www.latimes.com/opinion/story/2024-03-08/inflation-housing-shortage-economy-cpi-fed-interest-rate

The housing emergency makes everything else worse. Blue states are in danger of losing Congressional seats because people are leaving big cities: not because they want to, but because they literally can't afford to keep a roof over their heads. LGBTQ people fleeing fascist red state legislatures and their policies on trans and gay rights can't afford to move to the states where they will be allowed to simply live:

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/11/business/economy/lgbtq-moving-cost.html

So what are the roots of this problem, and what can we do about it? The housing emergency doesn't have a unitary cause, but among the most important factors is fuckery that led to the Great Financial Crisis and the fuckery that followed on from it, as Ryan Cooper writes:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-housing-industry-never-recovered-great-recession/

The Glass-Steagall Act was a 1933 banking regulation created to prevent Great Depression-style market crashes. It was killed in 1999 by Bill Clinton, who declared, "the Glass–Steagall law is no longer appropriate." Nine years later, the global economy melted down in a Great Depression-style market crash fueled by reckless speculation of the sort that Glass-Steagall had prohibited.

The crash of 2008 took down all kinds of industries, but none were so hard-hit as home-building (after all, mortgages were the raw material of the financial bubble that popped in 2008). After 2008, construction of new housing fell by 90% for the next two years. This protracted nuclear winter in the housing market killed many associated industries. Skilled tradespeople retrained, or "left the job market" (a euphemism for becoming disabled, homeless, or destroyed). Waves of bankruptcies swept through the construction industry. The construction workforce didn't recover to pre-crisis levels for 16 years (and of course, by then, there was a huge backlog of unbuilt homes, and a larger population seeking housing).

Meanwhile, the collapse of every part of the housing supply chain – from raw materials to producers – set the stage for monopoly rollups, with the biggest firms gobbling up all these distressed smaller firms. Thanks to this massive consolidation, homebuilders were able to build fewer houses and extract higher profits by gouging on price. They doubled down on this monopoly price-gouging during the pandemic supply shocks, raising prices well above the pandemic shortage costs.

The housing market is monopolized in ways that will be familiar to anyone angry about consolidation in other markets – from eyeglasses to pharma to tech. One builder, HR Horton, is the largest player in 3 of the country's largest markets, and it has tripled its profits since 2005 while building half as many houses. Modern homebuilders don't build: they use their scale to get land at knock-down rates, slow-walk the planning process, and then farm out the work to actual construction firms at rates that barely keep the lights on:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/its-the-land-stupid-how-the-homebuilder

Monopolists can increase profits by constraining supply. 60% of US markets are "highly concentrated" and the companies that dominate these markets are starving homebuilding in them to the tune of $106b/year:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=3303984

There are some obvious fixes to this, but they are either unlikely under Trump (antitrust action to break up builders based on their share in each market) or impossible to imagine (closing tax loopholes that benefit large building firms). Likewise, we could create a "homes guarantee" that would act as an "automatic stabilizer." That would mean that any time the economy slips into recession, this would trigger automatic funding to pay firms to build public housing, thus stimulating the economy and alleviating the housing supply crisis:

https://www.peoplespolicyproject.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/04/SocialHousing.pdf

The Homes Guarantee is further explained in a separate article in the package by Sulma Arias from People's Action, who describes how grassroots activists fighting redlining planted the seeds of a legal guarantee of a home:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-why-we-need-homes-guarantee/

Arias describes the path to a right to a home as running through the mass provision of public housing – and what makes that so exciting is that public housing can be funded, administered and built by local or state governments, meaning this is a thing that can happen even in the face of a hostile or indifferent federal regime.

In Paul E Williams's story on FIMBY (finance in my back yard), the executive director of Center for Public Enterprise offers an inspirational story of how local governments can provide thousands of homes:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-fimby-finance-in-my-backyard/

Williams recounts the events of 2021 in Montgomery County, Maryland, where a county agency stepped in to loan money to a property developer who had land, zoning approval and work crews to build a major new housing block, but couldn't find finance. Montgomery County's Housing Opportunities Commission made a short-term loan at market rates to the developer.

By 2023, the building was up and the loan had been repaid. All 268 units are occupied and a third are rented at rates tailored to low-income tenants. The HOC is the permanent owner of those homes. It worked so well that Montgomery's HOC is on track to build 3,000 more public homes this way:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/08/25/business/affordable-housing-montgomery-county.html

Other – in red states! – have followed suit, with lookalike funds and projects in Atlanta and Chattanooga, with "dozens" more plans underway at state and local levels. The Massachusetts Momentum Fund is set to fund 40,000 homes.

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/08/25/business/affordable-housing-montgomery-county.html

The Center for Public Enterprise has a whole report on these "Government Sponsored Enterprises" and the role they can play in creating a supply of homes priced at a rate that working people can afford:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-fimby-finance-in-my-backyard/

Of course, for a GSE to loan money to build a home, that home has to be possible. YIMBYs are right to point to restrictive zoning as a major impediment to building new homes, and Robert Cruickshank from California YIMBY has a piece breaking down the strategy for fixing zoning:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-make-it-legal-to-build/

Cruickshank lays out NIMBY success stories in cities like Austin and Minneapolis adopting YIMBY-style zoning rules and seeing significant improvements in rental prices. These success stories are representative of a broader recognition – at least among Democratic politicians – that restrictive zoning is a major contributor to the housing emergency.

Repeating these successes in the rest of the country will take a long time, and in the meantime, American tenants are sitting ducks for predatory landlords, With criminal enterprises like Realpage enabling collusive price-fixing for housing and monopoly developers deliberately restricting supplies to keep prices up (a recent Blackrock investor communique gloated over the undersupply of housing as a source of profits for its massive portfolio of rental properties), tenants pay more and more of their paychecks for worse and worse accommodations. They can't wait for the housing emergency to be solved through zoning changes and public housing. They need relief now.

That's where tenants' unions come in, as Ruthy Gourevitch and Tara Raghuveer of the Tenant Union Federation writes in their piece on the tenants across the country who are coordinating rent strikes to protest obscene rent-hikes and dangerous living conditions:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-12-11-look-for-the-tenant-union/

They describe a country where tenants work multiple jobs, send the majority of their take-home pay to their landlords – a quarter of tenants pay 70% of their wages in rent – and live in vermin-filled homes without heat or ventilation:

https://www.phenomenalworld.org/analysis/terms-of-investment/

Public money from Freddie Mae and Fannie Mac flood into the speculative market for multifamily homes, a largely unregulated, subsidized speculative bonanza that lets the wealthy make bets and the poor pay their losses.

In response, tenants unions are popping up all across the country, especially in red state cities like Bozeman, MT and Louisville, KY. They organize for "just cause" evictions that ban landlords from taking their homes away. They seek fair housing voucher distribution practices. They seek to close eviction loopholes like the LA wheeze that lets landlords kick you out following "renovations."

The National Tenant Policy Agenda demands "national rent caps, anti-eviction protections, habitability standards, and antitrust action," measures that would immediately and profoundly improve the lives of millions of American workers:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JF1-fTalW1tOBO0FhYDcVvEd1kQ2HIzkYFNRo6zmSsg/edit

They caution that it's not enough to merely increase housing supply. Without a strong countervailing force from organized tenants, new housing can be just another source of extraction and speculation for the rich. They say that the Federal Housing Finance Agency – regulator for Fannie and Freddie – could play an active role in ensuring that new housing addresses the needs of people, not corporations.

In the meantime, a tenants' union in KC successfully used a rent strike – where every tenant in a building refuses to pay rent – to get millions in overdue repairs. More strikes are planned across the country.

The American system is in crisis. A country that cannot house its people is a failure. As Rachael Dziaba writes in the final piece for the package, the situation is so bad that water has started to flow uphill: the cities with the most inward migration have the least job growth:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/housing/2024-10-18-housing-blues/

It's not just housing, of course. Americans pay more for health care than anyone else in the rich world and get worse outcomes than anyone else in the rich world. Their monopoly grocers have spiked their food prices. The incoming administration has declared war on public education and seeks to relegate poor children to unsupervised schools where "education" can consist of filling in forms on a Chromebook and learning that the Earth is only 5,000 years old.

A system that can't shelter, feed, educate or care for its people is a failure. People in failed states will vote for anyone who promises to tear the system down. The decision to turn life's necessities over to unregulated, uncaring markets has produced a populace who are so desperate for change, they'll even vote for their own destruction.

[l1tw1ck]

wick, my beloved, do you have any lilia related thirsts in that genius head of yours

(im a lilia vanrouge fan now apparently. he is growing on me (vil is still nr 1 tho))

why yes i do, im also in a monster fucking mood so 👁️👁️

bottom ftm lilia x top male monster reader

cw: size kink, monster cock, belly bulge, overstim, mind break, creampie, cum inflation

when lilia first met you, he was immediately enamored with your size. he has to look up to make eye contact with you and he's at the perfect height to suck your cock. that thought tormented him for weeks so imagine how excited he'd get when he finally has the opportunity to do it

lilia looks at your monstrous cock in awe. he knew you'd be big but fuck. he wonders how sex'll feel. he opens his mouth wide, lips stretching to take in your thickness. he happily sucks your cock, ignoring the light pain he feels from taking something so big.

~ lilia's eyes widen as your cum floods his throat. he reluctantly pulls away, letting the rest of your cum get on his face and body. he wanted to swallow it all but it was way too much. he wonders what would happen if you came inside him..

lilia wanted to ride you for his first time with you but he couldn't even move once you were completely inside him

he looks at you with a hazy experience, a goofy smile on his face. he traces the bulge in his stomach and just stares into your eyes.

you had to take matters into your own hands and you ended up breaking him, mentally that is. he was still perfectly intact and very happy to take your cock

lilia grins, moaning loudly as you pump him full of another load, his stomach getting bigger. "more~ more~" he says, coming again. he's extremely overstimulated and yet he's still begging for more

[nastylittleghouls]

O soft embalmer of the still midnight

Relationship(s): Aether/Aurora

Rating: Explicit 

Words: About 1.3k

Summary: And he looks perfect. Doused in dim candlelight, pink lips parted enticingly. His face so sweet and soft it makes her ache. An arm stuck under the pillow, highlighting the tattoos on his bicep and a strong thigh angled outward, with his briefs and scrub pants he didn’t manage to get all the way off before falling asleep still stuck on one calf. It’s such a photo-worthy impression of the innocence of sleep, of him being oblivious to her presence, it races a delicious shudder down her spine.  OR. Aether is a tease who doesn't give Princess Aurora what she wants so she takes matters into her own hands or rather between her own thighs

Tags and warnings: Somnophilia (and the dub-con that comes with it), intoxication (Aether had a pint too many of Mountain's homemade mead) semi- penetrative/intercrural sex, Aether's beautiful monster of a cock, size kink/difference, descriptions of intimate jewelry, very brief mentions of breeding and come inflation, riding, a smidgen of quintessence

Notes: This started as a four-hundred-word drabble during a fifteen-minute break at work. I don't know how I got here. Unedited. Unbeta'ed. Possibly unhinged

For @jimothybarnes and his fucking genius self for providing the title to this thing. And a belated lil something for his bday. I already gave him sweet cupcakes, so now it's time for a spicy snack (Next year you'll get something better) 💜

AO3 for the so-inclined

The knob turned and the door opened silently, and soon after, a head peeked through. Careful. Slow. Vibrant green, vigilant as they mapped out the room, sensing for another presence other than the one she desired. 

When Aurora finds none, she slips inside with a last quick look over her shoulder, closing the door just as silently behind her as she opened it. 

She zones in on the bed and exhales giddily, the wet patch on her panties growing at the sight—her mouth-watering. 

There he is. 

And he looks perfect. Doused in dim candlelight, pink lips parted enticingly. His face so sweet and soft it makes her ache. An arm stuck under the pillow, highlighting the tattoos on his bicep and a strong thigh angled outward, with his briefs and scrub pants he didn’t manage to get all the way off before falling asleep still stuck on one calf. It’s such a photo-worthy impression of the innocence of sleep, of him being oblivious to her presence, it races a delicious shudder down her spine. 

She congratulates herself for waiting until today when he’s sleeping off a drinking game with Mountain’s mead, and not letting her impatience and frustration of him denying her get the best of her.

Her eyes travel further, her tongue darting out to wet her lips when Aether’s position gives her a perfect view of his soft cock, long and thick, and the jewelry adorning it, laying against the smooth roundness of his belly.  

A delicious synergy that has her fingers curl and uncurl, resisting the urge to touch herself at the sight. Why would she when she finally can have something so much more satisfying?   

With a practiced tug of her tail, her panties slide down her legs as she tiptoes her way over to the bed, her babydoll nightgown following with a quick lift of her arms over her head, both carelessly discarded on the floor, now only focused on getting to the ghoul in front of her. 

The bed barely dips when she climbs in, yet Aether scrunches up his nose in his sleep and lifts his head. Aurora freezes mid-movement with bated breath, her heart racing.  Aether smacks his lips, starts humming, and then smiles before he changes arms, burying his nose under it. 

Under other circumstances, if she wasn’t so single-minded, it wouldn’t feel like an eternity until he settled again. She’d find it adorable, and watch him with growing heart eyes.  

But as things are….

With a stuttering exhale, she crawls the rest of the way up to him.

Slight disbelief lets her hesitate but soon enough, her palm glides lovingly over Aether’s strong thighs, up to his cock. Tracing the protruding veins running along the length with the tips of her fingers, awed, each of the metal bars beneath the skin, around the snug fit of the barbels on the side, follows the ladder all the way down to his sac where it tapers off into rings that could fit on her fingers. In a bold move she tugs on one, featherlight, and watches in delight as the skin tightens under her touch and Aether’s cock jumps, starting to fill out even more, the piercings standing out more prominently than before. 

Aurora's whole cunt throbs in anticipation at the sight, spurring her into action. She’s on borrowed time after all. 

She swings her leg gracefully over his hips and spreads herself open with nimble fingers, slick dripping freely down on Aether’s cock as she lowers herself. Nearly shouting at the first hot wet slide through her folds, the covered metal dragging deliciously over her swollen clit and catching at her fluttering hole.  Helpless keens spill in tandem with the languid rolls of her hips out of her mouth, her attempts to stay silent failing. 

She can barely keep her eyes open to check if Aether‘s waking up, nothing else existing than this. The feeling of the increasing strain in her thighs from being forced so wide apart. The promising thrill of her cunt barely covering the girth of his cock. In this moment it’s everything. 

 “Feel how wet I am for you?” she asks, as if she expects a response, barely getting the words out. „I’m being so good. Feels so…“

Aether moans before she can finish her sentence, his hips rolling upwards just so while hers stutter to a halt, equally thrilled and afraid at the prospect of being found out. Slowly her eyes open, trailing from the ring in his belly button up to Aether‘s face. She expects to meet the gaze of two purple irises, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep herself motionless, but all she sees is a flutter of eyelids, a flash of his gold fang before he stills again. 

False alarm. 

Aether’s knot starts to swell beneath her, making her gasp at the sudden stretch when it breaches her, giving her a small taste of what she could have if he‘d drop the damn gentleman act, just fuck her and make her the prettiest accessoire of his cock.  

Another moan reaches her ears, along with fragments of sentences that cause a self-satisfied smile to grace her lips.

“Doing so well for me…Take a little more…”

“That’s it, sweet thing. So tight…”

“Who you‘re dreaming of, hm?,” she whispers and drags her fingers lazily through the pre pooling in Aether’s navel. She brings them up to her lips, swirling her tongue around them, savoring it. 

 “Dewdrop? Phantom? Breeding them full?” 

She drops her hand to cover the lower part of her belly, imagining the feeling of the outline of Aether’s cock beneath, his cum, locked in tight by his knot.  

She sighs, wistful. “That’s okay, I’ll make them even sweeter for you” 

Keeping her hand in place, her palm presses in with every swivel of her hips as she’s fucking herself on the knot, tightening around what she’s able to fit in until it hurts. She wants to feel it later. She wants to bathe in Aether‘s attention once he notices her supposed discomfort whenever she moves tomorrow. None the wiser of what happened.

“Just like that. Right…. right there” she whimpers, high and needy when she swears she can actually feel a bulge in her belly moving right beneath her palm and comes with a choked-off moan of his name all over his cock. Her knees tighten at each side at the intensity of it, riding it out while her release drips in rivulets through down the insides of Aether’s thighs, down to his balls and the sheets.

She finally slows down to a mere twitching, tipping her head back to pant towards the ceiling. She decides to allow herself another moment or two to bask in the afterglow and take everything in once more, her plans to hit and run - so to speak - waving at her as they pass by. 

When she’s finally ready to part with him, strings of slick still connecting them when she raises herself on shaky knees, a hand clamps over her mouth, muffling her surprised shriek. She‘s shoved back down and forward with a firm hand between her shoulder blades and another one gripping the base of her tail, barely giving her time to catch the fall before baring her to the room. 

Warm breath fans across her sweaty skin when her captor finally speaks.  

“Where are your manners, princess?”

Dewdrop. Fuck. 

“You’re far from done with him.” 

New droplets of slick slide down her legs at his words and she can‘t hold herself back from following the warmth of the body behind her, nodding mindlessly. 

She hears a zipper. Then the rustling of fabric.

“And I’m tired of watching” 

The gold fang flashes again. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Good People: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @wabi-sabi1090 @lostinwonderland314 @turtle-cant-communicate @fallout-girl219

Takes place after:

The Farm - Carmy recalls the day you met.

Prequel to:

Pears - It starts when Carmy makes an order he doesn't remember.

Mornings - Carmy sleeps better with you around.

Bubble - You have no idea that you saved Carmy's life.

Crazy, Stupid, Fucked Up World (NSFW) - Carmy tells you he lvoes you for the first time.

Everyone knows that Carmy has a thing for the farm girl. It’s the way his attention shifts when your name is mentioned, the fact it’s him that signs for the orders and no one else. They watch as he asks about your day and raise their eyebrows when he stands there and actually listens.

“You may as well be giving her fuck me eyes.” Richie says as he tries to wrestle The Beef t-shirt onto an inflatable hotdog in Jimmy’s backyard.

The two of them are setting up for that ridiculous kid’s party, hoping to knock a couple of grand off the debt Mikey owed him.

“I don’t have fuck me eyes.” Carmy mutters, focusing on slicing the oranges for the homemade Ectoplasm he’s made because Unc’s kid is nuts about Ghostbusters.

“Oh you do. You fucking do.” Richie argues as he pulls out the duct tape. “It’s probably the reason we’re getting such a discount, she likes the way you shake that pasty white ass underneath that little apron of yours.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” He snaps at Richie, launching a piece of fruit at the back of  Richie’s head. It smacks him right on the dome and the other man turns to face him furious.

“What the fuck is with you?” Richie retorts, throwing it back. “Last month you got the shit kicked out of you by a guy dressed like a carrot, now you’re whoring yourself out for cucumbers. You’ve got issues man, big ones.”

Carmen really has nothing to say to that because honestly if he had to whore himself out to keep this business going, he probably fucking would. That’s exactly where his self-respect is right now, rock fucking bottom. It’s the reason he’s out here in the fucking suburbs slinging gourmet hot dogs for little monsters have no fucking clue how the real world works.

“I hate you.” He tells Richie as he throws himself back into his work the same way he always does. “I fucking hate you.”

It’s an hour later that Richie does the uncharacteristic thing and apologizes. Carmy thinks it’s probably got something to do with the Xanex he took about an hour ago.

“I shouldn’t have said that about Alice.” Richie says, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “She’s good people.”  

“Yea she is.” Carmy responds as he starts to make up another hotdog. “She’s helping us out in a bind because she’s a good person. It’s got nothing to do with my ass.”

Richie tilts his head from side to side as he pulls the bottle of Xanax out of his coat pocket and spills another tablet into his palm.

“It’s a little to do with your ass.” Richie tells him as he takes the pill, washing it down with a cup of Ecto.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carmy asks as he puts the finishing touches on his masterpiece.

“It means for some fucked up reason she likes you.” Richie responds, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know why, you’re basically a fucking mop with eyes but she does and you should really do something about that.”

“Like what Richie?” Carmy retorts, turning to face him, his hands coming to rest on his hips. “I run a sandwich shop that’s failing so badly I had to pay for our meat order with change out the arcade machine thirty days ago, I’ve got jack shit to offer anyone right now.”

“I’m just saying you deserve to be happy.” Richie says as he leans back against the fold up table, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. “Mikey would have wanted you to be happy.”

Carmy doesn’t know what Mikey would have wanted because Mikey, he’s not here to tell him.

“That second Xanex just kicked in didn’t it?” Carmy remarks, changing the subject and Richie exhales, nodding his head.

“Oh yea, big time. I don’t feel a fucking thing.”

It’s on the way home, that Carmy starts to think about what Richie said, about you, about being happy.

Sitting in those fields at your farm on his days off, shooting the shit with you. It’s the closest thing to contentment he’s felt in years. If he was a better man, someone less mentally ill, he’d consider pursuing it but honestly he’s a fucking mess. He wouldn’t wish himself on any woman especially you.

“You’re punking out aren’t you?” Richie says from the passenger seat as he watches the world go by outside.

“No.” Carmy says, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “She just deserves better than an asshole like me.”

Love Carmy? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[muffinsin]

can we get monsterfucker bela x lycan reader part 2?? i really liked the first part

Absolutely! Some good old monsterfucking right in time for Halloween to come around🎃

Part 1 can be found here

Masterlists

Bela awakens, at last. A foggy feeling and a stranger, pheromone induced feeling of warmth and safety greet her. Then, disorientation.

Where is she? What-

She opens her eyes and even before they adjust to the dimly lit cave she finds herself in, her body protests at the small movement.

She’s aching, everywhere.

Her face, sticky from her dried tears and dry mouth and the bits of drool sticking to her chin.

Her neck, throbbing and aching in pain. She gathers the strength she has left and raises her hand to feel up. Two puncture wounds greet her. A bite. A claim, right at her sensitive neck. She squirms a little, her mind becoming as if a little more high on pheromones.

She finds her body almost sticky, saliva sticking to her. Then, her stomach.

Bela covers her mouth as to stay quiet when she finds it.

Aching and round, fully inflated and heavy as though she was impregnated.

At the sight, memories return.

Memories of being yanked and held, fucked hard- no, bred.

Not only a mere breeding toy for the monstrous lycan residing in the cave, no. Made a mate. Claimed, and bred, and impregnated, and doomed to carry a litter of lycans in her.

She gulps.

Her pussy aches and throbs.

Her clit especially, throbbing enough for poor Bela to feel hot and bothered. She wants to be fucked, even worse- or better, maybe- wants her new mate to be the one to do it.

She feels the memory and consequence of the last time, her poor, previously tight pussy stretched far and stinging even as cum so freely flows from it and drip drops down her ass and onto the stony ground.

Her body aches, and she jumps when she suddenly feels a rush of warm air against her thigh.

When she looks down, she finds it was the beast-like lycan, breathing out lowly against her.

She squirms, feels her body heat up already.

It’s like she wants more, even more, despite her round and full belly and abused pussy.

Bela’s eyes widen as her hand moves beyond her control, her fingers dragging along, then through the fur.

She digs in, even enough to draw blood, then shrieks when the lycan awakens immediately, its body pouncing on hers, its huge paw holding her upper arm against the stony ground of the cave.

“I-!”, she tries to plead, explain, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t even know what happened, her arm completely moved on its own, as though the pheromones had her body run on pure desire.

It seems, her new mate has no qualms an out this, at all.

She shivers when the lycan’s large tongue drags against her marked neck and wet chest, leaving more saliva in its path. She’s sure, she must be reeking of her mate by now.

“Ah!”, she gasps in surprise when she feels the hardened, large cock against her hip.

Thankfully, with the knot emptied inside of her, it’s not as big, but it’s no less intimidating.

She tries to raise her arms, but the monstrous claws keep them pinned down.

A little moan is ripped from her when the wet tongue dances across her sensitive nipples. Despite the pain of pushing against the claws, her body arches up, chasing the feeling.

“More- ah-, please”, she whimpers.

Her head is spinning, her body is on fire. All she can think of is the large cock back inside of her, rearranging her insides, taking her, making her break beneath the monster’s body again.

Has she always been this desperate? This helpless?

She thinks briefly, before a new wave of pheromones sweeps over her and all her thoughts turn to the desire to be fucked again.

She feels her pussy throb, then closes her eyes and allows a small whimper to pass her lips when she feels the lycan’s tip push against her pussy lips.

She gasps when it pushes against her, yet fails to push inside and slips past instead, up against her cunt and slapping heavily against it.

Another lick to her neck, down to her chest.

She’s moaning lowly below the beast.

The cock readjusted, pushed back against her juicy wet pussy.

A lick to her round stomach.

For a moment, thoughts manage to push through, and worry overtakes her again.

Her stomach-!

She’s been bred! What-

What will Mother think?! Her sisters?!

Will she be forced to carry the litter? To birth them? To let them drink from her full breasts and nurture them?

The cock pushes inside of her, and it’s like the thoughts are gone again, replaced by the pheromones her mate effortlessly showers her in and the pure need for pleasure- and to pleasure her mate.

“A-Ah! Mnmmn, yes! Yes!”, she moans loudly. She feels a clawed paw-like hand wrap around her and lift her off the ground, instead feels herself pushed up against one of the walls. Her stomach, round and heavy, a constant reminder of her condition.

She shrieks and moans as she feels the cock slap into her, heavy balls full of cum yet again. She feels them slap against her again as they have the day before, plat, plat, plat!

Again, the large tongue drags to her neck, slithering over the bite mark left there. She feels more sensitive immediately, her dangling legs squirming and toes curling. The pleasure is so much already, despite being full for only a few moments.

With her body held tight, Bela’s hands slip to her slick chest, her cool fingertips grasping and trapping her nipples.

Again, she moans loudly, the sound almost echoing in the cave. A low grunt and growl is her answer, as though the monster knew exactly what she felt and did.

“Please, please!”, she begs, but even Bela doesn’t know what for. For more? To be bred again? To beg the lycan to pull out this time? To spare her flooded womb the fertile cum? To spare her the reality that she will be carrying out the litter of lycan spawn?

She feels her body rock, feels it deep in her core. She feels split open, yet can’t get enough of the feeling.

Another bite is set to her shoulder this time, and she feels herself brought closer and closer to her orgasm. Claimed, she feels this all in such intense fashion, even more so than before.

She’s perfectly in sync, feeling the pleasure of the monster’s cock rutting into her warm and tight pussy, feels the warmth of the cum still drooling from her impregnated womb and pussy. She feels the ache of its full balls, the yearning to have them emptied inside of her again.

She gasps, helpless as the feelings and thoughts rush to her, building up more and more and more pleasure within her.

She feels so close, so very close a single brush of the lycan’s tongue against her bruised neck and shoulder is enough to send her over the edge.

A roar follows, the beast groaning and growling loudly as her tight pussy squeezes the large cock in her. She thinks, it must be impossible to move still, her cute body trembling, her slim legs shaking and her skin broken into shivers.

She thought wrong, evidently.

Bela shrieks when the monster moves again, shamelessly taking more and fucking her loose.

She feels overwhelmed in the best way, her body on fire as pleasure rips through her like an endless orgasm.

She’s panting, moaning, held tight and dangling limply, her toes curled, her nails digging into the arm of the monstrous lycan around her, desperate for a means to ground herself.

All is so much, she’s so sensitive, her poor body so very responsive to pleasure.

She jerks helplessly, her stomach too round for her to even see it as the large dick thrusts in and out of her.

Oh, but she feels it, feels its veins inside of her, feels the heavy balls.

Then, at last, the creature cums, taking her with it, her body forced over the edge again, her mouth dry, her golden eyes wide, a fine layer of sweat covering her body.

She feels more cum pumped into her, her stomach round to its limits. Then, she gags, feels some drip out her mouth. She’s held tight as the creature empties its balls, all the cum shot into her inevitably drooling from her lips and ass again.

She leans forth as much as she can, coughing as the thick semen comes up her throat and drips from her and down to the stony ground. Some, however, drips past her chin and runs down her breast, past her stomach and right back against the cock still deep inside.

Just when she think it won’t stop, the monster pulls from her.

She’s allowed back on her feet, coughing and gasping, yet they give out under her immediately, and she finds herself caught in strong arms again.

Again, a wet tongue slides across her neck, probing, licking until it finds the bite mark and licks over it gently.

She’s set on the ground, her body a wet mess. She yearns for a shower, already trying to think of how to smuggle the lycan inside. There’s no way her sisters and mother won’t smell it the instant it enters the castle…

Then again, there sadly is no way they don’t smell the cum inside Bela’s fertile body, either. She winces a little at the questions she knows she will have to answer.

When she attempts to rise, though, she’s pushed down again, held close against the comfortably warm fur of the monster.

Well, maybe a little more time away from the castle couldn’t hurt…