#local window cleaner

[bristolwindowcleaners]

[urbangaffa]

[jorichingsuk]

Details Presentation Tripple C Steam Cleaning Services

At Tripple C STEAM CLEANING SERVICES, we pride ourselves on delivering top-notch cleaning solutions to homes and businesses across Brisbane and surrounding areas. We specialise in steam cleaning a wide range of surfaces, including carpets, rugs, couches, sofas, curtains, mattresses, and tiles.

0456 217 991

admin@tripplecsteamcleaningservices.com.au

[arodalwa]

Top Cleaning Services Offered by Arodal of Washington Inc

Arodal of Washington Inc. is your one-stop solution for all your cleaning needs in the Eastside Seattle and Tacoma areas. With over 20 years of experience in the industry, we take pride in providing efficient and high-quality services to our clients.

One of our most popular services is Arodal Cleaning Eastside Seattle, where we cater to commercial and residential cleaning needs. Our team of trained and experienced professionals is equipped with the latest tools and techniques to ensure that your space is left spotless and sparkling.

We understand that maintaining a clean and healthy environment is essential for the well-being of your family, employees, and customers. That's why we offer a wide range of services, including building cleaning, and commercial cleaning, and even provide free quotes for our services. Our goal is to make your life easier by taking care of all your cleaning needs, leaving you with more time to focus on what truly matters.

Our building cleaning services in Seattle and Tacoma are tailored to meet the specific needs of each client. We understand that every building is different and requires a unique approach to cleaning. That's why we work closely with our clients to develop a customized cleaning plan that suits their budget and schedule.

Commercial cleaning is another service that we take great pride in. We understand that a clean and organized workplace not only creates a positive impression but also promotes a healthy environment for your employees. Our team is trained to handle all types of commercial spaces, from offices to retail stores, and everything in between. We use eco-friendly products and techniques to ensure that your workplace is not only clean but also safe for everyone.

We also offer free quotes for our services, allowing our clients to know exactly what to expect before committing to our services. Our transparent and competitive pricing ensures that you are getting the best value for your money.

At Arodal of Washington Inc., we believe in delivering exceptional service and exceeding our client's expectations. Our team is not only skilled and experienced but also friendly and approachable, ensuring a stress-free and pleasant experience for our clients. Contact us today at (425) 656-8088 to schedule a service or request a free quote. Let us handle the cleaning while you focus on what matters most! Don’t forget to visit our website at https://www.arodal-wa.com/

[topnotchgutterservicess]

Why Regular Gutter Maintenance is Crucial for Littleton Properties

Although it's sometimes disregarded, gutter care is essential to maintaining the structural integrity of a house. Frequent gutter cleaning in Littleton, Colorado becomes even more crucial due to the unpredictable weather that might include heavy snowfall, rain, and even the occasional hailstorm. Ignoring this important chore can result in several issues that could jeopardize your property's value, safety, and look. This article explores the significance of routine gutter cleaning for Littleton homes, outlining the drawbacks of disregard, the advantages of regular maintenance, and advice for appropriate upkeep.

The Consequences of Neglecting Gutter Maintenance

Water Damage to the Home

Gutters are made to divert water away from your house so that water damage won't do any damage to it. Gutter systems lose their ability to efficiently divert water away from your property as they fill with leaves, dirt, and other debris. As a result, water may overflow the gutters and seep into your foundation, walls, and roof.

Damage to the Roof

Water that overflows from blocked gutters has the potential to seriously harm your roof. Water can accumulate on the roof, causing leaks, roof deck decay, and even structural damage. If gutters are not properly maintained, ice dams may occur in Littleton, where winter delivers a lot of snowfall. By enabling water to back up under the shingles and cause leaks inside the house, these ice dams can worsen roof damage.

Foundation Issues

Gutter protection for your foundation is one of its most important functions. Water may overflow and collect around the foundation of your house if your gutters are clogged. This water can eventually cause the foundation to settle unevenly or crack, requiring expensive repairs. Severe foundation damage might jeopardize your home's overall structural stability and render it unfit for habitation.

Landscape Erosion and Basement Flooding

Gutter maintenance that is done correctly also helps to shield your landscaping. Overflowing gutters can release water that damages your plants, trees, and lawn by eroding the soil. Furthermore, if the water is not diverted away from your house, flooding may result from it seeping into your basement. Flooding in your basement can seriously harm your possessions and foster the growth of mold, both of which are dangerous for your health.

Pest Infestations

Pests find the perfect home and breeding ground in clogged gutters. While the trash in gutters can serve as a haven for mice, birds, and insects, stagnant water can draw mosquitoes. Eventually, these pests may find their way into your house, causing infestations that can be costly and difficult to get rid of.

The Benefits of Regular Gutter Maintenance

Protection of Property Value

Gutter maintenance is an investment in your home. By eliminating expensive repairs that could lower the value of your property, routine maintenance helps preserve the structural integrity of your house. When it comes time to sell, having a well-kept property free of evidence of water damage can make a big difference in Littleton's competitive real estate market.

Prevention of Costly Repairs

As was previously noted, failing to maintain gutters can result in costly repairs for water damage, foundation problems, and pest infestations. You can prevent these expensive repairs and make sure your house stays in good shape by cleaning and maintaining your gutters regularly.

Improved Curb Appeal

Not only are overflowing, clogged gutters a functional problem, but they also look bad. By keeping your gutters clean and in good working order, regular gutter cleaning enhances the overall look of your house. Maintaining the aesthetic value of your area and enhancing the curb appeal of your property are two benefits of having clean gutters.

Extended Lifespan of Gutters

Regularly maintained gutters are more resilient to damage and have a longer lifespan. The longevity of the gutter system can be shortened by debris buildup in gutters, which can lead to rust and corrosion. You can prolong the life of your gutters and reduce the cost of replacements by keeping them clear of dirt and clean.

How to Properly Maintain Your Gutters

Regular Cleaning

Regular gutter cleaning is the most important gutter care practice. Gutter cleaning is advised in Littleton at least twice a year, preferably in the spring and fall. To avoid clogs, you might need to clean your home more frequently if it is bordered by trees.

A strong ladder, gloves, a garden trowel, and a bucket or trash bag to gather the debris are all you'll need to clean your gutters. Make sure not to harm the gutter system as you carefully remove the leaves, twigs, and other debris from the gutters. Once the debris has been cleared, use a garden hose to flush the gutters and make sure the downspouts are clear.

Inspection for Damage

It's crucial to check your gutters for damage when you're cleaning them. Examine any loose pieces, rust, holes, or cracks that could need to be fixed. Additionally, make sure the downspouts are connected correctly and are holding the gutters firmly against your house so that water is kept away from the foundation.

You must take immediate action to fix any damage you find to stop more problems. Homeowners can frequently undertake little repairs, but experts may be needed for more serious damage.

Installation of Gutter Guards

Gutter guards are an option if you want to lessen how often you clean your gutters. The purpose of these guards is to let water pass through while keeping leaves and other debris out of the gutters. Gutter guards can greatly minimize the amount of debris that builds up in your gutters, making cleaning easier and less frequent even though they do not completely remove the need for maintenance.

Hiring a Professional Gutter Maintenance Service

For homeowners who are unable or unwilling to clean their gutters themselves, hiring a professional gutter maintenance service is a worthwhile investment. Professional services have the experience, tools, and expertise to thoroughly clean and inspect your gutters, ensuring that they remain in good condition. Additionally, professionals can spot potential issues that homeowners may overlook, preventing problems before they escalate.

Conclusion

Maintaining your gutters regularly is essential to shielding your Littleton property from water damage, pest damage, and neglect. You may avoid expensive damage to your roof, foundation, and landscaping by keeping your gutters clear and in good repair. You can also maintain the curb appeal and value of your property. The most important thing is consistency, whether you decide to do it yourself or use a professional service to maintain your gutters. Maintaining your gutters regularly guarantees that they can safeguard your property and provide you with a piece of mind.

[alnilaem]

coyote head and the body of a man — (e)

ghost/fem reader There's a killer on the loose. But your logging town is small and quaint and doesn't even appear on maps, so you know you're safe. That all changes when a gruff, big, taciturn man shows up at your workplace one day. Or; Simon is a fugitive serial killer, and you're the housekeeping girl that caught his eye.

cw for explicit content, graphic violence, possessive behaviour, size difference, cunnilingus, stalking

pinterest board | ao3 | for @spidehpig <3

You believe you were born in the centre of an exploding star. 

Born on the crest of death and fated for a bleak life. Dead, before you even had a chance.

The universe sweeps before you. Infinite. Expansive. Hungry. You float at the mouth of the galaxy and it swallows you whole, but doesn’t seem to like the taste of you—too bland, too trite—so it spits you back out and sends you tailspinning. 

You land with a lack of courtesy. Tossed between trees and dropped in a basin. You find yourself in nowhere, Oregon. In a town flecked by a lake inlet and a clement fjord, where the moose population outnumbers the people population. It has a maritime allure but strangely enough, isn’t commercial enough to be a tourist hub. It’s too hidden in the thicket. Too deep in a borehole.

Every day here is the same. It's an abyss that yawns before you with no end in sight, lacking undue entertainment and vividness and excitement. There’s no light pollution so far off the beaten track, so oftentimes, you’ll wish upon shooting stars for someone to come for your deliverance. 

There’s a reason they say be careful what you wish for.

The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work. 

It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking. 

You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next. 

It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.

You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie. 

Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore. 

“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”

There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.

“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”

“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”

You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb. 

“An outsider.”

It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop. 

“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”

You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.

Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”

You sigh. “Ah.”

“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."

You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.

Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.

“That’s a sweet peach.”

His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose. 

You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid. 

Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you. 

You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear. 

A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.

He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag. 

His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.

“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…” 

Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes. 

Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.

“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.” 

Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole. 

You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks. 

“Bring me a BLT and root beer.” 

You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda. 

Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.

The end of your shift slowly arrogates. 

After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach. 

You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach. 

You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.

Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy. 

Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous. 

His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door. 

You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands. 

You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.

“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”

She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline. 

Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.

“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”

You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you. 

A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.

Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.

(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)

There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward. 

“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”

You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are. 

“…They’ll catch him.”

“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.” 

Death comes to you in a cornfield. 

You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.

Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon. 

The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.

By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.

But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.

Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin. 

You raise your hands for mercy. 

But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—

—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory. 

It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.  

Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.

Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.

You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae. 

“Door’s open.”

You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it. 

You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.

You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news. 

It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.

Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh. 

He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties. 

You stutter. “I can come back later.”

Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks. 

You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”

The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.  

He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke. 

He blinks. “Well?”

You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands. 

“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”

Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”

“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”

Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone. 

“Is he a minger?”

“I’m sorry?”

He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”

“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.

“He’s a kind man.”

“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”

Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.

“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”

“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”

Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.  

Your silence makes Simon grunt. 

Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out. 

“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”

Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet. 

He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”

Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.

“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”

He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers. 

Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling. 

His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh. 

Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit. 

Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling. 

You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.

You’re at his mercy.

You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates. 

The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him. 

White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual. 

If spotted, do not approach. 

Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs. 

Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”

You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”

His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs. 

“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”

You shyly get to cleaning his room. 

You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning. 

Daylight scissors into you.

It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it. 

You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—

—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.

You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.

The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.  

You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.

The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.

You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.

It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.

You stir awake with flaccid lungs.

Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…

…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.

They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.

The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.

The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.

A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.

"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.

In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.

Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.

You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.

"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"

A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.

"Simon…?"

He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."

You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.

He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.

He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.

"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."

You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.

He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.

"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."

You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.

"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.

The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.

Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.

Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.

"Take off y'panties, sugar."

You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.

You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.

He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.

He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."

He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.

Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.

"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.

"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"

"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."

"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.

He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.

You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.

Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.

Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.

The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.

You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.

You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.

You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.

You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.

A pinchbeck wedding ring.

Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.

Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.

You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"

"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"

You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.

"You're not going to hurt me."

He brushes your hair back. "No."

You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"

"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"

He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.

"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.

Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"

Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"

"I– Franklin?"

"Hn. Does he bother you?"

You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.

"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.

Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"

"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."

"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."

Your lips stretch into a smile.

Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.

Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.

You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.

Not as the housekeeper girl, but Mrs Riley.

[hillbillyoracle]

Now is the Time to Start Masking Again

If you stopped paying attention to COVID with the release of vaccines, you've missed a lot.

COVID is airborne.

Long COVID impacts 10% of people infected by COVID (though this is beginning to look like a low estimate). Risk of Long COVID goes up with each reinfection. Long COVID is worse than initially reported.

Bisexual and trans people are more likely to develop Long COVID.

Black and Hispanic folks are more likely than White folks experience more symptoms and health problems from Long COVID.

***COVID and Long COVID has much more in common with HIV and AIDS than the flu (28:19 - 38:30 of linked video)***

The Basics

[WEBSITE] You Have to Live Your Life

[ZINE] What's Up With COVID and How to Protect Yourself - 2024 Edition

[FAQ] r/ZeroCOVIDCommunity's FAQ and Resource List

"This is great and all but it's overwhelming. TL;DR?"

COVID is airborne. Long COVID is much more common (and serious/debilitating) than previously thought.

Mask with an N95 or better in all indoor spaces and outside when close to others. Improve your indoor air quality by opening windows and using fans/air filters.

Rapid tests are prone to false negatives so make sure to retest in 48 hours after exposure and/or when you develop symptoms. Isolate in the meantime. Consider upgrading to a NAAT (PlusLife, Metrix) or PCR (Lucira) if you have the money.

Things for you to do today:

buy some N95s or request some from a local mask bloc

open a window more often and/or buy an air purifier

buy the best COVID tests you can afford

Basics in Video Form

If you have limited time, watch the videos with * first. They will cover the basics in about 20 minutes.

*VIDEO: COVID is Airborne [2:53]

*VIDEO: What the latest research tells us about long COVID's most common symptoms [5:58]

*VIDEO: FDA warns of false negatives with at home COVID Tests [2:19]

*VIDEO: How to Stay Safe(r) at Home [10:35]

--

VIDEO: The Astounding Physics of N95 Mask [6:08]

VIDEO: Mask Fit 101: Seal [4:07]

VIDEO: Mask Fit 101: Qualitative [3:49]

VIDEO: Mask Fit 102: Quantitative [5:04]

VIDEO: How to get [and give] FREE Masks [6:07]

VIDEO: Try this DIY indoor air purifier for cleaner air [4:22]

VIDEO: Why is EVERYONE more SICK [54:55]

Want to Get Involved?

Join your local Mask Bloc

No local Mask Bloc? Consider starting one

Talk to the people in your life about COVID

Print quality zines and spread them in your communities

Push for COVID Conscious changes in your spaces.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Cleaning services (perv!Konig x fem!cleaner!Reader)

Konig needs help in decluttering and cleaning his house. Unfortunately for you, he takes quite a huge liking in having pretty things like you around. And he isn't very nice about it.

TW: Perverted Konig, age gap, Konig masturbates at you without consent, implied kidnapping, yandere Word count: 3754 This work on AO3

There is no shame in having a professional cleaner, König tries to tell himself. 

Yes, he is a grown man with a very dangerous job that requires having a lot of responsibility. He holds the lives of his soldiers in his hands and risks his life every day not for the sake of his country, but certainly for the sake of his wallet and the reputation of KorTac. 

Hiring a professional cleaner for his house shouldn’t make him feel humiliated and embarrassed, and he knows it. Cleaners are basically like soldiers – doing stuff that other people can’t for a certain amount of money, providing services for the clients who can afford it. Besides, it’s a support of his local community – after everything he took from the people around his town, it’s only natural that he would support this growing business of cleaning services. 

There is no shame in having some nice old lady cleaning his house and watching over it while he is too busy trying not to kill himself or drown his head in liquor after a particularly rough mission. When you lose two guys on a run that was supposed to be the quickest task possible when you’re returning home with an injury that isn’t really that serious but brings your whole mental state into a very dark place, and when you’re forced to take 3 weeks of leave in the place you hate, hiring a cleaner to take care of everything really shouldn’t make him so ashamed of himself. 

Even if he can clean his space – the house is just too big for only one of him, and his ribs still have this funny feeling of fantom bullets traveling around his guts. So, he dials up the number of the cleaning services because he is too fucking old to understand their weird website and messenger ordering, even though speaking with a human operator on the other half of the line is somewhat more humiliating that having no idea of how to use a modern interface. 

There is no shame in asking for help, his therapist is trying to shrill it in his head all of the time and yet he is still hesitant when the cleaning professional is knocking on his door, finding this place surprisingly fast. König braces himself, thinking about all the ways he could avoid having a conversation – he drew a quick map of the place, put down the room cleaner shouldn’t be entering – his gun safe, mostly, already repeated in his head how he would greet them and swiftly extract himself from the situation. 

“Guten Tag, please, come in. This is the map of the place, don’t go to the red door on the right, don’t hesitate to ask questions, I will be on the second floor.” He takes a few wide, swift steps to his door and stops. Thinks again, overthinking, thinking too fucking much about everything, anxiously checking on his phone to read the message that yes, his cleaner is here and he should probably open the door or they would burst down the window. “Guten Tag, come in. Map of the place is here, don’t go to the red door to the right, please hesitate to ask questions, I will be somewhere around the house, lurking in the shadows” He braces himself to open the door, ready to see that sweet old lady who would spend the next 8 hours cleaning his house and then turn back another day to rinse and repeat until his house stopped looking like a place where a very, very miserable man lives. (Even if this is true) 

But, there isn’t a nice old lady with a bunch of cleaning supplies and determination to make someone’s life easier. 

But, there isn’t a cold middle-aged woman with a very professional no-nonsense attitude who wouldn’t even talk to him before going straight to work. 

But, there is a young girl. Well, not a girl, of course, if he had to guess you were somewhere around the “Too fucking young, but definitely legal” spectrum. Young enough to not be alive when he was already going to school, young enough to make him sweat, and definitely not old enough to be accepting a job where you’d have to spend so much of your life cleaning and scrubbing and sorting and…

There isn’t anything shameful in ordering a cleaning service when you genuinely need it, but you’re young and you’re pretty and he isn’t even wearing a mask because he is an old dumbass that forgot about it, and you look at him with your shiny eyes and…

Maybe, he should clean on his own – would definitely be less shameful. 

— Sir? H…hello? Good morning? Can you hear me? 

Yes, he can hear you. 

Yes, he would love to hear you every single day of his life, when he wakes up and when he falls asleep. 

— Ja. I apologize, I…thought it was mail. 

It’s a dumb excuse, but he can’t really say that he was just too fucking mesmerized by your shiny eyes and perfect hair and nice figure and basically everything about you. He has this nasty habit of imagining a future with people around him – with people who just fucking want to be left alone, and yet he still stares and looks and it’s probably ultra uncomfortable for them – but he can’t help imagining the life with every cute lady in the grocery shop or elegant lady sitting next to him on a train. 

He has a pattern – people who are not interested in him in the slightest. He has a pattern, a preference, cute girls, smart girls, popular ladies that were never even so much as looking in his direction. He could probably score someone now, having a colonel’s salary and honorably discharged payments, but he gave up on trying to find anyone. He has friends, company, has work where he spent most of his life anyway – he doesn’t need anyone, he wants to think. 

Then you waddle into his life with a bunch of cleaning supplies and a small vacuum, barely able to handle everything in your hands. He rushes to help and envelops your hands with his – you are so much smaller in comparison, he has bear-like arms and horribly big everything. he feels awkward when he gently removes everything from your arms – when he tries to help by simply putting everything on the table of the next room. 

König hated this house – it was big, it was empty, and the only reason he didn’t sell it was because Mother’s things were still locked in her old bedroom and every time he tried to clean it and evaluate the cost of the house, he decided that he will Do It Other Day. Coincidentally, all of those days were also followed by three-month minimum missions, making him utterly unable to do everything about this place anyway. 

This is why you’re here – a hired cleaner, a sorter, you promised to de-hoard everything and see if there is anything of value. Perfect for someone like him, especially since he is paying you double for spending the whole day and a few days more in his house exclusively. 

Now, he looks at how awkward your smile is, how you fidget with the edge of the broom you brought, and how you can’t even start a conversation because he is simply staring at you, staying in the living room of this dead, almost abandoned house. Now, he looks at how cute you are, how perfect, and remembers that he didn’t score with anyone in half a year already – not even in terms of sex, the casual flirting was also forbidden since half of his unit was transferred and the new people weren’t really fun of his tough methods of breaking rookies in. 

When was the last time someone genuinely smiled at him? 

Ah, he is staring again. Scheisse. 

— Where do you want me to start, sir? 

He wonders how much he should pay you to clean him instead. Would you be gentle? Rough? Would you call him a pervert, which he is, and then slap him and yell at him for being such a horrible old dog who is ready to pounce at every pretty girl in his presence? He would do anything that would set his mind free of the thought about Mom. Her bedroom. This whole house that he can’t call home ever since he turned 6 and understood why Father was always so, so angry. 

— The living room. If it’s not too much. 

He barely stops himself from talking more – you look weird, you loom surprised, you look at him like he is fucking stupid and, in fact, he is. Of course, it wouldn’t be too hard for you, you’re his clean, for fucks sake. You come here to clean, you get good money for it, he shouldn’t feel guilty for using your services because, in some way, he actually provides you with a job and a cute thing like you shouldn’t go to other houses, with old perverts that can do unspeakable things with the adorable worker. 

Ah, yes, perverts like him. God, he is hopeless. 

— Alright. Do you want to note something, like if there is anything I shouldn’t touch? 

He would allow you to take your adorable, yellow glow-wearing hands to get into his personal savings and all of his bank accounts, if you’d want to. He curses under his breath, hating how professional you are – hard worker, perfect, simply a fantastic person who deserves more than working for him. You aren’t trying to shy away from the job and he almost resents you for it. 

You’d make a good soldier, he thinks – you’re able to hear the orders and oblige to them, you’re obedient and came even before the discussed time. You’d make such a perfect private for his unit, he observes. 

Ah, right, he was supposed to answer you. Shit. 

— No. Just don’t go to the second room on the left. 

— Alright. Anything else? 

He grumbles under his breath, trying to get into the right headspace to deal with someone like you. König knows it’s rude, to just ignore and leave you like this – but if he were to stay in he same room as you, he would do something horrible, disgusting, and completely dishonorable to you. So, he leaves – escapes – to his office. Father’s office, mostly, the only thing here that belongs to him are some documents and useless papers – and a laptop that he drags to every other room anyway. 

He doesn’t like this room, it reminds him of the worst episodes of his early childhood – yet, this is his only reserve. He doesn’t want to leave the house because the territory is secluded and if something were to happen to you, he would be the only one able to help. He also doesn’t want to leave his gun collection with you – he doesn’t want you to find it and freak out or hurt yourself. 

This is what he tells himself, at least. He wants to be there with you, in the same room preferably, but horrible for his anxiety, because he wants this illusion, phantasm of having a loving relationship. Of having a woman in his life, a lovely housewife who would cook for him, clean for him, and would be absolutely spoiled with gifts and attention. God knows he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body – but he will carve one out of his ribs for you. 

And he only knew you for an hour tops. 

König feels like literally the worst man alive when he spread his legs and starts stroking his hard, glistening cock. He brushes over the swollen, red tip, not allowing himself to have any lube other than spit and oozing pre-cum – he tries not to cum embarrassingly quickly, thinking about your perfect gestures and smiling face. How perfect you look in your cleaning uniform – not like maids from the occasional porn he was watching, but still beautiful. Your body is perfect even with all of those ugly layers and grey fabric – and he can’t stop thinking about the sway of your hips or glimpses of your legs under your dress.

He thinks about you, bent over his couch, trying to clean the especially dirty spot on the furniture – how the material of your dress would be tight around your ass. The image makes him grunt quietly, stroking his barely wet dick even more – the pain from the dry sensation only makes the pleasure all the sweeter. He is hard, was hard for the past 10 minutes as you were introducing yourself and whatever your deal is. He is dirty, perverted, knowing only your name and your face – and he is still stroking himself, thinking about paying you extra just so you’d get on your pretty knees and suck him. Would you be sloppy, messy, get his cum all over your face so you’d have to wash it off? Would you be experienced, eager, trying to get as much seed as possible with that pretty tongue of yours? 

He is a lost cause because he hears the sounds of vacuum – you’re only a few rooms away from him, trying so hard to clean his house for him, to work through every bit of furniture and everything he acquired for the past twenty years or so – and he moans loudly, knowing that you don’t hear anything. You’re probably listening to music or some silly girl’s podcast about planets and gardens and maybe some university lectures. He’d pay for your courses, he would get you any book you want – having his salary and barely spending it made him softer in the saving habits. 

He can afford to splurge on a pretty girl who just needs a rich Austrian mercenary to sweep her off her feet. But, he is old – but, he is a monster who preys on someone helpless, using her pretty face to jerk himself off, and he doesn’t even deserve your number, although he has had it since accepting the service. 

His cock is big, angry red in his hand as he runs his finger over the bulging vein, teasing the sensitive flesh – always loud in bed, with grunts and moans of pleasure, he can barely contain himself now, only forcing his mouth shut when he doesn’t hear the sound of vacuum anymore. He strokes his dick fast, angry, and slams it into his fist, trying to make the pain last longer, so he won’t cum after a minute or two. He has the stamina to last longer – but it’s also the first time he was so horny since…he can’t even remember. 

König thinks about putting you in his bed – like a perfect housewife, you would hug his waist with your legs, would allow him to lick and grope at your tits, and won’t scream too much when he’d force his tongue inside of your precious pussy, taking every last drop of your pleasure. He wouldn’t want to be forceful, angry, you’re too precious for this and too weak for his strength – but he can imagine slamming into you in a matting press, cumming inside and not even pulling out, warming his cock in the heat of your body. 

Father would kill him for doing something so dirty in his office – but he is long dead, devil save his soul, and it’s König’s office now. Even when he barely uses it, even if he doesn’t really need this. It came in handy when he had to jerk off to the pretty cleaning girl who cleaned up after him – so, somehow, his father managed to improve his mood 15 years after he died. 

He cums with a low groan, whispering your name – he doesn’t understand how a pretty thing like you still works here and wasn’t taken by someone else already, but he would take what he can get. Never the one to get the first dibs, never being someone’s first choice – he feels terrible for thinking about you in such a low way, but his pleasure sticks to his fingers and, at this point, it’s too late to feel bad. 

Drying the tip of his dick with a tissue, he spends a good few minutes with spread legs, his soft cock laying on the chair, with cum still oozing out – such a waste, honestly, would be much better to stuff you full of his cock or even take your pretty ass, spread you slowly. Keep only the tip in, not pressuring you into anything more until you’d start moving yourself, like a good slut you will be. 

So perfect under him – the images and sounds of your voice are running through his mind, making him breathe heavily. If he was younger and had as much sex drive as before, he would already be hard – but he needs some time to relax, thinking about your pretty legs and adorable face. 

It takes him a few minutes of listening to your sweet voice to understand that you were not, in fact, a hallucination or a mystical fairy coming to make him come. You were standing outside of the office door, looking embarrassed and clearly hearing at least some of his horny mumblings – you avoid looking at him, and your fingers are trembling when you tug at the sides of your dress. Guilt immediately rushes to him again, he looks at you like a perfect treasure you are – and he is a horrible monster trying to hoard all of it to himself. 

— What is it, liebling? 

Petname goes smoothly from his tongue and he can only hope that you don’t know German – he is too embarrassed to talk to you, too anxious, his newfound shyness is a result of both your beauty and the post-nut clarity that already made him feel like a monster. He contemplates just giving you money and sending you off, paying double for the false call, and leaving you a 5-star review so you won’t get in trouble with your boss. 

You look so meek from his angle of view – he has to fight the urge to pinch your face, squeeze your cheeks, grab your waist in his firm hands, and just lift you in his arms, holding you to his bed. Maybe getting a nice set of cuffs to ensure you would never escape from him. 

— I finished with the living room and…well, I just wanted to ask if you want the decluttering work to be done today or tomorrow. 

He remembers how he basically paid you for a few days worth of work – and he smiles at exactly how perfect this decision was. Of course, you are a smart girl, a modest girl, you aren’t staying the night and would rather waste time on the road, much to his dismay, but at least he would see you for a few days already. 

He might not even let you go after. 

— Ach. Today, if it’s not too…

He stops himself again – of course, it’s not too much, you are a professional, not just a friend that comes to clean his place for a pack of beer and maybe some pizza. He doesn’t know how to talk to you, anxiety eats him whole, and he has to just avoid looking at you to avoid further embarrassment. 

— Alright. I will do it right away then. 

You smile awkwardly, your lips are twitching and he already knows that you could hear him moaning your name and sweet little praises while stroking his cock. You aren’t biting the hand that feeds you, not running away screaming at how perverted he is – poor girl, you probably need money more than you need personal safety if you’re fine with him heaving like this. If you were his, he would never allow you to be so careless. 

He moves behind you in the most dreaded room of the house. Mother’s bedroom, a room that she only used for sewing and only allowed him in when he was extra whiny after another failed fight with his bullies. All of her thighs are here – ever since she passed away, he just moved everything to one room and locked it, barely bothering to keep a key. He hates being here, almost as much as being in Father’s office — this room smells like death and old paper and you scrunch your nose in an adorable expression when you take a step inside. 

— I will divide everything into categories, alright? 

— Gut.

You look at him nervously, clearly scared that he is watching over you now. It might feel like a logical decision – after all, it was his mother’s vintage things, who knows what kind of jewelry she kept here, something that he won’t even notice gone until it’s too late. You and him both know, however, that this isn’t the reason he is looming over you. A perfect obedient thing, you deserve something better than his affection, but he still locks his gaze with yours, looking at your hands and going through various furniture pieces. 

You work like a fairy, not an ounce of laziness or exhaustion in your actions – even after you already spent a few hours cleaning his living room, you act like a Cinderella that got a bunch of magic mice up her rags. He licks his lips, looking at your perfect ass you as sit on your knees, starting with decluttering every little box there is. 

— Can I just put it back in boxes or…

You look the the contents – vintage makeup, some jewelry, head pieces that don’t look particularly expensive but were definitely well-loved. You wonder who they belong to – probably a wife, or, maybe, some of his relatives who lived here. He doesn’t seem like a married or divorced man – he does, however, look insanely lonely. 

It takes him a good few seconds to respond, too mesmerized by the little song you were humming a minute before. He imagines you in that old, chunky jewelry, some necklaces that cost more than your salary – and the thought makes him salivate. 

He smiles, leaning closer to you – hot breath on your face, you shift immediately, scared. He is so fast for someone so big, his movements are perfect and his eyes are cold – you feel the chill deep in your bones when he moves even closer, his lips almost brushing against yours. 

Suddenly, you are very aware of the fact that he locked the door to this tiny room when you both moved in. 

[butwhyduh]

honestly jdk just tim drake x reader where one/or multiple of the batfam walks in?? i just find them entertaining, or they are continually being interrupted through the day!

Warning: eventual smut and Tim is done with everyone’s shit. If it’s not the end of the world, don’t call me- level done. And you can tell it’s fanfic because Tim is actually an adult.

Tim didn’t get into shows very often. He’s busy and he has a terrible habit of falling asleep after the first 10 minutes. He didn’t want to watch the show but he was tinkering with some of his tech while sitting on the couch and you put it on. And that’s how he got sucked in.

“And Daphne said yes to that? Drew is not good enough to lie to her friends over,” he said and you started telling him the backstory.

You binge watch the next few episodes to catch up to the new season. It was a fun and scandalous show, nothing like Tim’s usual picks. And he thought it was cute how animated you were when talking about the show.

“Trevor needs to get his shit together or not only is Naomi going to leave him, he’ll go to jail,” Tim said.

“Yeah but he owes the local crime boss money and he said he’d kill his family otherwise,” you countered.

“Sounds like Gotham,” Tim quipped. You lightly smacked his arm before laying your head on his shoulder and entangling your arm in his.

“That is not comforting,” you said. “Oo they’re going to tell us who took the diamonds!”

The bat phone started ringing almost off the coffee table. You groaned and let Tim go to sit up to answer that.

“The corner of 17 and Parkway? How many combatants?” He said in Bat speak. And that’s when you knew your date night was over. He hung up and turned to you looking apologetic.

“I have to go,” he said. You sighed but pulled him into a hug.

“Be safe. I’ll be here,” you said with practices familiarity. He kissed you before grabbing his stuff and leaving. He didn’t get back until hours later with some fresh bruises and a girlfriend asleep on the couch.

It was 2 days later that you tried to continue the show. Tim had told Bruce to call someone else first. The door was locked and his phone was on silence. You’d even given him some pretty good incentives if you were uninterrupted and alone after the show.

It was all of ten minutes into the continued episode with pho takeout on the way that the fire escape window opened. In flopped Nightwing covered in mud.

“No,” Tim groaned. You huffed before pausing the show. “Do you need help?”

“Only a bit,” Dick said as the understatement of the year. He let Tim look at him to find that he was leaking blood all over the carpet from a bullet wound in his thigh. “Only a graze. Do you have a bandaid?”

“Good lord,” you replied as Tim called Alfred. You quickly grabbed a towel to stop the bleeding.

It was a few hours later and a carpet cleaner before Nightwing and your carpet were patched up. By that time it was the middle of the night and you couldn’t concentrate on anything. Tim promised a date night another day.

This one was a whole week later. All of the Robins had been warned under pain of torture to not talk to Tim for that evening. Because Tim was to put it mildly, frustrated. You two hadn’t had alone time in over a week.

You started the show back up with all entrances locked and phones off. You were able to watch the next 15 minutes before you heard broken glass.

“Hey did you know your window was locked,” Superboy said standing in front of the window. Tim practically growled before pausing the show to shove Kon out the window.

“I don’t know what you need but the other members of Young Justice are available. Call them,” Tim said but it was already too late. The wind had blown into the room and it was starting to snow outside so he couldn’t exactly ignore the window. Once again date night was canceled.

Tim was so frustrated that he had dreams about you in his bed. It was almost a week later and now 3 episodes behind on the show that you had another date night. He was almost willing to skip the show entirely at this point just to have alone time.

Tim had practically threatened everyone he knew with death threats to leave you both alone.

“Someone is feeling the mode,” Bart joked.

“You mean, someone needs to get laid,” Kon added.

“At this point, yes! I don’t want to see, hear, or think of either of you tonight. Unless it’s the  apocalypse, then I don’t want to even know about it,” he growled. The two other heroes howled with laughter as he left.

You could tell Tim was distracted and preoccupied by the way his hand gripped and squeezed your thigh. He gave you frequent kisses between scenes. As the episode ended, Tim pounced.

“Tim!” You gasped as he pushed you to lay on the couch before the credits were even done. It turned to a moan as his hand slid between your thighs to rub you through your panties.

“It’s been way too long,” he groaned as he kissed down your throat. He was almost never this aggressive and it was dizzying. He pushed your panties to the side to finger you.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped as he hit deep inside you. His hips rubbed his hard cock against you. He pulled at your shirt with one hand.

“Take it off,” he groaned with impatience. Before you had even gotten the fabric over your head, he had attacked your chest. Pulling a nipple into his mouth and sucking hard while fingering you thoroughly had you whimpering.

You shoved down his pants to grasp him in a loose fist. Tim rutted into your hand while sloppily kissing across your chest.

“Please, want you,” you whined and he wasted no time sliding in. Your back arched with a gasp. His arm reached behind your back and Tim took his time with long deep strokes.

This pleasure cycle couldn’t last forever and you both finished far too soon. Tim kissed you softly and gently.

“We can continue this later. I think the food is here,” he said.

“Sounds good,” you said adjusting your clothes and sitting up. “I’ll be right back,” you added as you went to clean up.

Tim answered the door in his messied hair and haphazardly placed clothes. Instead of the food delivery guy, it was Jason standing with his food box. Tim frowned.

“What do you want?”

“Pizza anyone?”

“Leave,” tim growled, taking the box. Jason laughed.

“Interrupting something?” Tim almost slammed the door in his face. “Hey, I just need keys to the Robin motorbike,” Jason added. “Oh I didn’t know you watched that show. Can you believe that in last week’s episode, it was the mom all along. Wild hu?”

Tim sighed before throwing the keys at Jason. “Go away.” He slammed the door.

“Well that sucks,” you said across the room.

Tim locked the door and sat the pizza box on the table. “I’m gonna be honest, and that is that I really just want to finish what we started before pizza. I’m not picky where.”

You laughed before letting him grab you fireman style over his shoulder to drag you into the bedroom. There was no way you were answering the door after that.

[jaeyunluvbot]

a forest

genre/tags 𝟅𝟈 vampire au, haechan x reader, lee donghyuck x reader, vampire!haechan x human!reader

word count 𝟅𝟈 19.9k

NOT PROOFREAD

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You didn’t think you’d ever end up back here.

The worn "Welcome to Evergreen" sign on the edge of town had greeted you as you drove into your hometown for the first time in years. As you lugged another box up the narrow staircase of your parents’ house, the familiar creak of the third step reminded you just how little this place had changed.

Your room was the same, too. The soft pink walls you’d painted in middle school were still covered with faded posters of bands you barely remembered liking. The bed was smaller than you remembered, and the air smelled faintly of something stale and pine-scented cleaner.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” your mom called from downstairs. Her voice was teasing, but it carried a hint of relief, like she was secretly glad to have you back under her roof.

You dropped the box on the floor with a dull thud and sighed, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you back anyways,” she said, though her tone suggested she didn’t entirely believe you. She backed out of your room, sensing your bad mood, and closed the door behind her.

You sat on the edge of your bed, surveying the unpacked boxes that were currently making their home on your bedroom floor. Coming back after school wasn’t part of the plan. You’d pictured yourself thriving in a big city, with a fancy adult job and a bustling social life. Instead, you were here, in a town so small you could drive from one end to the other in ten minutes, working as a nurse practitioner at the local hospital while you figured out your next move.

A soft knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. Your dad stepped inside, holding a tray with a glass of iced tea and a sandwich. “Thought you could use a break,” he said, setting it down on your old desk.

“Thanks,” you murmured, picking up the glass.

He hesitated by the door, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how. “You know, it’s not so boring here. Things have been... interesting lately.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Interesting how?”

“Just... new faces in town,” he said vaguely. “You’ll see.”

Before you could press him for details, he gave you a small smile and disappeared down the hall.

You sighed again, staring out the window. The late afternoon sun bathed the neighborhood in golden light, but instead of feeling comforting, it only made you feel restless. Your dad’s words lingered in your mind.

New faces? In Evergreen? You didn’t need much to know that didn’t happen often.

Still, you brushed it off and grabbed the sandwich, forcing yourself to eat. Whatever “interesting” meant, it wasn’t your problem. Not yet, anyway.

You spent the rest of the afternoon trying to cram all your newly acquired belongings into your already cramped bedroom, you’d have to talk to your parents about moving some of your old stuff up to the attic, but for now, you’d have to make do.

The next morning, you decided to head into town. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice—your mom had politely hinted that the fridge was running low, and since you were “new in town,” the errand fell on you. You had scoffed at this, sure that the town hadn’t changed that much in the time you’d been gone, but agreed to go anyway, thinking it would be nice to get out of the house.

The main street looked the same as it always had, with its little shops and small cafes that seemed perpetually frozen in time. The little grocery store was exactly as you remembered: narrow aisles, dim lighting, and the faint scent of lemons and floor cleaner.

You pushed a cart lazily through the store, tossing in the essentials—milk, bread, a few fresh vegetables. It wasn’t exciting, but it was familiar, and for a moment, you felt yourself relax.

That was, until you saw them.

At first, you didn’t realize why they caught your attention. They were standing by the refrigerated section, talking quietly amongst themselves. Six guys, all around your age, dressed more stylishly than anyone in Evergreen ever bothered to be.

One of them leaned casually against the freezer door, his bleach-blond hair practically glowing under the fluorescent lights. Another was crouched down, peering at something on the bottom shelf, while the rest stood nearby, their conversation punctuated by soft laughter.

They didn’t look like they belonged here.

You slowed your cart, trying not to be obvious as you stared. They were all... ridiculously good-looking, in a way that made your brain momentarily short-circuit. It wasn’t just their features—it was the way they carried themselves, confident and magnetic. Like they knew they stood out but didn’t care.

“Y/N?”

You turned to see Giselle standing behind the counter, a teasing grin on her face. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she wore the store’s signature green apron, slightly crumpled as if she’d tugged it on in a rush.

“Giselle!” you exclaimed, your mood instantly lifting.

She came around the counter and pulled you into a quick hug. “It’s been way too long! What’s it been, like four years? You didn’t even come home for Christmas last year, traitor.”

“College, work, life,” you said with a shrug, though guilt tugged at you. “I know. I suck.”

“Yeah, you do,” she said, but her grin softened. “I missed you, though.”

“I missed you too.”

The two of you chatted for a while, catching up as she rang up a few customers. Giselle hadn’t left town after high school, choosing to attend the community college instead. She was still figuring out what she wanted to do with her life, but she seemed happy enough for now.

“So,” she said, leaning her elbows on the counter once the store emptied out again. “How’s it feel being back?”

“Honestly? Weird,” you admitted

. “I didn’t think I’d end up here again. But here I am.”

She nodded knowingly. “It’s not so bad anymore, a little more lively. And hey, at least you’ve got me to keep you sane.”

You laughed. “True.”

Giselle straightened up suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she looked past you. “Speaking of weird...”

You turned to see a group of six guys walking into the store. They didn’t look like they belonged in Evergreen at all—stylish clothes, perfectly tousled hair, and an aura that practically screamed big city.

They moved through the aisles in a loose cluster, talking quietly amongst themselves. One of them, a blond with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, caught your eye briefly before looking away.

“Who are they?” you asked Giselle under your breath.

“They moved here a few months ago,” she said, lowering her voice as well. “Renting that creepy old house on Maple Street. No one really knows much about them, though.”

“They’re... not from around here, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she echoed, her tone amused. “I mean, look at them. What are they even doing here?”

As if on cue, one of them—tall, dark-haired, and absurdly good-looking—glanced in your direction. His gaze lingered for a moment too long, and you quickly turned back to Giselle, feeling oddly self-conscious.

“They don’t even shop like normal people,” Giselle added with a smirk. “Last week, one of them came in and bought like, ten cartons of eggs and nothing else. Who does that?”

You stifled a laugh, though your curiosity about the group only deepened.

“Anyway,” Giselle said, straightening up as one of the guys approached the counter. “Better get your shopping done before they buy out the whole store.”

You nod and turn away from the counter, pushing your cart toward the produce section. But even as you tried to focus on picking out the best of the minimal options, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something about them was... off.

Back home, the afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen windows as you unpacked your haul, having snuck in a few of your favorite snacks, assuming your parents probably lived on old people food without you. The rhythmic sound of your mom chopping vegetables for dinner mixed with the low hum of the news playing in the background.

“Did you get everything we needed?” your mom asked, glancing up briefly.

“Yep, even remembered the oat milk you like,” you said, setting the carton into the fridge.

“Thanks, honey. It’s nice having you back, even if I know you’re probably itching to leave again.”

You smiled faintly, but your thoughts were elsewhere. The image of the group from the grocery store lingered in your mind—sharp features, cool demeanor, borderline inhuman beauty that almost made you uncomfortable.

“Hey, Mom,” you started, leaning against the counter. “Do you know anything about those guys who moved into the old house on Maple Street?”

Your mom paused mid-chop, pursing her lips slightly. “Oh, them. They’re quite the talk of the town, aren’t they?”

“I guess? I saw them at the store earlier. They definitely don’t seem like locals.”

“They’re not,” she confirmed. “Your dad and I talked about them when they first moved in. Apparently, they came from the city. No one really knows why they picked Evergreen, of all places.”

“Hmm,” you said noncommittally, though your curiosity only grew. “They don’t seem that bad though…” You say carefully, probing your mom for answers.

Your mom looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “They’re strangers in a small town. That alone makes people suspicious. And then there’s the fact that they’ve been keeping to themselves, never really talking to anyone. That’s not normal, Y/N. People who move to places like this usually want to blend in. Not act like they’re hiding something.”

You frowned, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “But they haven’t done anything wrong, right?”

“Not yet,” she replied, her voice curt. “But you know how this town is. We’ve seen it before. People move here with secrets, and the next thing you know, something bad happens.”

You let that sink in as your mom continued preparing dinner. Just then, your dad walked in, tossing his briefcase on the floor of the entryway as he removed his coat. He worked as the town’s lawyer, the only lawyer in Evergreen. He was the one people came to when they needed advice or representation, and with that, he got to hear a lot of the gossip that ran through the town.

“What are we talking about?” he asked, looking between you and your mom.

“Those new guys,” your mom said, her voice pensive. “Y/N saw them at the store. She was asking about them.”

Your dad sighed, taking a seat at the table. “Yeah, I’ve heard the gossip. They paid for the house in cash, a whole year upfront. Weird, right?”

“Seriously? That’s a little... suspicious, don’t you think?” you said, surprised at the amount of concern in your voice.

“They don’t talk to anyone,” your dad continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “They don’t seem to have any real connections in town, and nobody knows where they came from. That’s not normal. I’ve had some clients asking about them, too—people want to know who they really are. And I don’t like it when people start acting like this in a town like ours.”

You felt a chill run down your spine. Your dad wasn’t the type to get involved in small-town rumors, but when it came to newcomers—especially ones that paid cash for a house without a word about their past—he was taking note.

“Do you think they’re dangerous?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

He met your gaze with a serious expression. “I don’t know. But something doesn’t add up. People like that don’t just show up in quiet places like this without a reason.”

You felt your stomach turn, a mixture of unease and curiosity gnawing at you. You hadn’t expected your parents to be so wary, but it made sense, considering your dad’s profession. He knew who was who in town, and he’d probably heard more than most.

“I don’t want you getting involved with them, okay?” Your mom’s voice brought you back to the present. “We don’t need more trouble around here.”

You nodded, swallowing the unease that had settled in your chest. “Yeah, of course.”

As you helped your mom set the table, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about those new arrivals. You had no idea what they were hiding, but you were starting to get the sense that your parents’ suspicions weren’t without reason.

As you slip into bed that night, the boys’ faces flash through your mind, each one the picture of beauty. All strikingly different looking, but with the same harsh look on their faces. They continued to haunt you until you fell asleep, alarm set for early the next morning, your first official day of work.

You woke up to the sound of the aforementioned alarm blaring in your ear, the sunlight barely streaming through the curtains as the sun was rising. You rubbed your eyes, taking in the familiar comfort of being back in your childhood room. It was strange, yet reassuring.

You made a quick breakfast, pulling on your scrubs, and heading out the door, feeling the weight of the day ahead. The thought of your first shift at the Evergreen Community Hospital made you both nervous and excited. The town was small, the hospital even smaller, and you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of cases you’d deal with. 

The drive to work was quick, your beat up car easily navigating the familiar roads that wound through the outskirts of Evergreen, lined with quaint houses and large swaths of farmland. The hospital sat at the edge of town, easily visible from the main road. It was nothing like the big hospitals you had imagined working at, but there was something reassuring about the comfort of small-town life, even if it was starting to feel a little stifling.

As you entered the hospital, you were greeted by the familiar faces of the nurses and doctors. Everyone seemed busy, but they offered you friendly smiles as you walked in, and you immediately fell into the easy routine of the hospital’s quiet rhythm. It was a far cry from your hectic days interning in a hospital in the city, close to your school.

After a brief orientation and introductions to your coworkers, you found yourself in the emergency room, helping patients with all sorts of complaints—mostly minor cuts, sprains, and routine checkups. But as the hours passed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

It started with a patient—a middle-aged man who had come in with complaints of aching muscles and lightheadedness. As you examined him, you noticed surefire signs of blood loss, clammy skin, excessive sweating, and shortness of breath.

Frowning, you remove your hands from his body, turning to make note of his symptoms. When you finish charting his information, you turn back around to face the man. 

“Have you had any major incidents lately, or experienced significant blood loss?”

The man frowns, “Not that I know of, I think I’d notice if I was bleeding out.”

You shake your head, pursing your lips and glancing back over to the computer, “Well, whatever happened, you’re exhibiting symptoms of blood loss, I’d like to run a few more tests and have a doctor check you out.”

The man groans and asks how much longer he’ll be here, with you offering a small bit of comfort before the doctor enters the room.

The next few patients were similar. Blood loss beyond what should’ve been normal, cuts that healed unusually fast, and complaints that didn’t quite add up. It was unsettling, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it. The night shift was getting busier, and there were patients waiting to be seen.

Around late evening, as you were taking a break in the break room, you found yourself scrolling through your phone. You had decided to check in with Giselle, who had been texting you all day. She had been asking how your first shift was going and if you had run into any “interesting people” at work. You smirked as you replied, telling her about the strange blood cases you had been seeing.

Just as you put your phone down, the hospital doors opened with a soft chime, and a group of people entered. You glanced up and immediately froze.

It was the strange group of men from the store. But this time, there was one more.

He didn’t stand out at first. At least not in the way you expected. He wasn’t as tall as the others, nor as imposing, but something about him made you pause. His hair was tousled, just the right amount of messy, like he’d tried to look casual but still came out effortlessly cool. His eyes—dark, yet somehow shimmering—caught yours the moment he walked through the door, and there was an unmistakable familiarity to the way he looked at you.

The moment your gazes locked, you felt your breath catch. He didn’t smile, but there was something in the way he stood, in the way he held himself—like he knew exactly what he was doing. The magnetic pull of his presence was almost suffocating. You couldn’t look away, and that unsettled you more than you’d care to admit.

He was different. While the other guys seemed to carry an almost intimidating aura, this one… he wasn’t threatening, but you felt oddly compelled. And it wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way he seemed to slip into your mind, uninvited, like he had always been there. It was as though the moment he entered the room, the space had shifted.

You tried to focus, trying to ignore the way your pulse seemed to quicken when he casually glanced at you again, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. The other members of the group, noticing the attention he was getting from you, didn’t seem fazed. But you could’ve sworn there was a flicker of amusement in their eyes.

You quickly looked away, pulling yourself together. It was just one of those things, you told yourself. He was attractive, sure, but that was it. There was no reason to dwell on it.

Still, as you walked back to your station, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his presence was different from the others. There was something familiar, yet foreign about him. Something about the way he moved, the way he stood in that room. It was like he was meant to be there… or maybe he was always meant to be there. And that thought unsettled you more than anything.

As the night went on, you found yourself picturing the strange man in your mind, feeling a sort of magnetic pull towards him, one you couldn’t seem to make sense of. It wasn’t like this with the other members of the group. No, with them, you simply felt a quiet curiosity, but with him there was an undeniable attraction that was tugging at something deep inside of you.

When your shift finally ended, you felt an odd mixture of relief and frustration. You tried not to think about the man who had inexplicably captured your attention, but as you walked out of the hospital doors into the cool night air, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering back to him. Why did he stand out so much?

It was as if something was drawing you toward him, but you didn’t know why—and you didn’t know if you wanted to find out.

You make the exhausting drive home and hop in the shower, hoping to wash away the confusion and strangeness of your day.

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that you’re not in your room anymore.

You’re standing outside, the moon high above, casting an eerie silver glow over a darkened street. The town feels different, the air thicker, heavier, as if it's holding its breath. You glance around, but everything’s too still, too quiet.

And then, you see him.

The guy from the hospital. The one who made you feel like you couldn’t breathe, the one you can’t stop thinking about. His back is turned to you, but the second you step forward, he turns around, as if he’s been waiting for you the entire time. You freeze, heart hammering in your chest. His eyes—dark, almost black—pierce through you with an intensity that makes you feel like you're standing in front of a flame. There's something... predatory in the way he watches you, like he’s a hunter, and you’re the prey.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, and his voice is so smooth, it sends chills down your spine. It’s like he’s speaking directly into your soul, not your ears.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. The words are stuck, tangled in your throat. His lips twitch into a smirk, almost as if he knows exactly what you’re feeling.

Suddenly, he steps closer, so close that you can feel the heat from his body, the dangerous magnetism of him drawing you in.

"You’re curious, aren’t you?" His breath brushes your skin as he speaks, and you can’t look away from his eyes. You don’t want to. But you’re also terrified.

Before you can say anything, he reaches out and gently touches your face. It’s too gentle for someone who’s staring at you like he wants to devour you whole. And just as his fingers graze your skin, you feel... something.

A jolt. Like a live wire running through your veins, making your heart race even faster.

And then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The heat, the tension, the undeniable pull between you and him—vanishes like it never existed.

You gasp for air, feeling dizzy, and suddenly, you’re back in your room. You’re breathing hard, your sheets tangled around your legs, the faint morning light creeping through your window.

What the hell was that?

Your pulse is still erratic, your mind a mess of confusion. You didn’t even get his name. Why does he feel so familiar? Why does your heart keep pounding like it’s still trapped in that dream?

You roll over and groan into your pillow, trying to shake the image of his smirk, his dark eyes, the feeling of his touch. You’ve had weird dreams before, but this one... this one was different.

Shaking your head, you try to push the thoughts out of your mind. But no matter how much you try to ignore it, you can’t get him out of your head. You’ve never even talked to him.

So why is it that when you close your eyes, all you can see are his eyes—those dark, mesmerizing eyes?

The next day had been one of those long days at the hospital—the kind where the fluorescent lights seem to bore into your skull and every step feels heavier than the last. You had thought about going straight home, but a nagging headache and the idea of another haunting dream convinced you otherwise. A quick stop for some caffeine at the local coffee shop felt like the natural choice.

The small bell above the door jingles softly as you step inside. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of an espresso machine and the soft chatter of a barista with the only other customer in the shop.

And then you see him.

At first, you’re not sure it’s him. His back is to you, dressed in an oversized black hoodie and sweats, leaning casually against the counter. But there’s something so distinct about his presence, the easy confidence in the way he moves. He turns slightly to glance at the pastries on display, and your breath catches. It’s him—the guy from the group of strangers you saw at the store. Only, he’s even more striking up close.

The barista hands him a drink, and he steps to the side, giving you a clear view of his face. His features are sharp yet soft, the kind that draw your attention and refuse to let it go. His eyes briefly meet yours, and for a fleeting second, it feels like he knows something about you that you don’t.

You quickly avert your gaze, stepping up to the counter to place your order.

“Just a latte, please,” you say, fumbling with your wallet.

“You’re working late, huh?” a voice pipes up beside you. You glance over, and sure enough, he’s still there, holding his drink, leaning casually against the counter.

You blink. “What?”

He gestures to the ID badge still clipped to your scrubs. “You’re a nurse, right? Those shifts are brutal.”

“Nurse practitioner, but yeah, they can be,” you reply cautiously.

“I respect that. Saving lives and all,” he says with a smile that’s just a little too perfect, a little too practiced.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I don’t think I saw you at the hospital today.”

His grin widens, almost as if he’s amused by your speculation. “Nope. Not a patient, promise. I’d remember if I was.”

There’s something playful in his tone that makes your guard falter, if only for a moment. “Do you just hang out in coffee shops at night and chat people up, or am I special?” you ask, your voice laced with sarcasm.

He laughs, a light, melodic sound that catches you off guard. “You’re definitely special.”

Before you can respond, your drink is ready, and you quickly grab it, grateful for the excuse to leave the conversation. But as you turn to leave, he steps slightly closer—not enough to invade your space, but enough to make you notice.

“I’m Haechan, by the way,” he says, his voice dropping just a fraction lower.

You hesitate. There’s something about him that’s simultaneously disarming and unnerving, like he’s trying to charm you but isn’t quite hiding the fact that there’s more to him. “Nice to meet you,” you reply stiffly, not offering your name.

His smile doesn’t waver. “See you around, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen at his comment, quickly turning and leaving the coffee shop, willing yourself not to think about how he could possibly know your name.

You walk out into the night, your heart pounding for reasons you can’t quite explain. The dream from the night before flashes in your mind, and for a split second, you wonder if he somehow knows.

But that’s ridiculous...right?

You’re beginning to see a pattern, though you wish you weren’t. The blood loss patients all share the same eerie story—waking up dazed, no memory of what could’ve caused their symptoms. They come from all walks of life: a college student, a local farmer, even a retired teacher. No clear connection. No logical explanation.

You jot down your observations in a small notebook you keep tucked away in your bag, trying not to let the unease get to you. It’s just...strange. But there’s nothing you can do about it yet, so you try to go about life as normally as possible, even if your nights are haunted by dreams of him.

The dreams always feel too vivid. Haechan’s piercing eyes, his crooked smirk, the way his presence sets your nerves on fire. You wake up most mornings confused and on edge, unable to shake the way his voice echoes in your mind like he’s right there with you.

You’re trying not to think about him when Giselle drags you to the town’s outdoor shopping market. She’s determined to make you forget about work for a while, even if it means forcing you to eat fried dumplings at her favorite stall.

It’s working—at least until you see them.

Haechan and another guy you vaguely recognize, Jaemin, are leaning casually against a bench on the other side of the street. They’re dressed too well for the casual market atmosphere, their dark clothes and sharp features making them stand out against the pastel storefronts and strolling families. But it’s not just how they look—it’s the way they’re both staring.

At you.

“Uh, Y/N?” Giselle nudges your arm with her elbow, her voice low. “Why are those guys looking at you like that?”

“I have no idea,” you mutter, your pulse quickening.

Before you can even think about walking away, the two of them start heading toward you. You tense instinctively, clutching your shopping bag tighter as Giselle frowns beside you.

“Hey,” Haechan greets, his smile disarmingly warm. His eyes, however, are locked on you, glinting with something unreadable.

Jaemin nods in acknowledgment, his expression more neutral but still sharp, like he’s analyzing every move you make.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice steady despite the way your heart is hammering.

“You’re new in town,” Haechan states, tilting his head slightly. “Well, not new, exactly. You grew up here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” you reply cautiously, unsure how he knows that.

He smiles again, wider this time. “It’s funny how things come full circle, isn’t it? Leaving just to end up back where you started.”

You blink, taken aback. His words feel loaded with meaning you can’t quite grasp, like he’s speaking in some kind of code.

“And you’re...” Jaemin glances at Giselle, raising an eyebrow. “Not from around here?”

“Uh, no, I am,” Giselle answers, her tone clipped. She shifts closer to you, clearly not loving the attention. “Lived here my whole life.”

“Interesting,” Jaemin replies, though it’s unclear what he actually finds interesting.

Haechan’s gaze doesn’t waver from you, and you feel like you’re standing under a microscope. “It’s a nice place,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “Quiet. But I guess every town has its secrets, doesn’t it?”

“Okay,” Giselle cuts in, her voice sharp as she grabs your arm. “Well, it was great meeting you guys, but we have to go.”

Haechan chuckles softly, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

You barely manage to nod before Giselle pulls you away, her grip firm as she steers you down the street.

“That was so weird,” she mutters once you’re out of earshot. “What’s their deal? And why were they staring at you like that?”

You shake your head, still trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. “I don’t know,” you admit. But even as you say it, Haechan’s cryptic smile lingers in your mind, as if daring you to figure it out.

A few weeks later, you’re on your way home after a late shift. The quiet hum of the countryside at night wraps around you like a heavy blanket. The air is crisp, carrying the faint smell of wet grass, and the silence is almost eerie. 

The drive is the same as every other time you’ve done it before, but this time, your car starts to stall, making all kinds of weird noise and jerking to a stop.

Your car sputters one final time before the engine gives out completely. Groaning, you slam your hand against the steering wheel.

“Fuck me,” you mutter under your breath, flipping on your hazards and stepping out. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you inspect the car, but honestly, what are you even looking for? You don’t know the first thing about fixing an engine.

Grabbing your phone from your pocket, you glance at the screen. One bar of service. Perfect.

You shiver as a faint breeze picks up, tugging at your jacket. The road stretches on endlessly in both directions, illuminated only by the weak beam of your hazards. No other cars. No streetlights. Just you, your useless car, and the creeping unease you’ve been trying to ignore since your car broke down.

Then you see it—two headlights approaching from the distance, growing brighter as they near. You squint against the light, shielding your eyes with your hand. The car slows, its sleek, dark shape pulling up beside you.

The passenger window rolls down, and you’re greeted by a familiar voice.

“Need a hand?”

Your heart jolts as you recognize Haechan sitting in the driver’s seat, his elbow casually resting on the edge of the window. His hair is slightly tousled, and he’s dressed in all black, which only adds to the air of mystery around him. His smile is easy, but there’s something unsettling in the way his eyes seem to take in every detail of you. You also notice that his skin is unusually dull, almost dead-looking.

“Haechan?” you say, surprised. “What are you doing out here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he replies smoothly, his gaze flickering to your car. “Late night joyride?”

You fumble for words, feeling slightly exposed under his unwavering attention. “No. My car broke down. I was on my way back from work.”

He hums, stepping out of his own car. You notice how quiet the night becomes in his presence, the air seeming to thrum with something unspoken.

“Let me take a look,” he offers, walking toward your car with a confidence that makes you feel like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You trail behind him, hugging your arms to your chest as he pops the hood. He peers into the engine, his face partially obscured by shadows.

“How do you even know how to fix this?” you ask skeptically.

Haechan straightens, wiping his hands on his pants as he turns to face you. “Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of car troubles,” he says, his smile playful but not entirely reassuring.

Before you can press further, the sound of another car approaching pulls your attention. You glance back to see faint headlights in the distance. When you turn back to Haechan, you catch the briefest flicker of something—unease?—cross his expression. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by his usual charm.

“Good news,” he says, closing the hood with a decisive thud. “It’s nothing serious. You should be good to go now.”

You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You glance at the car, then back at him. Something about the way he showed up so conveniently, so effortlessly, gnaws at you.

“Thanks,” you mumble, feeling a little dazed. “I guess I’ll get going then.”

“Drive safe,” Haechan replies, his tone light, but his eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

As you get back into your car, the engine rumbles to life as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. You glance in the rearview mirror, but Haechan is already climbing back into his own car. His headlights flash as he pulls away, disappearing into the night like he was never there at all.

The whole encounter leaves your stomach churning, and as you drive off, the thought won’t leave your mind—what was he even doing out here? Why did his previously luminous skin look so dull?

You wake up to the smell of coffee and the low hum of voices drifting from the kitchen. Sunlight streams through the curtains, and for a moment, you consider staying in bed a little longer, but the memory of last night pushes you up. After a quick shower and throwing on some sweats, you make your way downstairs.

Your mom is at the stove, flipping pancakes, while your dad sits at the table, his laptop open beside his plate. They both glance up as you enter.

“Morning, honey,” your mom says brightly. “Pancakes will be ready in a minute.”

“Morning,” you mumble, grabbing a mug and pouring yourself some coffee. You sit at the table across from your dad, who’s already eyeing you curiously.

“You got in pretty late last night,” he says, his tone casual but laced with concern.

“Yeah,” you reply, blowing on your coffee. “The car broke down.”

Your mom turns sharply from the stove. “What? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure her quickly. “It was on that long stretch of road just outside town. Nobody was around.”

Your dad’s brow furrows, his lawyer instincts kicking in. “And you stayed out there by yourself?”

“No, I didn’t,” you say, cutting him off before he can worry too much. “Haechan showed up and helped me.”

Both of them pause, exchanging a glance that makes you feel like you’d said something wrong.

“One of those boys?” your mom asks, her tone teetering between disbelief and unease.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously, knowing exactly where this is going.

Your dad leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “What was he doing out there at that hour?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But he fixed the car. It was fine after that.”

“Hmm,” your dad mutters, clearly not buying it.

“He’s weird,” your mom says, flipping the last pancake onto a plate. “I’ve seen him around town with those other boys. They’re… I don’t know. There’s something off about them.”

You sigh, setting your mug down. “They’re just new to town. You’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”

“Maybe,” your dad says, but his skeptical tone suggests otherwise. “Still, this isn’t the first time your car’s acted up, is it? I think it’s time we get you something reliable.”

Your heart sinks. “I don’t need a new car. It’s fine.”

“It broke down on an empty road in the middle of the night,” your mom points out. “What if Haechan hadn’t shown up? What if no one had?”

“I just… I don’t want to get rid of it,” you say, your voice quieter now.

Your dad softens, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “I get it. You’ve had that car for years. But it’s not safe anymore. We’ll help you get something newer, something you can count on.”

You bite your lip, feeling conflicted. The car holds so many memories—your first drive to college, late-night trips with friends, the sense of independence it gave you. Letting it go feels like letting go of a piece of yourself. But the thought of being stranded again, of the creeping unease from last night, convinces you.

“Okay,” you say finally. “But I’ll pay for half of it.”

Your dad chuckles. “We’ll see about that.”

Your mom sets a plate of pancakes in front of you, giving you a sympathetic smile. “It’s for the best, sweetie.”

You nod, trying to focus on the food instead of the ache in your chest.

“So,” your dad says after a beat, his tone shifting back to skepticism, “did Haechan say why he was out there?”

“No,” you admit. “He just showed up, fixed the car, and left.”

“Strange,” your mom says, sitting down beside your dad. “You be careful around him, okay? I don’t want you getting too involved with those boys.”

You don’t respond, cutting into your pancake and chewing slowly. The truth is, you’re not sure what to think. About the car. About Haechan. About any of it.

It feels almost fake, the way you keep running into him. First at the hospital, then on the side of the road, and now here—again—at the small café you frequent on your days off. He’s leaning casually against the counter, scrolling through his phone, as if he belongs there.

You try to tell yourself it’s nothing. Small towns are like that. People cross paths all the time. But when he looks up and catches your gaze, his lips curve into a knowing smile, like he’s been expecting you.

“Thanks again for helping me out the other night,” you blurt, stepping closer. “I didn’t get a chance to properly thank you.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think it over. “It was no big deal, I promise.”

“Well... let me do something to make it up to you. Can I buy you a drink?” you offer, feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze.

Something flickers in his dark eyes, and for a second, you think he’s going to say no. But then he shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”

You lead the way to the small bar just down the street. It’s quiet for a weeknight, a few scattered regulars nursing their beers while soft music hums from the jukebox. You settle into a booth near the back, and a waiter comes by to take your order.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” you say, glancing at Haechan.

He raises an eyebrow. “Make that two.”

The drinks arrive quickly, but as you take a sip of yours, you notice Haechan barely touches his. Instead, he leans back against the booth, watching you with a lazy sort of curiosity.

“So, what’s it like working at the hospital?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s suppressing a grin.

“It’s... busy,” you say carefully. “You meet all kinds of people. See a lot of weird things.”

“Weird, huh?” He swirls the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass.

You nod, not wanting to elaborate. But the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room—makes your pulse quicken.

“You smell really good, by the way,” he says suddenly, his voice soft but deliberate.

Your hand freezes halfway to your drink. “Oh... uh, thanks?”

“It’s... unique,” he adds, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Like vanilla, maybe? Something sweeter.”

You can feel your cheeks flush. “Okay, well, that’s... kind of an odd thing to say.”

He laughs, the sound warm and rich, and for a moment, you almost forget how unsettling the comment was. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it weird. Just... making an observation.”

You sip your drink, the chill of the gin soothing the heat creeping up your neck from Haechan’s strange comment. The bar is quiet, the low murmur of conversation blending with the soft music in the background. You shift in your seat, Haechan’s still watching you, his gaze intense in a way that makes you feel like he's dissecting everything about you, but you try to ignore it.

“So, uh…” You bite your lip, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “I shouldn’t really be talking about this, but I’ve had some weird cases lately at the hospital. Like... blood loss cases.”

Haechan leans forward just slightly, his eyes lighting up at the mention of it. “Blood loss? Like, what kind of blood loss?”

You frown. It’s hard to explain, but the way he’s asking makes you feel like he’s almost too interested. Too curious.

“I don’t know,” you mutter, shrugging it off. “It’s not like... they’re missing any blood or anything obvious. But a lot of patients are coming in, saying they woke up feeling off, but they don’t remember how they got hurt. And there’s this weird pattern with it.”

Haechan tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “That’s... weird. What do you think it is?” He leans even closer, his voice a little too smooth.

You hesitate, unsure why you’re even talking about this with him, but you keep going. "I don’t know. At first, I thought it was just... coincidence. But it’s happening too often, and none of them have any injuries to show for it."

“Hmm,” he hums, tapping his fingers on the rim of his glass. “That sounds pretty crazy. You ever think maybe it’s something... supernatural?”

You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by his suggestion. It’s such a random thing to say, especially from someone you’ve just met. You chuckle, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Supernatural? Really? I’m a nurse, not some kind of paranormal investigator.”

Haechan smirks, his gaze never leaving you. “I’m just saying… Sometimes things aren’t always as they seem.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your mind racing. He’s definitely not taking you seriously, but why does it feel like he knows something more than he’s letting on?

“I shouldn’t even be telling you all this,” you mutter, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s just... strange. And no one’s really been able to explain it.”

But Haechan leans in a little closer, his smile now playful, but there’s an underlying intensity in his voice. “Oh come on, I’m not gonna bite. You can tell me. What do you think’s going on with all these people?”

His eyes are focused, almost too focused, and it feels like he’s reading you, waiting for you to spill your suspicions. Something about the way he’s prying is starting to make you uneasy.

“I don’t know. It’s probably just some weird coincidence,” you say, though you’re not even convinced of that yourself. You’re starting to feel like you’re playing into his game.

“You sure about that?” Haechan asks, his voice lower now, almost as if he’s coaxing you into revealing more. “I mean, there’s gotta be more to it, right? All these patients... No injuries but still blood loss? That’s gotta be something worth looking into.”

You shake your head, feeling the unease settle in your stomach. “I think... I think it’s just a weird coincidence. You’re probably right, though. I’m probably overthinking it.”

Haechan gives you a sly grin, clearly satisfied with your answer, though you’re not sure why. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Or maybe you’re just not seeing the bigger picture yet.”

“Maybe,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. You can’t shake the feeling that he knows something—or that he’s trying to get you to talk about something you’re not ready to acknowledge.

The silence stretches for a moment as you both sip your drinks, the tension lingering in the air. But as you sit there, you can’t help but feel like you’re being drawn into something much bigger than just a simple conversation about weird hospital cases.

And when the night ends, and you drive home alone under the dim streetlights, you realize you never once saw him drink from his glass.

The night air was cool, and the shadows cast long and quiet around them. The group of friends had gathered in the usual spot—an old, dilapidated barn just outside of town, away from the prying eyes of anyone who might ask questions. It was one of the few places they could talk freely, and tonight, they needed to.

Haechan leaned against the rotting wooden beams, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he stared off into the distance, his thoughts miles away. Jaemin, Chenle, and Jeno were all present, but none of them spoke right away. They were all waiting for him to break the silence, to say something about what was bothering him.

Jaemin caved, and spoke, his tone casual but laced with concern. “You’re acting weird, man,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “What’s going on with you and that girl?”

Haechan’s jaw tightened at the mention of you, and he instinctively glanced down at the dirt beneath his feet, avoiding their gaze. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Just... it’s nothing.”

But the others weren’t buying it. Chenle’s sharp gaze flicked over to him, a smirk on his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not fooling anyone. You’ve been obsessed with her ever since the other night. We can see it. You can’t keep going down this road, Haechan.”

Jeno, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice low but serious. “You’re making this complicated. You’ve got enough problems as it is. Don’t let it get worse.”

Haechan rubbed the back of his neck, frustration bubbling up inside him. “I know,” he admitted quietly. “I just... she’s different. I don’t know why, but she feels different from everyone else. I can’t stop thinking about her. She makes me feel... I don’t know. Normal.”

Jaemin clicked his tongue, an exasperated expression crossing his face. “That’s exactly what you need to avoid. Normality doesn’t work for us, Haechan. You can’t afford to get attached. She’s a human. You’re not. I don’t even need to tell you what happens when you get too close to one of them. You know the risks.”

Chenle chimed in, his voice suddenly serious, all trace of teasing gone. “And let’s not forget about the blood thing,” he added, his eyes narrowing. “You’re still drinking human blood. You know Mark’s not going to let that slide if he finds out.”

Haechan’s stomach churned at the mention of Mark. The older vampire was their leader, the one who kept everyone in check. He was the one who insisted on sticking to the "cruelty-free" lifestyle—drinking only animal blood to stay under the radar of the humans. It was a rule, one that everyone else followed, but Haechan had been struggling to adhere to it since he was turned.

“I... I don’t know what to do anymore,” Haechan admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I keep telling myself I’ll stop, but every time I see her, it’s like I lose control.”

Jeno crossed his arms, his voice firm but sympathetic. “Look, Haechan, you can’t keep doing this. Mark’s already on edge about everything, and if he finds out you’ve been breaking the rules, it’s not just your neck on the line—it’s all of ours.”

Jaemin leaned against the barn wall, his eyes sharp. “Exactly. We’re already walking a tightrope here, you can’t afford to make it worse.”

Haechan’s gaze dropped to the ground, guilt and frustration swirling inside him. He’d always been a bit of a rule-breaker, but this? This was different. He was walking a dangerous path, and he knew it.

“I’m not trying to mess things up,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with resignation. “I don’t want to lose everything... I don’t want Mark to find out, but it’s hard.”

Chenle took a step forward, his voice a little softer now. “We get it. We really do. But you’ve gotta think about the bigger picture here. If Mark finds out, it’s not just your secret on the line. It’s all of ours. The last thing we need is him going off on us.”

Jaemin nodded, his expression serious. “Yeah, and you know Mark’s not going to let this slide. He’s got a lot on his plate, but if he finds out about this... it’s gonna get ugly.”

Haechan closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I’ll stop,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll try. I just don’t know how long I can keep this up. Every time I see her, it’s like... everything else fades away. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Jeno softened, the sharp edge in his voice melting away as he placed a hand on Haechan’s shoulder. “We’re just trying to look out for you, man. You’ve gotta keep it together. For your sake, and for all of us.”

Jaemin, always the one to lighten the mood, flashed a grin. “Just stop drinking people’s blood, and maybe we won’t have to worry about you getting caught.”

Haechan gave a small, wry smile at that, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t want to admit it, but his friends were right. He had to stop. He had to get a grip before things got out of hand.

As they all fell into a heavy silence, Haechan couldn’t shake the feeling that the choices he made in the coming days would determine everything—not just for him, but for everyone he cared about.

You didn’t expect to see him again so soon, but when you walk into the only restaurant in town one night, there he is, sitting at a corner table, his eyes looking distant, his shoulders slouched in a way that’s uncharacteristic of him. His usual energy is absent, replaced with an almost palpable exhaustion. The sight makes your heart tighten in your chest.

You freeze for a moment, hesitating. Haechan has always been lively, the kind of guy who never seemed to take anything too seriously, always throwing out a joke or a playful comment. But today, his face is pale, his hair messier than usual, and his eyes—those eyes that usually spark with mischief—are dull, almost sunken.

You approach cautiously, unsure of what to say. You know you shouldn’t pry, but something inside you nags at you.

“Hey,” you say, trying to sound casual, but the concern slips into your voice. “You okay? You look... I don’t know, you look kinda rough today.”

Haechan doesn’t look up immediately. He fiddles with the cup in front of him, the steam rising from it, though you notice he doesn’t drink out of it.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, almost too quickly, his voice lacking its usual playful tone. He forces a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just, uh... didn’t sleep well last night.”

You don’t buy it. There’s something off, and it’s more than just lack of sleep. The way his hands tremble slightly as he adjusts the cup. The fact that his usual playful demeanor has been replaced with a quiet, almost hollow version of himself. You sit down across from him, unable to help yourself.

You approach cautiously, unsure of what to say. You know you shouldn’t pry, but something inside you nags at you.

“Hey,” you say, trying to sound casual, but the concern slips into your voice. “You okay? You look... I don’t know, you look kinda rough today.”

Haechan doesn’t look up immediately. He fiddles with the cup in front of him, the steam rising from it, though you notice he doesn’t take a sip.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, almost too quickly, his voice lacking its usual playful tone. He forces a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just, uh... didn’t sleep well last night.”

You don’t buy it. There’s something off, and it’s more than just lack of sleep. The way his hands tremble slightly as he adjusts the cup. The fact that his usual playful demeanor has been replaced with a quiet, almost hollow version of himself.

Haechan stands up abruptly, and for a moment, you think he’s going to leave. But then, he glances at you, an unreadable expression on his face, and asks, “Hey, do you want to see something?”

You pause, a little surprised by the sudden offer. You’d been expecting him to just slink away like every other time you’d spoken, but now he’s offering you something entirely different. Something you can’t quite put your finger on. The thought that he’s acting strange nags at the back of your mind, but something about his tone makes you feel like this could be important—like he needs you to come along, even if he’s not saying it outright.

“Uh... sure,” you say, your voice unsure, but you can’t stop yourself from agreeing. You can tell he’s not okay, and maybe, just maybe, this could be the thing that makes him feel better. He’s not the type to open up easily, so you’re willing to follow him if it’ll help.

Haechan gives you a small, almost wistful smile as if he’s relieved by your answer. Without saying much more, he leads you out of the café and toward the familiar black car parked by the curb.

“Get in,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your eyes flicking to your own car parked further down the street. “Are you sure this is—?”

He cuts you off with a soft chuckle. “It’s fine. Just trust me.”

You’re not sure why, but you say nothing, sliding into the passenger seat. There’s a strange sense of calm that washes over you, a strange trust you’ve never felt before.

He turns the key in the ignition, and the car hums to life. The sound of the engine fills the quiet, but the unease in your stomach doesn’t go away. Your mind races—this isn’t something you should be doing, not with someone you barely know, and certainly not at this hour. If your parents knew...

But you don’t say anything. Maybe it’s because you want to help him, or maybe it’s because part of you feels drawn to him in a way you can’t explain.

The car rumbles through the empty streets as you leave the small town behind. The houses grow fewer and farther apart, and the night seems to stretch on forever. The moonlight casts long shadows on the dirt roads, and everything feels eerily quiet.

“Where are we going?” you finally ask, breaking the silence.

“Don’t ask questions,” Haechan replies with a smile, though it’s softer this time, like he’s actually trying to ease your nerves. “Just trust I’ll take you somewhere nice.”

You don’t ask any more questions as you drive further into the night, your thoughts swirling. You can’t help but wonder what he’s up to, why he’s so different tonight, why he’s asking for your trust so earnestly. But you also don’t want to let him down. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been so closed off, and the little cracks you’ve started to see that make you want to understand him more.

After what feels like an eternity, Haechan pulls the car into a dirt road that leads to a vast patch of farmland. The land is empty, the crops long gone, the farmhouse standing abandoned and dilapidated, a shadow of its former self.

He stops the car and turns off the engine, the sudden silence feeling even heavier.

“This is it,” Haechan says, his voice softer now, almost distant. “I come out here sometimes. It helps clear my head.”

You look around at the forgotten farmland, the tall grass swaying gently in the breeze. It’s so quiet out here, the only sounds the distant rustling of the trees and the occasional chirp of crickets. You get out of the car, feeling the cool night air hit your face, and step beside him, unsure of what you’re doing here, but too curious to leave.

He glances over at you with a small smile, his eyes a little brighter in the dark, like the stars overhead. “You ever just look up and feel small? Like the world’s so big, and you’re just a tiny part of it?”

You can’t help but nod. “Yeah, I get that sometimes.”

Haechan takes a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he looks up at the night sky, his expression unreadable.

“You make me feel normal, Y/N,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. His eyes flick to you, his lips curling up slightly. “Like maybe I don’t have to be so... different all the time.”

You feel a flicker of something in your chest at his words. There’s an undertone there, something you can’t quite place. The way he looks at you... it’s not just a casual glance. It’s like he’s seeing something in you that you don’t quite understand yet.

“Different?” you ask, your voice unsure, but you feel the need to ask. It’s been a question on your mind since you first met him, since you first noticed how... unusual he is.

He chuckles softly, a sound that doesn’t quite match the heaviness in his eyes. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

You try to meet his gaze, but there’s a wall there, something he’s not letting you into. The thought lingers in the back of your mind, and for the first time, you wonder just what it is he’s hiding.

But instead of pressing, you just nod, turning your gaze back to the stars. The silence between you stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, it feels strangely intimate, like you’re both floating in the same stillness, sharing something neither of you can fully name.

Eventually, Haechan sighs, and the weight of the moment seems to shift.

“Thanks for coming out here with me,” he says quietly, breaking the silence. “I don’t know why, but it helps. Being around people who make me feel... not freakish.”

You smile softly, unsure of what else to say. He’s said enough for now, and maybe, for the first time, you realize that the pieces of him that have been hidden behind walls are starting to crack just a little. Maybe soon, he’ll let you in. But for now, this is enough.

You glance up at the stars again, feeling a strange sense of calm.

“Yeah,” you reply, almost to yourself. “I get it.”

The night lingers on, and you both stay there, staring up at the stars, with the unspoken words between you both hanging in the cool air.

Haechan can’t shake the feeling that he’s dying.

It’s not dramatic, but it’s close enough. His body aches, his mind feels foggy, and no matter how much he tries to sleep or eat—nothing helps. He’s been cutting himself off from the blood, trying to prove that he can do this, trying to fight it. The cravings are there, gnawing at the back of his throat, but he’s trying—trying—to ignore them.

He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Doesn’t want to fall back into old habits.

But the hunger is relentless. It claws at him when he’s alone, when he’s trying to focus, when he’s near you.

Being around you is the only thing that makes him feel normal, the only thing that pushes away the hunger for just a moment. The more he sees you, the more he needs to see you. It’s like a fix, a quiet peace that settles over him when the two of you are together.

“Dude, you okay?” Jaemin’s voice cuts through the haze, a sharp note of concern in it that Haechan can’t ignore.

He looks up to see the group’s concerned faces staring back at him. Jeno and Chenle are also watching him, arms crossed, silent.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Haechan says, but his voice is strained. It’s the same thing he’s been saying for days. He’s not fine. His body feels like it’s burning from the inside, and no amount of water or food can quell it.

Jaemin doesn’t buy it. He walks over, looking him up and down. “You don’t look fine. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Haechan rubs his eyes, trying to clear the exhaustion. “I’ve been busy, okay? Just haven’t had time to rest.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push. “It’s not just that, though. You’ve been acting weird. You keep disappearing. And every time you come back, you smell… different.” He leans closer, sniffing the air dramatically, earning a roll of the eyes from Haechan.

“Cut it out, Jaemin,” he mutters, swatting at his friend’s hand.

Jeno, who’s been unusually quiet, finally speaks up. “Look, we all know you’ve been… trying to stop. But you can’t just cut off the blood supply like that and expect to feel good. You’re messing with your system, Haechan. You need it.”

“I don’t want it anymore,” Haechan snaps, the words coming out sharper than he intends. He exhales, trying to calm himself. “I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He pauses, looking at his friends, feeling the weight of their gazes. “It’s just… It’s hard, okay? Especially when I’m around her.”

Jaemin, ever the curious one, raises an eyebrow. “Who? Y/N?”

Haechan’s heart skips, just a little, at the mention of youe name. He’s never admitted it aloud, not even to himself. But the truth is, you are the only thing that makes it all feel bearable. You’re the reason he’s still standing, still breathing, even if it's just in fragments.

“I don’t know what it is,” he mutters, his voice quiet now. “She’s just… different. Every time I see her, I feel like I’m finally able to breathe again. And I know that’s messed up, but it’s true.” He laughs bitterly. “I can’t explain it. It’s just… something about her pulls me in. I just… need to be near her.”

Jeno and Chenle exchange a glance.

“I still don’t get it,” Chenle says, shaking his head. “What’s so special about her? I mean, she’s just a human.”

Haechan’s jaw tightens. “She’s not just a human.” His voice softens, almost wistful. “She makes me feel normal. Not like... this.”

Jaemin claps his hands together, leaning in, trying to lighten the mood. “Look, man. Just don’t go overboard. Mark’s been asking about you. He knows something’s up.”

Haechan’s stomach drops at the mention of Mark. Mark has always been the level-headed one, taking care of them whenever they needed it and trusting them implicitly. If he finds out what’s going on with Haechan, it’s all over.

“I’m not doing anything crazy, alright?” Haechan says, quickly. He stands up and brushes himself off, trying to hide the nerves that flood through him. “I’m just... keeping my distance, okay?”

Jaemin’s grin is sly. “Well, if you don’t want Mark to find out, you better chill with all the Y/N stuff. It’s obvious you’re way into her.”

Haechan looks at him, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in his chest at the thought. He’s not into her. Not in the way Jaemin means. But he’s still drawn to her, more than he’s ever been to anyone. And that’s the problem.

“I’m not into her,” Haechan mutters, though even he knows it’s a lie.

Jaemin just shrugs. “Whatever, dude. Just don’t let it get out of hand.”

As Haechan walks out of the room, he can’t help but think about his friends’ words. They’re right, in a way. But when it comes to you, everything feels different. And he can’t seem to stop himself from wanting more.

You’re starting to get used to it—the rides, the late-night drives, the feeling that Haechan is always around. It’s no longer as weird as it once was, almost making you feel safe, and maybe that’s what gets to you the most. The strangeness you’d once felt when you first met him has been replaced with something… comforting. You can’t put your finger on it, but there’s something about him that makes you feel like things are just a little bit easier.

The first time he offers to drive you to work, you’re reluctant. You hate being dependent on others, let alone someone you barely know. But your car’s practically falling apart, and the idea of breaking down again isn’t exactly appealing, so you give in.

And just like that, he starts picking you up every morning. It’s like an unspoken routine, and after a few days, it’s almost like you’ve always had this. He’s always there at the same time, always with that casual smile and a way of making even the silence feel comfortable.

“You really don’t have to do this, Haechan,” you say one morning, standing at your front door and looking at your car. “I’ll be fine.”

He looks at your car with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna last long.”

You huff a little, but it’s not a serious protest. In truth, you’re kind of relieved. Your car is definitely on its last legs. He’s there every day now, picking you up, and it becomes a sort of comfort. Something you look forward to as you climb into the passenger seat, the world outside your window slowly passing by as you talk.

You talk about work, about random things. It’s easy to get lost in conversation with him. And somehow, the more you talk, the more you feel like you’re peeling away the layers, getting to know him. Even if you’re not asking direct questions, it’s like you’re discovering the little things that make him tick.

But then there are your parents.

They start to notice, of course. They’re always watching, always concerned, and you can tell when the questions start. You’d think they’d be relieved you weren’t driving around in your old car anymore, but they’re more skeptical than anything.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that boy lately,” your mom says, casually, but you can see the look in her eyes. The concern. She doesn’t have to say much for you to know what she’s thinking.

“He’s just helping me out with my car, Mom,” you respond quickly, brushing it off.

“Are you sure that’s all?” she presses, narrowing her eyes in that way she does when she’s trying to get to the truth. “You don’t really know him, do you?”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the flicker of doubt in your chest. “He’s just a friend, Mom. Really.”

Your dad doesn’t even try to hide his disapproval when the topic comes up over dinner. “So, now you have a personal chauffeur?” he says, his tone sharp and skeptical. “What’s he after?”

You feel your cheeks flush. “Nothing, Dad. He’s just a friend.”

But the concern doesn’t fade. If anything, it makes it worse. Your dad watches your every move when you leave the house, and you can feel the tension between him and Haechan the first time they meet. It’s like a silent standoff, and you’re not sure what’s making your dad so antsy, but it’s there. And that only makes you feel more conflicted.

“Be careful, alright?” your mom says quietly, her eyes following you as you walk out the door. “You don’t know who his friends are. Or what he’s really like.”

You don’t respond, but the unease lingers. It gnaws at you, even though you try to push it away. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Your parents are just overprotective.

The truth is, you don’t know what to make of Haechan. You’re still figuring him out, and as you spend more time with him, you start to see sides of him that make you think maybe your parents are right to be worried. Sometimes he says things that don’t make sense, or acts in ways that are just a little too charming, too… perfect. It’s like he knows exactly how to make you feel comfortable, exactly how to make you feel like the world’s a little less complicated when he’s around.

You don’t know why you’re so drawn to him, but you are. And that’s the scariest part.

One night after work, Haechan pulls up to your house as usual. You’re tired, your legs aching from standing all day, and you can’t wait to get inside and collapse into bed. But when you see him sitting in the car, looking at you with that familiar, almost concerned look, you feel a tug at your chest.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer than usual. “You look kind of wiped.”

“I’m fine,” you reply, trying to brush it off. “Just a long day.”

But he doesn’t seem convinced. “You sure?”

You nod, but he’s still looking at you with that too-knowing gaze. It’s like he sees right through the walls you’ve built up.

“Alright, well… get some rest, okay?” he says, a little too carefully.

You smile and nod, but as you turn to open the door, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching you a little too closely. It’s not unsettling, though. In a strange way, it makes you feel… seen.

The next morning, it’s the same routine. The same car, the same comforting silence between you two. You slip into the passenger seat, already feeling like this is your new normal. The world outside is a blur, and for a while, it’s just the two of you, the road, and the easy conversation that flows between you.

Maybe your parents are right to worry. Maybe Haechan isn’t exactly what he seems.

But right now, none of that matters. Right now, it’s just you and him. And for the first time in a long time, that’s enough.

You’re working your usual shift at the hospital, dreading returning home, since the house was empty, your parents having gone on a weekend trip to the coast. Something about having the house to yourself felt wrong, as if you weren’t supposed to be there.  You were checking on patients and trying to stay on top of your never-ending to-do list. The night is quiet, almost eerily so, when suddenly you get a call for a new patient who’s been brought in after a car accident. You rush to the emergency room to help.

The whole thing happens so fast. A small fender-bender turns into chaos when the injured man starts bleeding uncontrollably, and the pressure to get him stabilized is on. The room’s filled with frantic activity, the beeping of machines, the distant sounds of nurses and doctors hustling around. You’re running on autopilot, focused on getting everything right, keeping your head in the game.

Then, as you step back, you trip on one of the many cords snaking around the patient, losing your footing and crashing into a nearby medical cart. You hit your head against the metal shelf hard enough for a sharp pain to shoot through your skull. The force leaves you dazed for a moment, and you stumble, but manage to catch yourself before you hit the ground.

You’re stunned, disoriented, but you quickly shake it off. It’s just a small bump. Nothing serious. You finish helping with the patient’s stabilization, and the team moves the man into the intensive care unit. Still, your head throbs, and when you bring your hand up to it, you feel the sticky warmth of blood.

The rest of the night is a blur of patients and responsibilities. You try to stay focused, but every time you move, the pain in your head intensifies. By the time your shift ends, you’re exhausted and ready to head home.

Today had been one of the rare days you were able to convince Haechan not to pick you up, he had seemed sick and you quickly assured him you’d be able to make it to and from work in one piece. 

The drive home is silent, your head still pounding. You pull up to your house, your neck aching, your vision blurry. You’re halfway to the door when your phone buzzes with a message from Haechan.

Haechan: “How are you? You okay?”

You smile despite yourself, not realizing how much you’ve come to look forward to his messages. He’s always checking in, and you appreciate it. But you’re also annoyed with yourself for not letting him know how much you need him around more often.

You text back: “Long shift. Bumped my head pretty bad, but it’s nothing. Just a little dizzy and tired”

It’s only a few minutes after you send this text when you hear a car pulling up in front of your house. You step out to check, and to your surprise, Haechan’s car pulls up right in front of your house. He looks frantic, eyes wide, hands gripping the wheel tight. When he sees you, his face softens, but the panic doesn’t fade from his eyes.

“Haechan? What—”

Before you can finish the sentence, he’s out of the car and at your side, looking you up and down. His gaze settles on your head, and you realize you’ve got a thin trickle of blood running down the side of your face. His breathing quickens as he reaches for your head, his hand trembling slightly as he touches it, almost as though he’s afraid of hurting you more.

“Y/N… what happened?” His voice is strained, like he’s struggling to stay calm. You’d never seen him like this before.

“I’m fine,” you insist, swatting his hand away gently. “Really, it’s just a little bump. I’ve had worse.”

But he’s not hearing you. His eyes flicker to your neck, his gaze darkening as though something inside him is fighting to stay under control. You notice the strange way his chest rises and falls, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth are grinding. His usual charm and ease have disappeared. He’s nothing like the confident, carefree guy you’ve come to know. In this moment, he looks almost… afraid.

“I can’t… I can’t be around when you’re like this,” he mutters, voice low, just above a whisper. He takes a step back, his eyes darting all over you as though he’s trying to pull himself together.

Before you can ask him what the hell is going on, he grabs your arm and pulls you gently but firmly towards his car.

“Come on,” he says, his voice now forceful, but not in the usual playful way. “We need to get you somewhere safe.”

You don’t protest. Part of you wonders if you should, but you don’t. There’s something in his eyes—something raw, desperate—and you know, deep down, that he’s not just being dramatic.

As he drives, you can feel the tension in his movements, like he’s doing everything to keep himself in check. The car ride is silent, the only noise being the hum of the engine and the occasional deep breath from Haechan.

He pulls up to the familiar spot—an empty field, the stars overhead. He cuts the engine but doesn’t get out, staring at the dashboard, his fingers gripping the wheel again. You’re unsure if you should break the silence or let him speak first, but before you can make up your mind, he turns to you.

“I… I can’t lose you,” he says quietly, his voice cracking as though it’s something he’s been holding in for a long time. “I don’t care how crazy it sounds, but I can’t.” He pauses, his eyes shifting away from yours. “I know what I am. I know I’m dangerous.”

He takes a shaky breath. “And I’m sorry. But you can’t get hurt, not like this.”

You don’t say anything right away. What do you say to that? You’re still reeling from the intensity of the situation, your head throbbing from the bump and the tension in the air.

But there’s something in his eyes that keeps you from running. You know, deep down, that whatever this is—it’s not just some passing thing. There’s more to it. And despite the fear, you want to understand.

"I don’t know what you're talking about," you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Haechan’s eyes flicker to yours, his gaze softening just a fraction. “I know… but I’m going to do everything I can to protect you. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

And for the first time, you wonder if you should be scared. Or if, somehow, you’ve already let yourself fall too far into this strange world Haechan is dragging you into.

The car ride is tense, Haechan’s grip on the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white. His eyes dart from the road to you, his jaw clenching as if he’s fighting an internal battle. You’re too shaken to speak, and the headache from your injury is dull but persistent. You try to ignore it, but the silence between you feels suffocating.

When you arrive, it’s not where you expected. It’s not the familiar abandoned farm or some quiet spot you can retreat to. No, this place is sleek, almost eerie—like it’s frozen in time, hidden away from the rest of the world. The house looms in front of you, dark windows reflecting the dim light of the street lamps.

He doesn’t say a word, but when you hesitate, his eyes lock onto yours, almost desperate.

“Please. Just come inside. I just... I just need you to let me take care of you.”

You blink in confusion, but something in his gaze makes you step out of the car and follow him to the door. You can’t explain it, but you trust him. Even though you know something’s off, something about him is different. And right now, you don’t know what else to do.

The door opens before he even knocks, revealing a dimly lit hallway and a sense of discomfort that hits you instantly. The air smells faintly of something... metallic, almost. The atmosphere is heavy, like something is watching you from the shadows.

Before you can even ask where you are, Haechan’s hand grips your wrist tightly, pulling you inside, and the door slams shut behind you.

A few guys are already there—Jaemin, Jeno, and Chenle—sitting on the couches, their expressions sharp as they see you. They glance between you and Haechan, and you can practically feel the tension rise. There’s something about their eyes, the way they’re looking at you, that makes you uncomfortable.

“Hyuck, what the hell are you doing?” Jaemin asks, his voice cold but laced with concern. “What’s going on?”

Haechan is a mess—sweat dripping down his forehead, his body trembling like he can’t control it. His hands are shaking as he pulls at his shirt, his eyes wild. “Can you just help her?” His voice cracks, and you can feel the desperation pouring off him. "Just help me."

The other guys exchange glances, but they don’t argue. Instead, Jaemin stands and walks toward you, his demeanor softening.

“You’re hurt. You need to sit down,” Jaemin says calmly, taking your arm gently. “Don’t worry, okay? We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

You feel like you’re floating as he gently guides you to sit on the sofa.

The room feels too small. The air is thick with tension, and you can’t help but watch as Haechan paces back and forth, his hands trembling at his sides. You’ve never seen him like this before. He looks... wrecked. There’s something unsettling about the way his eyes dart around, as if he’s on edge, like he’s trying to hold something back.

Jaemin is standing near the window, his brows furrowed as he watches Haechan closely. His hand hovers near his phone, as if he's debating calling someone, but before he can make a move, the door creaks open. Mark steps in, his presence immediately calming the room. He glances at you first, his eyes soft but guarded. Then, his attention shifts to Haechan, who freezes at the sight of him.

“Mark,” Jaemin says, his voice tight. “He’s not—he’s not good right now. It’s... it’s bad.”

Mark doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps further into the room, his eyes flicking between you and Haechan. The look on his face is unreadable, and he moves with an air of authority that quiets the room. He’s in charge here, even without saying a word.

Haechan’s breathing is shallow, and his eyes lock on Mark as if the mere sight of him is grounding him, just a little bit. But the frantic energy is still there, visible in the way he’s gripping the edges of the nearest table. “Help me, Mark,” he mutters, voice rough, like the words are clawing their way out of his chest. “I can’t—she’s so close, I can’t—I need her, I need to—”

“Hyuck, shut up,” Mark interrupts, his voice low but firm. He walks over to Haechan and places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away from the table. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”

Haechan freezes, the words hitting him like a slap. He looks at you for a split second—his eyes wild, confused, desperate. But Mark is there, pulling him away before he can get any closer. You’re not sure what to think, or what’s really going on, but you feel a knot tighten in your stomach.

Jaemin steps closer to you, his gaze softening. “You don’t have to worry,” he says quietly, though there’s an underlying tension in his voice. “We’re just trying to help him. He’s... been going through something, and he’s not himself right now.”

You want to ask what’s really happening, but before you can, Mark cuts in. He doesn’t want to give anything away, and you can see it in the way he’s controlling the situation. “We’ll take care of him,” he says, his voice as calm as he can make it. “You don’t need to get involved.”

Haechan looks like he’s about to lose it again, his eyes flashing with something you can’t quite name. He seems so... torn. There’s a part of him that’s trying to fight whatever is inside him, but it’s so clear now that he’s struggling. And you can’t shake the feeling that whatever is going on, it’s something more than you’re seeing.

“I can’t... I can’t go back to how it was,” Haechan whispers, his voice almost lost in the room. He doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone, just to himself. “I can’t.” He repeats, as if trying to soothe himself.

Mark doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he nods, as though trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We’ll figure it out. But you need to pull it together before you hurt her,” he says, his voice stern.

Then, he turns to Jaemin and you, his expression hardening. “Take her to another room,” he orders, voice calm but firm. “I need to keep him away from her until we get this under control.”

Jaemin doesn’t argue. He gently takes your arm, guiding you toward the door without another word. You glance back at Haechan one last time, and something in his eyes pulls at you, but you don’t have the chance to react. Jaemin shuts the door behind you.

Inside the room, you can hear Haechan’s frantic breathing getting louder, mixed with Mark’s calm but firm instructions. It’s clear they’re trying to hide something from you—and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s not just about Haechan’s emotional state. But whatever it is, they’re not letting you in on it.

You want to know what’s really going on. You want to understand what’s happening to him. But you’re starting to realize that, no matter how much you care about him, there are some things you’re never going to know.

You sit quietly in the car, the weight of the situation still settling over you like a thick fog. Jeno is driving, Jaemin sitting in the passenger seat. The silence between you all is thick and uncomfortable. You’re still trying to process everything that happened back at the house—Haechan’s erratic behavior, his trembling hands, the frantic way he kept looking at you as if he couldn’t control himself. You’ve never seen anyone like that before, and it unsettles you more than you can put into words.

Jaemin glances back at you, his voice soft but trying to reassure you. “He’s just... going through a tough time,” he says, his words careful, as though he’s trying to convince himself just as much as you. “It’s not like he’s always like that. He’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

You nod slowly, though your mind is racing. You can’t stop thinking about the way Haechan looked at you, the desperate, almost tormented look in his eyes. What was going on with him? Why did he act like that? And why were they trying so hard to hide whatever was really happening?

You don’t speak again during the ride. You’re too lost in your own thoughts, and the unsettling feelings swirling inside of you only grow stronger as you get closer to home. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, and the anxiety is starting to eat at you.

When they pull up to your house, Jaemin turns to you. “We’ll talk more later, okay?” he says, his voice calm, trying to soothe you, but it’s not enough. You’re too shaken to feel comforted right now.

You just nod again, muttering a quiet “Thanks,” before getting out of the car. You can still feel the strange weight of the night in your chest, and as you step inside your house, the sense of unease doesn’t leave.

You spend the rest of the night in your room, trying to distract yourself, but the thoughts of Haechan and his strange behavior keep resurfacing. Every time you close your eyes, you see his face—wild, desperate, almost unrecognizable in his struggle. It’s hard to shake the feeling that something isn’t right, and your heart sinks as you realize that whatever’s going on with him, you don’t know if you can handle it.

That night, sleep comes, albeit it fitfully. It’s filled with a nightmare that feels too real. You’re standing in a dark, empty room. It’s cold, and the walls feel like they’re closing in on you. And then you hear him—Haechan’s voice, low and almost... threatening.

You turn, but before you can move, he’s there. His eyes are wide, bloodshot, but it’s not him. Not the Haechan you know. He’s angry, wild, and you feel his hands on your arms, gripping you with a strength that’s too much, too much for you to break free from. His grip tightens, and you scream, but he doesn’t let go. The fear you feel in the dream is real, too real, and you wake up with a start, your breath shallow, heart racing in your chest.

You sit up in bed, your skin cold with sweat. The room is dark, and everything feels wrong. You can still hear his voice in your ears, feel the pressure of his hands on your skin, and you shiver. The nightmare lingers, the fear still gripping your chest, making it hard to breathe.

The morning after everything happened, you drive yourself to work. The ride is quiet, but your mind is a storm of thoughts. You can’t shake the image of Haechan’s face—the way he looked at you last night, desperate and frantic. The nightmare lingers like a shadow in the back of your mind, and you’re not sure which is worse: the vision of his hands on your arms in your dream or the fact that you don’t know what’s real anymore.

You turn the key in the ignition and start your car, the engine humming to life, but it feels like everything around you is in slow motion. You still can’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched, like Haechan’s presence is hovering just behind you, pulling you into his orbit. Your hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and you try to focus on the road ahead, pushing away the feelings of dread.

The hum of the engine is almost soothing, but it doesn’t stop the nervous tension in your chest or the pounding. As you drive, you think back to your parents, how they didn’t miss the change in your mood. You can feel their worried glances from the moment they saw you this morning, having arrived home late in the night, after you had already surrendered to sleep. They know something’s wrong, and it’s only a matter of time before they ask.

When you pull into your driveway after work, you’re relieved to be home. But as you step inside, your mother’s voice calls out from the kitchen.

“You’re home late,” she says, sounding concerned. “And you look... shaken up. What happened, honey?”

You swallow hard, trying to hide the unease still lingering inside you. “Nothing, Mom. Just a long day,” you lie, but your voice is too tight for her not to notice.

She walks over, setting a hand on your shoulder, looking you up and down like she’s trying to see through the mask you’re wearing. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks, her voice soft but insistent. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shake your head, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine, really. Just tired, that’s all.”

Your dad walks into the room then, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene. “You look pale,” he observes. “Like something’s bothering you. Did something happen at work? Or... is it about that boy? Haechan, right?”

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of his name. You can’t look them in the eye. “I’m fine, Dad. It’s just... I’m not feeling too great.”

They exchange a look, one you can’t quite place, but you know they’re worried. And it’s not just because of your sudden change in mood. They’re worried about something else.

“Has he been bothering you?” your dad asks, his voice low but laced with concern. “That boy... Haechan. He’s always been nice, but you’ve been spending a lot of time with him. Has he done anything that made you uncomfortable?”

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. The last thing you want to do is talk about what happened, but you can’t lie to them either. You’re so tired of pretending like everything is fine. But you also can’t bring yourself to tell them the truth—not the whole truth. Not yet.

“I... I don’t know,” you admit, your voice shaking. “He just... he’s been acting weird. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but something’s off. Last night, I—” You stop, biting your lip, trying to hold it together. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

Your mom pulls you into a hug, her arms wrapping around you tightly. “We’re here for you, sweetheart,” she says, her voice gentle. “But if you feel like something’s wrong, you need to let us know. You don’t have to keep it to yourself.”

You nod against her shoulder, unable to speak. You want to tell them everything—the truth about Haechan, what happened the night before, how terrified you felt in that moment. But you don’t. You don’t know how.

Later that night, you can feel your parents’ eyes on you as they discuss what’s going on. You hear bits and pieces of their conversation from your room—how they don’t trust Haechan, how worried they are about you being around him, and how they think you should stay away from him for your own safety.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling more isolated than ever. You should have been scared, but the truth is, you don’t know what you feel anymore. You’re confused, lost, and you just want to forget it all.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, a message from Haechan. It’s a simple, “Hey, are you okay? I’m sorry about earlier.”

But you don’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to explain that you’re scared of him, and that you’re not sure why.

You feel your heart heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

You’ve been avoiding him.

It’s hard to do, considering how often you bump into him when you leave work, when you’re at the store, when you’re just out trying to live your life. But you’re doing it. For your own sanity, you’re keeping distance, and it’s making you anxious too. You can’t escape the nightmares and the visions of him in pain—and the overwhelming urge to help him. But something’s off. You can feel it in your bones.

The more you avoid him, the more anxious you become. But every time you see a message from him, your heart drops. What is it? Why is it that, despite being scared of him, you can’t seem to stop missing him?

Little do you know, he’s just as anxious without you around.

Every night, he finds himself staring at his phone, waiting for a message that doesn’t come. The loneliness gnaws at him like a hunger, and it’s not a hunger he can satisfy. He knows something’s wrong with him, but he can’t quite put it into words. He’s starting to lose control of his thoughts—his need for you growing sharper with each passing day. There’s no explanation for it. No reason why he feels this empty. But the truth is, he can’t stand being apart from you.

One evening, as Haechan paces around the house, restless, Mark notices.

“You’re a mess,” Mark comments, leaning against the doorframe of the room where Haechan is pacing back and forth. “If you keep this up, you’re going to crack.”

Haechan glances up, the exhaustion and anxiety clear in his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admits, the words falling from his lips like they’ve been waiting to be said for far too long.

Mark stays quiet for a moment, taking in Haechan’s state. “You’re obsessed,” he mutters.

“I’m not obsessed,” Haechan snaps back. “I—I need her, Mark. I can’t keep pretending like this isn’t—” He cuts himself off, his voice breaking. “I think she’s my mate. She’s... the one.”

Mark’s eyes widen slightly, but his expression doesn’t change. He’s heard of this before—vampires finding their mates, that one person who becomes everything to them. It’s rare, but it happens. And when it does, it’s all-consuming.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Mark says, though there’s no malice in his voice—just disbelief. “You’re saying you think she’s... the one? Like, the one-one?”

Haechan nods, his chest tightening. “I’ve never felt anything like this before. It’s... it’s different. I know it doesn’t make sense, but she’s... I’m empty without her.”

Mark rubs his temples, his own frustration evident. “This is a mess, Haechan. You’re scaring her. And if she finds out you’re keeping tabs on her, she’s going to run from you for good. You need to talk to her.”

“But what if—what if she doesn’t feel the same way?” Haechan’s voice cracks. “I can’t lose her. I—” He swallows, his hands shaking slightly. “I need to see her. I need to talk to her. I have to make her understand.”

Mark steps forward, placing a hand on Haechan’s shoulder, his grip firm but supportive. “Then go talk to her. But you have to do it right. No more creeping around in the shadows. No more avoiding her. If she’s your mate, you have to let her decide, too. But you have to be honest with her. No more hiding.”

Haechan nods, a weight settling in his chest. He knows Mark is right, but the thought of facing you, of telling you everything, terrifies him. He’s never felt this vulnerable in his life.

“I don’t want to scare her,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I get it,” Mark says, his expression softening. “But you can’t keep running from it. If she’s really the one... you can’t hide from her forever.”

The next day, Haechan finally decides to take Mark’s advice.

He drives to the cafe you’re always at after work. He parks across the street, watching you through the window, trying to steady his nerves. His hands are sweaty on the wheel, his heart hammering in his chest. What if you don’t understand? What if you don’t feel the same way?

He watches you for a long while, and then, as if on cue, you glance up and meet his gaze through the glass. Your eyes widen in surprise, but before he can wave or approach, you look away, clearly uncomfortable.

He feels a sharp pang in his chest, the space between them growing ever wider. No more running.

Taking a deep breath, he steps out of the car and walks across the street, determination pushing him forward. He reaches the door to the cafe and pauses just before entering. He looks at you again, and this time, when your eyes meet, there’s no hesitation.

You stand up from your seat, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you is thick with unspoken words.

“I... I need to talk to you,” Haechan finally says, his voice rough but steady.

You blink, looking at him in confusion, but you nod. “Okay,” you say softly, not sure what to expect.

Haechan swallows, gathering every last bit of courage. “I’ve been... avoiding you. And I know you’ve been avoiding me, too. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way about you. You... You’re not just anyone to me.”

Your heart skips a beat as you watch his expression soften, his vulnerability clear in his eyes. “I need you, more than you know,” he says, and even though it sounds insane, he means it with everything in him.

You stare at him, too stunned to speak, trying to process what he just said. You don’t know what to say, how to respond. 

You’re lost in the chaos of your thoughts when he speaks again, softer this time, almost pleading. “Please, just listen to me. I’ve never felt like this before, not with anyone. You’re... everything to me.”

You search his eyes, looking for some sign that this is some cruel prank. “We barely know each other, Haechan, you sound crazy.”

Haechan’s face falls at your words, but he doesn’t retreat. His eyes are full of emotion—vulnerability, desperation, and a deep sense of yearning that you can’t ignore. He steps closer, his voice trembling with sincerity. “I know how it sounds. But I swear, I’m not joking. I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

You back away slightly, heart racing. This doesn’t feel real. You’ve known him for only a short time, and yet, here he is, spilling his soul in front of you, and you’re left trying to understand what he means.

“I get that this is... overwhelming,” Haechan continues, his voice raw. “But I need you to understand—I’ve been running from this. From you. Because I was scared. Scared of how much you mean to me, scared that you might think I’m some kind of monster. But I can’t run anymore.”

You blink, trying to process everything. “Monster? What are you—”

“I’m a vampire,” he cuts in quickly, his words coming out in a rush. “And so are the others—the ones you met. I didn’t want you to find out like this, but I can’t keep lying to you. You have to know the truth.”

Your mouth goes dry. A vampire? You think it’s some kind of twisted joke, your mind scrambling to come up with a response. But when you look into his eyes, there’s no trace of humor, no playful glint. He’s serious. He’s telling you the truth.

“No way,” you whisper, shaking your head. “That’s... that’s impossible.”

“I know,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step closer. “It sounds insane. But everything about this, about us, is real. The pull you’ve felt, the connection—it’s not in your head. It’s because you’re... you’re my mate.”

You freeze at his words, your mind going blank. Mate. It’s a word that doesn’t belong in your reality. How could it? How could he be saying this to you? How could you be his?

“I don’t... I don’t understand,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” he says quietly. “I didn’t want you to be scared of me, but hiding it from you, keeping this from you... it’s been tearing me apart. I need you to understand. You’re not just anyone to me. You’re everything.”

You can’t think straight, your heart beating erratically in your chest. You want to run. You want to scream. You want to slam the door in his face and pretend none of this ever happened. But something—something—keeps you standing there, frozen, listening.

“Is it true?” you ask, barely able to keep your voice steady. “What you said about being your mate... do you really mean that?”

Haechan nods slowly, the rawness in his eyes never leaving. “Yes. I do. And... I know this is crazy, but I feel like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. You’re the one I’m meant to be with. And I know it’s all happening too fast, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell you.”

You swallow, feeling your throat tighten. You want to push him away, but the truth is—you can’t. You feel it too. That strange pull. That undeniable connection. Even though everything in you is screaming to run, to walk away from him and everything he’s telling you, a small part of you wants to stay.

“But... what does that mean?” you whisper. “What does it mean for us?”

Haechan takes another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “It means that I need you. And I know this is a lot for you to take in. But you feel it too, don’t you? You’ve felt the pull. You’ve felt what’s between us. I can’t pretend anymore. You’re my mate, and that’s something I can’t deny.”

You feel your heart race at his words, but your mind refuses to catch up. You’re still trying to grasp what he’s telling you. “I don’t know what to do with this, Haechan. I don’t know how to... handle this.”

“I understand,” he says softly. “I didn’t expect you to just accept it. I’m not asking you to decide right now, but please... don’t shut me out. Please, don’t make me lose you.”

You stand there in silence, the weight of his words sinking in. Your heart aches, your mind spinning. You want to believe him, you want to make sense of everything he’s saying, but the truth is, you feel like you’re drowning.

“I... I need time,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I need to think about everything. I can’t just... I can’t just jump into this.”

Haechan’s face falls, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. “I’ll give you all the time you need. Just... don’t forget that I’m here. I’ll wait for you, no matter what.”

You nod slowly, your chest tight with the weight of everything. The space between you feels suffocating, yet you can’t bring yourself to walk away.

As Haechan turns to leave, you feel the sting of something you can’t name. You don’t know where this will go, or if you even want it to, but part of you knows—no matter how much you try to push it away, this thing between you two isn’t something you can ignore forever.

Haechan had never felt so isolated.

The moment you told him you needed space, a crack formed in his chest, widening with every minute that passed without you. He tried to pretend it didn't bother him, tried to convince himself that it was for the best. He didn't deserve you—not after everything he’d kept hidden, not after he’d shown you the truth of what he was. But it didn’t stop the hurt.

So, he did what he always did when things got too hard: he locked himself in his room, away from the world, away from the other guys. He could feel the tension in his bones, a gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach, but it wasn’t the kind that could be filled with food. It was you. He wanted you more than he wanted anything else.

For days, he didn't leave. He didn’t eat. His thoughts were consumed by you—by the way you’d looked at him when you said you needed space, the mix of fear, confusion, and something else. You didn’t understand him, not really, and it hurt more than anything. He could still see the way you’d looked at him when he confessed. He had been so sure. But now, sitting in his dimly lit room, he wasn't so certain anymore.

Meanwhile, you weren't faring much better.

You missed him. That was the truth of it. You hated how much you missed him. Every night, you lay awake, the silence of your room pressing in on you, as your mind replayed the last time you saw him. You wanted to hate him for what he’d done, for the secrets, for everything, but you couldn’t. You still felt that pull toward him, that inexplicable attraction that gnawed at you when you were awake and haunted your dreams when you slept.

The dreams had taken a turn, and you couldn't quite explain it. You would dream of Haechan—only this time, he wasn’t the monster you feared he was. Instead, he was tender, soft in a way you hadn’t expected. He would hold you, his arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel safe, loved even. In the dreams, he wasn’t hiding anything from you. He laid himself bare in front of you, the words spilling out of his mouth in whispered confessions of how much he cared for you, how much he needed you.

You woke from those dreams more than once, your chest tight, your heart pounding, and your mind spinning with thoughts of him. How could you move forward after everything he’d said? You couldn't just pretend like things were normal again. But at the same time, you missed him more than you cared to admit.

Then one night, as you were finishing your shift, you spotted them.

The guys. Standing outside the hospital, looking like they were waiting for something, or someone. Your heart skipped a beat, and the air felt heavier. You couldn’t stop yourself from walking over to the door and pushing it open, a quiet curiosity drawing you toward them.

They looked at you with a mixture of urgency and hesitation, but it was Jeno who stepped forward, his expression serious.

“You need to come with us,” Jeno said, his voice a little softer than usual. “Haechan’s been... he’s been falling apart. He won’t talk to anyone, and he can’t stop thinking about you. He needs you, Y/N. Please. He’s suffering.”

You could feel the heat rush to your face, your heart clenching. Haechan had been suffering? The thought of him like that twisted something deep in your chest. It was clear he wasn’t handling everything well, and as much as you hated to admit it, neither were you.

“I don’t know...” You swallowed thickly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I don’t know if I can just—”

“Please,” Jeno interrupted, his gaze softening. “He’s in a bad place, and he won’t get better unless you see him. We’re not asking you to fix everything. We just want you to see him, to talk to him. He needs you more than you know.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, the weight of it all pressing down on you. You wanted to say no. You wanted to keep your distance, to protect yourself from whatever hurt might be waiting for you. But the truth was, you couldn't bear the thought of him being alone in his pain, not after everything he’d shared with you.

“Okay,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll go.”

The drive to his place felt like it took forever.

You stared out the window, your thoughts a jumbled mess of uncertainty, confusion, and the remnants of something that might have been affection. The other guys didn't say much as they drove, their presence quiet but comforting in its own way. You could feel the tension radiating off of them, but they didn't push you, didn't ask anything more than what they had already said.

When you finally arrived at the house, your heart pounded in your chest. You hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the car, your legs shaky. As you walked inside, you found yourself wondering if you were making the right choice.

You cautiously made your way up the stairs towards the room Mark had pointed out to you. Once you reach it, you stand perfectly still, debating on if you should even knock.

And then the door opened.

Haechan stood in the doorway, his usual cocky smile nowhere to be found. He looked different—drained, like he hadn’t been sleeping or eating. His eyes were tired, and he wore the kind of expression that made your heart ache in a way you couldn’t explain.

“You came,” he said, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. It felt like a lifetime ago that you had last seen him, and now, standing in front of him, you didn’t know what to say. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest, your emotions at war with each other. He looked at you, his eyes searching, as if trying to read you, to figure out what you were feeling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I never should’ve kept this from you. I... I didn’t want to scare you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You shook your head, your chest tight. “You scared me, Haechan,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t know what to believe.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But I need you to know... I never wanted to hurt you. I just... I didn’t know how to handle this, how to explain what I am.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to process everything. “You’re a vampire,” you said, the words tasting strange on your tongue. “How am I supposed to handle that? How do I trust you after everything?”

“I know I don’t deserve it,” he said, his voice full of guilt. “But I need you to understand something... You’re not just anyone to me. You’re... everything. I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

You could feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. You had wanted to hate him, wanted to push him away, but something in the way he looked at you, something in the way he sounded, made it impossible to deny that there was something real between you.

“You’re my mate,” he whispered, his eyes shining with a mixture of hope and fear.

You took a shaky breath, your heart racing. "You... You think I’m your mate?"

“I know you feel it too,” he said, stepping closer. “I don’t expect you to understand all at once, but I can’t deny it anymore. You’re the one I’ve been waiting for. I don’t want to lose you.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a flood of emotions, a mixture of confusion, fear, and something else—something that you couldn't ignore. You didn’t know how to move forward, but you knew one thing: you couldn’t stay away from him anymore.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

Haechan nodded, his expression softening. “I know. I’m scared too. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Tentatively, you stepped into his arms, your body pressing against his cold, hard frame. The relief that washed over him was almost palpable, and for a brief moment, he almost crumpled under the weight of it.

But then, something shifted in him. The scent of you, so close, was intoxicating, and your proximity was making everything more intense. He suddenly became hyper-aware of how long it had been since he’d eaten. His hunger had never felt sharper.

You felt the change in him immediately. His body stiffened, his breathing shallow as he pulled away slightly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice soft but filled with concern. You studied his face, your fingers grazing over his features in a gentle search for answers.

His face flushed, and he quickly looked away. “Nothing,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, almost panicked. “It’s just... I’m just happy I can finally hold you.”

But you weren’t convinced. Your brow furrowed, a mix of concern and frustration crossing your face. “When was the last time you ate? Or—drank, I guess.”

There was a pause, a moment where he weighed his options, wondering if he could lie to you. But when he saw the genuine worry on your face, the possibility of keeping the truth from you vanished.

His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his words muffled but heavy. “The night before I last saw you,” he mumbled, as though he was ashamed.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you pushed him gently away, a frown tugging at your lips. “That was almost a week ago! Haechan, why haven’t you eaten?”

He lowered his gaze, looking almost childlike, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. “I thought you were rejecting me,” he confessed quietly, the words laced with vulnerability. “I didn’t think I deserved to... I didn’t want to take anything from you.”

You sighed, exasperation mixed with tenderness. “You starved yourself for a week over this? You’re crazy,” you said with a soft laugh. “I’m flattered, I guess, but seriously, you need to take care of yourself.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his hands tightening around you, pulling you closer. “Just a little longer... Please, I just need to be with you. I need to hold you.”

Your heart ached for him, and you gently ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him as best as you could. “Haechan...”

A hesitant silence hung between you, and then, almost in a whisper, you asked, “Would—would it help if you drank from me?”

You cringed slightly as the words left your mouth, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment at the awkwardness of the request.

You felt him smile against your skin, his breath warm against your neck as he chuckled softly. “Are you serious? You really don’t have to... I can get it somewhere else,” he teased, his voice low and gentle, but there was an underlying note of something else in it—gratitude, longing.

But still, your heart pounded in your chest, unsure of what to do next.

You hesitated for only a moment before finding the courage to speak again, your voice softer this time, filled with a quiet resolve. “If we’re together, you can drink from me. I trust you.”

Haechan’s body tensed at your words, his heart racing in his chest. He lifted his head slightly, his gaze searching yours for any trace of doubt. When he saw none, he slowly nodded, his lips curving into a soft, almost sad smile.

He adjusted you carefully, his hands gentle as he tilted your head slightly to the side, exposing the sensitive pulse point at your neck. His breath tickled your skin, and you could feel the heat of his body, the tension in him as he hovered, his mouth dangerously close to your skin.

You could hear him whispering softly, but the words were too faint to make out, lost in the hum of your own heartbeat. The sound of him so close, so intimate, made you shiver with anticipation and a strange sense of comfort.

Then, as if to steady himself, Haechan pressed a soft kiss to the spot where your pulse beat the strongest. The tenderness of the gesture made your breath catch in your throat. And without warning, his lips parted, and you felt the sharp sting as his fangs pierced your skin.

For a brief second, there was only pain, but it was fleeting, quickly replaced by an overwhelming wave of warmth that spread throughout your body. It was as though the world shifted, your senses heightened in a way you never thought possible. A pleasant tingling ran down your spine, making you feel lightheaded, and yet... anchored at the same time.

Haechan’s grip on you tightened slightly, but his touch remained gentle, as if trying to soothe you through the intensity of the moment. His mouth moved with slow, careful precision, drawing from you in quiet, almost reverent pulls. Each motion sent another surge of warmth flooding through you, and despite the strange circumstances, despite everything, you felt connected to him in a way you couldn't explain.

As his fangs withdrew, there was an ache, but it was nothing compared to the sensation that had built up within you. He licked at the small wound, his touch soft and tender, as though apologizing for the intrusion.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were darker than before, but there was a new softness in his gaze, an emotion you couldn't quite place. He caressed your cheek, his touch lingering as he whispered, “Thank you... I’ll never hurt you, I promise.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his words wrapping around you just as much as the warmth still blooming in your veins. “I know,” you murmured, your voice shaky but certain. “I trust you, Haechan.”

And in that moment, despite all the fear, all the uncertainty, there was something undeniably real between you both. Something that neither of you could deny.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

author's note 𝟅𝟈 wow omg this one is so long. its also so bad but i rewatched twilight and had to write this. might write a continuation later on, possibly smut

masterlist.

[urbangaffa]

Kitchen Cleaner | Home Cleaner Near Me Find a powerful Kitchen Cleaner for shiny surfaces and appliances that are grease-free. Get rid of difficult stains in a matter of minutes.

[jorichingsuk]

Tripple C Steam Cleaning Services

At Tripple C STEAM CLEANING SERVICES, we pride ourselves on delivering top-notch cleaning solutions to homes and businesses across Brisbane and surrounding areas. We specialise in steam cleaning a wide range of surfaces, including carpets, rugs, couches, sofas, curtains, mattresses, and tiles.

http://www.tripplecsteamcleaningservices.com.au

[ladykailitha]

The Au Pair Boy Part 12

Hey guys, can you believe that there are only three chapters after this one of this lovely fic? Thank you to everyone who has liked, commented, and reblogged this story.

In this we see Max and Lucas flirting with the idea of flirting with each other, Eddie takes care of Steve, and we meet the raccoon. ;)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

~

“Max!” Susan hissed, with a hint of giggle in her voice.

Steve, who was in the kitchen preparing lunch, stopped what he was doing and looked out the window.

There, leaning on the low brick and iron wrought fence, was Max, staring at something in the distance.

“Max!” Susan cried, her voice high with suppressed giggles. “Stop staring!”

The girl finally must have heard her mother because she jumped two feet straight in the air. Max mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an apology and then they came back in through the back door.

“We’re all done for the day,” Susan said brightly and sneaked a glance over at her daughter. “Someone was a little lackadaisical today, but we got it done.”

Steve laughed. “It’s fine. You guys do a good job. If some days are a little slower than others I’m sure Eddie doesn’t mind the extra. He loves you ladies.”

“Thanks, Steve,” Max muttered sarcastically. But he didn’t take offense. It was her default state of being most of the time.

“There we go!” he replied. “I just Venmo’ed you the money. Can you confirm you got it?”

Susan pulled out her phone and after a moment or two she nodded. “It’s all good! Thanks so much!”

“No, thank you ladies,” Steve said, putting his phone way. “It’s so hard keeping up with twins as just a nanny, I couldn’t imagine not having other people helping me.”

The Mayfields left and Steve went back to fixing lunch. He was making a potato soup with bacon and cheese and dab of sour cream and it was almost ready. But just as he was taking it off the hob, Lucas and Charles walked in for a drink of water. And suddenly it made sense. What, or rather who Max was looking at.

Because Lucas had taken his shirt off in the oppressive heat of late August and wrapped it around his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes.

As they were drinking their water, Steve got out a pitcher of lemonade and poured each of the Sinclair boys a glass. Which they took gratefully.

“Who were those two girls we saw out back today?” Charles asked, handing Steve back his now empty glass.

“Susan Mayfield and her daughter Max,” he replied, putting the glass in the sink. “Max is about Lucas’s age. She’ll be starting up at the local high school next week.”

Charles nudged his son with his elbow. “I told you so.” He turned back to Steve. “So they do the cleaning?”

“Yup!” Steve said with a nod. “The inside anyway. For the grounds, we have Jim Hopper and for the pool, we have you two.”

“Damn,” Lucas said with a low whistle. “It must be nice be rich enough to have separate cleaners for everything. Definitely don’t get that at home.”

Steve nodded. “My parents were lawyer rich growing up so we had someone who came in once a week to clean the big stuff, but for the most part we handled everything else. The cooking, the yard, the day to day stuff for the pool. That was all on us.”

“I didn’t know you grew up rich,” Charles said with frown. “You must really love being a nanny.”

Steve snorted and took their empty glasses from them to wash out in the sink. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my job and especially this one, but when I came out as bisexual, my parents tossed me out. Used my grandparents’ trust fund that left for me to go to school in early childhood development and the rest is history.”

“Well,” Lucas said with a grin, “I’m glad you’re here, because otherwise we wouldn’t have that awesome D&D room to play in and Dustin and them are so cool.”

“I’m glad you guys are having fun,” Steve said with a closed mouth smile.

“It’s been a blast!” Lucas said excitedly. “Plus we found out that Dustin is being transferred to our school. He was being bullied at his last school, so his mom was looking for a new school to send him to and Joyce, Will’s mom suggested our school and he got in!”

All this was stuff Steve knew, of course, but he let Lucas give his news.

Charles ruffled Lucas’s hair. “I’m glad he’s making friends.”

“What’s going to happen once Lucas goes back to school?” Steve asked. “I know plans were for the pool to be drained and covered for the winter in October, but there’s still all of September to think about.”

“We’ll be coming on the weekends,” Charles replied with a smile. “Eddie already talked to us about it, so he must have forgotten to tell you.”

Steve smacked his forehead. “No he did. I’m the one that forgot. Joan has been having nightmares and Janice has been even crankier than her sister over the whole thing.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine taking care of twins. It was bad enough having Lucas and Erica as close together as they were. A toddler and a newborn were not fun, let me tell you.” He cocked his head to the side. “Probably why we stopped at two, if I’m honest.”

“I feel that,” Steve said rubbing his temple. “I’ve already paid you, I did it when I did Susan’s.”

Charles checked his account. “Yup, we’re all good to go.” He clapped Steve on the arm and then they said goodbye.

Steve turned around and gripped the edge of the counter as he fought to breathe normally. Fuck. He was going to have to tell Charles that his cologne or aftershave or whatever was too strong. Sweat started to bead on his temple as he fought not to screw up his eyes as that would only make it worse.

“Steve?” a gentle voice murmured in his ear, concerned.

Steve looked up to see Eddie regarding him in that soft, careful way he does when one of the girls doesn’t feel good.

“There you are,” he murmured. “You okay there, beautiful?”

Steve blinked up at him for a moment before realizing Eddie hadn’t been home long enough for him to experience one of Steve’s migraines.

“I get migraines,” he croaked out. “And they can be triggered by strong scents, like Mr. Sinclair’s cologne.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “Sheesh. Yeah. I can smell it on you pretty intense. Come on, take the shirt off.”

If Steve’s brain hadn’t been trying to leak out of his ears he would have told Eddie to buy him dinner first, but as it was it, he meekly did as he was told. Eddie tossed the shirt into the nearby laundry room and then bundled Steve upstairs. Before he could even protest or let out so much as a whimper, Eddie was back with painkillers and a glass of water from Steve’s bathroom.

Steve took them dutifully, knowing that if he wanted to be a person at all later he would need to take them.

“What about lunch and the girls?” he finally managed to say weakly as Eddie tucked him.

“You do realize I did this by myself for a whole year, right?” Eddie asked with a raised eyebrow. “I think I can handle a single afternoon without you.”

When Steve whimpered, Eddie let out a sigh. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I love having you around and taking care of my girls. But you’re human, Stevie and taking an afternoon off will not cause an apocalypse, okay?”

“I thought there was only supposed to be the one apocalypse,” Steve muttered as the painkillers began to filter through the pain.

“Nah,” Eddie said with a grin. “Human has already gone through several. It’s like Ragnarok and the Greek end of the world. It just brings in the next era of humanity. It’s only Christians that think that it’s the one.”

Steve hummed as sleep took over.

Eddie stood up and turned off the light. “You Steve Harrington are going to be the death of me one day. But god, what a way to go.”

~

Eddie made sure to get rid of anything that might trigger Steve’s migraines. He even made Mike go home and change once when he showed up where an entire can of Axe body spray.

He made sure the laundry detergent was scent free, same with the girls’ shampoo. He almost tossed his own cologne before Steve stopped him.

“Most men’s scents are okay,” Steve explained. “Because they don’t use floral or fruit scents. Please don’t stop wearing yours.” He blushed a deep red. “I like it.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shut up but dutifully complied. Always keeping it this side of tasteful, but he began to wear it more often.

The school year started and the raccoon problem increased.

“I just don’t get it,” Hopper growled. “There is only one way to open them and there is no way a raccoon should be able to do it.”

Eddie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Steve was inside with the girls and he was taking care of the problem himself. He had to stop relying so much on Steve for the day-to-day because Steve was only paid to be the nanny, not Eddie’s personal assistant.

“I’m starting to think Steve’s right about it being vagrants,” he muttered. “Because you’re right, no animal should be smart enough to open the bins.”

Hopper sighed. “I don’t mind homeless, it’s not like they want to be there. But I wish they’d come to the house looking for food and not digging it out of the trash.”

Eddie nodded. He had done his own dumpster diving when he was a kid and his dad had been too drunk to remember to buy groceries, never mind toilet paper.

“Any way to lure them out of the shadow and into Benny’s cooking?” he asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” Hopper said with a laugh. “But I’ll figure something out. It seems they know how to dodge the cameras, so I’ll pick up a couple of motion sensor lights so I can see when someone comes around.”

“That will have to do in the mean time,” Eddie said rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. “It’s too bad that it’s a person and not a critter. I think Janie was hopping to tame the poor thing to antagonize her sister.”

Hopper barked out a laugh. “Sounds like her. Well, I best be heading to the hardware store for those lights.”

Eddie watched him go with trepidation. Critters could be rehomed where they’d be safer, but humans? That was a much tougher fish to fry.

~

Suddenly there was a clash, a bang, a clatter followed by an ear piercing scream. Eddie was up out of his bed faster than lightning and made a dash for the girls’ bedroom.

He met Steve outside the door, but when they looked in, both girls were sound asleep. Janice, splayed out like a starfish and Joan, curled up into a little ball.

“If that wasn’t the girls...” Steve said, wide-eyed and panting for breath.

Then there was another clatter and a scream that clearly came from the kitchen. They dashed down the stairs and raced to the kitchen. There standing in the middle of kitchen was a very disgruntled Hopper holding what appeared to be a pile of rags. Until it screamed again.

“Quick!” Hopper huffed. “Close the door!”

Steve dove for the door and locked it behind him as Hopper yelped in pain. He dropped what he was holding and landed on the clean floor with a thud. It scrambled up and away from the groundskeeper, tucking itself in the corner by the pantry.

That’s when Eddie could see what it was. Or rather who. Her head was clipped short but there was no doubt it was a girl, she looked about twelve. Far too thin and gaunt. Her blue eyes darted around as she tried to make herself as small as possible.

“Looks like you caught your raccoon, chief,” Steve said coming up to stand next to Eddie with his hands on his hips.

“I’m not a raccoon,” she huffed. “I have a name.” Then she frowned. “Or I will once I remember it.”

All three men looked at her in varying degrees of shock, concern, and disbelief.

“You don’t remember your name?” Hopper asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. That complicated matters.

“Jane!” the girl shouted startling everyone. “It’s Jane. My name, I mean. Jane Ives.” But instead of filling out with the name, the girl seemed to shrink further from them, like her name was shameful and ill-fitting.

“Does your parents know where you are?” Eddie asked, kneeling down to look her in the eye.

She shook her head. “Never knew my dad, he ran off when my mom got pregnant with me, Mom is in the hospital.”

“Don’t you have anyone you can stay with?” Steve said, kneeling next to Eddie. “Another relative of your mom’s maybe?”

Jane shook her head. “Aunt Becky said she wasn’t equipped to take care of me and Mom so she put me in foster care.”

Eddie closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose, hanging his head between his shoulders.

“Fuck!”

“That’s a bad word,” she said primly.

Hopper chuckled. “It is at that. But what Mr. Munson means is that if you’ve run away from your foster home, you’re gonna be in a world of hurt when we take you back.”

Jane leapt forward and tried to get past Eddie and Steve but they formed an effective blockade keeping her from the door.

“No!” she cried. “I don’t want to go back! They’ll hurt me again!”

Eddie and Hopper shared a glance. They knew. They knew that most foster places where cesspools.

Now they had an even bigger problem.

~

Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Tag list: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @tartarusknight @gregre369

2- ​@a-little-unsteddie @cryptid-system @maya-custodios-dionach @yesdangerpls @goodolefashionedloverboi

3- @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch

4- @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @ollieolive @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1

5- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

6- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

7- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

8- @sadisticaltarts @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @dolphincliffs @steddie-as-they-go @steddieislife

9- @kultiras @morallyundefined @themoonagainstmers @fearieshadow @blondie1006

10- @thesecondfate @wheneverfeasible @depressed-freak13 @genderless-spoon @sadiea20

[topnotchgutterservicess]

Highlands Ranch Junk Removal Experts: Fast and Efficient Cleanup

Transform your space with the premier Highlands Ranch Junk Removal service from Top Notch Gutter Services! Our team of skilled professionals is dedicated to providing fast and efficient cleanup for your home or business. Trust Top Notch Gutter Services for reliable, top-quality junk removal in Highlands Ranch, and experience the difference of working with true experts.