#maybe it's because i'm doing a class on something that means a lot to me that i'm so much more anxious this term

[billthedrake]

LINEAGE (PART SEVEN)

A parent-teacher conference night was the last thing I wanted to attend. Braden was starting to be slowed down by the twin pregnancy, earlier than previously, and the fact the younger boys were starting to get into the more rambunctious age made both our jobs tougher. Between work, parenting, and just picking up the slack, it was a busy month for me. But we were sending Junior to a private school that prided itself on personal attention to its students, and at home I placed an emphasis on education. So after dinner, I drove over to the school.

Even if it was the last thing I wanted to do on a Wednesday evening, I was glad when I got there. I was able to have a nice chat with Junior's golf coach, Brad Sargent. Even on a solid high school golf team, Junior was a standout player as a freshman. "Bill is scholarship material," Brad said with an encouraging tone. "I don't know if I've seen that mix of talent and work ethic before." Since in public Junior was only my grandson rather than my son as well, we referred to him by his first name, not Junior.

"That's all him," I said. "But it's made me and his father real happy for sure."

Next was a meeting with his English teacher. While Junior's grades were OK, English was his weak subject. Mrs. Hilliard was polite but talked in a way that let me know my son wasn't her star student. Still, I assured her that Bill would stay on track.

The big surprise though was his history teacher, Thomas Rizzo, who was a high school football coach and looked like one - probably in his early 30s, he had big ex-linebacker build, a little beefy, with huge shoulders and a thick neck that splayed the open collar of his oxford blue button down. He shook my hand with a vice grip.

"Mr. Drake," he said before we both sat in his empty classroom.

We talked about Junior's grades and performance in the class. All good stuff.

"I gather he wants to go into Finance," the teacher said at one point.

"Why do you say that?" I asked. I'd tried to get my eldest son to talk about his life aspirations, but Braden put the kibosh on that. My husband still resented the pressure I'd put on him when he was a teen.

"Well, for starters..." Coach Rizzo replied with a grin. "Bill's doing his project on the history of the New York Stock Exchange."

"You're kidding?" I laughed.

"Nope," he grinned. "But he's a good kid. Too bad I can't talk him into joining the football team. He has the height to be a great quarterback."

"Golf's his game," I assured the man. Anyway, he was probably trying to flatter me. "I'm surprised you're a coach in addition to a teacher," I said. That came out the wrong way, but the private school had a lot of specialized athletic staff.

Thankfully he laughed, maybe used to that reaction. "I got my masters in history. My dad was a professor actually, so after my college playing days were over, I cracked the books and went to grad school."

"That's cool," I said.

He nodded. Thomas Rizzo was surprisingly easy to talk to. And he must have thought the same about me, because his next words were a little more revealing. "Yeah, my father and I were close," he said, almost as if in reverie, but his brown eyes caught mine in a direct look. "Still are."

"Glad to hear," I said. Maybe it was a dumb reply, but I didn't know how to be positive about what he was sharing without letting on too much. Already, it felt like Coach Rizzo was implying something.

"Just like you and Bill's dad," he said.

I nodded. I had experience in the white lies and not so white lies about having an incest relationship. So I was actually pretty poised with this kind of interrogation. "We are," I said. "It's been great to help Braden out raising his sons."

That got a knowing smile from Coach. "I'm not going to be a dick, Mr. Drake. I just think it's cool what you and your Braden have going on."

"You do?" I said. "The coparenting arrangement, you mean?"

"If you want to call it that," he said. "Look... it's just really cool to find a sympathetic kind of man. And seeing the way you and your son are with each other, I don't know..."

"Well, if you're a sympathetic man, Coach... I'll just say that both me and Braden love to meet kindred spirits."

That brought a smile to his face, which was the time I realized he wasn't trying to trap me into saying something. "I have the next parent waiting outside," he said, gesturing to the closed door. "But OK if I show you a picture?"

I nodded and he pulled out his phone. "I don't show this to anyone, but I want to show you." He fumbled with the screen then turned it toward me.

The picture was about five years old, since Rizzo looked younger, almost that fresh out of college look. The man next to him wasn't as bulked up or muscled but he was clearly the father, same eyes, same nose and chin. It was a selfie photo taken in a hotel room, probably on a timer. Both men were shirtless and probably naked or else wearing skimpy swim trunks. The frame cut them off just above the pubes and the room light showed off a fresh tan on each of their bodies.

I looked at Rizzo. "Your father's a very handsome man," I said. It was true. The older Rizzo had an olive-tan complexion that showed off his silvery hair and darker body fur.

That made coach smile. "I know." He tapped the screen again and turned it back. This one was taken a few seconds later, father and son locking lips and in full embrace. A real incest kiss.

"Fuck, that's beautiful," I said. "If you don't mind my saying."

"Not at all, Mr. Drake."

I pulled out my phone and found a similar picture of me and Braden. He took it in wide eyed and finally said with a tinge of regret, "I really gotta cut this short. But seems like we have more to talk about."

"Indeed we do."

***

I came home to find Braden in the living room, relaxing and reading on his ipad. I came up behind him and massaged his shoulders. I had a good idea the younger boys were playing video games in the family room.

"Tough day?" I asked.

"Not really," my son said. "Just tired."

"Where's Junior?" I asked. "I want to talk with him."

Braden looked back at me. God, he was so handsome, and lately he'd gone back to his Marine buzzcut, which made him look younger and older than his 38 years at the same time. "Is he in trouble?"

I laughed and patted his meaty traps. "No... I just want to see if he can babysit on Saturday."

Braden knew why. The Newcombs were coming into town and we'd set up a dinner outing.

"He's in the basement, working out."

I leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Why don't you check on the boys and then get ready for bed, Son? I really want to be inside you tonight."

Braden nodded eagerly. "I want that, too." I could sense the eagerness. It had been a few days.

I descended the stairs into the basement. Braden was serious about lifting, always had been, and he'd tricked out the cement-floored space with an impressive home gym. Brade worked out seriously six times a week, and I made sure to get my weekend workouts in. Over the last year, Braden had shown Junior the fundamentals of working out.

I came to see our eldest son going at it on the squat rack. Junior was 15 and now that he'd had his growth spurt he was tall, like me. I watched his form as he leveraged his body and the barbell up and down for a few reps before reracking the weight.

"Hey Dad," he said as he pulled the earbud outs.

I nodded toward the barbell. "That's a lot of weight, Junior... you being safe?"

He nodded in an annoyed-at-his-dad's-lectures kind of way. "Daddy showed me good form."

"That's good," I said. "Listen, buddy... I want to run something by you."

"I'm not in trouble am I?" he asked. Junior knew I'd gone to the parent-teacher conferences.

I chuckled. "You're the second person tonight who's asked me that."

Junior laughed. He got my humor, it was one of our connections.

"It's just," I continued, more seriously. "You know this pregnancy is going to be a bigger deal for your daddy."

"I figured," my son said, and I could tell he's been thinking about this. "Twins... it's gonna be so cool." Then catching my drift, he added, "How can I help, Dad?"

I patted his shoulder. "You know, if you can step up some around the house, help look after you brothers, and give your Daddy a break once in a while."

Junior smiled. I thought of what Coach Rizzo said about Bill being a good kid. "You got it, Dad."

"I'll bump up your allowance," I offered.

"I won't say no to that," he grinned.

"And I'd like to hire you to babysit Ev and Keith this weekend."

Junior's eyes twinkled. "Got a date night with Daddy?"

"It's long overdue, kiddo," I smiled back. "You think you can help?"

"God yeah, Dad. Glad to."

"Thanks, buddy." I looked back at the weights. "You working out much longer?"

"I have a few more sets to do. Why?"

"It's getting late," I reminded him. Even if he was a teenager who didn't have the set bed time of his younger brothers, I didn't want him becoming a total night owl.

"I won't be too long, Dad." He started to put his ear buds back in, then stopped. "Dad... can I ask a favor of you?"

"What is it, kiddo?"

"When I get my learner's permit, can you teach me to drive?"

"That's five months months away, Junior."

"I know," he said. Maybe embarrassed for his eagerness.

I patted his arm. "All right, weekly driving lessons after golf. Maybe we'll find a deserted parking lot and start early, OK?"

That got a huge smile. "Awesome, Dad. Thanks."

"All right, good night, kiddo."

"Good night, Dad."

I was in a good mood when I got upstairs to the master bedroom, and even better mood when I saw Brade naked and waiting for me. His cock was rock hard and just everything about him was beautiful. Thick muscle, masculine and fully grown up now. Father of three and soon to be swelling with our twin sons. Already that baby bumps was showing.

"God, Dad, the pregnancy hormones are hitting hard. I'm glad you were in the mood tonight."

"I won't complain if you hound me for sex when I'm not," I grinned, undoing my tie and setting it down on the dresser.

"Maybe it's anticipating Saturday," he said. "Eric has been texting me a lot."

"Doug's equally excited," I said. I slowly stripped out of my suit, dress shirt, and underwear, thrilled to see Brade's eyes on me in this private strip tease. I loved it like this when we were super horny but not in a rush. As I peeled down my boxer briefs my hardon jutted straight up.

We embraced and kissed. I felt up Brade's pregnant body, taking time with that baby bump while Brade groped my cock.

"Is this gonna be a Dad kind of fuck tonight?" my son-husband asked in a deep horny voice.

I paused and pulled back to look into his eyes. "We don't gotta, Brade."

"I know," he said, massaging my hard dad dick. "I like it that way sometimes. And I figure doggy position is gonna work better when I start getting huge."

"Oh fuck," I hissed.

"You've been imagining it right, Dad? Fucking me when I'm big and round with our two boys."

"I won't be able to keep my fucking hands off you, Sport."

"You'll just have to keep me good and knocked up, then, old man."

We kissed harder now. Maybe the soft and slow approach was out the window. I groped his muscle hard and kissed him deeply.

Braden finally broke away and turned away from me before scrambling to all fours. "Fucking mount my big pregnant body, sir!"

Braden's sex talk was at full volume and I shhhed him. "Junior will hear," I said.

"Juniors knows what we do in here.... the poor dude probably jerks off wanting to join in."

"Brade!" I admonished. I wasn't sure I was prepared for the effect of the hormones on my husband.

He spread his legs in invitation. Braden has an amazing muscle ass and the contract between that and the softening love handles was incredible. "I know, Dad. But fuck, our son has it for you, bad. Why do you think he works out every night?"

I was already lubing up my cock. "Golf, I presume," I said. Call me dumb, but I didn't know what Braden was getting at.

I could see my son shake his head. "He knows you go for muscle. He didn't say as much, but when he asked me to show him lifting... well he clearly wants a body like mine."

"Oh," I said. It was strange how I could be so close to Junior in some ways but in others our son hid himself from me, yet opened up to Brade.

"I mean..." I heard Brade growl, trying to keep his voice down. "You know why I got into lifting and football, right?"

"No, Sport," I said. Already I was lining up my prick to his buns and teasing his crack before finding the soft pucker in there.

"I found a couple of porn videos on your computer. I still remember them. Sean Cody's Abe... and a football orgy one. I wanted to become the man you wanted to fuck."

"Yeah?" I said. "You never told me that."

I ran my hands along his back before leaning back up.

"I know you taught me not to spy," he said earnestly.

"You think I'm gonna punish you now?" I chuckled.

"Sounds stupid," I know, Brade said. "But I didn't want you to think less of me." He wiggled his ass back at me. "Your dick feels so amazing, Dad." Braden said softly. "Put it in me. Please."

I held on to his hips while I powered mine forward. Clenching my glutes, I penetrated the folds of his entrance. "Oh fuck... you feel nice, buddy."

"I got my father's cock in me," Brade said. He loved to vocalize our incest, and I loved him vocalizing it.

"Your dad's here for you, Son. Hard as nails for you."

"You make me feel I'm home, Dad. Every time you fuck me."

"You are home, Son," I said.

"I mean emotionally. With the right man."

I thrust in. Burying myself balls deep. Braden was tight but opening up for me. Already I knew the gently pulsing guts were going to get me off. "I'm not an easy man to live with."

"You're my father... every day I'm living out my dream."

"Yeah, buddy?" My thrusts were getting faster.

"Hell yes. Living with my incest husband. Bearing you kids."

"We gonna keep at it, Brade? Knock out a whole litter?" OK, I was getting real into the sex, my cock jabbing harder and faster. This was gonna be a Dad kind of fuck all right.

"Keep fucking me bareback, Dad, and you're gonna found out."

"Oh shit." My grip on his waist was tighter now, my pace more urgent. Brade's hole felt amazing around my pistoning cock.

"Maybe we can have eight boys before my manopause kicks in."

"There are the fertility pills, like the Fiedlers took."

"Hell, yes. My Dad's breeder cock has more work to do."

"Getting close, son..." I hissed.

"Do it dad. Knock me up again. Put another son next to our twins in there."

It was a wild thing to say, and it pushed me to orgasm. I gave a couple of quick thrusts and unloaded, hard.

I heard Brade cum below me.

I leaned forward and kissed his neck, slowly pulling out. "I didn't go too hard on ya, Sport?"

"Nope," Braden said and twisted to kiss me as I lay down next to him.

I stroked his cheek. He was angelic and hunky at the same time. My dick wasn't going soft, even if I felt satisfied. "So... you became a jock for me?"

"Is that weird?" he said. Braden was so self-assured, always the more confident and determined one in our incestuous relationship, that this self-doubt took me by surprise.

"I'm flattered," I said, truthfully. "And I've been having hot sex with a perfect stud for twenty years straight."

"Well, you get hotter with age, Dad. It's crazy." His fingers traced my chest hair. "The gray coming in is driving me wild."

We kissed some and then talked some more.

"I forgot to tell you, Sport," I said. "I had a real interesting conversation with Junior's history teacher tonight."

"The coach?"

"Yeah, Thomas Rizzo." I said. "Turns out he gets us."

"You mean..."

"He's close with his dad, incest close. I guess he sniffed us out, too."

"Wow," Brade said. I could see his prick harden up. "For real?"

I nodded.

"I love that other men can enjoy incest, Dad. Maybe we can meet up with Coach and his dad, too."

I placed my arm around Braden's shoulder. "He's Junior's teacher, buddy... probably not the best idea."

"Yeah," my son conceded. "You're open for playing with the Newcomb men, though?"

"If they're up for it," I said.

"I'm pretty sure Eric is up for it," Braden said.

"Maybe I should ask what you boys have been talking about."

Braden gave a coy smile. "What it's like to be a son."

We kissed again. And made out. And pretty soon, I was climbing on top of my hunky son for round two.

****

Braden was nervous actually when we showed up to the restaurant. "It's gonna be fun, Brade," I whispered before we sat down. "Even if nothing sexual happens."

"That's what I'm afraid of, Dad. I want this bad, actually."

My son and I had talked about it. We were mostly monogamous, but playtime with the Connors men gave some needed variety to our sex life. We'd even explored son-swap nights where Frank Connors would sleep with Braden in one room, while Jeff and I took the other room. It was naughty fun, and gave me and Braden some fun outside our normal married routine.

Still, Doug and Eric Newcomb had been majorly spooked during that Caribbean private time in our hotel room. The messages I got from Doug made me think things were different now, but I didn't want Braden pushing them too hard.

When they showed up, they looked incredible. Doug was in a dress shirt and sport coat, much like I was, and Eric was in a preppy polo shirt that clung to his football jock body. He'd packed on muscle even since going off to college. I saw Braden's look and he could read me like a book. It was uncanny how much these men were our type, hotter versions of us, even.

We got up from the table and shook hands. There was a lot of eye contact, heavy but stopping shy of flirty.

"Great to see you guys," Doug said.

"You too," Braden piped in. "Glad you could make it here."

"Best part of being a pilot, being able to take trips with my boy," Doug said reaching over to touch his son's neck. "Right, kiddo?"

"Right, Dad," the jock said, basking in his father's attention.

I was bricking up beneath the table cloth. "That's what I call my son, too... kiddo."

That made the DILF's eyes twinkle. "Yeah?" Looking at Braden, he winked. "You like your nickname, man?"

Braden laughed. "Not me... it's our oldest son. We have a few kids actually."

Eric grew noticeably excited. "Yeah? That's so awesome... you um..."

Braden had a proud smile. "I bore all of them. Currently pregnant with twins."

"Congratulations," Doug said.

"Thanks," I said. "We're thrilled."

Eric lowered his voice. "Dad and I have talked about the idea, but we're not sure."

"You gotta be," Braden said. "Parenthood is a huge commitment. But it's amazing, too."

Eric seemed thrilled and looked over at his dad, who gave a silent, knowing look.

The jock's whisper got lower. "So, like... is it hard to have a sex life after kids?""

"Tell us if we get too nosy," the other dad interjected.

"I doubt you will," I said. "Brade and I find a way to make it work. Probably like you did Doug, when Eric was younger."

The father gave a sly grin. "His mother and I did not have NEARLY as active a sex life as I have now."

"Honeymoon phase?" Braden teased, looking at Eric.

The college jock got a bit smile. "Oh yeah... ever since we met you guys... we just decided to go for it."

"The full monte?" I ventured.

"The full monte," Doug said proudly. "Only Eric's on contraception, so we don't go as far as you guys."

Dinner was a great chance to talk. I was hard for much of it, but the conversation really was bonding as incest couples, finding out how it worked with another dad-son pair. Braden and I filled the guys in on our family and what parenthood was like and how we managed marriage over the long haul.

By the time we paid the bill, I thought maybe we'd friend zoned the Newcombs, but Doug gave Eric an affectionate look to confirm then looked back at us. "Feel like coming back to our hotel, guys?"

"Hell yes," Braden piped in immediately, which got a laugh from all of us.

There was no nervousness this time, after we drove to where they were staying and followed them to their room. I was horny and I knew Brade was beyond excited.

Whereas I'd led the charge in our first session, Doug was calling the shots now. As he removed his suit jacked and removed his shoes he looked at me and Braden. "Eric and I regret not going farther last time."

"Farther, how?" I asked, also removing my shoes.

He paused. "If you're up for it, it would be fun to connect more physically."

As Eric stripped off his polo, I was rewarded with the sight of a lot of smooth thick chest and arm muscle. "You guys are so hot... I'd love to be with all three of you."

I looked at my son. "Brade and I could definitely go for that, right, son?"

"Yeah, Dad."

Doug growled. "It's so hot to hear you call each other dad and son."

Braden looked at the man. "I'm going to kiss my dad."

"Bring it in, Sport," I grinned and watched Braden close the distance. Making out in front of another dad-son team was so incredible.

"Oh fuck," Eric hissed.

But by the time we turned, the son was making out with the dad, undoing the dress-shirt with deft fingers.

Braden took one side and I took the other. Completing the foursome. Sex with the Connors men was hot, but these guys were hotter, movie attractive and porn hot. Doug actually latched his mouth to mine first, while Braden kissed Eric. Then we swapped.

"I wanna suck your cock, Bill," the jock hissed, hunger in his eyes.

"Please."

I watched as he crouched down. Doug had a hopeful look that urged Braden to follow suit.

"So... Doug..." I said as Eric started swallowing me. "You're a real incest father now."

He gulped. Maybe verbal was new to him. But he loved it. "Hell yes. Two, three times a day, having sex with my own son."

"He a Daddy's boy?" I asked. I placed my hand on his shoulder, squaring the body contact. Doug was way hot and I was attracted to him, too.

"Fuck yeah. Like your Braden."

"My son has been dying to have sex with you, man."

He gasped and looked down, watching Brade suck. He looked back up at me. "He's really fucking good."

I massaged his shoulders with my fingers. "Your own son's amazing, too."

We let them work us up for a bit. Then Doug got a horny urgency to his voice. "Switch?"

"Yeah."

I backed away from Eric's mouth and walked over to Braden. Rather than suck me, Brade started tonguing my balls. "These are the balls that made me," he hissed. "Then knocked me up."

"Oh God!" Doug gasped. He was cumming, inside Eric's throat as the jock bobbed up and down and swallowed.

I nudged Braden off and guided him to the bed.

Already Eric was going to fetch some lube for us.

The mating was quiet but intense. The Newcombs flanked us, one on each side for a front row view of me breaching Braden. Doug was still hard as nails, and Eric hadn't gotten off. I fucked with slow hard thrusts. Braden responded. "Go for it, Dad."

I pounded him, like I like. Getting real into it. Eric kissed me as I did, and Doug made out with my son. The orgasm was intense, for Brade too. He'd barely cum when Doug pulled off to lick the seed of Braden's muscle bod.

Meanwhile, Eric was pulling me into a deeper embrace, pulling me back into a kiss. I followed him down to the mattress as he held me tight and wrapped his legs around me. This was proceeding quickly.

I pulled off and looked at Doug. "Is it OK, man?"

"If I can do yours." He was lubing his cock. I had a feeling that if I didn't let him fuck Brade he was going to be dicking his son.

"Yeah," I agreed.

So side by side, we fucked the other son, feeding off the shared sexual energy. It was mostly to get Eric off, but Doug's thrusts got faster and I knew he was about to seed Brade. I was glad Braden was already knocked up. In our sessions with the Connors we'd been careful with protection, but now had gotten carried away.

We enjoyed the afterglow and made out with our own sons, before swapping again.

"We should get back," Braden finally said. "But this has been incredible."

"Maybe tomorrow?" Doug asked hopefully. "Sorry if I'm being greedy, but I don't know when we'll have this chance again."

"We know a couple other incest couples," I said. "If you want to be introduced to them."

"Fuck, yes," Eric said. He gotten out of bed to down the water bottle to replenish liquids. God, he was incredible, a hunky naked jock that reminded me a lot of Braden when he was younger.

Doug was more cautious. "Just to meet... I think I'd never to develop the trust before a scene like this," he gestured to me and Brade naked in bed with him. "And the attraction too."

"Well, I'm flattered we made the cut, man," I said. I slid out of bed and looked for my underwear and T-shirt.

"You kidding?" Doug said leaning up against the headboard. The man was a handsome fucker, it was almost mesmerizing. And he'd passed on some good genetics to his son. "You opened up a whole world for us."

Braden was getting dressed too. "That door was already cracked, guys. We just helped you push it open."

The vibe was moving quickly to a cordial friend dynamic. But we gave each other a quick kiss before leaving their room.

Braden was on cloud nine the whole way home, and I was pretty much feeling happy and content, too.

[ghouljams]

I really appreciate you reblogging that post about how difficult it is to quit an addiction. I myself am currently struggling with a sugar/caffeine addiction, and I drink way too much coke cola (and if I can't get my hands on some, energy drinks). It's nice to be reminded that it's not just me who is constantly thinking about how good it would feel to have juuust a little more, even if I said I would stop. I've tried to quit it multiple times, and each failed attempt disheartens me greatly and makes me feel weak willed, even if I rationally know everyone battling an addiction has those moments.

Sugar addictions often aren't treated as seriously as the "scary" drugs or smoking, but it's just as damaging to your health and difficult to quit, especially when the human brain is hardwired to want sugary, fatty foods. I hope one day to be strong enough to resist those cravings and get my health back on track.

You can become addicted to anything that makes you feel good. People are getting addicted to AI chat bots for god's sake, it doesn't even have to be quality stuff as long as it gives you that rush of dopamine it can reel you in. Now, some things are better designed to addict you, drugs and alcohol, sugar and caffeine, but that doesn't mean you aren't still getting that good feeling. Even if you don't get it every time, even if you only get that hit the first time, humans will chase that first high for the rest of their lives. It's the reason people stay in abusive relationships, things will never be as good as they were at the start but there's this silent promise that they might be.

Anyone can become addicted to anything. And I'm not saying that to scare anyone, but more to make the point that no one is above addiction. Addiction is not a moral failing, or a weakness, it's a human survival tactic. We want the thing that makes us feel good, that keeps the loneliness at bay, that stops us from feeling bad things even if they do that by keeping us from feeling anything at all. Our brains want that dopamine shot, even when reasonably we know whatever is giving us that shot is bad for us.

Getting past an addiction is hard no matter what that addiction is. I try to tell people that they need to find something to redirect that craving towards. For one of my loved ones we're working on finding a painting class and a book club because they've realized that a lot of their relapsing comes from feeling lonely. For you, maybe having a chew fidget would help, or keeping fruit on hand, or (if you're like me) purging your house of all sugary snacks. I can't keep sugar in my house or I'll eat it, so I don't buy it. It sucks, I want it, but I know myself and I know that the best way to keep myself from doing something is to try and remove as much temptation as possible.

It's much harder for me to justify leaving my house to go get candy than it is for me to get up and get a chocolate from the pantry. Or if I really want a sweetie, I have to figure out making it myself. Which means I can try and figure out a healthier option to make. Idk it's a long road, and something like sugar/caffeine/alcohol is so ingrained in our society that it feels impossible to avoid.

I have a friend who used heroin (now clean, I'm so proud of her) and she always said the hardest part of recovery was giving a shit about herself. She said there was always going to be part of her that wanted to use, so she had to make the rest of her louder, had to find reasons to care enough not to go back to her old habits. She got a lot of tattoos during her recovery, reconnected with her mom.

Not to say that addicts don't care about themselves, or that you don't care about yourself, I always thought she meant it more in the way of a parent caring for a child. You know, you don't let kids do something just because they want to because you care about keeping them safe. In the same way you sort of have to parent yourself. Say you've got sugar at home even though you don't, promise you'll make yourself donuts and then quit as soon as you get home because you don't want to boil oil. Learn to make croissants and then never make them again because they're such a fucking hassle. idk

You're not weak because you have trouble telling yourself no, people generally have trouble with that. You're just a person trying to listen to your body. It's just too bad your body isn't always a great judge of what's good for it.

[lamemeduturfu]

oh right

every now and then the internet decides it should revamp the ole “stop texting first and see how many friends you lose” when in reality you could literally just communicate that u feel bad that ur the only one texting first

[whataboutyouisamascot]

Does anyone know how to convince your brain that you're not being hunted for sport with every move you make, and that it can stop being so dramatic? I am asking for a friend

[docholligay]

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[oceanicwriting]

smile for the camera.

summary: ever since you confessed to your friend that one of your fantasies was to record a sex tape, everything has been strange. one day, after finishing the week, he is waiting for you in your dorm with a camera and ready to do whatever he wants with it.

pairing(s): bsf!lorenzo berkshire × fem!reader

a/n: second lorenzo fic! i liked this one a lot more than the last one. i hope you enjoy it ;-).

+18 smut, masturbation (f!m receiving), oral sex (m!receiving), doggy, praising, cursing

ㅤㅤㅤit's been a week since you confessed to lorenzo berkshire, your best friend at hogwarts, that recording yourself having sex was one of your fantasies. whenever you remembered it, a shiver ran through your body. although he had made fun of it the night you confessed it, he hasn't said anything else since then, maybe because you've avoided him or he knew the jokes made you feel bad.

ㅤㅤㅤ—everything okay? —you look at your potions desk mate, luna lovegood, who has her eyes filled with worry—. i’ve been talking to you for a while now.

ㅤㅤㅤyou nod frantically, assuring her that you’ve been thinking about something else, but nothing is happening.

ㅤㅤㅤthinking about what? lorenzo and your best kept secret.

ㅤㅤㅤwhen class ends, you know that it wasn’t just luna who had noticed your disconnection from the real world, being called by master slughorn to ask if something was wrong outside of class. of course, you lie, because nothing would be more embarrassing than admitting what was eating away your thoughts.

ㅤㅤㅤwhen you return to your dorm, your books hugged to your chest and shuffling through the exhausting week, you could only think about how much you wanted to hide in the sheets of your bed until monday. that wasn't going to be possible because lorenzo is leaning outside your door waiting for you to arrive.

ㅤㅤㅤ��what are you doing? —you question, instantly catching his attention—. everyone can see you here.

ㅤㅤㅤ—come on, it's not like they don't know we're friends.

ㅤㅤㅤyou deny, opening your bedroom door and noticing that your roommates aren't there.

ㅤㅤㅤ—no, but imagine what are they going to think if you wait for me outside my bedroom.

ㅤㅤㅤhe smirks at your unusual reaction. in any other situation, you would have greeted him with a huge smile, inviting him in to hang out and talk all afternoon. the problem is that this wasn't just any situation.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i need to talk to you —he says. you're standing, holding the door to stop him from passing—. it's important.

ㅤㅤㅤyou look up at him, noticing the dark spots under his eyes. lorenzo berkshire, who always had such perfectly smooth skin, had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept properly in days.

ㅤㅤㅤ—please. —his eyes make you flinch, pushing yourself aside so he can pass—. thank you.

ㅤㅤㅤwhen you’re both inside, you close the door behind you, and lorenzo sits down on your bed. you stand a step away from him, waiting for him to start the conversation.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i imagine you already know what i want to talk about, —he says, relaxing into his spot—. about your fantasy.

ㅤㅤㅤthe mere mention of your secret makes your cheeks flush a bright red, making you uneasy at the way he’s looking at you from his position.

ㅤㅤㅤneither of you had admitted that there was something much bigger than friendship between you. lorenzo had never accepted it for fear of losing you, but you for fear of getting hurt. you knew each other too well to know that any relationship beyond friendship might not last long. although he had found a possible solution that would manage to silence the force that attracts you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i'm sorry if i made you feel bad with what i said, but... was it necessary to avoid me all week? did you think i wouldn't notice?

ㅤㅤㅤ—enzo, it wasn't because of that. i mean, yes, you made me feel bad for judging me. it's just that i was embarrassed to see you again.

ㅤㅤㅤhe sighs, letting a soft laugh escape his lips.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you should have told me.

ㅤㅤㅤyou smile, shrugging and looking him straight in the eyes. then you notice lorenzo rummaging through his black and green cloak, pulling out of the darkness a black device that you can't identify until he lets it rest on your bed. a video camera. lorenzo damn berkshire had just brought a video camera into your bedroom.

ㅤㅤㅤ—why did you bring that? —you question, looking for the door behind you to escape.

ㅤㅤㅤ—listen to me, please, listen to me —he begs, getting up from the bed to approach you—. your fantasy... your fantasy could help us take all the weight off our backs.

ㅤㅤㅤyou look at him, stopping your hand on the door handle.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i know you can feel it. i can tell how you long for something to happen between us. isn't that right?

ㅤㅤㅤ—what do you mean?

ㅤㅤㅤhis smile widens when your hand stops holding the door, lowering your defenses at his proximity. he looked cute when he smiled, showing all his teeth, reaching his cheekbones and making his small brown eyes shine.

ㅤㅤㅤ—that you and i can take advantage of your fantasy to get rid of what we want —he says, his hand caressing your cheek to remove a small lock of hair—. if you just say yes.

ㅤㅤㅤyour hand reaches for the door handle again, but this time, it is to emit a soft click that locks the door. then, your hands wander over lorenzo's chest, removing the cape that falls to the floor and the tie. when you both reach the bed, he falls with a huge smile drawn on his face, eager to feel you, touch you, listen to you, and taste you as he had long hoped.

ㅤㅤㅤyou remain standing, looking at him lying on the bed in such an appetizing way that you can feel your panties getting wet. he knew exactly how to put you that way, although you had never done it.

ㅤㅤㅤ—record me —you whisper, making the boy's eyes shine at the order—. focus on me.

ㅤㅤㅤhe reaches for the camera at the edge of the bed, turning it on and starting to record. through the small screen, he watches you take off your cape, tie, and blouse that was squeezing your bra.

ㅤㅤㅤ—don't take off your skirt —he says, patting her waist twice—. get on here.

ㅤㅤㅤyou obey, straddling his member that slowly gets harder with the movements of your hips. lorenzo lowers the camera's focus until he records how your panties rub against his pants, lifting your skirt to get a better view of the bulge that is pressing against you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—how many nights i dreamed of fucking you using your skirt —he says, his voice hoarse and deep making you tremble—. a true beauty.

ㅤㅤㅤ—give me the camera —lorenzo passes it to you, and you focus on him from the head to the end of his chest—. take off your clothes, enzo.

ㅤㅤㅤhe unbuttons his shirt so slowly that you have to look at him angrily, making a narcissistic smile form on his lips and hurry his nakedness. his bare chest looks so exquisite in the lens that your hands can't help but run over his body.

ㅤㅤㅤ—do you like what you see?

ㅤㅤㅤyou nod.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you are so precious, enzo.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo snatches the camera from you in one movement, pinning you to the bed with his body. his bare chest collides with yours, and his arm holds the camera inches from your faces facing each other. your breathing mingle with his, lighting a flame deep within your core.

ㅤㅤㅤ—kiss me, lorenzo. please kiss me until i can’t breathe.

ㅤㅤㅤhis lips latch onto yours with a demanding, electrifying force that makes you reciprocate with the same force. his hot tongue thrusts inside your mouth to fight with yours, making you laugh against his lips. lorenzo then sets the camera down on the bed and moves his hand down to your wet panties, moving them aside to massage your clit with his thumb.

ㅤㅤㅤthe sensation runs through your body with an electrifying exquisiteness that makes you moan in his mouth. then, lorenzo kisses your bare chest, sucking some parts of your skin and leaving a last kiss where your skirt begins. then, he stands up, his hand still working on making you writhe against the massage of his finger.

ㅤㅤㅤ—smile for the camera, beautiful —he says, taking the camera to focus on your face when it stops being touched by his hands—. do you want me to record what i do?

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo brings two fingers to your mouth so you can fill them with saliva and suck them before bringing them to your entrance. the simple image of the boy with the camera in his hands, pointing towards your tight pussy under your skirt and bringing his fingers to fuck you was enough to make you shudder.

ㅤㅤㅤ—here we go. —he runs his fingers from your clit to your entrance, making you squirm eagerly for his touch—. fuck, you're so hot.

ㅤㅤㅤand lorenzo makes his way inside you. his fingers sink so deep that it's impossible to avoid the gasp that leaves your lips. he pushes in the right places inside you to make you moan louder and louder, stretching your insides when he separates his fingers a little and slowly masturbates your clit with his thumb. the sensations were endless at that moment.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you look so damn gorgeous. —the camera paints your face again, this time more messy and whimpering from the intrusion of his hand—. take off your bra.

ㅤㅤㅤyour hands, shaking from the waves of pleasure that run through your body, manage to take off your garment. he films your breasts moving with you from the shudder, tasting from the screen the perfect shape and size he had dreamed of having in his hands. although that would have to wait.

ㅤㅤㅤ—touch yourself, —he says, his thick, demanding voice filling the entire room—. come on, don’t be shy.

ㅤㅤㅤyour hands travel to your breasts, squeezing and playing with your nipples as lorenzo’s hand continues to do its thing. there are so many sounds mixing together that it’s impossible to focus on what’s happening, making you squirm more and more and whimper at the sensations spreading throughout your body. you were feeling all your libido build up in your core, right where lorenzo moved his hand one last time, and your whole body convulses.

ㅤㅤㅤthe camera in lorenzo's hands doesn't waste a second in recording your wet and satisfied pussy, to focus on your face trying to catch your breath.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i can't believe you're letting me see this, gorgeous. so perfect when you cum in my hand, don't you think? —he says, leaving the camera on the bed at the height of your hips—. i'd like it more if you cum on my cock.

ㅤㅤㅤhe catches your mouth with an initial delicacy that turns into a murderous desire. your tongue fights against his, seeking much more by attracting him from the neck. lorenzo tangles one hand in your hair, and the other travels to your waist to turn you on the bed.

ㅤㅤㅤ—should we try? —he asks, running a hand down your back to your ass, removing your skirt along the way—. you don’t know how long i waited to see this ass of yours smack into my pelvis while i’m taking you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—who’s a needy boy? —you can hear his laugh behind your back and his hand lift your hip to leave your entire ass exposed. his hand still tangled in your hair forces you up—. i’m going to take you so good, enzo. i promise.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i know you will. —he turns the camera screen to notice that it’s at the perfect angle—. and i want you to see it.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo forces you to bury your cheek into the bed so that you can see the small screen where you can notice your body against his. he unbuttons his pants, letting them fall down his legs at the same time that he takes his erect cock, masturbating himself. you push your ass back in search of helping him with that.

ㅤㅤㅤ—let me help you —you whisper, feeling it slide down your buttocks, staining it with the accumulated precum—. e-enzo.

ㅤㅤㅤhe growls at the feeling of your soft, warm buttocks squeezing his member, generating a gentle rocking that you squeeze from time to time. the view was like any other dream, although this time everything was much more perfect.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i'm going to lose my mind, love. i've wanted to have this view for so long, and now you're giving it to me with honors.

ㅤㅤㅤ—because i know you'll make me feel good —you whisper, lorenzo searching in your folds for a little moisture to separate and spread it along the length of his cock—. i'm so ready for you.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo positions you, one of his hands gripping his member and the other, squeezing your waist to keep you in the perfect position. he slowly makes his way inside you, scraping every corner of your entrance with pain that turns to pleasure instantly after.

ㅤㅤㅤ—are you okay?

ㅤㅤㅤyou nod, causing lorenzo’s hips to move back and thrust into you again. the growl combined with your soft moan is enough to make him lose his mind, beginning to increase the movement of his hips against your ass. each time he thrust into you again, he did with more force and speed than the previous one, taking your hip to deepen the shock of your body against his.

ㅤㅤㅤclap, clap, clap. the sound getting clearer and louder makes your head hurt, mixing exquisitely with lorenzo's embarrassed sighs and moans behind you. seeing everything from the camera screen was stirring up all the sensations in you much more than you wanted to admit, squeezing his cock inside you and moaning louder and louder.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you're doing perfect. keep it up.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo tangles one of his hands in your hair again, forcing you to get up to reach your neck, ear, and shoulders with the wetness of his mouth. his movements have not stopped at any time, attacking your breasts with his free hand and kissing your cheeks softly.

ㅤㅤㅤ—l-lorenzo —you moan, stretching your arms back to hold onto his neck.

ㅤㅤㅤ—tell me, baby. what's wrong?

ㅤㅤㅤhe can feel you squeezing him the same way he squeezed your fingers a moment ago.

ㅤㅤㅤ—j-just keep doing that. keep moving. —your hands tie themselves in his hair, pulling his head closer to yours—. kiss me.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo smiles at the pleading tone of your soft voice. his free hand stops squeezing your nipples, moving down your abdomen until he finds your clit.

ㅤㅤㅤ—as you wish.

ㅤㅤㅤhis mouth captures yours at the same time his hand begins to massage your overstimulated clit. you were both restless, close to exploding and throbbing in every imaginable part of your sweaty bodies. your mouths move messily over each other at the endless moans escaping you and lorenzo's faster movement against you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—shit.

ㅤㅤㅤand your entire body tightens in a spasm that makes your juices explode all over lorenzo's cock.

ㅤㅤㅤ—just a l-little more, love —he says, still moving and growling against your ear. your entire body is exhausted, but you try to keep up with the pace that lorenzo hasn't stopped—. i'm close...

ㅤㅤㅤhe lets go of you, letting your body fall against the mattress and pulling out of you to masturbate a little to wet your back with the semen that shoots out of his member. you can hear him catching his breath standing there, burning your broken body on the bed with his gaze and laughing softly.

ㅤㅤㅤ—wasn’t this fun? —he says, you can see him taking the camera, while his other hand helps you turn on the bed—. what a dreamy view.

ㅤㅤㅤyour cheeks heat up because now that everything was over, the embarrassment begins to form in the pit of your stomach.

ㅤㅤㅤ—one last kiss?

ㅤㅤㅤyour eyes travel down his body standing there. and maybe you could take advantage of the situation a little more, because if you were going to make a video like that, you had to do everything to save the memory, not only on that camera.

ㅤㅤㅤyou move on top of the bed, getting closer to the edge. one of your hands hugs his flaccid member, making him jump a little. the boy's expression is the one you expected, confused and unfinished.

ㅤㅤㅤ—one last kiss —you say, just before kissing the tip of his penis that was beginning to harden in front of your eyes.

ㅤㅤㅤ—what...

ㅤㅤㅤyour tongue moistens its entire length, making it harden instantly. then, smiling as if you were about to try your favorite sweet, you embrace his cock with your hot mouth. one of your hands helps you cover the length you can't, allowing yourself to suck on what your hand shamelessly masturbates him. he moans every now and then, pointing the camera at your face.

ㅤㅤㅤyou kiss, suck, and taste, wanting to remember every part of his length in the most secret part of your mind. lorenzo grabs your hair and sighs before pushing his hips against you, announcing that he needs much more to be able to finish inside your mouth.

ㅤㅤㅤ—take it well, babe. —your eyes fill with tears at the feeling of his tip hitting your throat—. you're doing so well. don't be afraid.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo's hips pushing deeper and deeper, mouth salivating from the edge of your lips and camera pointing from every possible angle. everything was happening so fast that your blurry eyes couldn't notice much more than lorenzo's glorious sounds.

ㅤㅤㅤ—so delicious and appetizing —he whispers, noticing how your mouth does its best to keep up with his own movement—. incredible that you let me see this.

ㅤㅤㅤyour tongue runs over the tip of his member that begins to tremble inside your mouth. lorenzo growls, letting go of your hair and clenching his hands on the camera that continues to point in your direction.

ㅤㅤㅤ—almost...

ㅤㅤㅤone last thrust is enough for all of lorenzo's semen to end up burning in your mouth. his brown gaze observes you without being able to believe the remains of substance that escape from your lips, while the rest travels from your mouth to the bottom of your stomach.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you're going to drive me completely crazy.

ㅤㅤㅤyou laugh, running your forearm over the stains on your mouth.

ㅤㅤㅤ—enough recording —you say, raising your hand to reach the camera—. enzo!

ㅤㅤㅤ—let me record you a little longer or i'm afraid i'll forget your body.

ㅤㅤㅤyou get up from the bed to reach the device and end the recording in the middle of a laugh. you look at lorenzo, who still looks at you mesmerized by the nakedness of your body.

ㅤㅤㅤ—lorenzo, you could never forget my body —you say, pulling him with you to the bed completely undone. your hand brushes away some strands of hair on his face—. because if one day you forget, you can come find me.

ㅤㅤㅤlorenzo looks at you, one of his hands holding all his weight on you and the other clenched on your hip.

ㅤㅤㅤ—you will make me the happiest man in the world.ㅤ

[thesuperiorrobin]

She knew~

pairing: Damian Wayne x Crush!Reader

Warning: Agnsty? Not that much I promise, good ending, maybe, slight swearing? Reader is a bit flirty??? I think there’s a part 2.

There's something about laying in a hospital bed that's so humbling for Damian.

His arm was in a cast and his head was wrapped in bandages. A mission went wrong, that was covered up by a so-called "terrible car accident". Everybody believed it, because why would they believe the truth of Damian taking a bad fall dress up in his Robin uniform? Some of his brothers tease him for what had happened that night, and if he wasn't held back by his position in the hospital he was sure he would have all their heads on a stick by now. His father didn't seem any bit worried about him, that's what Damian thought, after the countless scoldings he's gotten he's sure his father doesn't care.

Damian has spent the last two days in the hospital, on the third day he'll be released. And he can't wait, the smell, the atmosphere the so-called food they serve him-- he can't wait to leave it all behind. But for now, Damian lies on the slightly uncomfortable bed with a book in his good hand. His family hasn't bothered him in a while and he's thankful for that, he's gotten used to soft voices through his room door and soft beeping occasionally that seemed to echo through his hospital room.

There’s a soft knock on the door that catches his attention and he groans—thinking it’s one of his family members coming to visit home again.

Damian prays it’s just a nurse coming to check up on him. He chooses not to answer and after a few seconds the door opens up—the person who steps into his dull white room was not the person he was expecting.

In you go, with a bouquet in your hand dressed in your school uniform.

"Hey" your voice is soft and careful "how are you feeling?"

Damian doesn't answer right away, he pretends to think about his answer before he clears his throat "I feel like I could be doing better at the moment" he places his book down.

"Here, these are for you" you hand him the flowers "I just came to see how you were doing, everybody's worried”

"Only because I'm the son of Bruce Wayne" he murmurs, glaring at you softly—scoffing as he does so.

"That's not true" you frown, He gives you a look "Well Maybe, yeah I guess you're right, but I'm worried Damian. I saw the news and the cars. Damian you could have been killed"

"But I wasn't L/N so there is no need to worry about that anymore"

You let out a sigh as you pull a chair beside him on his bed, It's been a while since you last saw him, two weeks to be precise almost three. Your eyes linger on him for a bit longer. He looks more tired than usual and angry. His hair is messy, with strands of hair spiked up in random directions. Though purple and blue covered his skin from head to toe he still seemed visually breathtaking.

"Did you just come here to just stare at me?" He snaps, and you jump back in your seat, a part of him regrets snapping at you so suddenly, that you clear your throat with a smile.

"Sorry, I'm just used to you being….” You trail off for a moment trying to find the right words to not offend the younger Wayne in his condition. “…so well organized. If I had a penny for every time I've seen you a mess I would have one”

His only response was a hum, and the room was silent between you two. The only sound echoing through the room was the soft voices from outside the room and the beeping of the monitor. “It’s quiet in most of the classes now. Did you know that?”

“How so?”

“Teachers pointed out how quiet the classes are since you’ve gotten stuck in the hospital. We’re known for yapping away in the back of class” You let out a breathy laugh, glancing up at Damian who holds a frown.

“You mean yourself?” Damian raises his brow at you “I normally don’t hold conversations. The teachers were probably talking about you—you do tend to talk a lot”

“Rude” You huff out and a chuckle leaves the injured Wayne's lips, which brings a smile to yours “But I guess you’re right, I don’t have anyone to talk to. You’re usually the only have I have a good laugh within class”

Somehow, your hand finds his. All bandaged and bruised but you don’t mind and Damian says nothing. His green eyes glance down at your face, hoping to meet yours but you keep them focused down at his hand. Despite the thick layer of bandages, he can still feel the warmth of your fingers as they softly glide against his palm.

“I miss complementing your artwork, it’s not the same when I’m looking beside me and see someone else’s artwork”

“You only compliment them when you copy my notes” he hums, “you say it as a thank you when I let you do so”

“Mhm..” you hum “but now, every time I look beside me there’s always a student sleeping with their paper blank”

“Maybe you should start writing your notes….”

“I could…” you trail off, head lifting slightly to meet his eyes. “But what’s the point if I can’t use it as an excuse to talk to you?”

It takes a while for Damian to answer fully. He can feel his skin feel out, and he’s sure you can fill it, too, with a smug smile on your face. He looks away, away from your eyes, as he answers, “True….”

There’s another long silence between you two, a comfortable one and Damian can feel your hand slip away from his—it takes so much in him not to grab ahold of your hand once more. He hears the sudden screech of the chair against the floor, he turns his head—eyes locking in on your form. He wishes you could stay a little longer, your presence is the only thing that doesn’t annoy him as much as others do, and a part of him wants to tell you to stay a bit more but he bites his tongue.

He sees your hand hover over the doorknob, and you seem to hesitate for a moment, he does wish you decided to stay a bit longer. A heavy sigh leaves your lips, turning around to glance back at Damian, who only stares at you confusedly.

"Just because you wear a mask in the middle of the night while playing hero Damian, doesn't mean you're invincible"

huh?

"But anyway ill visit you tomorrow so I can hand you the homework you missed"

you give him one last smile before your figure disapears from his sight. Even after you left, his eyes burn holes at the door for a few more minutes before groaning and pulling at his hair in stress

"She knew?!"

Literally in the middle of my Art history class writing this Because I had nothing better to do.

[stllmnstr]

sacred monsters: part one

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

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

part one word count: 19.3k

part one warnings: swearing, blood and all sorts of other vampire-y things, semi graphic descriptions/depictions of violence, I don't know anything about publishing and wrote about it anyway, not quite as much in this part, but I want to forewarn you that while there is still nothing explicit, we do get a little ~sexier~ than most stllmnstr fics

note/disclaimer: I have been itching to write an enha vampire fic for ages because hello? the material is RIGHT THERE!! this is a story I'm super excited about, and it's definitely gotten me out of my comfort zone. in order to help build this world, I did draw from some outside sources. primarily, a lot of the vampire lore and some plot elements are inspired by the dark moon webtoon series. I did also pull some things from twilight and other well-known vampire myths. lastly, there is a section with "poetry" in it. these "poems" are translated lyrics from still monster, chaconne, and lucifer by enhypen. some are in their original form and some I altered slightly. everything else is straight from yours truly! as always, happy reading ♡

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

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

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

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The last sip of your coffee tastes bitter on your tongue. Acidic, like it was left to brew too long. Or maybe not long enough. Your limited knowledge of coffee extends to its effects on your alertness and little else. 

Taste has always been an afterthought, something of little consequence. Besides, some bitterness is to be expected when you take your coffee black. 

Suppressing the small wince that always follows your final sip, you set the reusable thermos down on your desk. Next to your open notebook and favorite ballpoint pen, it settles in nicely with your other class essentials. 

Call it poetic or romantic or unbearably pretentious, but you actually do prefer to take your notes by hand. Partly because it feels more fitting for a literature major and mostly because your laptop is on its last leg and between tuition and rent, you don’t exactly have the funds to shell out for a new one. 

Frowning at the bitter taste that still lingers on your tongue, you feel another pang of regret for forgetting to pack your water bottle this morning. But no matter. Today is a day for optimism. The bitterness now only means that your imminent victory will taste that much sweeter in comparison. 

Because today is the last day of the fall semester of your third year. Which means that this is the last morning you’ll be sitting here in this lecture hall in the minutes preceding 9 am. 

Which means that today is the day of your professor’s long awaited announcement. You still remember the day, nearly four months ago, when he first told the entire room of undermotivated, overcaffeinated students about it. 

A publishing opportunity. A real, actual publishing opportunity. Something most literature students would sell their soul for. 

Because Professor Kim, while a rather mediocre professor who prefers to dish out criticism and bite back praise, has an excellent eye for great writing. So much so that nearly twenty years ago, he founded his very own publishing house. 

Known by the name New Haven Publishing, it’s a small operation that deals mostly in short pieces that are marketed more for niche literary circles than mass public appeal. Being published by New Haven may not be a straight shot to the New York Times’ Best Sellers List, but it’s still professional publishing. 

And a week into classes, he announced that for the first time ever, he would be choosing one of you to not only intern at New Haven the following semester, but also to publish an original piece of short fiction with them. 

You’ve been fantasizing about it for months now. You can already imagine it. A piece of your very own, marketed and edited by professionals. Published and complete with Professor Kim’s stamp of approval. 

It’s what you’ve been craving ever since you decided to switch paths and pursue literature studies at the end of your first semester. It’s everything you’re sure you need. Validation that your writing is good, that your words are worth reading. 

Hell, maybe it will even earn you the approval of your parents. 

And, perhaps most satisfying of all, you will have officially beaten Lee Heeseng once and for all. You don’t want to speak poorly of the rest of your classmates and their writing abilities, but this has always been a competition between you and him. 

Or, at least, it has been for you. 

It’s the last day of the semester, and honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if Heeseung still had a hard time remembering that the internship was even happening. Then again, you wouldn’t exactly be shocked if he couldn't remember your name, either.  

And if you were hard pressed to choose only one thing, that would probably be what annoys you the most about him. Not the way his hair is alway somehow perfectly mussed. Not the way his writing is painfully beautiful and poetic that you swell green with envy just thinking about it. 

No, the root cause of your infinite ire when it comes to Lee Heeseung is how damn aloof he is. Like his classmates and professors and even his greatest rival aren’t worth the effort of remembering. 

And it’s not like it’s because he’s got some kind of crazy social life outside of academics. Other than mandatory discussion groups, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so much as talk to anyone. 

But that’s just the way he is, you suppose. 

Perfect Heeseung with his perfect hair and his perfect writing and perfect attendance record doesn’t need anyone but himself—

Wait. 

Perfect attendance record. 

Glancing at the clock mounted high above the front door of the lecture hall, you can hardly believe what you’re seeing. 

8:59. 

There’s no way. There’s no fucking way that the universe is rooting for you this hard, that the stars are aligning this perfectly. 

Despite your doubts, the second hand continues its onward march. You suppress the sudden urge to bounce your leg in a matching rhythm. 

He has five seconds. 

Four. Three. Two. One. 

And it’s official. A ridiculous amount of pent up tension drains from your shoulders as your spine straightens. You can’t believe it was that easy. 

A semester of agonizing over every word, every sentence, every assignment you handed in for this class. A semester of panicking over missed buses and waking up way too early just to make sure you always beat the clock. 

But today is the day where everything comes to a head. 

And Lee Heeseung is officially late. 

Professor Kim, at the beginning of the semester, had only two pieces of advice to offer his students that were suddenly all gunning for a shot at being published:

One: “Don’t make me read awful writing.”

And two: “Don’t be late to class. I have zero tolerance for tardiness.”

Heeseung has just broken a cardinal rule. One row down, nine seats to the left from where you sit. It’s the place that would usually be filled with an annoyingly broad set of shoulders and distractingly sharp jawline. In fact, Heeseung usually beats you here most days. Not that you’re keeping track, of course. And not that it matters. 

Because this morning, this fateful morning, that particular seat, his seat, is glaringly, gloriously empty. 

Your eyes flicker over to it again without your permission. But you can’t help it. You’re so antsy now, teeming with self-satisfied excitement. It’s almost unbelievable actually. A golden stroke of luck that he chose today, of all days, to be late.

In fact, you think the more you stare at the empty seat, Lee Heeseung is such a reliable presence that the entire lecture hall suddenly seems a bit off kilter. Tilted too far in some precarious state of imbalance. 

Your smugness is still there, yes, but now there’s also a heavy feeling beginning to settle at the bottom of your gut. Why on earth is Lee Heeseung late?

You’re so distracted by his absence, the endless loop of possibilities and explanations running through your mind, that you almost miss the second abnormality of the morning. 

Because now the clock reads 9:04, and Heeseung isn’t the only one missing. 

All at once, your attention is on the podium at the front of the lecture hall. It’s empty, too. And Professor Kim may be a hardass, but he’s no hypocrite. Never once throughout this entire semester has he ever begun a class even a millisecond late.

Frowning, you pull out your phone to confirm that the clock on the wall is not playing tricks on you. Maybe there was a power outage or something, and maintenance hasn’t had time to correct it yet. 

But your phone screen lights up, and 9:05 is the time that stares back at you. 

Glancing around, no one else seems too particularly bothered by this. There are a few titters, a few annoyed grumbles that sound like hypocrite and double standard where they reach your ears. 

But still, the clock ticks forward. 

The minute hand has fallen another two notches when the front door finally opens, Professor Kim striding in unhurried. Despite his lateness, his steps are steady, even. There’s nothing frantic or apologetic about the way he sets his briefcase down next to the podium, pulling out his laptop and a small stack of notes before clearing his throat. 

As the students around you fall silent, class begins as it always does. Other than the time, nothing is out of the ordinary. 

But your spirits are still high, and you figure you can cut your professor some slack. Maybe he ran into a bad bit of traffic or spilled coffee all over his shirt. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to draw more attention to his error and has decided that not acknowledging it at all is the best course of action. 

Oh, well. It’s no use ruminating on it now. Settling back into your seat, you do your best to focus your attention on the front of the room and not that damn empty chair. But the distraction isn’t necessary for long. 

The clock is just striking 9:12 when a second late arrival draws the eyes of the class to the front door of the lecture hall. Like your professor, Heeseung maintains a certain air of composedness as he makes his way towards his seat wordlessly. 

There’s a moment, a fraction of a second, where Professor Kim pauses, letting a sentence drift into silence. 

Twelve minutes late. It’s a rookie mistake. For a fleeting moment, you almost feel bad for him. Because surely Professor Kim is about to make an example of him. No one walks into his lectures late and leaves unscathed. 

Wincing, you remember a handful of weeks ago when a poor girl that sits a few rows behind you arrived late. Not only had Professor Kim stopped the entire flow of his lecture to draw attention to her tardiness, he had also assigned her an extra short story for homework. One on the merits of punctuality.

But the ebb in the lecture begins to flow again, the moment passing as soon as it comes. Heeseung settles into his chair. Your professor resumes his sentence. 

For the remainder of the class, you do your best to pay attention, but you’re having trouble finding a point. It’s not like he can assign homework or an exam or a discussion on the last day of the semester. 

Like you, most of your peers are fully zoned out, just waiting for him to get to what everyone has been dying to know for months. 

Who’s interning at New Haven? Who’s getting published?

But distractions in this class have never been hard to come by. More than once, you find your wandering gaze drifting to the back of Heeseung’s head. Usually, you’d be bitterly admiring how soft his hair looks. But today, there’s only one question that plays in your mind as you stare. 

What on earth happened that made perfect Lee Heeseung late?

Your thoughts are only interrupted by the sudden shuffle of small movement around you as everyone sits up a bit straighter in their seats. 

“Ah,” Professor Kim glances at the time. “That wraps up our semester, then. As promised, I would like to announce the student who will be interning with New Haven Publishing this upcoming semester. And, of course, the student that will have the opportunity to publish an original piece with us.”

He pauses for a moment, looking down at his notes. You wonder if the people sitting close to you can hear the way your heart pounds in your chest. 

Please be me. Please be me. Please be me. 

The rushing in your ears is so loud that you almost miss it. But not quite. Because the sound of your own name is something you’d recognize anywhere. 

Because it was your name that he said. Not anyone else’s. Not Heeseung’s.

You. You did it. 

You’re officially going to be interning with New Haven. You’re going to be published. 

When he asks you to stay a minute after class to discuss the details, it’s all you can do to nod. Butterflies are still scattered in your stomach. 

As the rest of the students begin to file out, you pack up your materials with hands that shake slightly. It doesn’t feel real. It feels too good to be true. You poured your everything into this all semester long, and now it’s actually happening. 

Your mind is a mess, and an erratic movement almost sends your empty thermos flying. Luckily, you snap out of it long enough to  catch it before it hits the ground. With everything packed back into your bag, you make your way down to the podium on slightly unsteady feet. 

A handful of passing classmates congratulate you on their way out, and you smile in return. 

You’ve almost made it to the front of the lecture hall when a body blocks your path. It takes a moment for your brain to register the identity of the offender. And once it does, it spits his name with venom. Heeseung. 

Oblivious and self-centered as always, he nearly knocks you over. Rolling your eyes, you move to step around him. Apparently whatever gift he was given for writing doesn’t extend to his spatial awareness or consideration for others. 

But as you lean to the left, he follows the movement, still in your path. Your gaze snaps up, eyebrows raised when you find him already looking at you. 

Oh. So it’s not a spatial awareness problem, then. He’s in your way on purpose. 

As always, his expression is infuriatingly blank. You can’t get any sort of read on him, and it unnerves you. Irritates you. Here he is, blocking your path, and the only thing he has to offer you is an empty, silent stare.

You could just say excuse me, force your way around him, and be done with it. You should. The semester is over, your professor’s decision is made, and you have no stake left in this game. 

But you’ve been biting back snarky comments and masking irritated expressions with mild indifference for months. The nerve he has to block you. The utter gall of it all. To physically stand in your way when he’s been your metaphorical obstacle to success all semester. 

When every time you look at him, you still remember that one sunny afternoon, early in the semester. The time you tried, actually tried to be his friend. When he waved you off like a buzzing fly that was nothing more than a nuisance. 

You inhale, weighing your options. His head tilts slightly at the movement, and it’s your last straw. 

There’s poison in your voice when you bite, “Oh, what? Now that I’ve proved myself, you can spare some time out of your day to talk to me?”

Heeseung’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly. It’s the most emotion you’ve ever seen from him, and he’s wasting it on shock. As if he can’t quite comprehend why the girl he’s been giving headaches for months might not want to stop and have a friendly chat with him. Not that you imagine he’d even be capable of that if you tried. 

Already, you regret your comment. In a perfect world, you wouldn’t have said anything. You’d be just as detached and cold and aloof as he was on that day you hate to think about. You still remember it like it was yesterday. Without your permission, the memory floats front and center to your mind. 

It was warmer, then. The last clutches of summer were still holding on tight. Sunlight was bright in the sky, and it felt like a good time to breach the barrier of your comfort zone. 

Class had just ended. Usually, Heeseung was one of the first to leave. You had to pack up abnormally quickly just to catch him in the quad right outside the lecture hall. 

But you did catch up to him.

And in a voice braver than you felt, you asked, “Hey, it’s Heeseung, right?” 

You’d been brighter, then. Still full of an energy you haven’t been able to muster since midterms. Not yet burdened by the weight of assignments and rejection, your disposition was as sunny as the sky above. 

Heeseung hadn’t bothered to dignify your question with an actual answer, but he had at least stopped walking, and that seemed like an invitation at the time. Now, with the power of hindsight, you wince. You should have spared yourself the regret.

You remember watching as he pulled out his earbuds, tucking them back into his pocket before turning his attention to you. Or at least half of it. Even then, you never felt like he was truly looking at you, hearing you. His mind always seemed off in the distance, preoccupied somewhere you could never quite reach. 

You recall being nervous, heat in your cheeks as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes tracked the movement like a cat tracks a ray of sunlight. Lazily, intently. With an energy you weren’t quite sure what to do with. 

Instead, you had stuttered, “I, uh, I wanted to tell you that I thought your analysis today was brilliant.” The worst part is that it really was a brilliant analysis. Although you’d never admit that today, and much less to his face. 

Instead, you cringe just thinking about it. You should have taken his blank stare as a sign. You should have just let the one-sided conversation die there. With at least a little dignity and some of your pride left to spare. 

But you hadn’t. 

“I never thought about the use of sunlight as a metaphor for life. I mean, now that you’ve pointed it out, it seems kind of obvious.” The memory of your nervous giggles settle like rocks in your stomach. “Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling, but if you ever want to get together and look through assignments or review each other’s analyses, I’d love to—”

You’d heard his voice before, of course. In class discussions and presentations. But never this close. And never directed at you. 

He kept it short, his interruption, his response to your shaky offer. 

“I’m busy.”

And that was it. Two words. Two fucking words. And not even an explanation or an I’m sorry or a sheepish expression to go along with them. 

With that, you’d watched, a bit helplessly, as he pulled his earbuds out of his pocket, put them back into his ears and turned away from you before you could realize just how thoroughly you’d been rejected. 

With a sudden haze in the air and hope dying in your heart, your friendly smile slipped into confused dismay as you watched him track a steady path across the quad. 

If your cheekbones felt warm before, you were sure they must have been aflame by then. After all, it was your body’s natural response to the crushing weight of the embarrassment and thoroughly bruised ego he’d left you there standing with. 

Fine then, you’d resolved after walking as quickly as you could in the opposite direction, sending a prayer to the heavens that no one from your class had just witnessed the most mortifying interaction you’ve ever had. If Lee Heeseung wanted nothing to do with you, the feeling could be mutual. 

In fact, it was probably for the best. You were vying for that internship and if the past class discussions were anything to go by, Heeseung would be your only real competition. If he was too busy for you, then you would just have to be too busy for him. 

Too busy perfecting every assignment and acing every exam. Too busy drowning in dictionaries and thesauruses and reference materials to make sure everything you submitted was perfect — no, scratch that — better than perfect. 

Too busy to attempt another conversation or interaction or do anything but nod along politely whenever he did make an unfortunately great point in class. 

So, no. Heeseung doesn’t get to dictate your time or attention or conversation now that you’ve actually been awarded with a publishing opportunity, now that all of your efforts and dedication and late nights have paid off. 

If Lee Heeseung wants a bit of your attention on today of all days, at this moment of all moments, then you’re just going to have to be too busy to entertain him. 

Standing in front of you, still blocking your path to the podium, Heeseung has the nerve to look confused. As if you have no reason to give him the cold shoulder. As if you’re the one being unreasonable here. 

His brow furrows further. “What?” It’s the third word he’s ever spoken directly to you. It makes your blood boil. “No, I…” he trails off. You can practically see the gears running in his mind, like this wasn’t the conversation he expected to be having. Like he has no idea how to navigate it now. “I was just going to say that you should maybe reconsider.”

Your voice is ice when you ask, “Reconsider what?” 

“Well…” He’s treading in dangerous territory, and he seems to realize it too. “The internship,” he clarifies, and it’s the second most insulting thing he’s ever said to your face. 

You screw your eyes shut. Cold and detached. Blank and aloof. All the things you should be. But you’ve always run a little hot. And end of the semester exhaustion finds you more willing to throw caution to the wind. 

“You have got to be fucking with me.” Eyes reopening, you’re met with that same expression of mild shock. Brows raised, lips parted. And god, he even looks good like that. “Yeah, right. Let me guess, so you can do the internship and publish a piece of your own? If all you came over to do is insult me, then save your breath.”

“What?” He still looks so damn confused. “No, I—”

You don’t want to hear it. “I have nothing to say to you.” If he won’t get out of your way, you’ll just have to go through him. The shoulder check is maybe slightly more intense than it needs to be as you shove your way past him. He barely stumbles back an inch. It makes you want to rip your hair out. “Besides,” you add, not bothering to turn back to look at him. “I’m busy.”

It’s a dig at him, yes, but it’s also true. You are. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and Lee Heeseung is not about to ruin it for you. 

To your unending gratitude, he doesn’t try to intercept you again. Your path to the front of the lecture hall is clear, and Professor Kim is just tucking his laptop back into his briefcase when you reach the podium. 

Ultimately, it’s a watered down version of the million times you’ve imagined this moment in your head. Even coming on the tail end of the most annoying interaction you’ve had in months. Professor Kim congratulates you again, and hands you a printed schedule of when you’ll be expected at the publishing office for the first time. 

There are also submission dates. Deadlines for you to submit drafts of the piece that you’ll be publishing. You take it all in with a beam and enthusiastic nods, mishap with Heeseung from minutes ago all but forgotten. 

That is, until Professor Kim’s gaze lands somewhere over your shoulder after he tells you he’ll also send you a follow-up email with all the information you need. 

You watch as his expression shifts, something uneasy, distrustful entering his gaze as he looks beyond you. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Lee?”

Following his gaze, you turn to look behind you. The lecture hall is empty, students cleared out from the class that dismissed nearly five minutes ago. All except for one, that is. 

Gone is the shock from Heeseung’s delicately sharp features. Instead, he wears his mask of indifference again, betraying no emotion. You must be imagining the way it looks almost strained this time, as if he’s forcing his expression into neutrality instead of it there of its own accord. 

Wordlessly, his gaze shifts to you. 

And now it’s your turn to be confused, but you won’t let it last long. At least not outwardly. You’re quick to match his gaze with nothing but pure ire, venom dripping seeping from every inch of your glare. 

Is he seriously still trying to ruin this for you? So much for being busy. 

“No, sir.” Heeseung shakes his head. He’s addressing your professor, but he’s still looking at you. A muscle ticks in his jaw, betrays a hint of tension. “I was just on my way out.”

True to his word, he begins a steady descent towards the front door. 

Your professor clears his throat, turns his attention back to you, resuming the wrap-up of your conversation. 

You’re extra grateful for that follow-up email now, given the way movement in your periphery distracts you from Professor Kim’s last few statements. Instead, your focus hones in on the even footsteps that carry Heeseung to the door, allow him to slip through it silently. 

It must be a trick of the light, must be a figment of your overworked, over irritated imagination. But you swear you see him linger there, just on the other side of the small glass window carved into the door. 

Professor Kim says his parting words, and you thank him one final time. If there’s an unnatural quickness in your footsteps as you turn to leave, you tell yourself that it’s because you’re excited to get started on your draft, not because you have the sneaking suspicion Heeseung is still standing just on the other side of the door. 

But you swear that’s his silhouette you see as you draw closer, shrouded in shadows but distinct all the same. You’re debating the merits of shouting at him or maybe accidentally shoulder checking him again as you pull open the door handle, a little more roughly than you intend. 

But the only thing that greets you on the other side of the door is a nearly empty hallway, save for the pair of students bent over a laptop a few paces away. You ignore their twin expressions of shock as you let the door fall closed behind you, much more calmly than you opened it. 

…..

The blank expanse of your notebook stares at you accusingly. 

You’d stare back, if that would somehow make words appear on the page. Sighing, you reach for your long forgotten cup of tea sitting on your desk. Taking a slow sip, you realize it’s gone cold. 

That just makes you double down on your frustration. How long have you been sitting here, waiting for inspiration to strike? 

People always talk about the merits of a change in scenery, but ever since you started your first semester of university three years ago, your favorite place to write has always been here, at the small, simple desk that sits in the corner of your bedroom. 

Back then, writing was a hobby. Something to do when the last of your biochemistry homework was finished. A way to release pent-up stress and tension from long days in the university lab and long hours feeling like you were drowning between all of the extra study sessions, TA workshops, and office hours. 

At first, it had been worth it. You maintained high grades and high spirits. Mostly because of the small sprinkles of support your parents showered you with. 

Every little You got this! that lit up your phone screen on dreary afternoons and We believe in you! that made your evening lectures a little more bearable felt like tokens of your parents’ affection. Something tangible to show for the care they held for you. 

Most of all, you cherished the We’re proud of you messages. You can’t remember the last time you received one. 

And it’s not like they were mad, exactly, when you told them you wanted to change majors. They did their best to be supportive in the ways that they knew how. 

For your father, that was concern. “Are you sure? Literature? What do the job prospects after graduation look like?”

And for your mother, that was letting you know that she thought you were capable of more. Of better. “It’s not that literature is bad, sweetie. It’s just… Well, you’ve always been such a smart girl…”

You get it; you really do. All the questions and prodding comments that felt like criticism were wrapped in nothing but love. But that didn’t do much to soften the sting. 

In the end, it was this desk that made you follow through with your change in major. Slumped in your hand-me-down chair late one Friday night, half finished lab report sitting untouched in your bag, the threat of tears burning at the corners of your eyes, all you wanted to do was write.  

To put into words the feelings and emotions and fantasies and frustrations that you could never seem to express otherwise. To commit a piece of your soul to paper and wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was someone else out there who would read it and find a sense of solidarity, of common ground. 

You submitted your official change request the next morning. You never regretted it once. 

But your parents still make comments, still share their concerns. And for the last three years, you haven’t had anything to show for it except for empty promises. But now, you have something. A real something. 

Publishing a story of your own is the exact validation that you need that your choice was the right one. And it’s the proof you need to assuage your parents’ fears, to show them that pursuing literature was the right call. That you can carve out a life for yourself with it. 

You’ve fantasized about this for years. For the chance to have your voice heard, your words read. There are a million half-baked thoughts and partially written drafts scattered in your notebooks and digital documents and on the corners of takeout napkins that have been lying in wait for a moment just like this. 

But no matter how hard you stare at the page in front of you, the words just won’t come. The more old drafts you scour, the more amateur your writing feels. The more you feel like maybe Heeseung should have won the internship over you. 

It’s a miserable cycle your brain works itself into. The less you write, the more you criticize, the more you wonder. 

What if he hadn’t been late that morning? What if Professor Kim was hoping to choose him instead? What if the reason he didn’t say anything when Heeseung finally arrived in class was because he was so disappointed that his first choice wasn’t an option anymore?

Groaning out loud to an empty room, your head falls on your desk with a muted thud. 

It’s there, facedown on your desk, where an idea strikes you. If you can’t manifest a draft out of thin air, maybe you just need some parameters. A general guide to get the creative juices flowing. 

Lifting your head back up, you push your notebook to the side and reach for your laptop. Opening a web browser, you navigate to New Haven Publishing House’s homepage. 

It’s a simple website, reflective of its simple namesake. Chin in one hand, you click the link that reads Recently Published. 

The list that pops up is modest. Unlike a larger, more corporate publishing house, your professor’s self-made enterprise is churning out new releases at a slower rate and smaller volume. 

Perusing the titles and descriptions, you note that the vast majority of the works are short form fiction. There are very few full length novels. The majority is made up of essay and poetry collections, short stories, and memoirs. 

Scanning the list again, a title close to the top catches your eye. 

The Thirst for Revenge: An Analysis of Contemporary Vampire Activity. It was published less than a month ago. 

Your cursor hovers over the link, brow furrowing. It strikes you as odd that something so… archaic would be published so recently. 

Professor Kim has always come across as a discerning man. Someone that prides himself on his well curated taste. 

But vampires… that’s hardly a headline worthy topic these days. 

While most people still practice caution walking down dark alleyways at night and some even go so far as to carry charms infused with garlic cloves, monsters of the night are by and large a thing of the past.

The entire species of bloodthirsty, ravaging immortals were hunted to near extinction almost two hundred years ago. Those that survived relocated to remote areas. Some adapted to life in the countryside by learning to enjoy the taste of animal blood. Others found humans willing to donate small portions of their own blood intermittently. You won’t pretend to understand, but you suppose it’s preferable to the alternative.  

Some still hunted in the traditional way, of course, but vampire attacks on humans are few are far between these days. After all, vampires, as a means of survival, have all but forsaken major urban areas. Population density spells demise for their species. 

You’d have to confirm through research, but if you remember correctly, the last recorded vampire-related death in your city was nearly two hundred years ago. 

Without bothering to click on the link, you continue scrolling down. Honestly, it was probably just a fluke. After all, who knows? Maybe there’s some niche circle out there that enjoys analyzing vampire literature, regardless of how outdated it is. 

The next title seems a bit more promising. Shadowless Nights. The brief description marks it as a short story published half a year ago. 

You click on it, take a sip of room temperature tea while the page loads. 

Night was my favorite time of day, the first line reads. 

I loved the stillness of it all, the all encompassing serenity. With the moon in the sky and stars in my eyes, every moment felt like a secret between me and the universe. Something we alone shared. 

I whispered secrets to the earth and held hers in return. My days felt like dreams. Distant, blurry, faded. It was only then, in the distinct stillness of midnight, that I truly came alive. 

Interesting, you think. It’s a bit more melodramatic than you expected, but maybe your professor prefers a poetic touch. 

In the night, I earned peace. And in the night, I learned fear. 

It came slowly at first, that sinking feeling of dread. The horrible suspicion that made the hair on the back of my neck feel sharp, the air in my throat feel shallow. 

But if I have learned anything of monsters, it is that they revel in that fear. That sickeningly overt reminder of mortality, of humanity. The way I couldn’t help the racing of my pulse, the darting of my eyes. 

He enjoyed it, toying with me from the shadows. Watching me become desperate, watching me become weak. 

But it paled in comparison, I’m sure, with what came next. Every story has its climax, and every beginning has its end. For him, it was the sweet, clean taste of my blood. 

Wait. Another vampire story? One was strange enough, but for the last two published works at New Haven to be vampire related doesn’t feel like a coincidence. Especially since the more you read, the more you realize it’s not as much of a story as it is thinly veiled anti-vampire rhetoric. 

The dramatized descriptions of a weak, innocent female lead being victimized by a faceless, bloodthirsty monster. It just feels… strange. Outdated. Irrelevant, even. 

Clicking back to the list, you scan over the next five entries. All of them are more or less the same. Some are more metaphorical than others, abstract in their rhetoric, but the topic is always the same. And the conclusion always affirms the immense, inevitable, irredeemable blight that vampirism is to the world. 

It’s just bizarre. Especially considering that Professor Kim never once had you analyze any anti-vampire propaganda throughout the entire semester. In fact, you were never assigned to read anything vampire related at all. 

If this type of literature is so central to his professional career, it doesn't make sense to you that he wouldn’t incorporate it into his class. Especially considering the fact that he was awarding an internship at New Haven to one of the students. 

You take another long sip of cold tea. Well… you could try to come up with something that aligns with the current profile of New Haven’s recently published works. It’s not like you’ve ever written anything related to vampires. Maybe you just need to think of it as a writing exercise, a challenge of sorts. Producing a piece that feels relevant and fresh even if the central topic is a bit out of style. 

According to the revision schedule Professor Kim gave you, your first draft issue in a week and a half. The same day that you’re set to go to New Haven for the first time and tour the office you’ll be interning at once winter break is over. It’s an ambitious timeline, but he did specify that he’s looking more for a solid concept than a well polished draft. But something in you wants to have more than just a concept. You want his approval, to impress him. 

So you have a week and a half to come up with a draft that will catch his attention, that will convince him that you were the right choice for this opportunity. Not anyone else in your class. Not Heeseung. You. 

A concept that will excite New Haven Publishing House’s usual reader base, that will maybe actually earn you some commercial success. 

A story that will prove to your parents that literature was the right choice for you. That your words do matter, that you can make a name for yourself with your writing. 

Well, you think, suppressing an internal groan, it looks like you have your work cut out for you. 

…..

Despite your admitted lack of vampiric knowledge, once you have your topic, the words start to flow. You’re not sure if it’s your best work. You’re not even sure if it’s good. But it feels a hell of a lot better than staring at a blank page for hours. 

This afternoon finds you in the corner of your favorite coffee shop. Mostly because they offer half priced lattes on Wednesdays. As you make a dent in yours, the pen in your other hand continues to fly over the pages of your notebook, occasionally stopping to scratch out a word or rewrite a sentence. 

The bare bones are there. Just like in the handful of stories you perused on New Haven’s website, your plot features a young woman. It’s a historic setting, mostly because you still can’t quite bring yourself to write vampires into the modern day when the reality is so starkly different. 

And it’s not a vampire story. At least not at first glance. Instead, you weave an enduring metaphor to symbolize a parasitic relationship between two lovers.

The woman in your draft is young, full of life and energy and optimism. And she dreams. Vivid, brilliant dreams that she clings to in order to escape the harshness of her reality as a lower class woman in the countryside. 

Her husband, however, is a brute. Older than her and with a decidedly less sunny disposition. When he learns that his health is failing, he discovers that he can heal himself temporarily by stealing these dreams from her. 

So, no. It’s not overtly about vampires. But it does fall into step with some of the more abstract anti-vampire tropes you came across in your preliminary research. 

Crossing a dark line through the word you just penned, you sigh. 

This is the fastest you’ve put a story together in ages. It’s cohesive, and the writing is solid. Your use of metaphor is strong and concise, and the prose feels true to your identity as a writer. 

But something in you withers a bit with every new word you commit to paper. It’s not that you hate your topic. If anything, it’s just that you have no stake in it at all. It doesn't feel innovative or exciting or representative of your creativity. 

No matter how easily the words flow out of you, something about it just feels… flat. One dimensional. 

You need something new. A different angle or an alternative perspective or… Or a fresh set of eyes. 

Struck with a sudden idea, you pull out your phone, plan taking form in your mind. The literature club at your university hosts bimonthly peer review sessions, and you haven’t taken advantage of them nearly as much as you should. They’re a chance for any writer, literature major or otherwise, to come together and workshop any piece of writing of their choice. 

Tapping your finger impatiently on the table, you wait for the page to load. The fall semester did end almost a week ago, so it may be a long shot. You’re not sure if the club typically holds sessions over winter break. But as you pull up the club’s calendar of events, a small smile tugs at your lips. 

Luck seems to be on your side this time. It’s written there in plain, bold font that there will be a session this upcoming Friday evening. That means that if you attend the session and get some solid ideas for revision, you’ll have exactly five days to refine your draft before you present it to Professor Kim. 

The idea of having not only a topic, as the schedule outlined, but an actual complete,  well-written draft to show him next Wednesday, turns your small smile into one that overtakes your features. 

Energized with a new vigor, you reach for your pen again. It doesn’t have to be perfect, you remind yourself, even as a turn of phrase makes you cringe. Even as a piece of punctuation feels out of place. It just needs to be written. You just need to have as much content as you can to share on Friday. 

Besides, you’re sure that a second opinion will help you fine tune this story into something you’re proud to share, something you’re excited to attach your name to.

The afternoon is quick to blur into early evening, and you’re still bent over your favorite corner table. Coffee long drained, you’re full of a new confidence. The thought of proving yourself suddenly doesn’t seem like such an unachievable, out of reach task. 

And when you do finally gather up all of your belongings and make your way back to your apartment for the night, you’re sure that this is the exact boost you needed. 

That same stroke of self-assuredness carries you all the way through a finished first draft. It’s rough and messy and littered with loose ends, but it’s tucked away in the bottom of your tote bag with a smile as you haul it to classroom number 105 in the university liberal arts building Friday evening. 

You pause at the door to the classroom, only for a moment. The inhale you breathe in is deep, full. Nodding to yourself once, you push open the door. 

You haven’t been to one of these workshop sessions since the second semester of your first year, back when you had just switched to a literature major. You remember being wide-eyed and incredibly protective over your work. It was hard to part with it, to let anyone else read over the sentences you were so unsure of. The writing you had little confidence in. 

But your partner had been kind. Another girl in her first year, she had nothing but gentle feedback to give and reassurance that your writing was worth reading. Honestly, it was such an overwhelmingly positive experience that you would have come back for more sessions if you weren’t constantly struggling to find minutes to spare in the day. 

You’re hoping that tonight will be just as rewarding as you enter the classroom, tote bag in tow. But as you survey the space around you, your face falls flat, easy going smile dropping from your lips. 

You weren’t expecting a big crowd, considering that it is winter break and most students are deliberately avoiding campus right now, but you were hoping there’d be more than one other person in attendance. 

Well, you think, deciding to look on the bright side of things. At least you’re not the only person. 

The other attendee is sitting in the far corner of the room, occupying a desk near the front of the classroom. At the sound of your entrance, they turn to face you. 

With that, your small disappointment is quick to snowball into an intense wave of exasperation. Because why is the universe so hellbent on playing games with you?

Your mouth drops open without your permission. “Heeseung?” 

Your sudden outburst fills the room and lingers long into the awkward silence that follows. You hadn’t meant to say anything, but really, what are the god forsaken odds?

If he’s bothered by your reaction to seeing him, Heeseung doesn’t show it. Instead he looks strangely… relieved. It makes absolutely no sense for him to feel any sort of relief at the sight of you, but it’s hard to put a more apt descriptor to the way tension drains from his shoulders, crease between his brows softening as he looks at you, scans you from head to toe. 

A moment of stilted silence passes between the two of you. Another. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your chest.

You exhale, a cross between a scoff and a laugh so humorless it could freeze a flame. Weighing your options, the most tempting by far is to just turn on your heel and exit the way you came. 

Heeseung seems to read your intention before you can commit to it. 

Breaking the heaviness in the atmosphere, he acts as if you’ve greeted him like an old friend, not as the source of all your recent headaches. 

“Hi,” he nods, so tentatively you almost want to let your jaw drop open in shock. Almost. 

Because what the fuck does he mean by ‘Hi?’ This has to be some kind of mind game, some way to get in your head and ruin this for you. 

“Right.” Your lips pull into a tight line. You don’t bother to return his greeting. “I’m just gonna go, then.” Hiking up your bag on your shoulder, you turn to do just that. Your first draft will just have to be unpolished. Oh, well. You’re sure Professor Kim will have better feedback for you than Lee Heeseung ever would anyway. 

Once again, Heeseung’s voice cuts across the classroom. “Wait.” There’s a command in his voice. Gentle, but firm. Insistent. So pervasive that you find yourself following without really meaning to. 

Mind made up and dead set on leaving, now you’re just annoyed. What a waste of a Friday evening.

“What?” You turn back to him. You’re not sure if there’s more venom in your voice or your eyes. 

And Heeseung, who commands a classroom with quiet grace, with his steady, unwavering presence, suddenly looks so damn unsure. As if tormenting you is uncharted territory. As if he’s never once left you in the cold with flaming cheeks and a thoroughly shattered ego. 

“I…” he trails off, not quite meeting your furious gaze. “Didn’t you come here to get feedback?”

“Right.” You scoff again. “Because I’m sure you’d love nothing more than to tear my writing to shreds. Forgive me, but I’m not interested in being the butt end of your joke tonight.”

“What?” If you didn’t know any better, the ignorance he feigns would be rather convincing. “That’s not why I’m here.” He shakes his head. “I brought something I want reviewed too.” 

Your brow arches. He can’t be serious. “Even if I did stay,” you counter, “you’re actually the last person I would want to read my work. Feel free to be offended by that, by the way.”

For a solid minute, Heeseung just looks at you. He wears that same damn deer-in-the-headlights expression he had after you brushed him off when he intercepted you in class the other day. He pauses, weighing words on his tongue. “Look, ____.” The sound of your name on his lips strikes a strange chord in you. Until now, you were certain he didn’t even know it. “Did I do something to offend—”

And no. Absolutely not. No way are you rehashing that day in the quad with him now. 

“You know what,” you interrupt. You need to go. Now. You need an out. “I’m actually, like, super tired. I think I’m just gonna head back, and—”

But then it’s his turn to cut off your train of thought. “It’s your piece for Professor Kim, isn’t it?” Heeseung takes your silence as confirmation. “Publishing is a big deal. A second set of eyes will only make your work stronger. And if you hate my feedback, it’s not like you have to use any of it.”

You hate it. You despise the way his reasoning matches your internal monologue nearly word for word. The way your thoughts align exactly. 

You pause, a decision weighing heavy on your mind. He is an excellent writer… There would probably be substance to his feedback. Real, actual, good substance that you could use to make your writing bloom into something truly amazing. He could be the exact spark you need to make your story come to life. 

You purse your lips. “What’s in it for you?”

Heeseung smiles, a nearly imperceptible quirk of his lips. He knows he’s won. “Like I said, I brought something I’ve been working on.” There’s an intention you can’t quite read behind his gaze when he adds, “I want to know what you think of it.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

With a grumble, you take reluctant steps towards where he sits on the opposite side of the classroom. And if you slide down into the seat next to him with a little more force than necessary, well, it’s just because you’ve had a long week. No other reason. None at all. 

“Fine,” you relent, reaching to pull your notebook out of your bag. “You get twenty minutes.”

“That’s not nearly long eno—”

“Thirty,” you concede. “And don’t push it.”

Sensing your disdain, Heeseung doesn’t respond. Instead, he accepts the notebook you reluctantly hand him with an outstretched hand and an open palm. The transfer between the two of you is gentle. You have the distinct sense that he’ll treat your work with care, in more than one way. 

Still, something in your heart seizes at the thought of letting your work be read. Of letting him be the one to read it. 

In return, he offers you a notebook of his own. Bound in brown, aged leather, it’s certainly much more refined than yours. Of course. 

He hands it to you still closed. Staring down at the cover, you ask, “What page?” It feels intrusive to start flipping through his writing uninvited. 

“There’s a bookmark.” Heeseung nods his chin towards the small piece of paper sticking out of the top edge that you missed at first glance. 

And then the transfer is complete. A piece of your heart is spread open on his desk, and a piece of his soul is in your hands. 

Ignoring the way your fingers tremble with a slight shake, you delicately open his notebook to the bookmarked page, letting it fall open on the desk in front of you. 

At first glance, the writing strikes you as odd. The paragraphs are strange lengths, ending at random junctures instead of extending all the way to the margins. And then it hits you. They’re not paragraphs. They’re stanzas. 

Poetry. Lee Heeseung writes poetry. 

You sneak a sidelong glance at him out of your periphery. He’s already engrossed in the pages of your notebook, pausing occasionally to jot a note down on a scrap piece of paper. His brow is furrowed, and there’s a tension in his jawline that only makes it sharper. 

Still, the image of his profile is shrouded in a distinct sort of softness. The kind of effortless beauty that feels like it should be reserved for intimate moments in the dead of night, secrets passed between lovers. It’s wasted under the fluorescent lights and patchy, beige walls of an underfunded classroom, but you waste another minute staring at him all the same. 

For a fleeting moment, it’s not hard to imagine those hands, those long, delicate fingers maintaining an even grip on a ballpoint pen to write something as romantic as poetry. 

Shaking your head, you clear the errant thoughts. Instead, you turn your focus back to the page in front of you and begin with the first poem. Forcing your eyes to focus, you read. 

As if nothing happened,

She looks at me

With shadowless eyes.

But it is me who has been 

Forgiven and reborn countless times.

You inhale. Exhale. Short and succinct with a distinct twinge of tragedy. That was… not what you were expecting. Pushing forward, you move onto the next entry. 

Even the stars in the universe

Will close their eyes one day.

Underneath their watchful gaze,

All of these moments are precious.

For memory, for regret,

I will carve them

Into the repetition of the moment.

Again, you pause, taking a moment to breathe. It’s so… melancholy, so poignant in its evocation of pain, of regret. While you’ve been familiar with Heeseung’s ability to analyze the hell out of a novella, this was not something you thought you’d find in his repertoire. And the more you read on, the more you realize these aren’t flukes. This is his identity as a writer, or at least a significant part of it. 

The world that abandoned us

Slowly turns to ash. 

But I don’t feel the pain. 

I only feel the cold.

My god. You nearly close the notebook on instinct. Without your permission, your eyes flick ove to the desk next to you. The broad set of shoulders that fill the seat. What has this boy been through? Why is he letting you read this? 

Heeseung looks up. Not at you, but the movement is enough to startle you out of your staring. Returning your eyes to his notebook, you read the last entry on the page. 

A shaded castle with no sun

The thick scent of dying roses never fades. 

In a broken mirror, I see myself. 

And my reflection whispers, “Monster.”

The breath you release is long. Audible. You’re overcome with the urge to run your fingers over his words, to feel the indents his pen made as he carved pain into the page. His writing is gorgeous. It’s beautifully, tragically haunting. Of that much, you’re certain. But you have no idea what to do with that information. 

His words feel too raw, too terribly intimate. Like something that was never meant for your eyes. You can’t understand what on earth possibly possessed him to let — no — to encourage you to read these. 

You can’t fathom any kind of feedback you could offer him. These feel like pieces of his soul, not something to be commodified or commented on in a writing workshop. Discussed in the cold, unfeeling walls of an old classroom.

Despite the discomfort that lingers with each passing stanza, his writing has an almost addictive quality. Over and over, you find yourself rereading each brief poem. You’re searching for meaning, for clarity, for something hidden between the lines that you missed on your first handful of reads. 

Thirty minutes pass in a trance, and Heeseung, true to his word, is the one to break the silence when your half hour is up. 

Mind still reeling, you realize with a sinking feeling that you have absolutely no feedback to give him at all. 

Instead, you turn to face him. Throwing a meaningful glance at where your notebook still lies open on the desk in front of him. Doing your best to not look too hopeful, you ask, “Well?”

For a moment, Heeseung just looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. Tension pulls at his temple, his jaw. Frustration seeps from beneath his skin, and you can’t tell where it’s directed. 

“Oh, come on,” you prod when his silence extends even longer. “I know you’re dying to spill the gory details of how grossly incompetent I am and how horrifically amateur my writing is, so don’t—”

Heeseung wastes no fanfare. “This is awful.”

Your lips flatten. “Or just cut right to the chase.”

He’s quick to clarify. “But not for any of the reasons you just listed. I mean, sure, there are some craft issues here, but even those seem like a result of your concept.”

“What’s wrong with my concept?” The edge of defensiveness in your voice escapes without your permission. 

Heeseung just levels you with a look. Returning his gaze to your notebook, he reads from your draft verbatim, “...Stashing away the light from her life. Tucking it into his back pocket like extra change just for the satisfaction of temporary happiness. It was never love that bound him to her, but the promise of a never ending fountain of life. Of wishes and thoughts and hopes and dreams that he could use to sustain himself as long as he subjected himself to the numbing pleasure of existing at her side.” 

He raises an eyebrow, turns back to you. “I mean, really, ____? I’ve read some nauseatingly vitriolic vampire pieces in my life, and this just about has all of them beat. Besides, the whole vampire thing just feels so… irrelevant. Do people still read this stuff anymore?”

Your first instinct is to defend yourself, your work, even if his thoughts mirror your own. Before you can, Heeseung is pressing on. You don’t have the space to get a word in sideways. “I mean, what happened to the writing from that piece you presented back in September? I don’t remember all the details, but there was something about watching birds land on water and connecting it to the feeling of belonging but never truly fitting in.” He looks at you again. There’s more emotion, more glittering life in his eyes than you’ve ever seen from him before. “That was a fresh take and a well done metaphor.”

Your mind is reeling. It’s far too much information to take in all at once. But something stands out amongst the rest. Because that almost sounded like— 

“Was that a compliment?” It seems unlikely, but you can’t find another way to take his words. “You paid attention to my presentation?” 

You liked it? You don’t ask that question out loud, but the needier parts of you crave his answer anyway.

“Yeah, of course I did. Peer review was a mandatory component of the course.” Heeseung’s cheekbones remain the same, even, honey-tinted tone, but you swear you see a flash of embarrassment in the way he averts his gaze. 

“Well, yeah.” It’s not a justification that holds much weight in your mind. “But you don’t exactly seem like the type to really pay attention to other people’s stuff. Especially if you think it’s not worth your time.”

“I just told you your presentation was good, didn’t I?”

You arch a brow. “Yeah, right after you finished calling my draft horrific.”

Heeseung shakes his head. “I didn’t say it was horrific…”

“Oh, please. Spare us both the semantics. That’s what you meant.” You’re not sure why your mind always goes back to that day in the quad, but you find yourself still sore from his rejection, his new assertion of your work poking at old wounds. Picking at poorly healed scabs. “And it’s not like you were jumping for joy at the chance to review my work back then, either.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows. You can practically see the gears turning in his mind. You’re not sure if it makes you feel better or worse, the fact that he doesn’t seem to remember that day at all. 

In the end, you decide to spare him the effort of empty recollection. With a sigh, you spill your shame. At least this time around, you’re the only two that will bear witness. “That one day in class. Back at the beginning of the semester. We had to present our analysis of that one short story. You remember, the one about planting seeds in bad soil.” Heeseung nods, but there’s no spark of realization. Not yet. 

Continuing, it only pains you slightly to admit, “Your analysis was brilliant, and I gushed about it in front of the whole class. Laid it on thick with the compliments. And then after class, I stopped you in the quad.” Something flickers over Heeseung’s features. A memory tugging at the back of his mind. “When I asked if you wanted to review each other’s pieces for the next assignment, you completely brushed me off.”

Brow still pulled downwards, Heeseung is thinking back to that day, too. But it doesn't seem to hold the same awful, leaden weight in his mind. “I didn’t brush you off,” he argues. “I think I said I was busy.”

It takes a lot of willpower not to let your jaw drop open. “That’s brushing someone off!” Your voice is too loud for the near empty classroom, for your close proximity. “Like literally the textbook definition. Everyone knows that ‘I’m busy’ is code for ‘leave me the hell alone.’”

Almost imperceptibly, Heeseung’s features soften as he watches yours strain. The fluorescent light bulbs that fill the room suddenly don’t seem quite as harsh when he says, “Well, that's not what I meant. I was busy.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer. But you suppose it makes little difference. If he wants to stick to his story, you’ll continue to feign indifference. “Whatever. It’s not like it matters now anyway.”

And then your mind is back on his poems. His beautiful, tragic, gorgeously phrased stanzas scribbled in his handwriting. Fragments of vulnerability that he handed to you without hesitation. 

It’s like comparing apples to oranges in a way, but there is no doubt in your mind that between the two of you, the writing he brought tonight is better. Better than your story, better than most things you’ve ever written, probably. The imagery is evocative, striking in a way you’ve never quite been able to achieve no matter how many seminars and workshops and lectures you attend. 

Not for the first time, your brain dangles a dangerous thought in a place where you can’t avoid it. What if Professor Kim chose wrong? What if Heeseung hadn’t been late to class that day? Would you be sitting here with a mediocre draft and a raging inferiority complex?

You’ll never know, not really, but you find yourself asking anyway, “Why were you late to class that day?”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. It’s not like his answer will change anything. And it’s invasive. Far too personal to ask someone you barely know. That up until thirty minutes ago, you actively avoided. 

But maybe the universe is on your side for once. Maybe you got ridiculously lucky and he didn’t hear you, despite the fact that it’s dead silent in this classroom. Maybe—

“What?”

Or not.

Well, you’re committed now. “The last day of class. When the winner for the publishing opportunity was announced,” you clarify. “You were late. Honestly,” you add with a wry smile, “you’d probably be the one writing overdramatic vampire slander right now if you hadn’t been.”

It’s a self-deprecating joke. It might land poorly, but you’re hoping it will lighten the atmosphere. 

A dark shadow crosses Heeseung’s features. “Trust me, ___. You winning had nothing to do with me being late that day.”

If he thinks flattery will get him anywhere, he’s wrong. You can feel your frustrations bubbling in your throat, clawing at your mind. You won. You beat him. So why doesn’t it feel like it? Why doesn’t it feel like anything you do is ever good enough?

“C’mon, Heeseung.” He doesn’t deserve your anger. At least, not now. But he gets it anyway. Insecurities and inferiority and frustration all wrapped in rage. “You were practically a shoe-in, and everyone knows it.”

He’s just as insistent. Leaning towards you slightly, he looks anything but aloof now. “No I wasn’t. Professor Kim chose you to intern with him. He read both of our submissions all semester and chose you to publish with his firm. I told you, your writing is good. Really good.” Glancing down at your notebook, he adds, “Even if this one is a bit… uninspired.”

A compliment and a slight. His version of the truth, wrapped up in a bow and delivered right to your waiting ears. You don’t know whether to be furious or overjoyed. Maybe it would be best to feel absolutely nothing at all. It scares you, just how much weight his opinion holds. 

But approval from him has its way of feeling like a long sought victory, and now the air feels fraught with something delicate, fragile. Precarious, even. 

It’s early evening in a threadbare classroom. The most neutral territory imaginable. But it’s the two of you, alone, secluded. And suddenly, that frightens you. 

“Right.” You won’t tell him ‘thank you’ for the compliment or ‘go fuck yourself’ for the criticism. Both options feel like you would be revealing too much. 

Instead, you take a glance at the clock. It’s not late, but it’s an excuse. “I should probably get going.”

Heeseung exhales. Leans back in his seat. “Of course,” he concedes easily, reaching to hand you your notebook.

You do the same with his, almost sad to watch his poetry pass from your hands to his. It’s odd, the way his words already feel like something you’ll miss. 

You realize then that he hasn’t asked you for your opinion on his work. For your advice on how to make it better. In all honesty, you’re relieved. You haven’t the slightest idea what you would say. 

So instead, you busy yourself with repacking your tote bag. In your haste, you knock your pen off of your desk. The sound it makes as it strikes the thinning carpet can’t be loud, but it feels thunderous in your ears. 

As you reach to pick it up, Heeseung does the same. There’s a moment, fleeting but unmistakable, when the skin of his hand brushes against yours. 

Instantly, Heeseung recoils as if you’ve burned him. His hand is back in his own space at a speed so fast you nearly miss it. 

It was an accident, a tiny blip with no real consequences, but the way he’s looking at you with those damn eyes makes you feel like you should be apologizing. 

“Sorry.” The severity of his reaction stings like rejection. It’s not like he’s exactly your favorite person either, but at least you have the common decency to not look repulsed at the thought of touching him. At the accidental brushing of your hands. 

Heeseung frowns. Shakes his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts. “No, I…” he trails off, letting his words hang in the air for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he concludes, but it feels disingenuous. And he doesn’t bother to elaborate. Looking over your shoulder, he reads the clock on the wall. “It’s getting kind of late. Where are you parked? I can walk you to your car.”

His hands are busy putting his notebook back in his back. It’s a considerate offer, but coming on the tail end of everything else, it doesn’t hold much weight with you. His words don’t match his actions, and you decide you’d be a fool to take them at face value. 

“Don’t bother. I’m walking home, not driving.”

Heeseung freezes, hand still inside his bag. He’s not looking at you, but you feel the weight of his attention all the same. “Do you need someone to walk with you?”

The way he phrases the question makes you feel like a burden. He’s asking if you need someone to walk with you, not offering because he wants to. A subtle difference maybe, but the last thing you want is to feel like you owe him any favors. 

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He does look at you now, concern painted across his features. “It’s getting dark earlier these days, and—”

His words are wasted on you. You’re already halfway to the door. “I’m sure.” But before you leave, you decide one more hit to your pride can’t worsen the damage that’s already been done. At least this time, it will be by your doing. Standing under the doorframe, you turn back to him. “Thank you for your feedback. It was good to hear an honest opinion.”

Your words sink into the air. Linger for a moment. 

Heeseung nods. Something in his jaw tightens. “You know, if you do decide to change topics, I’d be happy to read whatever you write.”

It almost sounds like another compliment. Or maybe another insult. Either way, you’re sure that even if you figure it out, you’ll still have no idea what to do with it. You nod, only once, and then your back is turned again before you can linger too long on any of it. 

But his words, the sweet ones this time, replay in your mind the entire walk home. 

Maybe if you weren’t so distracted by the ghosts of compliments, you’d have noticed the pair of quiet, even footsteps that trailed after you in the distance. That only retreated once the front door to your apartment was pulled shut and locked tight behind you. 

Then again, maybe not. Heeseung has always had a knack for going undetected. 

…..

You wake up the next morning with Heeseung’s words replaying in your mind. 

Awful. Irrelevant. And of course your favorite, ‘nauseatingly vitriolic vampire piece.’

In the faded glow of morning light, you groan out loud to your empty bedroom. The worst part of it all is that he’s not even wrong. But it’s Saturday morning, and your first draft is due on Wednesday. The thought of starting a new story from scratch and writing it to completion within that time frame is enough to make you want to curl into a ball and screw your eyes shut until you can pretend the world outside your bedroom is nothing but a figment of your imagination. 

So no, you don’t think you can start over entirely. But maybe, just maybe, you can rework things. Tweak the narrative to feel less cliche, less outdated. More true to you. 

Part of you wants to abandon the vampire concept entirely, convinced it’s what’s holding you down. The other part is hesitant to do so based on New Haven’s list of recently published works. 

And while Heeseung’s criticism was the confirmation you needed that your story needs reworking, it’s not like he gave you any ideas as to what you should change. What direction you should take.

Nauseatingly vitriolic vampire piece. That seemed to be Heeseung’s biggest problem with your draft. Not that it alluded to vampirism. No, you think he disliked that it was a tired and rehashed propaganda piece on the inherent evilness of vampires. 

Everyone knows that vampires were monsters. Writing about it, no matter how many metaphors and symbolic phrases you wrap it up in, just isn’t interesting. 

That’s the route you’ll take, then, you decide. You don’t have to invent a new concept out of thin air. You just need to find a way to bring something new to the table. Something worth reading. Climbing out of bed, you switch your pajamas for clothes more acceptable in public. 

And then you make your way to the university library. 

Just as you suspected, it’s essentially empty. Between long rows of meticulously shelved books, vacant study rooms, and community computers, the only other person you see is the librarian that greets you as you arrive. Even her eyebrows raise in mild shock to see someone else during the break, and on a weekend at that.

Heading to the second floor, the first section you peruse through is historical records. But between old newspapers, reports, and journals, the content itself is quite cut and dry. Detached descriptions of vampire attacks that only contain details of the date, time, and death toll aren’t exactly riveting. And you don’t think they’ll do much for your feeble draft. 

Before long, you move away from the nonfiction section. Navigating to supernatural fiction on the third floor, you start browsing titles. Vampire stories make up a rather small portion of the texts, and from what you can tell, the vast majority align with what you found on New Haven’s website. 

From Demons of the Dark to Left in Cold Blood, you doubt that most of what you find will offer any kind of new perspective. But on your third, slightly desperate scouring of the shelf, you make a discovery. 

It’s a small, nondescript book. The muted tones and faded lettering on the spine go easily undetected amongst the much flashier copies of anti-vampire propaganda it’s nestled between. 

Pulling the book out from the shelf with a delicate touch, you flip the cover face-up in your hand. 

Sacred Monsters: A Collection of Essays on the Origins of Immortality

It piques your interest. At the very least, it seems different from all the other novels. 

Book in hand, you make your way to a nearby desk. Once you’re settled in, you pull out your notebook, opening to a new page with the intention of taking notes. 

The book you lay on the desk next to your notebook seems like it’s lived a long life, the old scent of dust and aged paper and time all contained within its pages. Flipping open the front cover, you look for an author or publication date. But there’s nothing there, not even a title page or a table of contents. 

Glossing over the slight oddity, you decide the beginning is as good a place as any to start. 

The Taste of Blood, is the title at the top of the page. 

And the first sentence begins:

It is neither sweet nor particularly savory. There is no distinct aroma, no compelling flavor profile, nothing that appeals to the eye or excites the taste buds. The only merit is the fact that it is necessary. For even those blessed with immortality know what it means to survive. And even those cursed to live forever know what it means to die. 

Frowning, you flip back to the cover, as if that will provide any clarity for the strange passage you just read. But nothing is different. Nothing new stands out. Just the same, faded title. No author or indication of any kind of publication date. 

Intrigued, you turn back and resume where you left off. 

Some are said to enjoy the act. The purity of release, of giving in to the instincts that can be convinced into domesticity but never fully silenced. I have never found such relief. The ghost of my humanity has always been stronger than the voice of the monster, even as he screams with unbounded ferocity. 

Without it, I feel incomplete. With it, I feel irredeemable. Even now, I dodge the truth, omit the profane. I have seen many moons, enjoyed their silver glow. I have stolen the very same pleasure from countless others. And yet, I struggle to call it by name. I cannot reconcile the battles waged in my bones, the war fought in my mind. 

There is no winner in either. All that remains in the taste of it. Lingering on my breath. Haunting my waking dreams. That which I cannot name. 

The taste of blood. 

In my fervor, it soothes like honey. In my regret, it turns to ash. 

And still, nothing changes. And still, nothing remains the same.

-- Anonymous

Well, if you were looking for something different, you found it. Because what the absolute fuck are you reading? If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it were written from the perspective of a vampire. 

Then again, shelved in the fiction section, you suppose it’s plausible. Actual vampires may have housed little room in their consciousness for anything outside of bloodlust, but it is an interesting idea to think of vampires as conflicted. Haunted by the brutality of their innate instincts. 

You’re not exactly sure how or if this will be able to influence your own story for the better, but something about it makes you want to keep reading. 

Alone, tucked amongst the dusty shelves of a neglected section of the library, you lose yourself between the pages of the mysterious book. 

As the title indicated, it’s a collection of essays. Most are quite short, around the same length as the first one you read. And none are claimed by an author. All are signed off with the same boldface type that spells Anonymous. There are subtle differences in the writing though, stylistic choices that make you think that more than one person wrote these essays. 

Despite that, they’re all woven together by a common thread. The first essay, as you discover, was not a fluke. Every single one is written in first person from the perspective of a vampire. 

The writing is compelling, humorous in places and deeply upsetting in others. It seems odd to you, just how much humanity is captured within the pages, within each turn of phrase. 

You feel inclined to root for the narrator in some stories and abjectly horrified by them in others. But never once does the writing make you think that vampires are incapable of self-actualization, of reflection, of morality. 

In all honesty, aside from Heeseung’s poems, it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in ages. So much so that by the time you realize you’ve finished the last essay, the winter sun is teeming dangerously close to the horizon, and the library is nearing its closing hours. 

The notebook page you intended to use for notes, to jot down points of inspiration, is still woefully blank. But as you make your way back to the front of the library, the small, strange book comes along with you. 

Stopping at the front desk to formally check it out, the librarian frowns when she enters the number from the spine into the system. She clicks around on her computer for a moment longer before handing the book back to you. 

“I’m sorry, but the book isn’t coming up in our system for some reason. Would you mind writing down your student ID number for me? I’ll have to enter the information manually.”

You oblige her request, tucking the book into your bag before you leave. 

It’s chilly outside, the cold clutches of winter gaining a full grasp on the crisp, frigid air. After a long day in a stuffy library, the freezing air is almost soothing. Tucking your hands into your pockets, you turn towards the direction that will take you home. 

You’ve barely taken five steps when a voice calls your name from behind. Pausing, you turn to find the source of the sound. 

“Heeseung?” But there’s no mistaking it. That is most definitely Lee Heeseung, currently jogging towards you on the otherwise empty sidewalk in front of the university library. 

He catches up to you easily, no sign of perspiration or even a hint of breathlessness when he asks, “What are you doing walking alone at night?” As if you’re the strange one in this situation.

You give him a once over. The loose jeans and dark winter coat he wears are nothing special, but he wears them well regardless. You suppress the urge to sigh. “I could ask you the same.”

“Fair enough.” His tone is too light, too casual. Like he’s forcing it. Like he’s hiding something. “Are you headed home? I’ll walk you there.”

And if you weren’t suspicious before, you sure as hell are now. Why on earth would he want to walk you home? “I’m fine, thanks.” You turn away from him, heading in the direction of your apartment and hoping he’ll take the hint. 

Your wish goes ungranted. He matches your pace easily, even as you try to quicken it. “It’s after dark, ___. And there are a lot of…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “strange people out at night these days. I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

Lips tight, you don’t bother looking at him. The idea of Heeseung letting you do anything makes you want to throw things. “I’ll be fine.”

But he’s persistent. He’s all smiles and a strange amount of desperate when he says, “Either you let me walk you back or I’ll just follow you at a weird distance, which will be far more uncomfortable for both of us.”

That makes you stop in your tracks. And now you do turn to look at him. “Well, when you put it that way…”

Heeseung nods, “Exactly. So—”

You arch an unimpressed brow, crossing your arms over your chest. “It sounds like you’re the strange person at night I need to stay away from.”

Heeseung sighs, matches your eye. A strand of hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it away with long fingers. “Are you gonna start walking or are we gonna stand here and argue a little longer?”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“What a great night to find out.”

You stare at him a moment longer, lips tight. You don’t want to be the one to give in, to hand him any kind of victory, no matter how small. 

But it is getting late. The walk from campus to your apartment is never one that’s made you uneasy, but it never hurts to have someone at your side. Besides, you think he was serious about following you. He’s made it clear that he’ll be tagging along one way or another. 

“Fine,” you huff, arms still crossed over your chest. “But only because the streetlight a few blocks away is out.”

Heeseung inclines his head, a minute acknowledgement. There’s a hint of movement at the corner of his lips. “Naturally.”

You resume walking, and he falls into your pace with a practiced ease, hands in his pocket, eyes on the stars. It’s a cloudless evening. The sky above you feels vast, immense as the last rays of daylight lie to rest on the distant horizon. 

With a slight shiver, you pull your jacket tighter around your body. Heeseung notices the movement. Parts his lips as if he wants to say something. Changes his mind. Closes them. 

You’ve just reached the far edge of campus when he breaks the steady silence. 

“How’s your draft coming?”

“It’s…” You trail off, not sure how well honesty will serve you here. It feels vulnerable, like a blatant weakness to admit that you’ve got nothing. But something about cold air and the vast expanse of night has you wanting to tell the truth. “Not great.”

Heeseung lets your response settle. Turns it over in his mind a few times. You’ve noticed that about him. He’s careful with his responses. Weighs his words before breathing them to life. “Still looking for inspiration?”

“I don’t know if it’s inspiration I need.” It’s easier to talk to him like this, when your eyes have something to focus on, when your body has the constant repetition of steps to occupy part of your mind. Without little distractions like these, Heeseung has a way of becoming all consuming. “I feel like I backed myself into a corner with the vampire concept. I’m not sure if there's really anything there to explore that won’t feel outdated and irrelevant.” 

“Mm,” Heeseung muses. It’s noncommittal, neither an agreement nor an argument. “Maybe. You said it yourself; vampires are nothing but bloodlust. Riled completely by instinct. Nothing left of their humanity.”

Frowning, your footsteps almost falter. “I didn’t say that.”

“Forgive me.” If there’s a tinge of bitterness in his tone, you suppose it must be because of the cold. The fact that he’s wasting his Saturday night walking you home. “Heavily implied it.”

“Honestly, the only reason I even wrote that story was because there were a lot of similar ones on New Haven’s list of recently published works.” Your reasoning feels almost stupid when you admit it aloud like this. You’ve always prided yourself on your originality, your commitment to staying true to yourself as a writer. But when push comes to shove, you let your desire to impress your professor get in the way of that. “I wanted something that would align with their usual publications.” 

You’ve admitted a weakness, a poorly made choice. You’re expecting ire, more of that haughty contempt. But Heeseung’s mind is going in an entirely different direction.

He’s not questioning your abilities, not even alluding to them at all when he asks, “What do you think of vampires, then?”

His question catches you off guard. Why on earth would he care about that? “What’s it to you?”

“My bad. We can just walk in awkward silence if you prefer.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of your energy to swallow the laugh that bubbles in your throat. Since when did Heeseung crack jokes? Since when did you have to fight the urge to giggle at them like a schoolgirl with a crush? You suddenly find yourself grateful for the cover of night, the way shadows make the heat on your cheeks undetectable. 

But his question still lingers. Ruminating on it, your mind flickers to the small, odd book currently sitting at the bottom of your bag. 

Sacred Monsters. 

It feels like a strange combination of words, two concepts that shouldn’t fit together. 

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” you breathe. You don’t know if it could possibly be true, the idea that creatures of the night have a high level of consciousness, the ability to moralize, to feel conflicted. But it certainly makes for a more interesting story. 

“I mean, vampires had to have some level of base cognition, right?” You’ll never know for sure, but the more you think about it, the more it makes sense. “They were hunted to near extinction, but they put up a good fight. They hid. They fled. They tried blending in as humans. Some resorted to drinking animal blood. I guess there’s no way of knowing, but that doesn’t feel like pure biology or an evolutionary response alone. It feels like… something a human would do.”

“Wouldn’t that be worse?” Heeseung’s voice is low. If the faint hum of faraway traffic were any louder, you might not hear him at all. “For them to know what it means to be alive and still make the choice to take that away from someone else? To exist as a parasite.”

“It would certainly be tragic.” The words of the first essay come back to you. 

For even those blessed with immortality know what it means to survive. And even those cursed to live forever know what it means to die.

“It’s a fatal flaw, a cruel design. They need blood to survive. The very thing that their bodies used to create on their own. It’s parasitic, yes, but that doesn’t make it animal instinct. I can’t imagine the horror of having to experience that with the burden of human consciousness.” 

You feel the weight of Heeseung’s gaze on the side of your face. “It’s still evil, is it not?”

His words feel heavy, weighted under moonlight. Though you can’t imagine why, you have the distinct sense that your answer is important to him. 

“Like I said, I think it’s more complicated than that. Taking someone’s life is evil, yes, but that was never unique to vampires. Is a vampire that chooses animal blood still evil just because they’re a vampire? Is a human that chooses to kill another absolved of their crime just by virtue of being human?”

Your words settle into the space between you. 

“That,” Heeseung finally breathes, “would make a much better story than the one I read last night.”

This time, you do laugh, a light airy thing. It feels easy, lighthearted as some of the tension drains from the atmosphere.

“Unfortunately, I’m not so sure Professor Kim would agree. Based on everything New Haven publishes, he seems to have some weird anti-vampire vendetta.”

As you round the corner, your apartment comes into view. Nodding toward the staircase that leads to your front door, you tell him, “This is me, by the way.”

Heeseung glances at the stairs, then back at you. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “When is your draft due?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “Wednesday.”

“Mm,” he winces, an offer of understanding. “What time?”

“I’m supposed to be at New Haven by three, so—”

“What?” Heeseung cuts you off, expression suddenly tense, voice suddenly sharp. “You’re going to the publishing office?”

“Yeah.” You nod slowly, unsure why that would possibly warrant such a strong reaction. “I’m dropping off my first draft and getting a tour. The internship starts right when spring semester does, so he told me I could come in person to familiarize myself with the space first.”

“Right.” Heeseung nods. The tension in his jaw doesn’t relax.

It’s all so strange. He always seems to be speaking in riddles, dealing with invisible problems you can’t detect. 

You’re tired and confused, and the moon that hangs above you doesn’t feel like a remedy for either of those things. In fact, it might be making things worse. 

Because despite the way you feel like you’ll never quite understand him, bathed in the shimmering glow of moonlight, Heeseung looks… 

He looks like all the things you’ve been trying to avoid calling him for the duration of the semester. Ethereal. Beautiful. Maybe even kind, at least when he wants to be. 

After all, you’re standing at the base of your staircase with company, and it wasn’t due to any insistence on your end. 

The silence lingers. A string somewhere is pulled taught. 

You’re standing still, and you’re still a little breathless when you tell him, “I should go.” You don’t want to. You’re not sure why. 

Again, Heeseung only nods. 

The movement sends shadows dancing over his features. The bridge of his nose. The plane of his cheek. The line of his jaw. Things you’ve never let yourself linger on. Things you’re having a hard time looking away from now. 

 But he’s seen you home safe and sound, and even nights under the stars have their inevitable end. 

It occurs to you then that you have no idea how he plans to get home, or even how far away he lives. 

After he walked you home,it’s the least you could do to offer, “Do you live far? I could help you pay for a cab or something if—”

Heeseung shakes his head. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It won’t take me long. Besides, I like to walk at night.”

“Okay.” It feels strange, trading these bits of kindness. You’re craving some normalcy, something unwavering. So with a final wave and a small goodnight, you climb the stairs to your door. 

You couldn’t say for sure if his eyes follow you on the way up. You feel the heat of them, the weight of a steady gaze on your spine. But it’s a fickle sensation and you’ve been wrong before. And you can’t quite bring yourself to turn around and look. 

The door closes behind you. Surrounded by the stillness of an empty apartment, you release a long held exhale. It drains out of you audibly. You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath. 

…..

Dawn breaks Wednesday morning and carries with it a certain kind of dread. 

Despite your efforts, and there have been many, your draft remains far too close to its original state for your satisfaction. No matter how many times you pour over Sacred Monsters, you can never quite seem to find a way to make your submission more interesting while also staying true to New Haven’s general themes. 

If anything, the book has been a distraction. Long hours that you could have spent editing or revising or rewriting were instead dedicated to detailed web searches with a variety of keywords and spellings that never seemed to bear any fruit. 

It doesn’t matter which search engine you use. It doesn’t matter which database you browse. Other than the copy sitting on your desk, Sacred Monsters doesn’t seem to exist. 

But the annoying, wonderful, awful thing about time is that it passes. Time doesn’t care that you haven’t found it in yourself to produce a draft you’re proud of. Time doesn’t relent just because you always feel like it’s slipping through your fingers. 

And Wednesday morning turns to Wednesday afternoon with the same steady predictability as always. 

You’d like to think that you know the area around your university quite well, but New Haven’s main office is in an entirely different part of the city. You’ll have to leave now if you want to catch the bus with a little cushion of time to spare. The last thing you want to do is be late to your first day. Especially since the draft tucked neatly into your bag isn’t one you can hand over with confidence. 

To your relief, the bus is relatively empty. You tuck yourself into a seat and thank your lucky stars that you missed the afternoon rush. 

Popping your headphones in, you’re searching for something to fill the time. There’s the draft sitting in your bag, of course, but the last thing you want to do is spend the next thirty minutes agonizing over it. For now, it will just have to be the mess of mediocrity that it is. 

Instead, you reach for your phone. Maybe some mindless scrolling will be what you need to put your nerves at ease. 

But when the app loads, the first post you see doesn’t have you giggling or rolling your eyes or scrolling on without a thought at all. Instead, your spine straightens, shoulders suddenly tense. 

Because the words you’re reading are not something you ever expected to see in your lifetime. 

Three dead in suspected vampire attack, the latest headline from your local news reporting channel reads. 

Clicking on the article, the details are hazy, but that does little to lessen the grip of fear that makes a sudden grab at your throat. Fragments of sentences capture your attention as you scan the page. 

Three bodies found near the river…

Bite marks on their necks…

No trace of recent animal activity in the area…

Eyes widening with every new piece of information, fear claws at your throat. 

Bodies completely drained of blood.

Two hundred years. Two hundred years of the belief that vampires have all but been eradicated. Shattered in one fell swoop. 

And in your city, of all places. At the river. Somewhere you’ve been. Somewhere you wouldn’t think twice about going. It’s not particularly close to your apartment or university, but it’s not exactly far enough away for comfort.

You shudder, suddenly grateful that Heeseung was there to walk you home last night. Not that he would be able to do much if you did stumble across the path of a vampire, but—”

Oh god. Oh god. 

Heeseung. 

You have no idea if he made it home safe after parting ways with you and you have no way of checking. He hadn’t made any indication as to where he lived before saying goodnight. For all you know, he could have been heading in the direction of the river. He could have been at the river. Right when the attacks occurred. 

Doubling down on your phone, you scour the article for any information you can find on the victims. Objectively, it’s probably a good thing that they’re described only vaguely. Probably an intentional choice to protect the privacy of grieving friends and families. 

But ‘three victims, two men and one woman, all in their early twenties’ does very, very little to assuage your terror. In fact, it only heightens it. 

Blood pounding in your ears and dread pooling in your stomach, thirty minutes passes in the blink of an eye, you nearly miss your stop. But as you get off of the bus, you’re spiraling. Should you even be here? It feels wrong, leaving such a terrifying loose end untied. 

But then you think it through a little further. Even if you got back on the bus, rode it all the way to the stop by your apartment, you have no idea where you’d go from there. You may have shared insults and confidence and a moment under the moonlight with Heeseung, but you don’t know anything about him. Where he lives, where to reach him, where he could possibly be right now. 

But Professor Kim might. You’re sure that student information is strictly confidential, but if you explain the situation to him, he might be understanding, might just be willing to bend the rules a bit for you. 

So with a heaviness in your heart and fire in your footsteps, you double check the address of New Haven’s office and start walking away from the bus stop. Your surroundings are not a primary area of your focus, but it does strike you as odd how deserted the whole area seems. 

Other than a few residential looking buildings, the street you walk is mostly empty lots. Abandoned houses. Not the kind of place you would consider ideal for any business. 

Despite the cold morning sunshine, the afternoon has brought a cover of clouds. Squinting towards the distance, you wonder if you should have brought your umbrella, just in case. It almost looks as if it’s going to rain. 

When you do finally find the building, you have to stop to double check the address. Not only is there no signage, but New Haven’s supposed headquarters looks just as run down as all of the other buildings in the area. 

Frowning, you reread your email. The address does match the faded numbers next to the front door, and Professor Kim seems too meticulous to make a mistake like an incorrect address. Then again, he also seems too well off to run his publishing company out of a decrepit building far away from any of the city’s major business centers. 

But you won’t bother worrying about it now. Even your dreary first draft feels like an afterthought at this point. Who cares if the building’s not what you expected, if the location isn’t ideal? Right now, you need to focus on finding Heeseung, on making sure he’s okay. 

Because the alternative…

No, you refuse to let yourself spiral there either. But the pressure of grief borrowed from the future is already pressing firmly against the backs of your eyelids, blurring your surroundings. 

As you approach the front door, you notice a small, faded placard. 

New Haven. Well, at least that confirms that you’re in the right spot. Even if it is a bit odd that they left off Publishing. 

Standing at the door, you hesitate. Should you knock? Just walk in? You take a sidelong glance at the window, scanning for any sign of movement. But there’s nothing there. In fact, it looks as if the lights are off. 

Dark, quiet, desolate. Strange, yes, but not something you’ll waste time ruminating on now. 

You knock once. Twice. The sound echoes; the only response is the whistling of the wind.

Deep in the pit of your stomach, a sense of unease begins to build. It feels off, like something is wrong. Senses on high alert, you force the feeling aside. You need a way to find Heeseung, to make sure he’s okay. Besides, the lingering unease is probably just the anxiety of not knowing if he’s safe. 

Steeling your resolve, you reach for the door handle, twisting it tentatively. It opens slowly, the hinges groaning in protest. As if the building itself doesn’t want you there. Stepping inside does little to shake the feeling. Dark and devoid of any decoration, the interior is nearly as gloomy as the sunless sky outside. 

And even the layout of the building is strange. The front door opens to a long, dark hallway with no lights on. It’s eerily quiet. Too quiet. Too empty. You weren’t expecting a welcoming party by any means, but it’s hard to imagine anyone, much less Professor Kim, even being here. 

“Hello?” You call, clutching your bag a little closer to your body, suppressing the shudder that licks at the base of your spine. “Professor Kim?” You wait a moment, but sustained silence is the only response. 

Forcing your footsteps forward, you tread tentatively down the hallway. After all, you didn’t come this far just to turn around. Especially now that Professor Kim might be your only way of finding Heeseung. 

Taking slow steps down the dark hallway, you pass two doors, both of them pulled shut. The end of the hall opens into a larger room, still empty of any furnishings. It certainly doesn’t look like a publishing house. It doesn't look like much at all. At the very least, there’s a bit more visibility here, faint traces of faded daylight streaming in through the half drawn blinds on the other side of the room. 

Turning to your left, you see another door. This one is also pulled shut, but there’s a name placard on the front. Drawing closer, you read your professor’s name. It still doesn't feel right. Ducking down slightly, you check the gap between the bottom of the door and the hardwood floor for any sign of light, of movement. But it’s just as dark, just as quiet as the rest of the strange building. 

As you stand back up to your full height, you raise a hand to knock. Just before your knuckles make contact with the door, you see it. An odd array of crimson stains near the handle. Peering closer, your brow furrows in a combination of disgust and confusion. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost think it looked like blood. 

But that doesn’t make any sense. None of this does. You won’t pretend to know Professor Kim, but he’s never shown up to a lecture with so much as a hair out of place. Why on earth would he run his publishing company out of a building that’s nearly falling apart? Why would there be strange, suspicious looking stains on the door to his office? Why would it be empty at the time he asked you to come present your draft and tour your future internship location?

You have no idea what to do. Opening the door to his office and letting yourself in would feel like an inappropriate invasion of privacy, but you’re at a loss. This entire thing is so strange. 

Before you can decide how to proceed, you hear something. A faint noise, barely there, but distinct from the wind that still whistles outside. It’s disjointed, arrhythmic like the sound of hushed voices. Overlapping. Arguing, maybe. 

Inclining your head, your brow creases further. It sounds like it’s coming from your professor’s office, but how could it be? The noises are too muffled, too distant to be coming from right in front of you. 

You lean closer. Deciding you’re past the point of maintaining decorum, you press your ear to the door, careful to avoid any of the suspicious looking stains. 

For a moment, you hear nothing. Half convinced the voices were nothing but a figment of your overactive imagination, you almost pull away. 

But then you hear them again. Still muffled, still indecipherable, but undoubtedly louder than before. Which means they must be coming from behind the door. The voices pause, suspend you in silence once again. 

And then you hear another noise, different this time. Less like a voice and more like movement. Scuffling, maybe. Feet dragging against the floor. It’s punctuated by a strange gurgling noise. Something wet and thick and throaty. The kind of sound that makes you wince in a subconscious reaction. 

And then a sudden thump has your bones jolting beneath your skin, everything muscle in your body tensing as you suppress an uninvited gasp. Because that didn’t sound far away. It was loud, too loud to be anywhere but right on the other side of the door. 

Mild unease is quick to transform into sheer panic as you stagger backwards on shaky footsteps. You need to leave. You need to leave now. 

You’ll find another way to get ahold of Heeseung, to make sure he’s okay. And maybe there’s a rational explanation for all of this. Maybe this is an old New Haven office and Professor Kim forgot to send you the new address. Maybe there’s an email in your inbox now, and he’s apologizing for the oversight and rescheduling your draft meeting. Maybe he’s—

The sound of the front door you walked in through minutes ago slamming shut kills the train of thought. This time, you can’t bite down the noise that crawls up your throat. 

It’s stupid, from a logical perspective. A fatal flaw of human nature that your first instinct is to scream. To alert whatever danger surely lurks nearby of your exact location, the precise depth of your fear. 

But the terror that leaves your lips is muffled. It comes from behind, the palm that covers your mouth. The outline of a body that presses into your back, forces you into submission with a hand around your wrist.  

You thrash against the ironclad grip to no avail. Dig your heels into the ground but find little purchase in the hardwood floor as you’re dragged backwards, every nerve in your body singing with terror as you’re forced into a dark room. Even with your elbows flailing and head jerking, the grip on you remains steady, firm. 

In the end, it’s a bite that frees you. The hand that covers your mouth drops away as soon as you sink your teeth into the flesh of your captor’s fingers. There’s a muffled grunt of pain in your ear as you spin on your heel. 

Again, it’s stupid. You should be running, sprinting in the opposite direction, but everything in you is begging to know. To gain some sense of control over the situation. Eyes still adjusting to the dark and blinded by fear, you turn to find—

“Heeseung?” Your mind is spinning a million miles a minute. There are too many thoughts, too many emotions to keep up with. Relief. Fear. Confusion.

Relief, because he’s okay and he’s here, but—

“What are you doing?” You have a million questions that demand answers. “Why are you here? Why did you grab me like th—”

“Are you okay?” Heeseung takes a step closer to you, reaches his hands out as if to grab you again. Thinking better of it, he lets them fall back to his side with a slight shake of his head. There’s terror in his eyes too when he clarifies, “You’re not hurt?”

“No, I…” What the hell is going on? “I’m fine, but—”

A flash of relief makes itself apparent on Heeseung’s features before they’re morphing again, regaining all the urgency, the fear that was there before. He’s serious, gravely so when he tells you, “We have to get out of here.”

“Okay,” you stumble forward as he reaches for your wrist again, intent on tugging you behind him. “But I don’t understand. What’s—”

“I’ll explain everything later.” He’s frantic, you realize. Desperate. And so terribly afraid. Emotions you’ve never seen him wear. Not in the cool, calm mask of indifference he had in class. Not in the faint flickers of vulnerability from stolen moments under moonlight. This is different. This is so much worse. “But we have to go. Now.”

With that much command in his voice, that much fear in his eyes, you’re putty in his hands. But in the end, it makes little difference. The door to the room he’s dragged you into opens with a resounding bang before the two of you can make your escape. The sound is so loud, so frightening that you feel reverberations in your marrow as the door collides with the room’s interior wall, no doubt leaving a sizable dent.

And standing there, shrouded by the gray tones of sunless winter daylight, your professor blocks the room’s only exit. 

Instinctively, you take a step closer to Heeseung. He does the same, pulling you towards him, behind him, until half of your body is covered by his. Peering over his shoulder, the sight that greets you is one that will haunt waking nightmares for a long time to come. 

Professor Kim, who always prided himself on maintaining a neat, clean appearance couldn’t be further from that now. His clothes are ripped, hanging from his body at odd angles, adding an element of disfigured monstrosity to his silhouette. 

And his eyes. His eyes. Bloodshot and so wide they must hurt, they dart around the room, narrow in on you and Heeseung like he doesn’t see humans. Only targets. Enemies. Prey. Mouth open and snarling, you swear you see a glint in his mouth, the shape of a tooth far too long and pointed to belong to any normal person. 

But even those things you could force yourself to forget. 

What horrifies you the most is the blood. Even in the shadows, the unnaturally potent shade of crimson is unmistakable. It stains him, covers him, drips from him. Seeps from his clothes and his skin and his mouth. 

Panic clawing at your throat, you suppress the urge to vomit. 

“Get behind me,” Heeseung whispers, low. “Now.”

But a split second of averted attention is all your professor needs. Professor Kim, lover of literature, beacon of taste, a role model you’ve looked up to since the first time you stepped foot in his class a handful of months ago, pinches a tiny object between his long, bony, blood-covered fingers. And then he throws it. 

With startling precision, it whistles through the air, races through a hazy cloud of confusion and panic before it strikes its target true. 

It doesn’t hurt, not really. The hand that flies to the side of your neck is instinct, more than anything. But the fingers that linger on your pulse point don’t find the smooth expanse of your unblemished throat that they usually would. 

Because there’s something there now. An object lodged just beneath your jaw. Delicately, you draw your hand back in front of your face. There’s no blood on your fingers, but that doesn’t stop them from shaking. 

As you look over Heeseung’s shoulder, the world starts to blur around the edges. Darken, as if your eyes are closing of their own volition, against your will. You see him retreat, the terrible ghost of your professor. In the dark, he looks almost forlorn. Regretful. 

“Fuck,” Heeseung whispers. He doesn’t see the way your professor spins on his heel, runs in the opposite direction. His attention is trained fully on the space beneath your jaw. “Fuck.”

“Heeseung?” Your voice sounds strange to your own ears. Distant, muffled as if you’re submerged beneath water. You have so many questions. 

But it’s suddenly so cold. And you’re so tired. Wouldn’t it be nice to just lay down? Rest for a moment? Surely that couldn’t hurt anything. 

Your legs are wobbly beneath you, and you would collapse to the floor in an ungraceful heap if it weren’t for the two hands on your waist, supporting your weight. 

“I’m here,” he tells you. Cold. When did it get so cold? Your eyes try to focus on Heeseung, but your vision is swimming. You wonder if he would be warm. “I’m right here. Just… fuck.”

Gently, he eases you both to the ground. The floor is hard beneath you, but it feels like a reprieve. You’re tired of holding the weight of your body upright. Your blinking is becoming slow, lethargic. Your head is suddenly far too heavy for your neck. 

Slowly, Heeseung removes his hands from your waist, relocates them to either side of your jaw. With the care of someone well versed in patience, he delicately maneuvers your head to the side, exposing the length of your neck. 

Whatever he finds there must be displeasing. You can’t imagine why. You can’t think much of anything. The world has taken on a sort of dreamlike quality in which everything feels loose, fluid and unburdened by the laws of any physics. 

“Fuck,” he whispers for the fourth time. The curse scatters over your cheekbone like a kiss. 

Pulling back slightly, he meets your half-closed eyes. “I’m sorry.” It sounds like a prayer. “This might…” he swallows, something in his resolve wavering. “This might hurt.”

Pain. You can barely conceptualize the sensation. It feels like a distant memory. 

And then he’s tilting your head to the side again. His face draws closer, overcomes the last of your remaining senses, demands the full attention of what’s left of your consciousness. 

You think he might kiss you. Whatever desire remains in you almost wishes he would. 

Your eyes flutter shut, lips parting slightly as your eyelashes fan against the tops of your cheeks. 

But his mouth never finds yours. Instead, you feel the soft caress of his lips against the side of your neck, a fleeting touch against the sensitive skin just beneath your jaw. Inhibitions whittled to nothing, you shudder against the sensation, release the airy ghost of a sigh.

He was wrong, you think. With his mouth on your neck, pain is the last thing you feel. 

You feel his lips part against your skin, chasing away some of the cold that has only seeped deeper into bones, into the very essence of your being. 

And then you feel it. Whatever capacity for sensation that remains all focuses on the sudden flash of agony as his teeth pierce the skin of your throat. 

The tiny moan that escapes your lips is pitiful. Your ability to think, to rationalize, feels like something that’s dangling in front of you, just out of reach. Your body is too heavy, too weak to respond to the flash of searing pain as your skin is pierced deeper. 

He can’t speak, but you feel the shallow vibration of a hum against your neck. Soothing, calming. His hand that doesn’t bear the weight of your head moves to push a stray strand of hair from your forehead. It’s gentle, reverent. In complete opposition to the war he wages against your neck. 

Mouth still full of you, a groan escapes him. It’s heady, throaty, and you feel it travel the length of your spine, settle in the pit of your stomach. Sensation is the only thing tethering you to this world, and you can’t quite tell if this is pleasure or pain. 

He pulls back, the absence of his steady heat leaving your jaw vulnerable to the chill in the air. 

“Hold on,” you hear. You can’t pinpoint where the noise comes from. Sound surrounds you, washes over you in a strange uniformity. You feel the ground fall away, something warm and solid behind your shoulders and under your knees.“We’ll be there soon.”

Floating, you think. You must be floating. It’s hard to tell. Moments are bleeding into one another too quickly for you to keep up. 

Eyes closed, body molten, you relax into the steady grip that carries you. 

And the last thing you hear before reality loses its hold is the fervent, whispered sound of your name. 

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

CONTINUED IN PART 2 (which can be found on my masterlist!)

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: THANK YOUUUUU for reading!!! this is pretty different from what I usually write plot wise, so I hope it made for a good read. vampire heeseung and this oc are near and dear to me, and I'm excited to continue their story. the rest of this fic is fully plotted and partially written. I'm actively continuing to work on it, and hearing your thoughts/theories/screaming/feedback/etc. is great motivation! as always, I love know what you're thinking. ♡

[krems-chair]

I'm always interested in analyses that portray a romanced Solas as a predatory hee hee trickster god manipulating a young and impressionable Lavellan into falling for him and if that's your world state go ahead and live your truth b/c it's frankly none of my business, but I sincerely think there are those who forget that for a lot of people, a romanced Lavellan is (with all due respect to my own Solasmancing Inquisitor Rielle Lavelllan) batshit crazy. Having her boyfriend turn out to be a wolf god is honestly the least of her problems but oh boy is she unafraid to become one to fix this mess.

This is a woman who woke up in a dungeon with a glowing hand, figured out she could fix the world, and thought "fuck it, it's not like I'll have anything else better to do if Corypheus sticks around. Also. Everyone here kind of looks like they want to kill me, so maybe I'll stick with the protective powers that be for a minute." And then all of five seconds later she gets her hand snatched by a sketchy elven apostate who knows exactly what to do with her shiny new powers and cannot stop himself from having a Mr. Darcy level hand-flex after he lets it go (in my heart and soul this happens just out of the camera's gaze) and goes "hmm maybe there's something to be said for this world saving thing."

This is a woman who brought an entire fucking avalanche down on herself and three of her closest friends (and I do mean closest as in physical proximity, she doesn't know these people who are looking at her like she's Thedas' Next Top Idol) because even if it killed her it was the proper middle finger to send to the wannabe god bringing his army tap-dancing down the mountain pass towards her on the one night she had scheduled off to celebrate finally taking a W.

This is a woman going Take 2 Electric Boogaloo on waking up with no idea where she is and learning she was successful in spite-dragging herself up a different fucking mountain in a blizzard. Except now everyone is fighting wait nope now they're Kumbaya-ing a song Andraste's Herald should really probably be familiar with whoops, oh thank God, time for a side convo with the same apostate who's been trying to turn her entire life into a history class only for her to dive in headfirst (much to his initial abject horror) and get that good good discourse she needs since she can't go around arguing with everyone else like she wants to. "The orb is ours." You know what? Of course it is. But if they need the world saved from an elven oopsie, who better to right things than an elf? Fuck it, we ball.

This is a woman who misses being close to nature and goes positively feral at Skyhold, yeeting herself over balconies and banisters and turning the ancient fortress into her personal parkour playground because she's got energy to work off and shit to do, and if the path of least resistance to hunt down everyone she needs to talk to is coincidentally the same path that will absolutely wreck her knees by the time she's sixty, that's just how it has to be.

This is a woman who finds herself back at Haven with a man she's found it possible to be unfetteringly unabashedly herself with and thinks, "hey, maybe there could be more than the flirations we've exchanged over heated discussions and philosophical deep-dives, maybe I can have just one smooch as a treat." And when she feels her slowly unfurling passion reciprocated only to be shut down? She resolves herself to fight for this fledgling love and all the fade tongue that comes with it. This is a woman who gets the tiniest glimpse of what a retirement plan might look like after this whole saving the mortal world thing and buys all the way in.

This is a woman who has Grey Wardens to save from themselves, an empire trying to self-cannibalize, and still finds the time to go rescue a spirit because she, as a fellow comrade caught up in this mess, knows damn well that no innocent deserves to suffer if she can help it while she's got this insane amount of power she never asked for. And if that happens to lead to the man she feels safe enough to nap on the library couches with confessing at last the feelings she knows he's been smothering beneath his all-too-collected surface? Yeah, she'll take that W.

This is a woman who gets absolutely blasted head-over-ass into the fade and goes "honestly things were going a little TOO well." This is a woman who sneaks a peak at the closest fears of the companions she's come to know and love and goes "not on my fucking watch." This is a woman who sees that the man she forces herself to learn the old language for, her vhenan, fears being alone more than anything in the entire knowing world and resolves herself to ensuring it never comes to pass.

This is a woman who gets the opportunity to shape the government of a straight up country and runs around collecting wooden fucking halla in a palace full of elven servants with no time to dwell on that particularly cruel irony because out here it's scheme or be schemed. This a woman who collapses against a balcony railing after putting out some of the sickest literal and metaphorical dance moves The Game has ever seen, resigned to bear her ever-increasing burdens alone, only to find her heart and his horrible horrible hat extending a hand, promising her that if he is not alone, then neither is she.

Like, do you feel me here?

And then he dares to think something as sudden and damning as the truth is enough to keep her away? The queen of tough conversations and tougher choices? No, no, dear readers who have made it this far into my descent into madness.

Inquisitor Lavellan is a master-class in encouraging the odds against her to fuck around and find out. She is a rift-mending false-god-bashing politcally savvy terror upon all of Thedas. Solas (and all of the living breathing world) is lucky she took time out of her busy schedule to notice the way his smile softens when talking about spirits or appreciate the fluidity of his form when they're obliterating venatori out in the field. This man cradled her cheeks in his shaking hands, looked into weary and wide eyes and called her beautiful, and had the audacity to steal her heart before trying to peace out and take it with him.

If she's got to track down a real god this time and frog march him into the fade to reclaim both her heart and the future she fought for because all he wants to do is launch himself like a meteor towards achieving his greatest fear, if she has to spend hours lecturing him on the sheer audacity of his ass while spirits float by and realize they're grateful they never had the chance to take on a body and subject themselves to a verbal lashing this brutal, if she has to do cartwheels around him while dropping all sorts of sweet nothings in the language she is now quite proficient in until he gets it through his luminous gleaming skull that when she said "var lath vir suledin" my girl meant it? Then that's what she's going to do.

"I wish it could, vhenan."

Oh it's going to, buddy. Buckle up to get wrecked, to get absolutely loved and cherished you fool, because Inquisitor Lavellan is not the Dread Wolf's prey, she's his hunter.

[desireangel]

A Good Girl's Reputation | Aemond Targaryen

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: It was the last place you wanted to be but nonetheless, you found yourself pulled along to a party you hosted by none other than the Targaryen's, only for spilled wine to force you into Aemond's shirt. A sight that had him dragging you to his bed, eager to corrupt the well-behaved girl who had set him ablaze with desire.

Word Count: 6.7k.

Warnings: MDNI 18+ only!! Oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V sex, dirty talk!!, a major cliche on the good girl trope, reader is shy!, slight degradation, mean friends at a party maybe?, Aegon being sneaky, bad language. Unedited. Please let me know if I missed anything!

Author's Note: Okay, I wasn't going to post this one because it was purely self-indulgent and I kinda wasn't happy with my pen game in this but I was feeling bad about the delay in Dark Cherry part 5 so wanted to share something!! I also love the idea of Aemond being totally feral about seeing reader in his clothes. Share your thoughts my loves, I'm more than happy to discuss things, thoughts and feedback with you all - xoxo, kisses!! <3

There was a nonsensical grandeur about everything that Jilly dragged you into. This time was no different and you silently waited for the sound of the elevator ding while listening to your best friend chatter about the ‘world’s best fucking boyfriend–wait, do you think this makes him my boyfriend?’

“I don’t know, Jilly,” you nibbled on your lip, craning your neck to look around the corner of the entrance hallway. For what reason, you weren’t sure but there was a crawling nervousness on your skin and the urge to make sure there were no unexpected surprises was consuming. “It’s Aegon. Only he can answer that question for you.”

The elevator was taking an infuriatingly long time. You wondered if this was the building’s way of telling you to turn around and return to the dorm room that had become your safe haven over the last two years. Jilly had somehow gotten herself involved with none other than Aegon Targaryen, a man notorious for his partying and hedonism.

It was entertaining at first, and you were more than happy to remain a spectator of the ridiculous pairing. Jilly was entirely different to Aegon and tended to carry herself with a lot more modesty than Aegon was known for. She was calculating and calm where he was impulsive and excitable. 

You thought back to the first time they had met. In a tutorial for a statistics class you needed to take to meet course requirements, the three of you paired together to facilitate a useless discussion on probabilities. The bickering between the two of them was amusing and the first greeting that Aegon had graced the two of you with was a grumbled ‘what kind of name is Jilly?’

And weeks later, Aegon had decided to hold another one of his campus-famous house parties. He had obviously invited Jilly–and by extension he had invited you because there was no chance Jilly would go to a party without you. In fact, before she had met Aegon, there was no chance Jilly would go to any party regardless. 

A loud, excited hmph! fell from Jilly’s lips when the elevator doors finally opened. You had hoped it had broken down on its way to pick you up and that there was a rather convenient lack of staircase to climb instead. 

“I don’t think–”

“Don’t say it,” Jilly held a hand in front of your face. She clicked on P with her other hand. For the penthouse, you guessed. “I know you don’t want to be here. But we are going to have a good night.” 

You sighed, tugging the short, black skirt that Jilly had wrestled you into further down your thighs. It looked good paired with the white satin button down you had insisted on wearing for comfort but it was shorter than you were accustomed to. The thought of maintaining it enough so it didn’t ride up past your bum was tiresome but there was no arguing which you could do to wiggle your way into some pants instead. 

Jilly snickered. “Quit fiddling with your skirt, you’ll poke a hole in your tights–Oh!”

The two of you shared a gasp when the doors opened. No wonder people had so much to say about the Targaryen siblings and their parties when their apartment looked like it was straight out of a Forbes magazine. For a moment, it seemed impossible that the apartment housed two students. It was incomparable to the wardrobe sized dorm you had been living in over the semester. 

Distant chatter pulled you out of your thoughts and you followed Jilly further into the apartment, reminding yourself not to let your jaw drop as your eyes adjusted to the dimmed lighting. The party was an hour or so away from starting - Aegon had told everyone to head in after seven but had given Jilly an earlier time so that the two of you could join their pre-game. 

Not that you would. The prospect of getting as drunk as Aegon planned at your (embarrassingly?) first student party was daunting. 

Anxiously, you followed Jilly into the living area where a handful of familiar faces were lounging and drinking. There was a deep bumping of bass, and you could feel the floor vibrating with it, but you couldn’t make out the song that was playing. 

“Jill!” Floris, Aegon’s friend who you had only ever seen on campus, pulled Jilly towards the nearest couch. Hesitantly, you followed, flashing Aegon and Cregan a purse-lipped smile as they made their way to greet you. “We were worried you wouldn’t show up. Is this your friend?”

With a smile, you introduced yourself. Floris only grinned at you before returning her attention to Jilly, who had started up an animated conversation with Helaena. Aegon whistled at Jilly, tipping the neck of his beer in her direction as if to say hello, and threw his other arm around your shoulder. 

He laughed when you cringed, pulling back from him slightly. Aegon smelled like a mixture of beer, red wine and sandalwood cologne. “We placed bets on whether you’d show up. Glad you did. There’s multiple motherfuckers in here who owe me a silver stag each. Not that I need it.”

You spluttered a bit. “What-” 

“Relax,” Cregan teased you from the other side of Aegon. He was clearly drunk. “You’re clearly not much of a party girl but that changes two-” he held up two fingers and then aggressively pointed them down at the floor with a jerk. “-night.” 

Aegon laughed, handing you a glass of wine which suddenly appeared in his hand. You shook your head and he shrugged, downing it himself. He turned away from you, waving someone down. “Aemond!”

Oh gods, no. 

You tried to keep your smile on your face. Aemond fucking Targaryen was leaning against a counter, a beer loosely hanging between his fingers. He was in the middle of a conversation with Criston Cole, a friend of their family who you had heard of only through mindless campus gossip. Aemond glanced toward Aegon in response, an eyebrow raised lazily. 

If there were ever a man you had crushed on, it really had to be him. It was a little bit maddening because you were exactly like your peers in thinking Aemond may be the most attractive man you’d ever see in your lifetime. He was tall, had an air of darkness and mystery to him and his silver hair framed his defined cheekbones and sharp jawline perfectly. But it was the severity in everything about him that had caught your eye–right from the first lecture you had seen him in. 

Aemond, as you understood, had no idea who you were. And while you knew exactly who he was, it wasn’t odd. Everyone knew of him and his family. He had practically been birthed into the public eye. 

“This pretty thing here,” Aegon, much to your protest, had pulled you across the room to introduce you. “Jilly’s best friend. Much like you, dear brother, she hates parties and is not here by her own will. You’d get along.”

Aemond looked at you and you suddenly had no idea what to do with yourself. You met his eye, fiddling with the hem of your skirt and waiting for whatever this moment was to end quickly. Your skin was tingling under his gaze which dropped from your head to your feet and then back to your face. 

When he didn’t say anything, you offered him a tight lipped smile and a timid wave. “Hi?”

He was going to respond. You could see it in the way he had moved but Aegon was quick to cut him off, ever the loud mouthed brat. As subtle as Aegon believed himself to be, he was an incredibly obnoxious drunk.  

“Surely,” Aegon drawled, wrapping his arms around Jilly’s waist when she appeared by your side and pulling her into him tightly. Mockingly, he targeted his question at Jilly but switched his gaze between her and Aemond. “Your little-good-girl friend could use a bit of corrupting, Jills. Seems like Aemond would be entirely capable, from what Floris has–”

“That’s enough, Aegon,” Aemond’s voice was smooth and darker than you’d expected. He gave you a small, reassuring yet tight smile. “Don’t be an ass. Let her be.”

You were a little breathless. Sure, you didn’t quite let go of yourself as much as everyone else did but you were no prude. Right? 

There was no offence intended in Aegon’s teasing but you couldn’t help but feel the sting. He was right–you were relatively good. All of your time and effort went into studying and working. Where you weren’t doing either of those, you preferred the solitude of a good book at a quiet cafe. There were very few bad habits in your life, the worst of which would only be the likes of a dependence on tea or coffee. Parties were a rarity but on the odd occasion you would tag along wherever Jilly would go. And, regardless of that, here you were.

It was embarrassing. You had hoped that if you were to ever introduce yourself to Aemond, things would go slightly better than this and your uptight prudish reputation (which you didn’t realise you had until today) would remain undiscussed. He was different and he didn’t tend to spend his time with people of your tendencies. Aemond was the object of everyone’s desires; if they didn’t want to have him then they certainly wanted to be him. 

You were clearly different from his normal type. If only for the fact that he also had a reputation and that reputation consisted of a string of heartbroken girls who he had never pursued or never shared more than his bed with. Those girls were a lot more like his friends; confident, daring and well accomplished. Aemond was not Aegon; there was a lot more respect in the way people spoke of him and his academic and professional talents were impressive to most people. 

Thankfully, Jilly had pulled you away from that dreadful conversation with a harsh glare pointed at Aegon. The kitchen, which was the closest place for you to hide, was filled with snacks and drinks almost falling off of the countertops. You recognised Helaena, and waved at her.

Helaena had been a friend whenever you had bumped into each other. She was sweet and kind and you actually enjoyed her company. “It’s nice to see you, Helaena. Didn’t think we’d ever run into each other at a house party but hey, it’s been an hour full of surprises.”

She laughed with you. There was an easy flow of conversation between the two of you and when Floris and Jilly had taken to what they called ‘Kitchen Karaoke’, you had even danced together. Jilly, as drunk as she was, pushed the bottle of wine in her hand to you, waiting for you to drink. With some encouragement from Helaena and Floris, you smiled and took a few sips. 

The peace you had found in the kitchen was short lived and when Jilly, joined by Aegon and caught up in her exaggerated Lady Gaga performance, flung her arm out, the bottle of wine in her hand spilling right onto your chest and soaking through the white fabric of your shirt. 

“Shit,” she winced. It was cold and you had a small sense of panic that raised goosebumps on your skin at the thought of wearing a wet, stained shirt all night but at the drunken apologetic look on her face all you could do was force a smile. Jilly giggled nervously. “At least it makes your tits look good.”

“Right,” you mumbled, fingers pulling the wet fabric off of your skin. It was uncomfortably sticking to your skin and the smell of the red wine was beginning to catch. “No problem.”

Aegon tapped your shoulder gently and gave you an animated salute. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you something from the fresh laundry.”

You followed him into the laundry, which was only just around the corner, waiting as he grinned and shuffled through the clothes that were sitting in the dryer. When Aegon turned to you, he had a stupid toothy smile and passed you a grey shirt. “Wear that. It’ll be big but it’ll still look good with the rest of your outfit if you tuck it in or something.”

The t-shirt Aegon handed you was a little long but you weren’t going to complain when you were much happier to be in dry clothing. It was a Slipknot shirt, the graphic on the front slightly worn down with time and washes. You figured it could have been worse–at least Slipknot were good. Aegon had long gone, giving you privacy to change and when you stepped out of the laundry room, you were surprised to see that people had started piling into the apartment. 

Some hip-hop song you could barely recognise played loudly and you were a little thrown off by the crowds of unfamiliar faces. But everyone was having a good time, smiling and dancing among themselves. 

Cigarettes, cologne and coffee filled your senses and you let out a small yelp as you met with a hardened surface, stumbling a little to catch yourself. Aemond’s hands reached out to grab hold of your arms, holding you steady against him so that you wouldn’t fall to the ground. 

“Easy, missy,” he stepped back slightly, as if he were trying to get a good look at you. As Aemond dragged his gaze over you from head to toe, he smirked and hummed deeply.

The heat that rushed to your cheeks was quick and you wondered if Aemond had always smelled so delicious. Your mind was clouded by him and the way he didn’t remove his hands from you, his fingers still gently squeezing your flesh and keeping you far closer to him than you needed to be. 

Whatever it was, if he continued to look at you with so much intensity and hold you as if he didn’t want to let go of you, there was a high chance you’d do something that would only leave you disappointed and embarrassed. 

“Sorry,” you squeaked, pulling away from him in one movement and rushing into the kitchen. Jilly grinned at you, eyebrows wagging exaggeratedly in her drunken state. 

The rest of the girls had found their way to the kitchen, which had actually quietened down even more in the short moments you were away. You found yourself once again at Helaena’s side, watching as Jilly danced with her bottle of wine in hand, and failing to listen to the conversation that was somehow still in flow. 

If you were being honest, the party was a certain type of boring. There was a lot going on yet nothing at the same time and you chalked it up to the fact that you weren’t that friendly with anyone here. Helaena was only part of the crowd because she lived here and Jilly was becoming a part of Aegon’s group of mates, all of whom you knew of but had no real friendship with. 

Floris, who had been staring at you on and off since you had returned, took a sip of her drink and flashed you an odd look. “Is that Aemond’s shirt?”

Helaena giggled beside you, watching you keenly as you frowned. When you answered, Floris looked at you with narrowed eyes. You cleared your throat, nervously nibbling on your bottom lip. “I assumed it was Aegon’s since he gave it to me.”

“What was wrong with what you came in?”

“Floris, you saw that blouse get ruined,” Jilly rolled her eyes, stepping closer to you when she noticed the gentle alarm on your face. “She couldn’t have stayed in a stained top. It won't dry out until tomorrow.”

Floris only huffed, regarding you with a harsh stare and a forced shrug. There was an odd silence that lingered and you considered offering her an apology. But you quickly realised that you didn’t really have anything to apologise for, even though it is probably Aemond’s t-shirt and it was no secret that Floris was all about Aemond. 

The night was passing slowly and you continued to make small talk with the same few people you knew. But the weight of Floris’ glare never disappeared. And Aemond, with his gentle smirk and quiet confidence, had been lingering the entire night. You were half-certain that it was Floris who was the purpose of his prolonged presence in the kitchen, which had become somewhat of a break room for everyone at this point.

There was a pointed silence from him aside from the few words he had muttered in conversation with Helaena or Daeron yet his gaze was communicating more than his words could. Aemond kept looking towards you, his wanting eye holding yours assertively whenever you’d catch him watching you. You couldn’t help the heat that crept up your neck at the way he looked you up and down at every chance he got. 

It was suffocating when paired with the daggers you could feel from Floris’ stares and Aegon’s vexing grin. 

“I’m going outside for a bit,” you told Helaena, placing your glass down on the counter and flashing a pursed-lip smile at whoever caught your eye on your way towards the terrace. 

The journey to the terrace wasn’t easy and you could feel your throat closing in as you tried to squeeze through crowds of people. It was sweaty and loud, shoulders knocking and elbows bumping as you finally pushed your way through to a secluded part of the terrace, sighing at the fresh air and solitude. 

Once again, your peace didn’t last long before you caught a flash of silver in your peripheral. 

Aemond stood beside you, so close that your shoulder brushed the leather of his jacket. “You alright?” 

His proximity had turned your brain silent and you simply nodded, forcing your eyelids not to flutter shut at his delicious smell. There was a comfortable silence that followed. He rested his elbows on the railing as you were, relaxing against it and watching the street below. 

A tickle on your cheek from a loose strand of Aemond’s hair following the breeze woke you up from the haze you were entering. “Not enjoying the party?”

“I don’t like parties,” he chuckled, reaching into his pocket. 

You snickered, eyes trailing across his hands as he fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Taking a moment to admire the way his rings complemented his nimble yet clearly strong fingers, you couldn’t believe how attractive a man’s hands could be.  “You’re not like your brother, then. That’s good–couldn’t handle having two Aegon’s about.”

Aemond shook his head, smiling as he held the box out to you. “Thankfully my brother and I are not alike. Cig?”

“Not for me.”

He hummed, popping a cigarette between his lips and holding the lighter to it. “Good. Do you mind?”

You didn’t have much else to say other than a shrug, letting him know it was alright for him to smoke. It would hardly be anything to complain about with the way Aemond seemed to look ten times sexier with a cigarette between his fingers and hanging from his lips. 

“I guess your reputation isn’t a lie,” Aemond let his eye fall to you, holding a world of darkness and sin as he smirked at you. A cheeky grin played on his lips as he turned to his side, resting on his arm and leaning back a bit to look at you better. 

You swallowed thickly. A wave of heat to your core had you turning away from him, the intensity of how he looked at you like you were tempting all of his urges. “I just try to stay clear of bad habits. It doesn’t really matter.”

“So you are a good girl,” Aemond leaned closer, his fingers gently tipping your head upwards at your chin. He was closer than he was before you had blinked and all of your senses were overwhelmed by him. “I like that. I wonder if Aegon was right about us.”

Because of the way he was holding your chin, firmly and gently at the same time, you had no choice but to meet his gaze. Goosebumps arose on your skin and you shivered despite the burn of his fingers on your skin. 

“Let me take you somewhere more comfortable,” Aemond drawled. The air grew charged when he grazed his lips against yours, so softly it was almost nonexistent. “They all thought I would be the one to corrupt you but I can show you all the ways you’ve corrupted my mind instead.”

The small gasp that fell from your lips made his jaw tick and he let go of your chin, dragging the knuckles of his fingers across your cheek affectionately. 

You nodded and cleared your throat quietly, surprised at your own eagerness. “But I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” Aemond gently lowered his hand to hold your hip, letting one last puff of smoke out before putting his cigarette out. He guided you inside, keeping you right in front of him and his free arm loosely extended in front of your body to stop people from pushing into you. His lips lingered at your ear all the while. “You were already a pretty little thing, missy. But I never could have guessed that you’d be so fucking delicious in my clothes.” 

You were grateful that you weren’t facing him. He couldn’t see the flush that had crossed your expression and had you shying away gently but only to sink further against his chest as he led you through a quieter hallway. When Aemond pushed open the door to his bedroom, he finally noticed your dishevelled state and let out an affectionate huff. 

Only letting go of you for a moment so that he could close the door behind him, Aemond had turned you to face him and pulled you back to your place against his body. His bedroom was pointedly his; neat and collected, the walls decorated with a few posters of the bands he likes and bookshelves that were almost filled entirely. It smelled like clean linen and his cologne. 

“Wait.” You remembered the girl who had been far more than unhappy to see you in his shirt and stiffened. “I thought you and Floris-”

“Floris and I are nothing,” Aemond was calm when he spoke, still watching you with that fierce desire that you had felt from him when you bumped into him earlier on. You swallowed down your apprehension visibly, avoiding eye contact. “I promise.”

Odd, considering you were well aware he didn’t need to promise you anything. 

Aemond watched your chest heave with your heavy breaths, covered entirely by his favourite t-shirt which draped perfectly from your breasts. A hand returned to your hip, squeezing lightly while the other rested at the crevice of your neck and shoulder, his fingers tickling your warm skin. 

He pursed his lips, hyper aware of how tense you were in his hands. “Tell me to stop and I will. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. We can just chat and get to know each other.” 

“No,” you shook your head.“I don’t want you to stop.”

It was impossible to resist the way that Aemond was pulling you against him, as if you weren’t close enough despite how you were pressed flush against him and the fabric of your clothing was all that could fit between the two of you. Gods, he smelled so good. 

Confident with your reassurance, Aemond dipped his head so close to yours that you were sharing air, his smirk returned when he felt you shiver against him. “Are you nervous?” 

“I don’t usually do this,” you muttered, eyelids fluttering shut when he brushed the tip of his nose against your cheek and pressed a featherlight kiss beside your lips, dragging them to your jaw when you instinctively moved to try catch his lips in the kiss you only now realised you were craving. But you failed and he cheekily worked away from your attempted kiss. His lips felt good on your skin and a soft gasp in his ear had him squeezing your hip harder. It reminded you what you were telling him. “We technically just met.”

He never stopped placing the smallest of kisses along your jaw, moving them towards your neck. “Technically?”

“We have a couple lectures together.”

The thought that it was rather surprising that he had never noticed much of you crossed Aemond’s mind but when you let your hand fall to his chest, fisting the lapel of his jacket and tugging like you needed him more than oxygen, it disappeared into a haze of your perfume and warmth. 

Aemond hummed as you noticed he did often. “Does it count if I take you out the day after?”

“I’m sure it does,” you bit your lip to hide your smile, frowning when he pulled away from your neck. “But only if you really want–”

All your thoughts were lost when Aemond swallowed your words, his lips finding yours eagerly. You moaned against him, stiffening for a moment as your skin flushed under his touch but returning his vigour when he laced his fingers through your hair, holding it in a tight fist. It was a perfectly coordinated mess of tongue and teeth, and Aemond never once faltered in his fervour. 

Blindly, you let him guide you to the bed, pulling him down without breaking the kiss when the edge of the bed hit the back of your legs.

In the soft glow of candlelight, the both of you were enveloped in a world of your own. The air was thick with anticipation as your bodies drew closer, the heat shared between you palpable. You tilted your head back, inviting his lips to trace a path along your neck, each kiss sending your blood rushing to your core.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

“Everything, Aemond.”

As his hands found their way under his shirt, fingers gliding over your soft skin, you let out a soft gasp, arching into him. His hands roamed freely, seeking out the warmth beneath the soft fabric, craving your skin against his own.

You felt the weight of him above you, powerful and intoxicating. With a careful urgency, Aemond sat back momentarily, pulling you with him so that he could reach to unclasp your bra. When you moved to take the shirt off with a soft smile, he stopped you. 

“Keep it on,” Aemond placed a kiss to your clothed shoulder, running his hand across the side of your leg as he let you get rid of your bra underneath the shirt. He pulled your skirt and tights off with steady hands, humming appreciatively at the way your underwear peaked out from where the t-shirt had bunched at your hips. “I want you in my shirt only.”

You watched him, entranced, as he took in the sight of you and muttered under his breath about how perfect you were for him, his eye dark with longing. Aemond moved downwards, nestling himself comfortably between your legs, pressing soft kisses along your inner thighs, his mouth warm and inviting. 

When you whined impatiently he smiled, a wicked glint in his eye, and returned to his explorations, kissing his way closer to your core. Aemond never took his eye off you and you could see him watching you from where he teasingly licked at the skin where your thigh met your covered womanhood. The tension in your core tightened and you jerked when he wrapped his lips around your clothed clit and sucked hard. 

Strong hands held your hips down as he wrapped his arms around your thighs, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs. Again, you whined at him. “You’re not very patient are you? Already so wet for me that I can taste your delicious pussy through the fabric. Tell me what you want.”

You propped yourself on your elbows, your arms quivering under your weight and breath hitching when you noticed his own clothes had been haphazardly taken off. Aemond was ridding you of your mind and he had barely done anything. “More, Aemond. I want more.”

“More what?”

“More of you,” you whined again, mouth watering at the way he gazed at you from where he was nestled. “I want more of you.”

Aemond complied, pulling your panties off as soon as your hips had lifted on his command. He gave you a pointed look, scolding you gently when you gave him a shy whimper, moving to shut your legs so he couldn’t see you spread for him. 

“Spread your legs, pretty girl,” he let out a coarse breath when you wordlessly did as he said, baring yourself to him and gracing him with a sight more tempting than all the gold and jewels the world had to offer. Aemond’s hands guided your thighs apart encouragingly. “That’s it–little bit more.”

His gentle commands were both exhilarating and daunting. The weight of his gaze was both thrilling and intimidating, sending heat rushing to your cheeks and your cunt and the chuckle coming from the man between your legs was enough to tell you that he had seen you clench around nothing. 

Trailing his kisses from your knees and down your thighs once again, Aemond groaned, fisting the bottom of the shirt that rested against your raised thigh and licking a long stripe between your folds. It had you sucking in a breath, the sensation of his wet tongue suddenly exploring your cunt taking over every part of your mind and body, your fingers grasping at the sheets when he lapped at your clit and moaned into your wetness.

“Gods, Aemond-” you made the prettiest noises but Aemond’s cock jumped at the way you said his name, giving him a newfound fervour as he ferociously sucked at your clit, flicking it with his tongue. 

Nothing you had experienced with anyone had you trembling from sensitivity and pleasure so easily. His tongue and lips moved against you expertly and he let his arms wrap around your thighs as they rested against his shoulders, using his thumbs to spread you even more for him. 

Spit mixed with your wetness, creating a slick that dripped from your cunt and tainted his chin and his cheeks but Aemond seemed only to revel in it. His cock grew painfully hard at the beautiful sounds you made and the sweet, slightly tart and metallic taste of you on his tongue. 

At a particularly harsh suck on your clit, you jerked, legs clamping shut around Aemond’s head as you felt your orgasm building faster than you had expected. “Aemond. Oh fuck, it’s good-”

“Are you going to come for me, missy?” Aemond asked and the vibrations of his voice while he continued to feast on you had you moaning out an incoherent answer. He was watching you as you nodded, head thrown back so all that he could see over your body and his t-shirt was your chin and glimpses of your blissful expression. 

Shuddering and struggling to even your breathing, a heated pleasure took you with surprising intensity. Aemond continued to suck on you, delving into you with his tongue and teasing you with his fingers as he helped you through your orgasm, groaning at the way your body tensed and your pussy clenched. 

Placing a final kiss on your clit with a cheeky grin, making his way up your body, enjoying the way you continued to tremble and whimper under his touch. He took a nipple into his mouth through the shirt, teasingly only giving it a moment of attention before his lips were back on yours. 

Sharing the taste of you, Aemond kissed you hungrily despite having done the same within your folds only seconds ago. It was unbelievably hot in the room and you became dizzy with how your body gave into his, moulding against him perfectly as his hips found their place between your legs. 

Aemond’s voice was dark and confident, dripping with lust. 

But you salivated at the thought of taking him in your mouth and tried to push him back. “I want you in my mouth too.”

“Not tonight.” His hand found one of your breasts, touching you over the shirt. When you pouted at him, legs still jerking around his hips, Aemond softly moaned. “Aren’t you full of surprises? Good girl like you, so eager to suck me.”

Hot and heavy, Aemond grinded his cock against you, pressing it deliciously to your clit and then taking its place with his fingers. He wondered whether the pout on your lips would disappear when he pushed a digit into you, satisfied to see it fall away and be replaced with a furrow of your eyebrows and a silent gasp. 

Keening at both his words and the way that Aemond slid another finger in and curled them inside you, searching for that spot that had your toes curling, you were increasingly desperate to taste him now that you had felt how hard and ready he was for you. “Please, let me taste you.”

“You’ll have plenty of opportunities for that.” He sighed deeply when you moaned loudly, grasping at his shoulders and pressing your face into his neck. “I would kill to feel your pretty lips on my cock. Do you want to know what I think, missy?”

Aemond was intoxicating, sending your body into overdrive and your mind hazy with need. All you could do was nod, lost in the way he was perfectly bringing you to so much bliss. 

“I think,” he purred. “That I’m going to make you mine. And that I’ll fuck the well-behaved girl right out of you in each and every shirt that I own.”

Gasping for air as he pushed himself into you, replacing his fingers with his cock, you clung to him as he stretched you out. There was a sharp sting from his size but it subsided quickly and you could feel the effects of Aemond’s cock in you all the way down your legs and to your toes. 

Aemond’s breath hitched, his eye holding yours as he gave you time to adjust, jaw clenched and holding you tightly as if he’d fall to the pits of the hells if he were to let go of you. 

For someone he had just met properly only hours ago, Aemond thought he had found his own heaven in you and your body. 

You mewled, pushing your hips forward greedily. “It feels so good-so good, Aemond.”

He slowly moved his hips, hissing and letting his forehead fall to your shoulder where he bit down gently. The way Aemond pushed deeper into you at every thrust forward stole your breath from your lungs each time. He felt like he was a virgin once again, feeling the comfort of a wet, hot cunt for the first time, losing the control he had over the urge to claim you properly and spill into you already.

Aemond was no stranger to the pleasures of the body but never had he fallen victim to weakness by a woman and Aemond was of half a mind to understand that he would do anything you asked of him simply because your bodies were a carnally perfect fit. Right now, he would burn down cities if you asked him to. 

Keeping the steady pace, Aemond’s thrusts became more forceful, driving into you harder and drawing out nonsensical murmurs and whimpers from you. It was white-hot, each thrust sending a barrage of pleasure and sensitivity through your body. 

“If only they could see you now,” Aemond’s tone was deep, laced with lust and somewhat desperate as his hips snapped into you, the sound of skin against skin and his cock pushing lewd sounds from your wetness that couldn’t be drowned out by the distant thump of the party’s music. “The perfect, innocent girl that they all believe you to be, squeezing my cock like a good little slut. Just for me.”

Blissful, incoherent sounds that he pulled from only spurred him on further and you could feel how his cock twitched and moved within you. The way that Aemond’s body fit with yours was perfect and it had that tension return to your stomach, your skin tingling and toes curling as he sped up his movements. It was blinding and deafening at the same time, stealing your breath from you each time he dragged his cock out only to push it back in. 

Shaking and trembling, your legs squeezed around his hips and Aemond grunted, his head falling to your shoulder as he grabbed the flesh of your thigh and pushing it up and holding it beside you. Angling your hips perfectly, Aemond’s rough thrusts found a sensitive spot and you gasped, back arching off the bed as you gripped him tightly in your arms. You were barely of the right mind to notice him hiss when your nails scraped across his skin. 

Aemond was convinced he had found a version of peace in your body, the feeling of your warmth and wetness squeezing him, quieting the loud, painful thoughts that never ceased in his mind. He swore, his voice constrained and his fingers digging further into your flesh. There wouldn’t be a day that could go by in which he wouldn’t be haunted by your perfect cunt and pretty sounds. It was a thought that would have had him scoffing in any other circumstances but he was so lost in you that he couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn. 

“You are so fucking-” he groaned. “Tight. Made to fit my cock perfectly.”

“Aemond-”

He chuckled, enjoying the way his name was the only word you could force out between your moans. Aemond’s hips stuttered as you clamped down around him, your eyes rolling back and falling shut as you turned away from him reflexively, pressing your head into the pillow and whining pathetically. 

“Yes, missy?” Aemond’s voice was constricted but still smooth. 

“Gonna come–I’m gonna come,” you gasped out between whimpers and moans, calling out his name as if he was your salvation.

Aemond let go of your thigh, his fingers clasping around your throat and squeezing the sides enough so that he could force your head out of the pillow. “Look at me when you come, pretty girl.”

When your eyes met his, you were surprised to see that his eyepatch hadn’t been discarded but couldn’t linger on the thought. Not with the way that overwhelming tension had become too much, coiling in your stomach and making you quiver underneath Aemond’s strong body, coming to its peak and snapping with an earth shattering, burning intensity that forced your entire world to go quiet. 

With strained gasps, Aemond’s peak quickly followed yours and he pulled out, surprised to see how swiftly your hand replaced his. You felt the ropes of his hot seed fall onto your stomach, the warmth of his breath against your skin as he buried his face into your neck, heaving as he rode through the strength of his orgasm. 

Strings of curses came from him as he let his body fall to the space beside you. Aemond barely wasted two seconds before pulling you into him so that your head rested against his chest as he held you against him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, letting yourself melt into him, too spent to spare a thought for the mess on your stomach. “But I doubt I’ll be feeling so great tomorrow.”

A deep chuckle vibrated against your ear. “I’d apologise but I’m afraid I wouldn’t mean it.”

“Cheeky.”

Aemond took a hold of your wrist when you slapped his chest gently, bringing your hand up to place a kiss on your knuckles before letting his hand fall to that spot on your hip. “I wasn’t lying you know.”

“About?” You raised an eyebrow, craning your neck so that you could see his face without moving away from him. 

“I will take you out.” Aemond grinned, squeezing your flesh playfully. “And I will fuck you in every single one of my t-shirts.”

[pikahlua]

Oh? Please, Madam

What Izuku rejects is the opportunity to be Katsuki's SIDEKICK. He doesn't reject being a hero or competing with Katsuki. He rejects working FOR/UNDER Katsuki. Which is hilarious because Katsuki accepts (apparently multiple times) showing up as a guest lecturer to help out Izuku's class. Katsuki tells Izuku that "If everyone is special, no one is special," which has the potential for SO MUCH DOUBLE MEANING. But what there is no ambiguity about to me is he's basically telling Izuku "Hey, notice this. I'm treating you special. You're special to me. NOTICE."

It's also implied that Izuku sees Katsuki more regularly than he sees most others from their class, which is emphasized by the previous chapter when Aizawa complains to him about Katsuki's behavior in public affecting his ranking. Katsuki basically tells Izuku he needs to start thinking about himself more, and he also ends their final interaction with a "See ya [later]." Katsuki is NOT talking about Ochako, but Izuku takes some of his advice as the impetus for going to talk to Ochako (specifically they just wanna talk more after the dinner since the dinner is now over and they didn't get to talk). So what was Katsuki thinking of? I personally read his "See ya later" as "You'll figure it out, just go handle what you gotta right now and you can catch up to me later."

Hilariously, Izuku calls Katsuki out for being the one to say "If you don't start thinking a little more highly of yourself, you won't notice the things you should." Izuku's response is basically, "Look who's talking." Again, the potential for double meaning here is painfully obvious. He could be referring to SO MANY THINGS and we're meant to infer what that is. WE GET TO GUESS. Izuku could be saying "You did stuff just as bad as what you're saying," or "You're STILL not noticing something, Kacchan."

And Izuku taking inspiration from Katsuki's words to go talk to Ochako is meaningful in another way--IT MEANS IZUKU LISTENED TO HIM. Katsuki is having an influence on Izuku in a way to improve who he is just like Izuku did for him in high school. Izuku takes Katsuki's advice seriously. NO ONE HAS EVER GOTTEN HIM TO UNDERSTAND THIS LESSON BEFORE NOW. It ends with Izuku and Ochako deciding to talk more, but what it shows us is the beginning of Izuku considering himself more. If Izuku follows Katsuki's advice long enough, he'll end up back in the competition with Katsuki just like Katsuki expects him to. That is just as easy of a conclusion to make from the theme of "inevitability" that Shouto gives us (and that Izuku also takes to heart).

This ending implies that inevitably Izuku's gonna catch up again, basically. Things will continue to change. So yeah, we get a beginning where he and Ochako meet up to talk, but it's just a beginning. It's one night of chatting. They're seeing if something's there now (which kind of implies that there wasn't much there before), but it's left open-ended. And I think it's left open-ended what happens with Ochako on purpose because anyone can read how that ends up however they like. You just have to decide as a reader what's "inevitable" for Izuku Midoriya from this point on. Me? I've decided Izuku is taking Katsuki's advice to treat people who mean more to him better. Ochako is just the beginning. Izuku has other people in his life he needs to show love to as well (because that's what this is, Izuku is learning to show people that they're important to him, that he loves them, because saving people doesn't do that--he saves EVERYONE). And then maybe he'll start to see how the people who love him treat him special too, like guest SPECIAL (same kanji) LECTURER KATSUKI BAKUGOU.

tl;dr there is a lot left open to interpretation and it's probably on purpose, read the chapter however you like, just like we did with the last chapter.

...and my interpretation which is the correct one is that Katsuki tells Izuku, "Here let me show you how to love people, damnit!" to give him the character development everyone has been begging for him to have for years, to realize that saving people doesn't mean they're special to him if he's known for saving everyone ever, so like, maybe go show them you care in OTHER ways, Izuku, and also I'll be waiting right here for you to come show you love me you jackass (and he does, he does come show him that)

[bootsukki]

operation: does tsukki like (y/n)?

hinata never meant to hit you in the face. it just... happened. you were walking into the gym holding a bag of clean uniforms when one of his spikes when extremely out of hand and instead of aiming for tsukishima's block, the ball landed on your face with a loud "smack!".

the ball ricocheted off your face with a thud and you stumbled backwards, your hands clutching your nose.

"oh my, (y/n)!" hinata panicked, running over to your side, but before he could even reach you, a large hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him away.

"move," hinata stopped at the sight of tsukishima crouched beside you, his hands grabbing the back of your neck to check any possible injures with a look of actual concern, deep frown of his brows and eyes looking all over your face. "does it hurt anywhere? let me see your nose."

everybody in the gym blinked. even the first years who were scared of tsukishima were whispering about it: about the fact that he, the oh so stoic and angry tsukishima kei was softly checking on you, the sweet and lovely manager. tsukishima never talked to people like... that. he barely looked like he cared about anything or anyone but there he was, touching your face like you were made of the most precious material of the world.

hinata turned around, walking outside the gym as if he had just discovered the most scandalous secret.

tsukishima likes (y/n).

does he? well, he doesn’t know for sure! but that was something!

and so, the operation: does tsukki like (y/n)? was born. well, after a few text messages to a group he made without you or tsukki of course, texting everything to his three other friends that had missed practice today because of math tutoring.

step one: gather reinforcements.

that same night, an emergency meeting was scheduled in kageyama's house with kageyama, yamaguchi and yachi.

"i need to find out if tsukki actually likes her," hinata stated, hands on his hips as he tried to find ways to possibly catch the couple together.

"i mean... is that really necessary?" kageyama added, looking at a youtube video on his phone. "i don't think they are dating."

"why?"

"(y/n) is too sweet and tsukishima, well... he's my friend but..."

"hey!" yachi said. "tsukishima is great. he's smart and tall, i'm sure a lot of girls want to date him."

"yeah, but... (y/n)? i don't know..."

"he was acting sooooo weird when she got hit," hinata explained, trying to reenact tsukishima's worried face, which mostly looked like a bad impression of a wild animal. "and! i keep seeing them together!"

"they go to the same class, they have been friends for years and they live in the same neighborhood."

"i don't know, hinata..." yamaguchi talked for the first time. "i don't know, tsukki has always taken care of us in his own special way... he cares about us equally i think."

"maybe the best thing wse could do is ask?"

"yeah, no." hinata shook his head. "i would rather die than suffer the anger of tsukishima."

"what about (y/n), yachi?" yamaguchi turned to look at the girl. "you are best friends after all."

"we never talk about that so asking about it would be weird."

"the best thing we can do is to let it go, maybe you're just exaggerating, hinata." kageyama said, leaving his phone behind and grabbing a ball from the floor. "up for some practice outside?"

step tw- wait, there is no step two.

a few days after the incident, hinata had already forgotten about it and did not bother the others with the topic again.

after practice that friday, kageyama had one simple goal: grab his english notebook from the volleyball club room and go home to watch a match on tv.

easy, right?

no.

as he approach the club room, he heard voices from inside. he barely paid attention at first—there were other clubs having activities on the rooms next to theirs, but when he reached the door and pushed it open, he froze.

because his mind was about to explode.

there, standing in the middle of the room were two of his friends—way too close for just friends.

tsukishima had one hand resting on (y/n)’s waist, his other arm loosely wrapped around her back. and you? you were even worse! one of your hands was buried in tsukishima’s hair while the other one was… UNDER HIS SHIRT? WHILE KISSING HIM??????

WHAT.

kageyama’s soul left his body, he needed to leave and try to erase the mental image of his friends kissing but instead—

“HOLY SHIT.”

you yelped, jumping away from tsukishima and hiding yourself in a corner of the room.

tsukishima, on the other hand, was livid. “are you serious?”

kageyama was in shock, his arms flailed like a malfunctioning robot as he pointed at them. “W-WHAT—YOU—”

you were still trying to calm yourself “kageyama, calm down—”

“CALM DOWN?! I JUST SAW—YOU AND TSUKISHIMA— AND YOUR HANDS TOUCHING HIM…” he looked genuinely offended. “WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

tsukishima sighed aggressively, rubbing his temples. “use your brain, dumbass. what does it look like?”

kageyama’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. his eyes darted between them, his face growing redder by the second.

“OH MY GOD,” he finally blurted out, shoving his hands into his hair like he was personally betrayed. “THIS IS WORSE THAN I THOUGHT.”

you rolled your eyes. “It’s really not that big of a deal—”

“NOT A BIG DEAL?!” kageyama practically threw himself out of the club room, tripping over his own feet as he ran out like the room was on fire. “I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO TELL HINATA HE WAS, INDEED, RIGHT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS WHOLE LIFE.”

“what?” you both called after him.

within minutes, hinata’s scream could be heard through the school.

operation: does tsukki like (y/n)? complete. conclusions: they are in love.

[miyukisu]

A Trace of Body Paint .ᐟ

❤︎ Request | He's learning anatomy for his art class—you'll help him, right? 3.1k wc ╰ feat. artist!shidou ryusei (bllk) x afab!reader

tags - lots of tension and build up at first, p*rn with plot, college au, artist! shidou, he and reader are both experienced, FILTHY, dirty talk, unprotected smeggs, rough smeggs, face f*cking, creampies, overstim, no y/n, not beta read

MEGA MASTERLIST

minors do not interact

"Yeah! I'll see you next week for my next assignment. Okay?"

Yeah right... next week...

You didn't peg Shidou as the type to flake on you, especially since he was the one who needed something from you. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt, then your mind wandered to impossible territory.

Maybe he found a different person to model for him.

Maybe you weren't good enough a model and he was getting low marks because of you...

But wouldn't that be his fault?

Maybe... he dropped out of class?

Every possibility crossed your mind, but not once did you think of actually asking him, "Hey, what's up with not calling me anymore to model for your art class? You know... THE THING WE DO WEEKLY?"

But pride does get the best of us. You are no different. Either the world ends or he grovels at your feet for ghosting you like that. Anyway, why did you care so much?

Shidou Ryusei only asked you to model for him for a few weeks for an art course he was taking. It just so happens you two were close and your schedules matched (and he thought you were really pretty). In exchange, he'd treat you after every drawing session. Ordinary stuff—that was until you slowly started to develop feelings for him.

There was something about the way he looked at you as he studied every minute detail—making sure they were all transferred to paper. He made you feel so... beautiful in ways you've never realized before. But most of all, you fell for such a creative and passionate spirit.

You were snapped out of your thoughts upon spotting a familiar hairdo across the quad. Your eyes met and you made sure not to waste this opportunity—glaring at him, making sure he knew how much he had pissed you off. Shidou looked left and right, possibly trying to find a way out of it. But maybe the intensity in your eyes worked because before you knew it—he was making his way to you.

"Hey..."

"Really? That's all you have to say after ignoring the texts I sent last week?"

"Eh... must've missed them," he lied.

"What about the time you saw me near your building? You missed me standing a meter away from you?"

"Guess so," he lied again.

His nonchalance made you want to rip your hair out. This hot-and-cold treatment was driving you up the wall. It was clear with the exasperated look on your face.

Though, his eyes never left yours—those same damn eyes that stared at you for hours. It was like there was something he wanted to say, but couldn't.

"Why did you even walk over here?"

He sighed like he didn't gave a shit. "You looked like you were about to murder me."

"Shouldn't you be running away then?" you countered. Shidou simply shrugged. "I'm not sure either."

You were about to unleash your fury, but he sighed loudly before continuing. "Fuck... fine. I've been avoiding you."

"Yes. I can clearly see that. The question is—why?"

"Look. I've been getting the highest scores in class because I have the luxury to have an actual person model for me... while everyone else relies on references on the internet or whatever," he explains. "But now... it's..."

"Isn't that a good thing then?" you asked—confused by his reasoning, but even more confused by his change in demeanor.

He shook his head. "Nah... it's just... I won't be needing you anymore."

Your jaw dropped. He said it so casually like it didn't just left a gaping hole in your chest.

"I mean," he backtracked. "We're gonna start drawing nude figures soon, so either you're willing to strip for me or—"

You cut him off. "Are you gonna draw my face with it?"

"Eh, all I need to draw now is the body since we're done with portraits and—"

You cut him off again. "Then draw me."

"Wha—" Shidou was cut off once more. "You heard me. Draw me," you say, as if challenging him.

It earns a hearty laugh from him—one you haven't heard in a while. "You're saying you're gonna stand butt naked in front of me while I stare at you for an hour or two? You know how that sounds, right?"

"It sounds like you're gonna stare at me butt naked for an hour or two."

You were so shameless, he thought. But it was one of the many things he liked about you. He chuckled, amused by the way things turned. Well... what kind of artist would he be to turn down such an enticing muse?

Shidou let out a low whistle as soon as the last article of clothing met the floor. You used to do these drawing sessions in the library—when all he had to observe from you were innocent things like your eyes, your hands, your hair, and so on.

But now that you have to bare everything to him, you figured the only place to do it was at his dorm. It was like what you imagined: cluttered but artsy enough that you could let it pass.

You stood awkwardly in the middle, feeling a bit chilly with nothing to protect you. But you posed, placing a hand on your hip while looking off to the side. That way, there wouldn't be any awkward eye contact.

Shidou sat down on a stool and quickly got to drawing. He said nothing as his eyes constantly flitted between the paper and your body.

The first few minutes in—you became hyperaware of everything. The fact that he was seeing absolutely everything. The absurdity of this entire situation. But most of all, the way your body was reacting to his gaze.

From your peripheral, you could see his gaze linger a bit too long at times. He'd bite his lower lip every so often and it made you feel conscious. Was he doing that because he could see your nipples hardening due to the temperature? Maybe he noticed the way you'd subtly rub your thighs together?

Whatever it was—it had him clearing his throat and shifting in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable.

Around 15 minutes pass, until he finally spoke. "Feeling tired yet?" he asked without looking up from his paper. You figured he was applying the final touches at this point.

"Yeah. A bit."

He hummed in response. "Get comfortable on my bed then."

"What? On your bed? Now?"

Shidou looked up from his paper. At this point both of you were desensitized by your nakedness (or so you thought). "Yes. Now. I have to draw you in at least 3 poses."

Three?

You gulped. But, once more, pride creeps up. You can't just challenge him to draw you naked so boldly—only for you to back down now. You gathered yourself and sat on his bed which was only a few steps away.

"Go on. You can get comfortable," he encouraged.

So you did. You lied down on your side, propping your head up on your hand. The scene that had unfolded reminded you of that one Titanic scene: Rose sprawled out for Jack to draw.

Knowing that, the moment felt too intimate. But you sucked it up... even though there was an unwanted wetness forming at your core.

Shidou shifted in his seat again, lowering his paper on his lap. "Alright, keep that position," he said, a bit strained.

In this position, you couldn't look off to the side. Your only option for the next few minutes was the wall behind him or Shidou himself.

At some point, your eyes met. There was something in his eyes you've never seen before. It wasn't the usual focus he had; it was something else. Something more intense.

But the 2nd pose passes soon enough and you were down to your last.

"What should I do now?"

He sighed, looking over his current sketches. "Lemme think. I'm having a hard time getting the details right."

"Maybe it's because you're sitting so far away," you commented—not thinking about what it implied.

His eyes zeroed in on you again—caught by your words. You want him to come closer with you like that and him slowly losing his composure? You were playing a dangerous game and you had no idea yet.

Shidou finally stood up from his chair, walking over to the bed. You weren't sure if it was just your imagination, but he was hard. His length strained against his fitted pants. The sight had your mouth watering.

He sat down beside you, eyes never leaving yours. The atmosphere seemed charged with the way you two found yourselves slowly leaning into each other.

"You look great," he whispered. It was something he always said in these sessions. It was a rather simple compliment. But it held more weight now.

"Thanks," you meekly responded. Neither of you realized how fast he inched towards you. His lips were a breath away. You showed no signs of backing away, so he went in.

He pressed his lips on to yours. The kiss felt hungry—needy almost—like he was fighting off this urge for so long. Before you knew it, his weight pushed you down on the softness of his bed. His scent enveloped every sense, clouding your judgement.

Shidou pulled away, breathless. "Pose like this."

He sat upright, eyes raking over your body. This time, he didn't hide the way his gaze would linger on certain parts. His hands ran down your legs, admiring the softness of your skin.

Then, without warning, he pried your legs open. But you didn't stop him. His pink irises trailed down to your core, seeing how wet you've gotten. Shidou thought he was drooling.

"Fuck... I wish I could draw this."

You feel your chest tightening. "Why not?"

"And let everyone see this?" his fingers ghosted over the skin of your inner thigh. "No chance in hell. I want to be the only one to appreciate my muse."

He let his thumb swipe through your folds softly before pressing lightly into your clit, earning a mewl from you. He kept circling the sensitive nub as if in a trance.

"I know what I want the last pose to be," he says. You moan a little louder as he rubs your clit faster. "Want your last pose to be you all fucked out... think you can do that?"

Words got caught in your throat. But it hardly mattered. It didn't seem like he'd take 'no' for an answer anyway.

Things escalated quickly because you soon found his finger plunging in and out of your quivering hole. He made sure to curve it in a way—relentlessly hitting that gummy spot on your walls.

He added another finger, wanting to hear more of your breathless moans reverberating throughout his room. To hell with it if his neighbors heard. This was music—it was art in its purest form.

"Shit... might just cum in my pants from this." He almost did after you clenched down on his fingers, cumming for the first time today.

Even as you coat his digits with your essence, he keeps pushing his fingers in and out until the fluttering died down a bit. He pulled his sticky fingers out before having a taste, savoring every last bit.

He made quick work of his belt, pulling down his pants and letting his member out. Your eyes widened. Not only was his size impressive, but his tip was incredibly swollen and leaky—like he couldn't wait anymore.

Shidou exhaled deeply, feeling the chill of his room brush over the sensitive length. He locked eyes with you again. "Care to take care of me a bit? My hand hurts from all that drawing... and... well, you know what else."

Normally, you'd bite back at his teasing. But your mind was fuzzy. All you could do was wrap your fingers around his length, slowly tugging it at first. The pleasure he felt after being so hard for so long took the strength from him. He almost fell on top of you if it weren't for his thick arms supporting him from either side of you.

"C'mon... do it fucking faster," he ordered. You obeyed—jerking him off as fast as you can without hurting him. It wasn't long before his own hand wrapped around yours as he continued to fuck into your fist. Next thing you knew—hot ropes of cum painted your stomach.

Even he was in a daze as he observed a part of him stained you in such an intimate way. He slowly leaned in, his breath fanning your face. "Hey, can I paint you like this? You look even better with my cum all over you."

You let go of his semi-hard member, slowly tracing his muscles up until you cupped his cheek. Gently, you pulled him down for a searing kiss. It was more than enough for him to know that you too wanted more.

He became rougher—biting your lip and fighting your tongue for dominance. As you pulled away for air, Shidou moved quickly to straddle your upper body. He shamelessly took his cock and slapped it against your lips a couple of times.

"Gonna have to help me get hard again, sweets. Help me out, won't you?"

Though he didn't really give you time to respond as he invaded your mouth inch by inch. One hand held the headboard while the other supported your head. He rolled his hips slowly, gauging how much you can take in at a time.

But, clearly, he underestimated you when you gripped his hips and pulled him in yourself. You felt his cock spring back to life steadily. He pulled out his hardened shaft, letting you breathe. It was only now you realized the grin that crossed his face. He was enjoying this way too much.

He went back to hovering over you, his cock bouncing at every move he made. Your body was jelly at this point—not even a bit of resistance as he flipped you over so easily. He licked a long stripe from your lower back up until your nape. The fresh saliva combined with the chilly air made you shudder.

He carelessly lifted up your hips. With your cheek pressed into his pillows and your ass up in the air, he only got harder at the sight. He leaned down to be eye-to-eye with this so-called masterpiece, your cunt.

His nimble fingers toyed around with your soaked folds, chuckling to himself. "Man, I don't think I could ever capture something so damn beautiful."

He gave it a quick lick to test. "Well, unless you let me get familiar with her long enough." Another lick. "Maybe I can capture at least half of its beauty." Another lick. "Don't you think?"

A muffled sound was the only thing he got from you. "Yeah? You're gonna let me get to know her? As an artist, I'm overjoyed right now. Maybe I should show you."

And show he did.

He lapped up at your arousal, tongue licking long stripes each time. Your legs threatened to give out every time he flattened the pink muscle against your twitching hole. It didn't take long before he started darting in and out. Helpless groans filled his small dorm room.

Big calloused hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, making sure you stayed in place for him to enjoy. He was so messy... so so messy. Shidou suckled on your clit—really trying to coax another orgasm from you.

It didn't take much more for you to cum again, but this time all over his mouth. He happily took in everything, reaping the fruits of his labor.

He gave your ass one quick kiss as if to show his thanks. But he wasted no time lining up his painfully erect cock against your entrance. "Fuuuuck, I need to be inside you already or I'm actually going to explode," he muttered.

At first, it was just the tip. But it stretched you out so good already. The needy whine that escaped you was a testament to that. It only made him grip your hips tighter, surely leaving a mark for you to see tomorrow. Carefully, he pushed in more of his length, feeling every bump of your pussy engulf him.

"Shit. This is the stuff."

But he got impatient, shoving in the rest of his length without warning. It was so tight, so warm—too inviting for him to handle. His hands left your hips, opting to find support on the mattress instead. His thick arms caged you as his chest pressed against your back.

He continued to whisper the filthiest things in your ear, kissing your neck occasionally. But for as slow and sensual his voice may seem, his hips snapped with reckless abandon. He wasn't shy about giving you your third and, maybe, fourth orgasm of the day while chasing his own.

"You finally understand why I didn't want to ask you?"

"Yeah... I knew I was gonna end up fucking you real hard."

"But this is so much better than what I imagined."

His words brought you over the edge, cumming again. But the overstimulation rendered you thoughtless. The only thing on your mind was how good he was dicking you down.

"Fuck... Ryu!" you screamed. His grin only grew wider.

"That's it. Scream my fucking name. Let them hear it."

Your wanton moans encouraged him to go faster, mercilessly pistoning into you. It wouldn't be a surprise if you came another time on his cock.

Shidou harshly grabbed your tit, hoisting both of you up into a sitting position. This way, his cock reached even deeper into you. He kneaded your neglected breast while keeping you steady by the waist.

He showed no signs of slowing—even reaching down to play with your clit. A tear was rolling down your face from how sensitive he made you. But he quickly licked the salty tear off of the curve of your cheek.

He whispered softly, "Cum with me."

Just like the obedient muse that you were, you did. You clamped down on him as he shot rope after rope of gooey seed into you. Finally, he slowed down a bit, letting him empty himself in your pulsing cunt.

As you calmed down and he softened, he gently laid you back down on the soft mattress of his bed. He watched as his cum oozed out of you, smirking to himself.

"My best piece of work yet."

©miyukisu do not repost/reupload/translate any of my works on other platforms

╰ author's note WHAT THE FUCK DID I WRITE DAWG I WAS SO ON EDGE THE WHOLE TIME HELP WHY IS IT SO FILTHY

[read-marx-and-lenin]

Are you a Tankie?? Do you think the USSR was a good nation? Do you maybe even defend Stalin somewhat, not just Lenin? Do you support Mao or ''commuist" nations in the modern age like China or North Korea? I think Commuism is a good ideology, but anytime it's been attempted alongside a government, it's been used as an excuse to control and oppress people. I think it can only work feasibly under anarchy because a government will never release control of its citizens.

I used to be an anarchist myself. I'm not going to say there's some magic phrase that will convince you to become a "tankie" like me, but I will say that if you haven't read some of the core works by Marx, Engels, or Lenin, you should give them a try sometime. "State and Revolution" especially. There is no magic "abolish the state" button that can be pressed to do away with all authority in one stroke. The material conditions must be changed first before the state can disappear.

I would also recommend checking out Pat Sloan's "Soviet Democracy", and pretty much anything by Anna Louise Strong but especially The Soviets Expected It, The Stalin Era, and In North Korea. On the subject of North Korea, you should also watch the democracy "Loyal Citizens of Pyongyang in Seoul".

There is a lot of propaganda surrounding actually existing socialism in the West, and it is important to separate truth from fiction. People do not fight in revolutions only to turn around and accept new oppressors. Every currently existing socialist state is democratic, and that includes the DPRK. Democratic does not mean ideal, but it does mean that people have a say in who is running the government. Even more than that, in every existing socialist state the people have the right to recall elected officials at any time, something which is not guaranteed in most bourgeois democracies, including the US.

Can you imagine members of the ruling party meeting with the people directly on a regular basis to discuss and debate the issues that matter most to the people in the US or any other bourgeois democracy? Can you imagine government officials whose top priority is the material welfare of the most disadvantaged citizens? You look at government meetings in China, in Cuba, in Vietnam, in Laos, and in North Korea, and that is what you see time and time again. That is the crux of politics in these countries, the material conditions of the people and how to improve them. They are dictatorships of the proletariat and thus the proletariat are the class for which the state exists to benefit.

Finally, you should read the 1986 paper "Capitalism, socialism, and the physical quality of life" by Cereseto & Waitzkin. While it is nearly 40 years old, it used World Bank data (clearly not a source biased in favor of communism) to demonstrate how on average socialist economies outperformed capitalist ones at similar levels of economic development in terms of actual material conditions for the average citizen. Being 40 years old, it also has the advantage of comparing data at a time when the number of socialist nations was at its highest. If you want to see more recent examinations that take a similar approach, you should read any papers by the economist Jason Hickel, but especially his 2016 paper "The true extent of global poverty and hunger", where he demonstrates that capitalism has by and large failed to improve material conditions outside the imperial core, and that the only nations that buck the trend in the developing world are the ones who have rejected neoliberal economic policy, most notably China, whose socialist economy has been responsible for the vast majority of people lifted out of poverty in the last decades.

[takes1]

Hello!! (I don't know exactly how to do this)

Could you write something for Tendo Satori being a simp for short skirts with thigh-high stockings?

Thank you so much

tendou is obsessed with your thigh-highs

hi!! you did it right haha. could not stop thinking about this one. great request!! glad to be able to write it so quickly :0

warnings. nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / tendou is a thigh guy / thigh high fetish / almost fingering / makin out / reserved!reader / yapper!tendou / endstate situationship / intense PDA / college au / TA!tendou / 2.3k words / potential for part two idk

links. masterlist. more haikyuu here. my ao3. my imagines requests open

Tendou clocked your little outfit the second you walked into his study group's reserved room.

As the TA for this course, he tried to keep himself far away from you, just to clear his mind before trying to help. The library was now 40 minutes away from closing, and the handful of students that showed up were nearly all gone.

Helping the last poor soul with practice questions was not quite enough- he found himself praying you would stay another ten minutes for him to try and flirt, just a little.

He wanted to ask what was the deal with such an eye-catching get-up, but he wasn't sure what the best approach was. So, like usual, he just went with whatever felt right.

"Hey!" He was loud, friendly, and accidentally succeeded in startling you from behind.

You turned in your chosen beanbag to give him an unsure look. You didn't say hello back.

There was something different about this guy. You had your guesses at to what exactly ailed him, but they would remain background noise for the time being. Phone clutched to your chest, you collected yourself again in the aftermath of such a fright.

"Did I scare ya?"

He didn't wait for you to respond through your tiny chuckle. He was on a roll, and needed to open this up.

"Whaaat? No homework?" Tendo pushed his weight forward, limp over your beanbag, right beside you, "Don't tell me you're already done?"

Tendou was absurdly quick. Conversations, usually more confined to a specific, academic topic, usually left you spiraling from his fast and unfocused mind. Most of the time, you felt like a passenger in your own talks, but he was waiting for you now.

You hadn't realized how much time had passed, engrossed in a post on your phone for minutes, now. Everybody was almost gone.

"Um- yeah, I am."

There was so much going on behind the squint he gave you. It made you feel all hot and cold at the same time.

He muttered, looking around the rest of the room, "Smart and pretty, cool- that's cool."

Your mouth hung open a little, a blush creeping over your face, but he was onto the next thing. As if he didn't just call you pretty.

"So-ooo do you usually dress up outside of class?"

It was never one question. In this case it led to lots of elaboration, back-to-back.

"Because I totally did not get the memo, if we were supposed to wear something nice. I mean, bro over there is wearing a piano shirt, suit jacket and jeans. I'm-," He paused a moment to snicker at him, "-A little confused. So--,"

His eyes nearly gave him away. They faltered, slipping down to the sliver of skin showing at the top of your thigh-highs, just before the hem of your skirt ended.

"Do you- usually wear this?"

In a natural response, your eyes were following his, and you automatically pulled down on your skirt to cover yourself.

Your voice was quieter, slower, than his by many measures, "I wouldn't call this 'dressing up,' but, um, it is my style."

He had to mask his frustration -the Hellish screaming from inside- with a bigger, sillier thing.

"You got somewhere to be after this?"

Again, more questions. You couldn't help but laugh at the way he asked them so quick, flighty, like he was maybe asking you about course material.

"Like, a date, or something? Going to- I dunno- see your boyfriend? Something like that?"

Now you understood. He was no-doubt flirting. You set your phone on the floor, an inquisitive smile at your lips.

"I don't have a boyfriend," You looked him up and down slowly, watching how he adjusted, plenty aware of it, "Why do you need to know so bad?"

For the first time ever, he was searching for what to say. You grinned.

"Y'know," You shifted, twisted, to look at him straight on, "If you kissed me, I might kiss you back."

Your teeth clinked together in his haste. It was silly, an endearing accident, that made you smile against him.

His lips were soft, and warm, but he kissed you like you were made of chocolate. Something sweet, something to be devoured. There was no room to doubt his intentions because he was so passionate from the start.

A big, strong hand laced through your roots and guided you to get a better kiss from this angle.

It had been a while since your last fling. Tendou could fill the empty space in your heart, between your legs, for enough time to forget how lonely you were. Longevity wasn't something you were after. He was into you and that would do.

"Mm-h," You parted to tell him to come sit next to you, instead.

Tendou wiped the string of spit from his mouth, flushed, but never backed down. His confidence, especially in the face of being such a weirdo, was a turn-on.

"Ya think this is big enough for me~? Let's seeee,"

You watched, amused, at how he slinked into the space next to you and completely filled it up.

"You're... pretty tall," You confessed, shaky. Your hand shot out to touch him, invested in his size, all of a sudden. Hesitation, at the last second, kept you from following through.

"Mhmmm, you know it. 6'2, if you're curious."

Encouraging, he completed your desire to feel him by placing your hand on his shoulder. He did all the hard work so easily.

You were human. You had your preconceived biases. You thought weird, nerdy guys were supposed to be frail and skinny.

Tendou's shoulder was instead strong, and filled out. His shirt was a thin blend of polyester and cotton that was strained at the bicep and not so much at the waist. His legs stretched out much further than yours. All these titillating realizations kept cascading in big waves of shock. It kept you in a state of stillness that directly contrasted his excited wiggling around to get comfortable.

"You okayy?" He laughed, his proximity a safe, but new change. His words buzzed against your cheek between kisses, "You really like tall guys, or somethin'?"

He did usually wear hoodies, in your cold classroom. The way he slouched in it made him look closer to 5'9". It was warm in here so he had set it on the back of a chair a while ago.

You kissed him, falling against his warm chest in an attempt to shut him up.

Though he loved being chatty, he knew when it was a good time to let other things get the point across.

"Mmh-,"

He returned your passion tenfold. Forearm behind your upper back, a hand wrapped all around the back of your neck, he crushed you back down under him.

God, he was good with his tongue.

It didn't take very long to realize you both wanted each other, bad.

You liked what you were finding out about him, the further he went with you- he knew he liked you from the start of the semester, and now got to express his gratefulness for the chance.

"You should wear these more," His dirty, breathy voice matched the rough way he pulled your thigh-highs down.

Tendou was completely lost in the way your thighs squeezed together, how your stockings were just a little too small, your skirt arguably too short for your ass. No wonder you chose a seat like this, far away from the other students.

What he wanted was for you to sit on his face. But even he knew that idea was too much, so he settled for squeezing at your flesh, adjusting to be more over you.

You gave a closed-mouth moan of surprise at the feeling of a stiff cock under his jeans, rubbing on your leg.

The way he had you all spread and squished again for him, a little tight on space, very last-minute and surprised, was exactly how he wanted you. He grinned. Thanks to his features, that made him look intimidating.

"I've got a- a thing, for these," He explained, clearing the air a little, "Now that I think about it, if you wore this to class, I probably wouldn't be able to focus."

Just the idea of keeping him distracted like that filled you with a hot, focused, urgency. You pulled him in, legs parted, for a raunchier kiss.

He groaned against your mouth, biting your lip, and pressed an eager palm against your pussy.

"Ahh-mm-!" Your whine was getting cut short by another carnivorous suck to your lip.

He got you so wet, so malleable, so quickly.

"Fuck," His hips were grinding on your thigh, apparently enough stimulation for him- it made you feel proud, that you could get him feeling so good without much work.

His digits slid under your soaked panties. You gasped against his mouth, fingers filling with the neck of his t-shirt.

"Mmm, fuck that feels so-o good," His confession devolved into more of a growl.

His fingers were using all the wet there to better slide against your clit, a filthy, smooth sensation that kept you writhing.

"Ohh--oh my go-d," You mewled, eyes scrunched shut at how much you needed it. He swallowed up your sounds with hasty, hard kisses.

His groin kept pressed, rolling, against the back of your thigh.

It felt hot, and big from what you could tell, but you were still left to speculate what he was hiding under those jeans.

Never in a million years would you have guessed that he possessed knowledge on how to touch a woman. In any sense, not just explicitly. He was everyone's favorite, goofy TA. Not some womanizer.

Your fingers raked through his messy hair, taking in the feeling of his tongue against yours, all while trying to keep your noise down.

When he began to part, you didn't fight it, because you needed to breathe. But he stopped moving his fingers, and it left you shaky, needy. You rolled your hips and pressed your leg harder onto his hard-on.

"We sh-ould- we should stop," Tendou sighed, clearing his throat.

He was glancing around the empty study room, head on a swivel. He didn't look particularly upset, nor like he had actually heard something. You sure didn't. What the hell was his problem?

You were grabbing at him, groaning, "What?"

Another little kiss to your forehead, and the hottest, most rabid look any guy had ever given you before made you pause.

"I just- uh, I just have--," He was distracted again, squinting around, "A bad... feeling."

"I made you feel bad?" You sounded more whiny, than anything. You would have thought it embarrassing, but your cunt was throbbing with the need for more, and that took priority.

He chuckled, prying his own fingers from between your legs with marked displeasure.

"Noo, no, you make me feel like I wanna tear our clothes off." He thought for a second, sucking the wet from his index and middle finger, "Then run naked into the woods and never come back. Live like our ancestors. Have like, 16 kids."

There was no time to unpack that.

Just as you had fixed your stockings back, and he rolled off of the beanbag to stand -shifting his cock to a less obvious position in his jeans-, the door opened fast with no knock.

"Heyyy!"

Your wide eyes went straight to Tendou, but he didn't look at you. How did he know?

"Hey!" He greeted piano-shirt guy with typical ease.

The unwelcome guest, somebody you vaguely recognized from your class, explained themselves, glancing about the room, "I left my phone here! Have you guys seen it?"

Your voice cracked to say 'No,' and you vowed to remain silent for the remainder of your fake search for this idiot's phone.

Tendou found it in one of the swivel chairs. Part of you couldn't help but feel like he had some magical powers. Once the guy left, you were left mourning all that perfect proximity, all the dizzying desire you had built so quickly.

"Sooo angry," He cooed.

As he invited you for a hug, it was clear that he found your frustration the most adorable thing in the world.

You tolerated it because he held you. More specifically, he held you and palmed your ass from under your skirt. Your arms were stretched, linked behind his shoulders, as you stole more of his perfect kisses. You pushed him to sit on the table so you could stand between his parted legs.

He kept laughing, giggling at least, and messing your kisses up.

"Mh- what? What is it?"

Tendou snickered, "Didn't know you were such a little freak--,"

"Freak?"

"Ohh-kay, okay, not freak- umm," He giggled at the offense you took, cupping your face in his oversized hands, "Sorry. I really like you. I wanna do this more."

You hadn't caught on quite yet, so you leaned in to kiss him again, but only got his cheek. He grinned at your disappointment.

"Nooot here, though."

He was still squinting around, "I dunno, I still don't feel right."

After such a strong demonstration of predictive ability, you couldn't not trust his warning. You glanced around, too.

"Some other time?"

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu. (new) my imagines.

[inkedinshadows]

Under the Summer Sun

Pairing: Azriel x Summer Court!reader

Summary: Azriel's mate takes him on a little vacation in the Summer Court, where she introduces him to a shocking tradition of her home court.

Warnings: none

Word count: 3.5k

A/N: I have one thing to say about this one, and it's that I had no idea where I was going when I started writing. I had a general idea, and that was it. Everything else came to me thanks to little sleep, lot of coffee, too many classes, and missing summer. This fic is really silly and I have no idea how it became this long tbh

@azrielappreciationweek

Azriel had been to the Summer Court many times, but never on vacation. He had gone on missions, of course, and to check in with his informants stationed there. Then there was that one time with his family, which had resulted in a wrecked building and Cassian's consequent ban. The last time he'd been here, it was to defend Adriata against Hybern.

And now, he was here with you. Somehow, you had managed to convince him to take a whole week off. Maybe it had something to do with you batting your long lashes at him, knowing he could never say no when you looked so cute. Or perhaps it was because you had already talked to Rhys, who had agreed that his brother needed some time to relax.

Either way, Azriel was glad you had convinced him. You were staying in your family's vacation house in a little town south of Adriata. The first day was spent in bed, cuddling and making love, getting up only to eat—as you had done years ago after accepting the mating bond. On the second day, you showed him the town and the places where you had grown up. But today would be a surprise. You had refused to tell him exactly what you'd be doing, claiming only that it was a common custom in the Summer Court.

“Are you ready, my love?”

Your voice came from behind the bathroom door, and Azriel glanced at his reflection in the mirror one last time. His half-naked self stared back. You had given him a simple piece of clothing to put on, and you’d been very clear about wearing only that.

Azriel was confused.

It looked like underwear, but it was too long, reaching his mid-thigh, and it was a bit looser around his legs. The deep blue fabric was unusual—soft yet a bit thicker than his regular underwear, and elastic. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but he didn’t understand why you wanted him to wear such a thing. It wasn’t alluring or anything like that. At least, he didn’t think it was.

With a sigh, he opened the door. “Sweetheart, I’m not sure—”

His words died on his tongue as his eyes settled on you. Standing in the center of the bedroom, you were wearing a new set of lingerie he had never seen before. The fabric seemed similar to the one he was wearing, but yours was a shade of cerulean blue that complemented your dark skin. It hugged your curves perfectly, tight enough to cover yet revealing in all the right ways.

“So?” you asked with a smile, spinning around so he could see you even better. “What do you think?”

Azriel closed the distance between you in two long strides, and his hands immediately found your exposed waist.

“You're breathtaking, my love,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. He could never get enough of you—your smooth skin, your soft body, your scent. And whenever you surprised him with something like this, his head felt as if it were spinning.

“I'm glad you like it.” You looked down at your body, brushing your fingertips over the hem of your bra. Azriel wanted to kiss the spot where the fabric met your skin. “It's been years since I last got to wear one of these.”

He had to suppress his rising desire to focus on your words. He frowned at the hint of melancholy that laced your tone. “What do you mean? You can wear it whenever you want.” His fingers pressed slightly into your flesh as he leaned down to whisper directly in your ear. “You look ravishing, sweetheart.”

He felt your body react to his words and touch as it always did—relaxing in his hold, leaning imperceptibly closer. But there was a playful smile on your lips when you asked, “What do you think this is, Az?”

Azriel's frown deepened. “New underwear?”

You hummed, amusement glinting in your eyes. But instead of answering, you slipped out of his grasp. “Let me take a good look at you.”

He grew more confused by the second. You studied him, eyes focused on what looked more like short pants than boxers. Yet there was no hint of desire on your face. Your gaze didn't roam over his body with that intensity that made heat bloom in his lower stomach. You didn't bite your bottom lip, didn't reach out to touch the bare muscles of his chest, and your breath didn't catch as it always did when you wanted him.

“You look so handsome,” you said eventually. Your gaze finally met his, and your amused smile widened at his confusion. “We can go now.”

Azriel blinked, but you were already heading for the door, grabbing a bag from the floor on your way out.

He immediately trailed after you, following you downstairs. His shadows swarmed around him, flying over to tangle in the ends of your hair as if trying to coax an answer out of you. But even they couldn't read minds, and you didn't offer an explanation.

“Go where?” he questioned, watching you put your slippers on. What did you even need shoes for?

“The beach,” you answered, as if it were obvious.

Azriel just stared at you. He was waiting for a punchline or a joke, because surely you couldn't be serious. But when you arched a brow, that smirk still playing on your lips, he realized you weren't joking.

“What do you mean?” he asked then.

“This is not underwear, Az,” you finally explained in an amused tone. “They're swimsuits. Mine's called a bikini, and yours are swim trunks.” You lifted the bag in your hand as if to prove your point. “I have beach towels. We're going to the beach.”

He gaped at you. “You really mean to tell me you want to go outside wearing…” He glanced down at himself, then at you. “Just this?” he finished.

“That's exactly what I'm telling you.” You shrugged, as if the thought of walking around with just a scrap of clothing didn't bother you at all.

“There's no way you're going out dressed like that,” he said firmly. “You're basically naked.”

“I'm not naked!” You sounded outraged, but he could see you were trying not to laugh. “I'm wearing a bikini.”

Azriel crossed his arms. He had never once told you what you could or couldn't wear, and he didn't want to start now. But a revealing dress or a plunging neckline were different from… this. The thought of everyone seeing you with nothing more than two small pieces of fabric made his jaw clench.

“How is it any different from going out wearing underwear?” he pressed.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, falling silent for a moment. “I don't know,” you mumbled. “It's just socially acceptable here to go to the beach like this.”

He thought he was getting through to you, that he just needed to push a bit more and then you'd see how inappropriate it was. Instead, you stood straighter again and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.

“Come on, Az,” you said, your voice low and inviting. “It'll be fun. I've done this a thousand times already. I promise you, it's totally normal here.”

Azriel knew what you were doing. You thought that if you used that tone, if you batted your lashes and looked at him with your big doe eyes, he would cave. Normally, he would. He could hardly say no to you. But he couldn't stand the thought of someone else seeing his mate clad only in underwear. Bikini. Whatever it was called.

“Y/N, that's not the point. I—”

Before he could finish, your lips curled into a mischievous smirk, and you suddenly turned and bolted out the front door before he could catch you.

Cursing under his breath, Azriel quickly slipped on his shoes and followed you outside, not caring about his own underdressed state.

You hadn't gone far, not with those slippers that made running nearly impossible. He caught up to you just as you turned the corner, his hand grabbing your arm, his shadows swirling around both of you to hide your indecent state.

You stopped in your tracks and pointed to the beach just at the end of the short street. “Look,” you said simply.

Azriel did, and his eyes widened at what was probably one of the most shocking sights he'd ever seen.

There weren't many people, but you were right. Everyone—males and females, High Fae or lesser faeries, even the few children—was wearing the so-called swimsuits. And no one paid anyone else a second glance. Everyone minded their own business, either lying on towels or swimming. Some of the children were playing in the sand.

His shadows dimmed under the sunlight, halting their swirling around your bodies and disappearing completely soon after.

“Is it really that normal here?” he asked, a hint of surprise still in his voice. His gaze slowly returned to you.

“This is the Summer Court, Az,” you replied with a chuckle. “What kind of people would we be if we didn't enjoy our sea in this heat?” You took his hand, giving it a gentle tug to make him follow as you began walking again. “Come on. You're a big Illyrian. Don't tell me you're shy.”

Despite his lingering shock, Azriel couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. “It's not that.”

He had never had a problem with nakedness. He'd seen plenty over the centuries, enough not to be bothered by it. It was the idea of willingly wearing nothing more than underwear—and he wouldn't let you convince him that it was anything other than that—and going out in public. More specifically, it was the idea of his beautiful mate going out in public like that. It was a sight usually reserved just for him, and he didn't want to share it with anyone.

“Fine.” You playfully rolled your eyes. “If someone looks at me the wrong way, you can bash his teeth out. Is that better?”

He knew you were joking, but the fact that you were aware of his concern and the way you dismissed it so lightheartedly actually helped him relax.

“It is, yes,” he confirmed, only half-joking. He wouldn't actually do it unless it was an extreme situation, and he knew you could hold your own without his help, but still. He couldn't suppress the protective—and possessive, if he was being honest—streak that was only emphasized by your bond.

“See, this is why I didn't tell you what we'd be doing today,” you teased. You had reached the beach now, and you led him to an empty spot away from the others before letting go of his hand. “Because you wouldn't have agreed.”

Azriel couldn't deny that you were right. It would have taken a lot of convincing and persuasion to get him to agree to this.

Or maybe just your smile.

You took off your slippers and buried your bare feet in the white sand, wiggling your toes through the grains. You breathed in the scent of sea and salt in the air, your eyes closed. And the soft, fond smile that graced your lips as you reconnected with your homeland court made him fall in love with you all over again. It was a smile he’d do anything to see, and Azriel made a mental note to bring you to the Summer Court more often.

He followed your lead and slipped off his shoes. The sand was warm under his soles, and the morning sun heated his tanned skin. He even spread his wings a little, basking in the sensation.

“So, what do we do now?” he asked after a moment.

Your eyes opened, and you crouched down to open the bag you’d dropped on the ground. “Now we set the towels down,” you answered, pulling one out and handing it to him. “It’s probably too small for you, but I don’t have a beach towel for overgrown bats, so…”

Azriel shook his head, used to your endless teasing. You chuckled softly, and after you both placed your towels on the sand—his was, indeed, too small—you took his hand again, walking backward toward the shore and pulling him along.

“Now we go swimming,” you declared, then paused, a small frown creasing your brow. “You do know how to swim, right?”

It was Azriel’s turn to chuckle. “Of course I can swim, sweetheart. I just don’t remember the last time I had to.”

“Well, then,” you said with a smile, rising on your toes to kiss him, “let’s go make some memories.”

Without waiting for a response, you ran into the ocean with a delighted squeal and dove in, water splashing around you. Azriel didn’t move immediately, and simply watched as you emerged, eyes bright and smile wide.

You were the picture of joy.

The last time he had seen you this happy was probably at your mating ceremony, when you had appeared in that stunning teal and gold dress, looking like a vision. And now, as you stood in the water, Azriel was suddenly grateful you had brought him here. Droplets trickled down your body, your brown skin glistening in the sunlight as you moved your wet hair out of your face.

You beckoned him with a hand, and his feet moved of their own accord, guiding him toward you. He inhaled sharply as the cold water reached his thighs, sloshing around his wings. He didn't know how you could look so at ease when he was shivering, but you were in your element after all, while he was completely out of his.

“Aw,” you cooed as he reached you. “Is my little bat cold?”

Azriel grimaced, his tone playful as he pulled you closer. “First you call me an overgrown bat, and now I’m a little one?”

Your wet body pressed against his still-dry chest, and your hair dripped water onto his tattooed skin as you looked up at him. “Well, yes,” you confirmed, stating it as if it were an obvious fact. “Illyrians are overgrown bats, but you’re my little bat.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “You know I’m a head taller than you, right? I’m not little.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then you closed it without saying a word. Azriel could see the wheels turning in your head as you stepped away from him, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

“What is it?” he asked, knowing that expression all too well. “What did you just think?”

“There's this thing my father always did when I was a child,” you explained. “I loved it, and now I want you to do it too.”

After all the crazy ideas you'd hit him with over the years—this beach day being the latest—Azriel wasn't sure he wanted to know what you were talking about now, but he still lifted a brow. “And said thing is…?”

Your smile widened. “Throw me in the water.”

Azriel frowned. He must have heard that wrong. “What?”

But you nodded enthusiastically, grabbing his hands and placing them on your hips. “Pick me up and throw me in the water. You're strong enough to do it, c'mon.”

His fingers tightened on your hips, but he still wasn't convinced. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you love me and I asked nicely?” you tried, batting your lashes at him.

Azriel chuckled. “I do love you, but you did not ask nicely.” He pulled you closer, his fingers brushing the hem of your panties. Gods, it still felt like underwear to him, and all he wanted was to take them off. “You ordered me to do it.”

You laughed with him. “Sorry about that.” Pulling him down, you pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Love of my life, my mate, my everything, will you please be so kind as to use your beautiful, strong muscles to pick me up and throw me in the water? It's fun, and I’d really appreciate it.”

He knew you were teasing, but his heartbeat quickened with every word of flattery, even after all these years. “You are unbelievable,” he mumbled, stealing another kiss.

Though he still didn't understand how it could be fun, and wasn’t sure if he even liked the idea, his hands slid up to your waist. He lifted you effortlessly, water cascading off your body as he hoisted you out of the ocean. He hesitated for a moment, but when he saw your excited smile, he threw you back into the water, expecting you to twist midair and gracefully dive in. You had the agility and flexibility for it. He knew you could do it.

But you didn’t.

You let yourself plummet straight into the ocean, your laughter swallowed by the water as you plunged in, splashing it all around. The water was so clear he could see you sink for a moment before you kicked your legs and emerged, grinning from ear to ear.

Azriel stopped questioning whether it was fun or not. It didn't matter if it was childish and silly. After all, he still had snowball fights with his brothers.

All that mattered was the joy written on your face, and as he made his way over to you, he found himself wishing he had a place like this—somewhere he cherished returning to, a place filled with memories of a happy childhood.

“You probably think I'm crazy,” you said as you treaded water. He could still touch the seabed here, but it was now too deep for you.

“A little,” he admitted with a smile. “But as long as it makes you happy, love.”

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer as his hands found their way back to your hips. Pressing your body against his, you rubbed the tip of your nose against his. “There’s something else that would make me happy right now,” you murmured, gazing into his eyes.

Azriel’s smile widened as he leaned in for a kiss, but before he knew it, you had pulled him under the surface. He had adjusted to the water’s temperature by now, but the sudden, full submersion still made him shiver. His first instinct was to break the surface and take a deep breath—something he would have done already if only you had told him what you were planning. Before he could, though, you used your magic to create a bubble of oxygen around the two of you, allowing him to breathe.

“So drowning your mate is what makes you happy?” he asked skeptically.

“Sorry about that,” you chuckled, eyes glinting with mischief. “But the surprise on your face was priceless.”

Azriel lifted a brow, readjusting his wings. It had been so long since the last time he was underwater that it took a moment to remember how to position them properly, preventing himself from floating back up.

You laughed, your hair swirling around you like a shimmering, silver crown inside the bubble.

“No, but it was fun,” you answered. You cupped his face, kicking your feet to swim just a little closer to him. “What would really make me happy is something I’ve always wanted to do, but I need to let the bubble disappear. I promise I’ll summon it again as soon as we’re done.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but he had an idea of what you wanted to do. He could only hope he was right, because he had a feeling you wouldn’t explain it if he asked.

He nodded, and with that, you called back your magic. Water rushed around you again, but this time he inhaled deeply before it was too late. And then you proved his suspicions correct.

You pulled him in for a kiss, and he tasted the salty water on your lips. His hands settled gently on the sides of your neck, keeping you close. As you both kicked your legs to stay submerged, Azriel understood why you wanted to do this. It felt intimate, like you were the only two beings in the entire ocean.

It reminded him of the way kissing you felt when he was flying with you cradled in his arms—the world faded away, shrinking until nothing existed but the two of you.

It lasted only a few seconds, but when you parted, both of you were smiling. As promised, you summoned another bubble as soon as your lips left his.

“That was nice,” he murmured, his voice soft.

“Good, because we’ll definitely do it again.” You stole another quick kiss before pointing toward the endless expanse of the ocean. “I want to go swimming. Do you want to come or would you rather head back to the beach?”

Azriel shook his head. “No, I want to come with you.”

“Perfect.” Your smile widened, and you gestured for him to follow as you turned around. “Then I want to show you the reef.”

He couldn’t help but smile to himself as he tucked his wings in tightly, kicking his legs to keep up with you. Never in his long life had he imagined that he’d one day find himself swimming in the Summer Court, wearing little more than a piece of underwear. But life with you was always full of surprises, and he had no doubt this wouldn’t be the last.

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