#or gotten as much funding and opportunity

[thecommunalfoolboy]

Damn bitches be making hating Hazbin Hotel their whole personality

[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. ♡

[hwaslayer]

wildfire (cs) | intro.

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, eventual smut

—word count: 2.0k

—warnings: nothing much; cussing, very general description of research topics/neuroscience experiments including mentions of mice research (no details)!, mentions of infidelity (not oc or san)

—a/n: ty for being patient with me <33 here's the lil intro to professor choi 🤪 i think i'll keep the same update schedule i've had (every other weekend) but ofc will let everyone know if i cant update for whatever reason!! enjoyyyy this rideeee 🖤

Clunk.

San throws his glasses onto his desk before leaning back in his chair, hands coming up behind his head for a stretch. He had been working on his progress report for one of his grants since this morning, and he was starting to feel the migraine come on.

"Fuck." He mutters, pinching at the bridge of his nose before he gets up to grab another cup of coffee from his Nespresso machine— popping in a pod with a level 9 intensity into the slot and pressing start. It's around dinner time, but quite frankly, San isn't too hungry. He'll eat something small. He's just tired, especially because of this progress report. But, it's due next week and he needs to finalize his class schedule for the upcoming quarter at the same time. He won't have as much time to get through the technicalities if he waits any longer.

He's pretty immune to the different intensities of coffee at this point; having eaten it for breakfast, lunch and dinner during his postdoc years. It won't do much for long, but it'll at least keep him going for the next couple of hours before he calls it a day and lays in bed. 

When his coffee is done, he pours some creamer into his mug and gives it a good stir before settling back into his office. His house is too big for one person, but he enjoys the stillness. The quiet. He used to hate it. He used to hate when every corner reminded him of his ex-wife. Now, he's gotten used to it. He's learned how to live alone, how to enjoy his peace. He lets out a small sigh, taking a sip of his hot coffee as he resumes to look at the computer screen to his side. Suddenly, his phone goes off and he's quick to shift his attention to it because it's slightly odd for this time of day. People don't normally call him unless he's settled on a phone call meeting ahead of time, and he doesn't remember booking any calls tonight.

"Hey." San picks up when he realizes it's Jongho. Okay, so he maybe he lied. He does take a few calls from close friends, most who are also professors at the same university. "What's up?"

"How's your T15 report going?"

"Long. It's terrible."

"Well." Jongho laughs. "Perks of being you, I guess." San rolls his eyes. 

"Yeah, thanks. Very enlightening."

"Anyways, I wanted to call really quickly. I figured you hadn't seen it yet, but wanted to put it on your radar. I looped you into an email for a possible collaboration. We're trying to meet this week if you're free. Might be good to see what it's worth, could get us more funding. Open more collaboration opportunities in the future." San presses the phone against his ear, holding it with his shoulder as he navigates to his inbox on his computer. He has a bunch of unread emails that he'll eventually respond to, paying a tad more attention to the pressing ones when he has a moment. He's not gonna lie, he does ignore a few if it's not of interest to him, or something he doesn't feel like he can contribute much to. He'll typically respond with a 'so sorry, no can do' if people get pushy and constantly follow up, but for the most part, he does his best to keep up and respond where it's warranted.

San sees the email Jongho is speaking of, but right underneath it, he sees another email from a student inquiring about rotating in his lab for the upcoming quarter. He's always interested when students reach out to rotate in his lab, but he can't accommodate all, especially when he doesn't feel like his research aligns with their goals. He usually takes 1 per quarter if it fits, otherwise, he doesn't have any at all. 

Out of curiosity, he clicks on the email since it has been awhile since anyone rotated in his lab. 

From: yn@atz.edu To: choisan@atz.edu Dear Professor Choi, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Y/N, and I'm currently a bioengineering grad student who is interested in rotating in your lab for the upcoming quarter. I have been thinking about diving deeper into computational analysis, mice behavior, 2-photon excitation and opto-stim work. I've spoken to your postdocs, Sunwoo and Belle, about their current projects and potentially collaborating since they seem to be touching up on all these aspects. I was hoping we can find a time to meet and chat a bit to see if it would be a good fit. The deadline to submit my rotation selections is coming up, so I'd like to make sure we meet beforehand. Let me know, happy to work with your schedule! Best, Y/N Y/L/N

The thing about San is that he's pretty good at picking up on a student's vibe through their emails. It's the tone, the professionalism, the way they write and carry themselves. He can tell when some people are a little more egotistical and ignorant, and he doesn't want people like that in his rather small, but mighty lab. His current grad students and postdocs all get along well, and they're bright people who are very passionate about their work and studies. He doesn't need people thinking they're above the others. In addition to that, he can also tell when students are just trying to get their name on a published paper doing work in his lab, or when they're just trying to wing their way through grad school. It's a shame, but he definitely has come across a few students in his inbox. They do exist.

You, though? He's intrigued. You seem bright. Genuinely passionate about the specific areas you're interested in diving into. Poised. He appreciates that. He quickly scans over your CV and the little blurb at the bottom that highlights the work you've done in your undergrad years and internships. Your work history. He sees that you've already dipped your toes in a few of the different areas you've mentioned. Worked with a few professors he knows. You've volunteered at a couple of places.

An all-rounder.

"Did you see it?" He almost forgets he's on the phone with Jongho.

"Mm, yeah. I'll respond in a bit, I think I can meet on Thursday. Sorry, I just got a little distracted. Saw another email about a potential rotation student."

"Gonna take one on this quarter?"

"Maybe. If it fits. She seems to be interested in a lot of the work we do. She knows Sunwoo and Belle."

"Oh, nice. That'll be cool."

"What about you? Taking on a rotation student?" Jongho is an assistant professor in the electrical engineering department, and he is often bombarded with inquiries himself. He usually always has a rotation student, and they almost always choose his lab to work in after their rotation program is up. San doesn't blame them— Jongho is brilliant, and his work creates a lot of different pathways for students to navigate and try. San's can be a hit or miss; it's quite niched, and students often find that it genuinely is tough to play around in his field.

"Yeah. Think so." 

"Alright. Thanks for giving me a heads up. I'll check my calendar and respond in a bit for sure." San eyes the email. "It does sound like a good collaboration."

"Figured you'd say that. Thanks, my guy! Take it easy and good luck on your progress report."

"Appreciate it." San gives off a toothless smile even though Jongho can't see him. He slides his phone off to the side and checks his calendar, upholding his promise to Jongho about responding to the email ASAP. He keeps his email short, letting the group know he can make the meeting at the desired time on Thursday to talk about the potential collaboration across labs.

Then, he pulls up your email and checks his calendar once more.

From: choisan@atz.edu To: y/n@atz.edu Hi Y/N, Thanks for your email - for sure! I think there's a lot of possibilities we could visit, especially with Belle and/or Sunwoo's projects. Can you pop into my office on Tuesday morning? 10am good? We can chat then. — San

"Oh shit." You slow your chewing when you see the email notification pop up on your screen during dinner.

"What?" Felix asks, turning his attention towards you and causing Jiung and Eunchae to do the same.

"Professor Choi answered my email."

"That was quick." Jiung takes forkful of food into his mouth.

"Professor Choi as in San or Jongho? Cause they're both hotties." Eunchae swoons and twirls her hair, making Felix scrunch his nose.

"San." 

"I'd kill to be a rotation student in their labs." Eunchae giggles. "What'd he say?"

"To meet him at his office on Tuesday to chat more."

"Well, that's good! Which other labs were you looking at?"

"I'm not sure. Song Mingi, Kang Yeosang, Jeong Yunho. Kim Namjoon—"

"Isn't Professor Choi's ex-wife with Professor Jeong now?" Jiung looks up with a squint.

"Yeah, apparently when it all went down, it was a mess." Felix chimes in, and you continue to type away at your phone. "Imagine your wife having an affair with your bestfriend."

"Harsh." Jiung does a head tilt.

"I guess they don't interact much anymore, do they? Seems to be water under the bridge."

"I don't think so, but Professor Lee works in the Chemical Engineering department so they might have to from time to time if students in her lab wanna be co-advised or collaborate with him. Professor Jeong, though."

"Awkward. At least they can keep it civil." Felix shrugs at Eunchae's response.

"They lowkey have no choice." Felix looks up in thought before shrugging. "Still sucks to know your bestfriend was involved."

"Seriously." You add.

"Either way, those are good labs to possibly rotate in. It'd be cool if you could get into Namjoon's lab. Heard he's cool as fuck even though he's the department chair." Felix tosses his napkin into his empty paper bowl.

"Yeah, same. I'll keep you guys updated." You send off your response to Professor Choi with a small sigh. "There. Hopefully my rotation will be settled for the quarter."

From: yn@atz.edu To: choisan@atz.edu Hi Professor Choi, Yes, I can meet you at 10am on Tuesday. Thank you, and see you then! Best, Y/N

"Maybe you'll get more out of the rotation, especially with Professor Choi." Eunchae nudges your side and you let out a small yelp before you playfully pinch her bicep.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jiung snorts.

"I'm just saying, he's successful. A hottie. Young. Single—"

"Here she goes." Felix lets out a breath.

"Bro. Calm down." Jiung laughs. "He's still a professor."

"What if you two get close during rotation and he falls in love with you?" She looks at you ever so seriously. 

"Relax." Felix laughs. "What kinda movie did we fall into?"

"Eunchae, please." You poke her cheek. "You know we rarely ever see the professors in lab. We get like.. five minute meetings with them and that's about as much of a personal interaction we'll get. They're busy people. Sorry to burst your bubble, bae." She shrugs.

"It was fun to think about." She giggles. "But no, that'll be a good experience for you if you get to join his lab for rotation. The others are great, too. Is he your first choice for a dissertation advisor, though?"

"As of now, yeah. But, we'll see how it all goes."

"Keep us updated." Jiung sips some water. "I think I need to reach out to one more professor for this quarter. Needa figure out my shit before classes start."

"Same." 

Meanwhile, San sees the notification from your email pop up in the corner of his screen and he immediately presses on it. He smiles a bit when he realizes how easy scheduling that meeting was— most of the time, people say they'll work with his schedule but end up pushing back. He slots you into his calendar before he can forget and switches his attention back to the progress report he's close to finishing up. 

San thinks it'll be nice to host a rotation student again, as the experience has always been useful, eventful, productive. He thinks it'll be like any other time; the experience being useful, eventful. Productive. He trusts in his group, the students, to come up with great ideas and be able to execute from start to finish.

So, he doesn't think much of it. He thinks he can hand you off and trust you with Belle and Sunwoo.

Little does he know that's where he gets it all wrong.

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @lynnsqueendom

[datarobotsuggestion]

help get a cute robot plush made!

artifisouls is a scifi webcomic about a robot who wakes up in an unknown place with no memories of who he is, only going by what he can make of the lettering on his arm, skittie. skittie tries to learn about what his past is while meeting a vast array of characters, including other robots and all sorts of beings! it's a beautifully drawn story filled with action and mystery that i can't recommend enough to robot fans!

you can read it here! it's currently ongoing, so there's more to come after you check it out!

the creator, artifisoap, has the opportunity to launch a campaign on makeship to make a plushie of skittie, the main character of artifisouls! this is exciting, especially since artifisoap has described artifisouls as their biggest passion project in the past few years. i'm sure it would mean a lot if the plush campaign got fully funded!

plus, skittie is super cute. look at them.

i (mod nicole) and mod turing are huge fans of artifisouls, and we'd really like the skittie plush to succeed! please consider chipping in for the $2 preorder so we can see it come to life, and sharing so others can join in!

the ending date is august 18th, so get those pre-orders in!

if you pledged and/or shared, thank you so much! even just reading means a lot. if i've gotten just one more person to read artifisouls, i'm happy. have a good day everyone!

[slamdunkhcs]

This is something I’ve thought about for a hot minute and i wanted to make an essay on it :))

socioeconomics in slam dunk

Like many things in life, basketball is a money sport. While inherent talent and skill is incredibly important, without the resources and opportunities to succeed, you can only get so far.

Throughout Slam Dunk, the importance of money and how it has a massive role in the world of basketball is not explicitly stated, but through the depictions of different teams in the series, it is prevalent.

We are first introduced to Shohoku High, a public school in Kanagawa. Shohoku is not a “poor” or “ghetto” school, but it is by no means a prestigious school either. Shohoku is initially depicted to be an ordinary school, but we are also shown how it has delinquency and school fights — especially among its protagonist and his “gang”

Shohoku’s normalcy is extended into its clubs, in particular, its basketball club. This club isn’t necessarily “run down” or “at risk of not existing anymore”, but aside from its coach (Coach Anzai, a man who used to coach the Japanese national team) and Akagi, their star center, Shohoku’s basketball team doesn’t have much going for it. Due to being a public school, Shohoku doesn’t have the money incentive to recruit star players (like some other schools I will mention soon), and most stars (besides Rukawa LOLLL) won’t go to an ordinary school “on a whim”

Moreover, the financial disparities become even more personal through the experiences of the characters themselves.

Sakuragi is hinted at to be poor, and the notion that basketball is “pay to play” is first explored through him in volume three, where Hikoichi (a player from Ryonan who “scouts” their competition) points out that it is strange Sakuragi doesn’t have basketball shoes, but he is quick to tell himself that it is likely because Sakuragi can’t afford them. Many basketball shoes, especially the Jordans that Sakuragi obtains throughout the series, are well over the $150-200 USD price range. While it is possible to play without basketball shoes, not having shoes that are designed for basketball automatically puts a player at a slight disadvantage.

This brings into question how resources—or the lack thereof—can subtly but significantly influence the trajectory of a player’s journey and a team’s potential for success. Sakuragi was lucky to have gotten practically free basketball shoes due to the generosity of a store owner, but those costs were his own out-of-pocket expenses. Unfortunately, a public school without special stipends for their programs cannot provide financial assistance to provide some of the resources to nurture potentially talented players.

While schools like Shohoku do not have funds to incentivize players or potential talent to come their way, they also do not have the funds to incentivize star coaches to coach at these schools. While Shohoku was able to have gotten Anzai (who wanted to retire by coaching highschool basketball), many public schools do not have that same luck.

In fact, the reason that two of the starting players, Mitsui and Miyagi, even decided to attend Shohoku was due to its coach, Coach Anzai. I think this goes to show that if a school invests in incentives like star coaches or a star basketball program, then these talented players will want to attend.

In terms of schools who provide ALL the incentives, and has thus led to star teams, I want to focus on Kainan, Shoyo, and (especially) Ryonan.

All are labelled as prestigious, private schools with amazing basketball programs, with Kainan having a stellar track record at nationals. But why is that? How did they get so.. good?

If I had to best answer this, money.

Ryonan is known to have scouted its star players, with Coach Taoka even scouting Sendoh and Fukuda from a junior high in Tokyo. For reference, Kanagawa is about two hours away from Tokyo, so Coach Taoka has to provide incentives for these boys to move to a different prefecture rather than staying in a city that likely has many powerhouse schools. In his case, these incentives would likely be full rides to Ryonan, as well as extra stipends to cover these student’s additional costs (such as food, money to move away, etc). Since Ryonan has the funding to do this, Coach Taoka is able to travel around to different areas, find these hidden talents, and bring them over to Ryonan. Public schools like Shohoku, who do not have allocated funds for sports programs, do not have this opportunity… and thus, are at an automatic disadvantage.

It is not explicitly stated how prestigious of a school Shoyo is, but having a program-related disadvantage affecting their players is prevalent. They do not have an official coach (for an unmentioned reason), and their star player Fujima has to coach his teammates as a result. Unfortunately, this additional responsibility prevented him from focusing on his own skills. I do believe Shoyo IS a school that has funding, but this highlights how a program being neglected directly impacts the strength of a team.

Another team I wanted to point out is Toyotama, a team that faced some of the most immense pressure in the entire series.

While Minami and Kishimoto, the team’s leaders, are characterized as “brute assholes”, it is shown that their irrational behavior stems from their pressure to perform well in order to potentially bring back their former coach, Coach Kitano.

Although Toyotama is 8th in the country, for the investors in their school’s basketball program, this isn’t enough. And thus… Coach Kitano was fired in the hopes of getting a coach who could lead the team to a better performance.

For these prestigious schools, their end goal is making a return on their investments. After all, what is the point of pouring all that money and resources for a team that doesn't even land them in the news?

While this is sad, it is very realistic. And as a result... even though Toyotama has a prestigious program, they felt even more pressure to *make a return." and this pressure poured into the team and their behavior.

However, the school that truly encapsulates the opportunities that money and resources provide for their players is Sannoh Technical High School.

Sannoh is practically a world class basketball team, with "anyone in Japan who gives a damn about basketball knows them", a team that had won nationals for years on end.

But how can one team be so good, let alone having a lasting legacy of greatness?

While their players are undoubtedly talented, Sannoh has invested aplenty into nurturing their players' talents.

Like Coach Taoka of Ryonan, Sannoh’s Coach Damoto scouts the best and brightest for their team. Eji Sawakita, although residing in a different prefecture, was discovered and scouted by Sannoh. While it isn't explicitly said how many players they scouted, or what incentives they provided Sawakita (aside from opportunities and their prestige), it can be inferred that Sannoh likely looks for the best and brighest to be apart of their teams.

In addition to the money and resources spent scouting, Sannoh provides their team with immense opportunities that most schools do not.

It is stated that Sawakita had been sent on a trip abroad to play basketball in America, and that he even learned new techniques during his trip. To say the least, a trip like that is... expensive. To send students to a country across the world just to play basketball is a hefty price to pay, and yet Sannoh was willing to pay it.

To prepare for Shohoku's match, Coach Damoto arranged a practice match with Sannoh alum who have a similar playstyle to Shohoku. While it is possible that these alum were willing to volunteer their time doing this, Damoto going out of his way to bring them all together and schedule that practice match is something that likely cost a significant amount to make happen. And it is certainly an opportunity that many schools would not provide.

Unfortunately, it is difficult to compete with money, and this sentiment is universal for any sector.

But what makes Shohoku’s victory over all these powerhouse schools, especially Sannoh, so shocking is the fact it is an “ordinary, no name school.” Theoretically, Shohoku would never beat a team like Sannoh, especially given the fact that Shohoku didn’t even have half the money, resources, and opportunities that Sannoh does.

Yet… Shohoku did it. And I think this part of why Slam Dunk is such a beautiful story: an ordinary team was, even for a moment, able to be extraordinary.

[galactic-magick]

would you possibly be down for some assistant reader pining for Viktor content to write? 👀

COMING RIGHT UP BESTIE

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When you applied for this job, you definitely didn’t think you’d get it. You’re from the Undercity, and people like you don’t tend to get opportunities in high places like this. You’ve worked your ass off to better your life and leave all the traumas from your past behind, trying to make yourself palpable to arrogant topsiders. You thought surely the top two scientists in the city—funded by the council themselves no less—would want nothing to do with you. But you applied to be their assistant anyway, despite having such little experience with tech and science and surely being under-qualified.

You also certainly didn’t think you’d end up falling in love with one of your bosses.

It didn’t take long for you to realize that Viktor shared so much in common with you, being from the Undercity as well and dedicating his time to bettering the life of himself and others. There’s so much pain behind his eyes, yet so much hope for the future in every sparkle. You’ve gotten lost in his features too many times to count, the brokenness and idealism each fighting for dominance in every expression he makes.

You also learn very quickly that your feelings are unlikely to be reciprocated, considering how dedicated Viktor is to his work and how oblivious he is to most anything else.

It’s not that Viktor doesn’t seem to care about you—quite the contrary. He asks you how you are every single day and seems to genuinely want to know the answer. He’s patient with you when teaching you how to do things, and doesn’t treat you like you’re stupid just because you’re not as skilled with tech. He doesn’t send you on silly errands or give you busy work—when he needs your help you know it’s important and worth your time. If he ever needs your help when he’s working late, he insists on walking you home to make sure you’re safe despite all your objections. He has such a kind heart, and he makes it incredibly challenging to not fall for him more and more every day.

Regardless, you remain professional. You attempt to avoid admiring him long enough for it to be noticed. You hold back every compliment and flirtation you want to say to him. You try your hardest to not allow yourself the luxury of fantasizing about him. You try for months—to no avail.

No matter how hard you try, it becomes increasingly difficult to live with both your feelings and the reality that they’ll never be heard.

That is, until the day Viktor doesn’t come into work.

It’s very unlike him to ever miss a day in the lab. There’s plenty of days he’s late or comes in and out, but never a day he stays home completely.

Jayce reassures you that Viktor is fine, and that he was the one who told Viktor to take a day off. As both of you know, Viktor has quite the tendency to work himself into the ground, ignoring his health and fixating on things for long stretches of time despite his chronic pain and severe sleep debt. He wouldn’t have listened to anyone else, but he trusts Jayce’s judgment as a close friend, or at least he did after Jayce practically banned him from coming in today.

It feels a bit odd to only be working with Jayce today. Not that you don’t get along with Jayce as well—quite the contrary—but you usually spend more time with Viktor for obvious reasons. Still, Jayce is much more talkative and outgoing, so there’s certainly not much silence despite one less person being here.

As you talk, you start absentmindedly organizing Viktor’s desk so it’s nice and neat when he comes back. You put all his tools back in their drawers, separate all the little machine parts into their respective categories, and clean and dust everything within your reach. You’re sure not to lose or accidentally throw out anything, and you try to put things away in as user-friendly of a system you can muster.

“He really appreciates you, you know,” Jayce says, noticing the care you’re putting into this. His comment startles you slightly, not realizing he was paying any real attention to what you were working on.

“I just try to be helpful,” you shrug, wiping your hands off. “That’s my job, right?”

Jayce chuckles, “You always go above and beyond what your job actually is, and you know it.”

“I guess so,” your face feels a bit hot. “I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever. I’ve had to be to get where I am.”

“Well,” Jayce sighs, turning back to his desk. “He really likes you—I mean, he really likes that about you!” he grumbles a curse under his breath as his voice trails off.

“What did you say?”

“Shit, I promised him I wouldn’t say anything,” he grumbles. You’ve never pegged Jayce as someone who’s good at keeping secrets, so you’re not surprised he’s let something slip he wasn’t supposed to. But this? He knows something about Viktor’s feelings about you?

“Too late now,” you smirk at him, attempting to hide how simultaneously excited and terrified you are to hear what he says next.

“He’s crazy about you, okay? It’s actually getting pretty annoying. I keep telling him to just ask you out but he won’t. Thinks he’ll get rejected or something,” Jayce rolls his eyes.

Your jaw falls open slightly. There’s no way he’s actually felt the same way about you this whole time.

“Can I...can I leave early today?”

Jayce grins knowingly and nods, and within a minute you’ve packed your things and head for the door.

Though you’ve never been inside, you know where Viktor’s house is. It’s not too far from yours, in a neighborhood of smaller and run down homes that are usually sold to people from the Undercity. It’s rare someone with your background scores a place genuinely nice.

You knock on his door, and after a few moments he opens it. You smile at the adorable sight, his hair disheveled and his clothes loose and comfortable. His eyes widen upon seeing you, clearly going through at least ten different thought processes on why you would be here.

“I wanted to check on you,” you say quickly, trying not to laugh at his shock.

“Yes, of course,” he replies, his accent thick and voice husky from exhaustion. “I guess I needed a day off more than I thought, I’ve been sleeping almost all day. But don’t worry, I’m alright.” He smiles softly at you. “I would invite you in, but I’m afraid my home is no less messy than the lab. Worse, in fact.”

“I don’t mind. I just wanted to talk to you,”

He doesn’t take more convincing, moving away from the door so you can enter. You both sit on his small couch.

“Did something happen at the lab? Is something wrong?”

“No, it has nothing to do with work,” you assure him. “I just...missed you.”

Splotches of pink come to the surface of his pale cheeks, “After only a day?”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Jayce did too, I think. Though he’d never admit it.”

“Ah,” he joins your laughter. “Of course.”

You take a deep breath, “I also wanted to ask you something.”

“Anything,” his gaze focuses in on you.

“Would you maybe want to do something sometime? Like outside of the lab and stuff?” you say quickly. “Like...go out? I mean, we don’t have to literally go out, I know you’re not really a big out person, but-”

“You want to go out with me?” the color leaves his face and his eyes widen again.

“More than anything, Viktor.” You smile.

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(I will likely write a part 2 to this sometime if y'all enjoy! Currently not taking requests but I'm open to suggestions like this, just no promises they'll get written)

[coalswriting]

competition gone wrong - lottie matthews

summary – after lottie doesn’t return to the cabin from her competition with natalie, (y/n) looks for her. (approx 2.3k words)

a/n – hello i am probably Not back because uhh. i’m very busy, but i am rewatching yellowjackets with my friend whenever i get the chance :^) i just watched s2e4 so i wanted to write something based on that. did not proofread this so it’s probably a mess too!! sorry in advance. i desperately need to sleep LOL.

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the heat of the distant sunset beat down on your back as you struggled to walk through deep snow. though it was unbelievably cold, you didn’t stop your trek, looking around at your surroundings cautiously.

the others had gone with natalie to uncover a frozen moose that she had found while you? you were looking for lottie. you had a bad feeling since the moment their weird competition was established this morning; you were all sitting, still drowsy from the early hour mixed with the cold room, and nat had gotten into an argument with someone about food, mari perhaps? long story short, lottie was volunteered to challenge nat on who would find food faster. it had almost felt like lottie couldn’t fight for herself – everyone had so much hope in her, and she didn’t want to let that falter.

truth be told, you didn’t believe in hope. it was a dangerous thing; too much of it led to ignorance, and that only took people so far. humanity was greedy. they always pinned their deepest desires on anything but themselves, whether it be an omnipotent force, or even just a seventeen-year-old girl with a strange understanding of the wilderness. either way, you believed in lottie, not because you had ‘hope’, but because you knew that you would climb to the deepest depths of tartarus for her if it meant keeping her safe. and thus, here you were, walking around a deadly silent blanket of snow, weaving through trees, looking for lottie matthews. 

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when you first enrolled in wiskayok high school, you were a bit of an outsider. your family had moved from houston. they always told you that it was because your father had received an incredible job opportunity in wiskayok, but you knew it was secretly because you would return home from school, covered in bruises with tearstained cheeks. you were considered a loser in your old school and fell victim to all the bullying. girls constantly pretended to be kind to you, only to spread rumours behind your back, boys would ask you out, and then laugh in your face, and you constantly dealt with rubbish stuffed in your bag, or gum tangled in your hair. school faculty didn’t do much, probably because many of your bullies’ families funded the school. they claimed that the bullying would stop with time.

besides, it wasn’t too much of a loss on your family to move; wiskayok wasn’t anything special. housing prices were dirt cheap, and your parents were respectively an engineer and a hairdresser. they could find work anywhere.

your first day at whs was in the middle of the second semester of 8th grade. your brain managed to block out much of the anxiety, but as you stood in the middle of the cafeteria double doors during lunch, it all began to set in. you felt like a startled, hurt animal, mouth slightly agape, scanning the room for a free seat, anywhere. students peered up at you, studying you, like you were a strange specimen in a lab. suddenly, you felt a harsh shove on your shoulder as a deep masculine voice muttered “out of the way, loser!”

you inhaled sharply, regaining your balance, and shaking yourself off. you felt yourself shrink as some witnesses began to laugh. then, you felt a hand on your shoulder, and you turned around to look at the source. she was the most beautiful girl you had ever seen; she was a bit taller than you and had long flowy chestnut hair with curtain bangs and the deepest brown eyes. you felt like you were getting lost in them. her eyebrows furrowed, as she seemed to repeat herself.

“are you okay?”

“huh?” you spluttered, regaining your consciousness. you felt sick to the stomach, and your hands developed a newfound sweatiness. “yeah, sorry.. i’m okay.”

“those jocks are dickheads,” she dismissed, then she smiled at you, and holy shit. that weird sickness in your stomach became fifty times worse, and you had to forcefully rip your eyes away from her out of a genuine fear that you would die on the spot. “i’m charlotte, but everyone just calls me lottie. are you new here?”

“i’m (y/n),” you finally said, finding the confidence to make eye contact again, heat spreading up your spine. you hoped your cheeks weren’t going red. “i’m new, yeah. i moved from houston.”

“oh, wow!”, her eyes almost seemed to sparkle with admiration, “that’s a huge city! what are you doing down here in little old wiskayok?”

before you could reply, a ginger girl appeared behind lottie, looping an arm around her neck – you would later discover her to be vanessa palmer – “lot, stop torturing the newbie. cmon, i’m starving!”

lottie laughed, swinging the ginger’s arm off her, “okay, okay!”, she giggled, before turning to you. once again, she put her hand on your shoulder. “you want to come and sit with my friends? well, our table is the girls’ soccer team, but i’m sure they won’t mind you joining us. oooh, maybe you could try out! do you like soccer?”

she seemed to talk a lot, you noticed. you weren’t too sure if it was because she was as nervous as you, or if she was just a very chatty person, but you liked it. you liked her. she was nice.

eventually, you did try out for the girls’ soccer team, the yellowjackets. and surprisingly, you somehow got in. with that, you became closer to the team, especially lottie and van.

however, when the plane crashed on the way to nationals, four years later, everything changed. you were still enamoured by lottie, but she was different now – not smiling much and very quiet. van seemed like a stranger to you, and you had seen a side of taissa, natalie, and shauna that you never thought you’d see. they were imposters. and jackie and laura lee? you shuddered as you thought about them, alongside all the others that had passed away during the initial crash. they were once your friends, but you never had given yourself the chance to process their deaths. even as you sat upright in the middle of the night, crying tears of mourning over them, it never felt real. the concept of them dying was artificial in your head, and despite seeing their bodies, you concluded that you would probably never convince yourself that they were really dead.

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the snow had begun to pile on heavily and you could see your breath with every steep step you took. you were growing desperate now, the sun setting at a faster pace than you expected. you guessed that you only had about an hour of sunlight left before you would be plunged into darkness with only the merciful moon to guide you. it was probably wiser for you to turn back and continue your search tomorrow, but you knew you couldn’t stop yourself from looking for her if you tried.

suddenly, turning a corner, you saw a form a few metres from you. your breath caught in your throat, as you shuffled (as fast as possible) towards her – lottie.

“lottie?” you gasped, wiping snow off her face, confirming her suspicions. “lottie, do you hear me?!”

your voice was a little louder now, laboured with thick panic that stung in your throat like bile. her cheeks were rosy, contrasting her pale, greying face. you didn’t want to see her meet the same demise as jackie, so you whipped your thick jacket off, and after a struggle, you managed to get it on her. realistically, this was an incredibly stupid decision, but with adrenaline coursing through your veins, you felt unstoppable. and damn, did adrenaline take you far.

“hang in there, lottie, not yet, please…” you murmured, carrying her with all your might. about fifteen minutes had passed, and your thighs were burning. lottie’s starved form was heavier than you expected, and your energy was running out. you felt yourself collapse into the snow, the cold wetness seeping into your skin. then, you heard the urgent voices of mari and akailah as they called your names. 

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“don’t beat yourself up over it,” lottie smiled warmly, putting a cup of hot chocolate in front of you. you had fumbled an important game mid-season, and it seemed like mari and taissa were mad at you. playing with the strings of your hoodie, you met her eyes, your stomach doing backflips. in a way to cheer you up, lottie had taken you on a ‘date’ – her words, though you wish they were a reality – to a café, and then a walk through the park.

you leaned back against the worn fabric of the seat, groaning. “is it that obvious that i’m thinking obsessively about it?”

“yes, (y/n),” she laughed, poking you in the forehead. “you always beat yourself up after our games; it’s like you never let yourself be proud.”

you reached to slap at her hand, but she pulled way before you could make contact, “i just always like to know what i could’ve done better. i’m not that great at soccer, i don’t even know how i got on the team!” you groaned, “like you’re all so perfect, and then i’m constantly messing up somehow.”

lottie went quiet for a moment, studying you as if you were an ancient scripture, like everything you presented was important to her. “you are so much more than you think (y/n),” she said, admirably, “you are one of our most adaptable players, and you’re so, so, analytical. you bring so much to this team, and you don’t even know. why do you think i always pass the ball to you in a tight situation?”

before you could answer, she continued, “it’s because you’re so damn dependable!” then lottie laughed, and winked at you, “also, you’ve a super sexy bod, and i always catch myself admiring you in the changing room.”

you choked on your hot chocolate, feeling your heart suddenly beat much faster in your chest. a ghost of a blush lined lottie’s cheeks as she reached over the table to put a hand on yours. “look, (y/n),” she murmured, voice suddenly soft, “i uh…”

you awaited her answer, feeling a sudden tsunami of anxiety wash through your body. you wanted to hide, but you wanted to hear more of what she had to say. lottie’s cheeks grew even more pink, before she tore her eyes away from your (e/c) ones. after a few seconds of silence, she looked up at you again, much more composed than she was only half a minute prior, “want to ditch this joint?”

and that, is how the two of you ended up in some isolated part of the public park, laughing and huffing, out of breath. “fuck your long legs, lot,” you gasped, leaning against a tree. lottie’s laughter boomed through the flora, as she tackled you to the ground. the both of you wrestled a little, but after a few minutes, lottie reigned victorious. she brushed your hair out of your face, staring at you.

“wh-what’s up?”, you whispered, and you swore that she could definitely feel the thumping in your ribcage.

lottie smiled at you, gently. but this time, it wasn’t her normal smile – this smile was full of fondness. “just admiring,” she muttered, and before you could process anything, her lips were on yours.

you never talked about your feelings after that day.

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a loud ringing invaded your head as you slowly regained control of your senses. everything was so bright, and you felt uncomfortably warm, if not too hot. as you tested the movement of your limbs, you felt something wrapped around your stomach. your strength slowly came back, and your eyes fluttered open.

you were in the cabin.

“huh?”, you said to nobody in particular. you almost jumped out of your skin as a husky voice reverberated near your ear.

“thank fuck you’re awake, (y/n).”

you craned your neck slightly, meeting lottie’s captivating brown eyes. you moved to pull away, but felt, what you now figured out was her arm, wrap tighter around you. looking down, you noticed that you were in the tub, and you were naked.

“w-what happened?” you gasped, reaching to cover yourself. lottie half-sighed-half-chuckled as she sunk her nose into your hair.

“i almost died, and you saved me. akailah and mari found us together, and based on the footsteps, you carried me a long way. thank you.”

you went quiet as you recalled what happened; how you had hurried through the snowy landscape, taken your jacket off for lottie, and carried her before losing consciousness. there was no beating the in-love-with-lottie allegations that van had made against you before the day of the plane crash.

“why did you do it?”, lottie continued, “the wilderness wanted me to die, so why?”

you felt your throat stiffen as your brain whirred with various answers. after a moment of silence, you decided to listen to your beating heart and come clean. there wasn’t much reason not to since you would all probably die out here.

“because, lottie matthews, i’m in love with you.”

you began to regret everything when lottie didn’t reply. however, she didn’t disappoint you for long.

“i don’t regret kissing you in the park that one time.”

you broke into a laugh, “is that all you have to say?”, and you felt her squeeze you before planting a kiss on your shoulder.

“i think you know how i feel. you’re the only one who keeps me grounded, and you’re always there for me. i never feel lonely when i’m around you.”

that was enough confirmation for you. sometimes less was more, and you leaned into lottie’s touch in the tub, enjoying the feeling of her skin on yours.

well, until taissa told the both of you to stop hogging the hot water.

[yandere-sins]

Ya playinnnnn DOL? Ashhshshshs

What do you think of the shady bastards of the town? Like Bailey, Remy, Briar… Wren, Avery~

Yessssss, thank you so much for asking me about them ♥ DoL is currently helping me through my depression phase, lol!

To be fair, I somehow managed to avoid Wren until now, idk how, but they probably weren't relevant in my playthroughs, lol. Can't say much about them, though! That said, I like all the characters in the game, but I do have some thoughts and feelings about them, I hope I get to write some in the future!!

So, the shadiest PoI in town from most to least favorite for me:

Avery

Love, love, love them! Absolutely always unlock them because... duh!! Good money, too, lol! Jokes aside, I love saving money all week just to dress up for them and play a nice trophy darling at their events! And the hotel room scene? I love it! And they are always so happy when you impress them with dancing or your English, and I'll be happy to play along with them. Yes, of course, my love, anything you say, my love (and anything you pay for, lol)! I think their title is such a farce; they are probably a trust fund kid, let's be honest, but I'm not complaining, lol! I have seen almost all of their events by now, and I am really looking forward to how their storylines will continue in the future since there's so much still unexplained and baffling, but I'll keep dating them; they are absolutely my favorite, and one of the few PoI that seem to actually care about you despite being fishy.

Harper

Listen, I got sent to the Asylum only once, and I've been avoiding it like the plague ever since. But I found myself quite intrigued with Harper afterward. What is their motive? Why are they doing what they are doing? Is it just scientific interest? Their encounters say otherwise, especially those at the check-up and underground farm! I know there must be more behind this doctor, and I need to find out, no matter what! They really have the "innocent" look down to a T, and then you land in the Asylum or the underground farm, and BOOM! Scumbag! Either way, good character, very fishy person, and the questions are eating me alive.

Briar

Oh, I hate them! But I love them. But I hate them. This could go on forever. Look, they are helpful. They have a good purpose if you want that fake ID. And you can make very good money relatively early on with Briar's help. But no matter how hard I try, raising their love is so damn hard I always give up. The opportunities are too small, and then you sign up for a show and get kidnapped or something, and they'll be so mad again. Also, it feels like you can do nothing without their permission, and it's annoying (kinda possessive, eh?). I just wanted to see Landry, why am I getting kidnapped in broad daylight from the Pub??? (I have not forgiven Briar for that, it really hurt my ego!) However, with Briar, there's a lot to do at least, and they possibly play a lot of roles in your daily life in DoL, and that's why I think they are quite entertaining, but I wish we could do more with them.

Leighton & Quinn

I didn't mind them a lot until I saw their endings for the Avery Event, where you are invited to poker night, and they intrigued me! Since then, I have gotten pretty close to Leighton, doing both the Blackmail Leighton and Get Blackmailed by Leighton events, and I have unlocked the archeology site with Quinn. They are both ultimately really fucking shady, but much like with Avery, there is still so much unexplained (although hinted at), and I wish we could have more interactions with them (and maybe actually make a change, like when we blackmail Leighton or rat them out to the police that it actually has consequences and punishments). So yeah, not my favorite PoI, but I am still really invested in them.

Bailey

Honestly, Bailey is pretty unlikeable. I hate how they want 4k every week; I mean, it's easier in the later game, but man, I'm trying to save to renovate a fucking farm; cut me some SLACK. (Also, can they stop dropping hope in the orphanage all the time?? I am working so hard to build it up!!!) Then again, Bailey saved me a few times from events, and I felt really thankful for that. There's so much going on with them. I hope we can build a relationship that will lead to better co-existence or partnership with them in the future. I feel like they could become a more important role with more direct events in the future. Still, their personality is, yeah, unlikeable and the scummiest of them all, really. Probably feels like that since you really can't escape them either without harsh consequences, so yeah. It's complicated.

Remy

In the beginning, I really liked Remy. Liked visiting the Ranch and riding horses, I thought they were pretty nice. Then I passed out in the moor, and ever since then… they've become really dull. It feels like they are one of the more involved PoI, at least, but the interactions and all just became so repetitive with them that it's no fun anymore. I'd like to know more about their involvement in these strange parties you can go to with Avery and what that's all about, but otherwise, I just try to avoid them these days. I already escaped 3 times from the farm, and although the game isn't programmed like that, I feel like there's no coming back from it for our relationship, lol. Maybe in the future again, hahaha.

[ereardon]

Snowed In || Saturday [Jake Seresin x OC]

A Jake Seresin AU miniseries

Summary: When a massive storm shutters every airport in New York, you receive an unexpected call. Jake Seresin, the ex-boyfriend of your college roommate, is stranded at JFK with nowhere to go. Somehow you find yourself hosting Jake for a long weekend in your studio apartment. What happens when you realize that maybe your long-standing hatred for him was covering up something else? 

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x OC [Ella Finnley]

Trope: Forced proximity; enemies to lovers

Warnings: Cursing, references to cheating, eventual smut

Wordcount: 4.2K 

Masterlist here; Part one aka Friday here

You had spent seven years trying to reinvent yourself after college. Almost exactly three thousand miles between you and Stanford, and yet the ghost of who you had been haunted you. 

The funny best friend. The sidekick. The mousy girl in class. The overachiever. The one who wasn’t invited to parties. 

You had moved to New York after graduation and taken a job with a small newspaper, working your way up. Along the way you had gotten a haircut, figured out how to apply makeup with a wet beauty blender, how to dress for your small frame. You had traveled at every opportunity, made friends with people across the city, dated a hedge fund analyst and a bee farmer and a NYU professor. You had done everything you had wanted to do and more. 

But when you laid down to sleep at night, or first thing in the morning, all of that change escaped you. And your mind immediately flitted to the version of yourself that you had once been but no longer were. 

The girl Jake Seresin had known and loathed. 

***

The day was bright. Blinding. You groaned, rolling over, taking the covers with you, trying to shield your papery eyelids from the light streaming through the blinds. 

It was no use. You groaned, eyes flying open. 

Jake. 

For a split second you had forgotten that not ten feet away, Jake Seresin was hypothetically asleep on your couch. 

Slowly, you sat up, peering over the edge of the couch. But it was empty. The pillow and comforter that you had laid out the night before folded neatly and set in the corner. You frowned. And then the sound of the tap in the bathroom caught your attention. A moment later it stopped and Jake emerged from the bathroom into the hallway, wearing a pair of joggers and a fresh shirt, hair damp. He smiled. “Hey Finn.” 

That was it. Like he had forgotten how the two of you had left it the night before. 

“I made coffee. Hope that’s OK. But you don’t really have much else,” he said, sitting down on the ottoman. 

“Ugh, yeah, I meant to go to the store, but I never did.” 

Jake shrugged. “I think that’s our only option at this point.” 

You stood up, the pant legs of your silky pajamas pooling onto the cold hardwood floor as you crossed the room and placed one hand on the window. It was frosty. Blinding white from all the snow swirling in every direction. It made the air practically opaque. “Not it,” you replied, turning around with one finger pressed to the tip of your nose. 

Jake laughed. “Fuck it, fine, I’ll go.” 

You grinned. Maybe having him around wouldn’t be all bad. “You can go later if you want. I’m not a big breakfast person, anyway.” 

“Later is good.” Jake sat on the edge of the couch. “Listen, Finn. About last night.” 

“I’m sorry,” you blurted and Jake’s eyes widened. 

He laughed. A surprised chortle. “Jesus. Never thought I’d hear Ella Finnley apologize.” 

“People change, Seresin.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice softer. “That’s what I keep trying to tell you.” 

You looked him up and down. You had rarely thought of Jake Seresin in the almost ten years since the two of you graduated from Stanford. But when he did pop into your mind, it was almost always at the most random of times, triggered by a memory. The smell of a particular flavor of vodka that you remembered drinking at his fraternity house, or if someone on the street passed with a distinct Texas accent. The years had dulled your impression of him, coated him in a sepia film in your memory that automatically paired Jake Seresin with dickwad. 

Maybe, just maybe, you had been wrong. Or perhaps he had done what you had tried to do. 

Had he actually, fundamentally, changed for the better? 

“I’m going to shower,” you said, hooking one finger over your shoulder.  

“I’ll be here,” Jake said, looking around the studio apartment. The warm water helped wake you up, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the way Jake had looked when he said he had changed from your mind. There was something there that he had never embodied before. At least, not the Jake you had known. 

You turned off the tap, wrapping up in a white towel and sitting down on the edge of the tub, grabbing your phone and dialing a phone number you hadn’t touched in ages. 

She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” 

“Suze,” you said, smiling. 

On the other end of the line, Suzannah whopped. “Ellie! Oh my God, it’s been forever! How are you?” 

“I’m good,” you whispered, trying not to be too loud. “Listen, I have a question for you.” 

“Everything OK?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I, um, Jake Seresin called me.” 

There was a pause. Then, “Why?” 

You sighed. “He, um, he asked to stay with me. Guess he was stuck at the airport with the storm that’s coming in.”

Suzannah wasn’t one to stay quiet for long. She had an opinion about everything, from the color of your nails to the best way to load a dishwasher to why Santorini is only for tourists. So silence from Suzannah was telling. 

“Suze?” you asked softly. 

“I’m here,” she said after a moment. “What did you tell him?” 

“He’s in my living room.” 

“Where the hell are you?” 

“The bathroom. Hiding.” 

She laughed. “You fucking idiot.” 

“Tell me why you guys broke up again.” 

“Ellie,” she sighed. “You of all people know.” 

You did. Jake had slept with not one but two of Suzannah’s sorority sisters while the two of them were on a break. But break in the Ross and Rachel definition of break. As in the two of them had parted ways for no more than three days before Jake had fucked the other girls. 

“Why’d you call, Finn?” she asked. “You already made the decision to let him in, obviously. So what are you looking for me to answer?” 

“Do you think people can change?” you asked. 

“Yeah, I do,” she replied. “By people do you mean Jake?” 

“Maybe.” 

Suzannah sighed. “You’re smart, Finn. Always have been. But you don’t trust people and that’s your fatal flaw. To answer your question, yes, I think Jake always had the ability to change. I don’t date losers, babe, you know that. Even back then.” 

I laughed lightly. “God, I miss you Suze.” 

“Call more,” she said. “And not just because you’re hiding in your bathroom from my ex-boyfriend.” 

“I feel like I’m twenty two again,” you replied. “Afraid to come out of the bathroom because you and Jake were fucking on the couch.” 

“Sorry about that.” She didn’t sound sorry at all. “You need to go or else he’s going to think you have IBS or something.” Another pause. “Tell me something Finn, and don’t lie to me.” 

You sucked in a breath. With Suzannah, you never knew where the conversation was going to go. “OK?”

“Is he still hot?” 

You let out a snort. “Yes. Unfortunately.” 

“That’s what I thought. Damn men for just getting better with age while I look like a sickly Victorian child at the ripe age of twenty nine. Anyways, I love you, call me when you’re no longer a fugitive in your own home.” 

“Love you too, Suze.” You ended the call, shivering in the thin towel. When you realized you had left a change of clothes in the main part of the apartment instead of bringing something to the bathroom, you groaned.

Whipping open the door, you scampered down the long wooden hallway, shivering in the cold, rounding the corner on your tiptoes. Something hard hit you as your eyes were turned downward toward the floor. A solid mass smashed against your front and before you realized, you were falling to the ground, a small shriek echoing through the walls of your apartment as you and Jake tumbled to the floor in a heap of limbs, his fingers grasping for purchase on whatever he could. 

Which just happened to be on your bare ass where your towel rode up. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed as the two of you smacked against the floor, your heads thankfully bouncing lightly against the cream colored rug to your left. 

Your eyes flew open as something heavy rolled over you, your knee pressing up into Jake’s crotch instinctively as his fingers touched your bare ass. 

“Oh my God!” Jake groaned, rolling over you as quickly as he had rolled on top, curling into a ball, hands cradling his crotch. 

“Shit, I’m sorry!” you shrieked, kneeling next to him, gripping the towel around you with one hand, the other hovering over his pained body. “Did I get you?” 

Jake moaned, nodding his head. “Yeah, Finn, you got me.” 

You sat back on your heels. “Well you touched my ass so I think we’re even.” 

“Fuck,” he muttered, rolling onto his side. “Not even close, babe.” 

“Don’t babe me,” you said, standing up, making sure to keep your legs closed under the short towel. “You’re fine.” 

Jake grunted, pushing himself to sit as you rifled through the dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and a tight henley bodysuit. You brushed past him on your way back to the bathroom to change and Jake’s hand reached out, fingers circling your ankle. You gasped, looking down at him. He smirked. “It’s a nice ass.” 

“Oh fuck off, Seresin,” you muttered, tugging your ankle from his grip as he chuckled. “Your balls aren’t even sore are they?” you called down the hall. 

“Oh, they are!” 

“Dick,” you whispered to yourself, shutting the door.  

***

“Finn?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can I turn the TV on?” 

You scowled. “What happened to independent reading time, Seresin?” 

After towelgate, you had emerged into the living room with a plan. To make time go faster, you and Jake would divide the day like elementary school. Breakfast coffee followed by gym class, per Jake’s suggestion, independent reading and a late lunch.

“And what the hell are we supposed to do for gym class when there’s a blizzard outside?” you asked. 

Jake shrugged. “Yoga?” 

The two of you had struggled through a yoga video that you screencast on your TV, and after Jake had obviously been staring at your ass in downward facing dog you smacked him on the arm. 

But an hour into reading and Jake was already calling it quits. 

He put his book, a worn copy of Wuthering Heights from your bookshelf, off to the side, kicking up his feet onto the coffee table. “Let’s play a game.” 

“Game time isn’t for an hour,” you replied, never taking your eyes off of your book, a new thriller by Ruth Ware. “God, are you sure you have a job? How do you focus on any work?” 

“I bounce around a lot,” he said. 

“Bounce around jobs a lot?” 

“Bounce around projects,” Jake clarified.

You looked up, eyebrows raised. “What are you, a drug dealer?” 

“Finn.” 

“What?” you asked, eyes flicking back to your book. “You never were great in school.” 

“Hey,” Jake cried. “I wasn’t great at Sawyer’s fiction seminar. Doesn’t mean I flunked out of any other class.” 

“You flunked out of Sawyer’s fiction?” You laughed. “God, that’s bad.” 

“It’s been nine years,” Jake said. “Can’t you let little things go?” 

“Nope,” you said, putting your book down. Outside, the snow had slowed so you could finally see through the opaque wall of flurries. “Fine, since you can’t sit still, why don’t you go to the bodega.” 

Jake frowned. “What do you need there?” 

“You’re kidding, right?” 

Jake looked around before turning back to face you, eyebrows raised. “A hammer?” 

“What the fuck would I need a hammer for?” 

“Why are you sending me to the hardware store during a snowstorm?” 

You bent in half laughing. “Wait, are you telling me you think a bodega is a hardware store?” 

“Well isn’t it?” 

“No,” you said, wiping under one eye. “It’s a fucking corner store. Bread, soda, beer. Chopped cheese. Midnight cigarettes.” 

“You don’t still smoke, do you?” he asked. 

“No, not anymore.” 

“Me neither.” 

You shook your head, standing up and grabbing your purse, pulling out a card. “Here, take this.” 

“No way.” Jake stood, pushing the gold Amex away from him. “I got this.” 

“Fine,” you said, sliding the card back into your wallet. “I don’t know, get us stuff to last another two days. Some pasta, maybe. Fruit so we don’t get scurvy.” 

“Scurvy in two days,” Jake muttered to himself, shrugging on a jacket, “that’s new information.” 

“Vodka,” you said. “And limes. I’m going to need to be drunk to deal with another day of being with you.” 

Jake turned toward the door, shaking his head. “Aren’t you a delight, Finn.” 

You tried to read while Jake was gone but every little sound in the hallway would make you look up. Finally, after five or so times of that happening, you gave up, setting the book down and sitting on the windowsill overlooking Fifth Ave. 

He was gone for a suspiciously long time. So long that at one point you almost pulled out your phone to call him, convinced he had gotten lost, when the doorbell rang. A minute later, you tugged open the door. 

Jake was covered in melted snow, huffing and puffing. He had two bags in each hand, and a bouquet of flowers under one arm. You frowned. “Flowers?” 

He stepped inside, tracking muddy water into the foyer of the apartment and you grimaced. “For you,” he said and your heart skipped a beat. Jake set down the bags, holding out the bouquet of white roses. “For letting me stay.” 

“Jake,” you whispered. 

He smiled. “Just take them, Finn,” he said softly. “For once in your life, let me do something for you.” 

“Fine,” you replied, taking the flowers and pressing them to your nose. They smelled clean and soft and you couldn’t remember the last time a guy had bought you flowers. You headed down the hall toward the kitchen. “Shoes off, Seresin. Stop tracking mud everywhere.” 

“I know,” Jake said and he was close, so close behind you that you could feel his breath on your exposed shoulder. “I’m getting something to wipe it up.” 

He reached around your body, grabbing a few paper towels from the dispenser on the counter to your right, his chest brushing against your back before he pulled away. When he did, a rush of cold air hugged you tightly, reinforcing the fact that Jake was gone. 

Once all of the groceries were unpacked, you and Jake were settled at the dining room table eating two bodega sandwiches. 

“You’re like a kid who was left alone for the weekend, do you know that?” 

Jake looped up from his bacon egg and cheese. “What makes you say that?” 

“The groceries, Jake,” you replied. “Ice cream, cookie dough, Doritos, mac n cheese boxes? Seriously?” 

“I got fruit like you asked,” he said, taking the last bite of his sandwich and wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Besides, it’s a snowstorm. Don’t we get a free pass?” 

“Free pass for what?” 

Jake stood, clearing his plate and your empty one. He smirked. “A free pass to do whatever we want, Ella. Whatever you wouldn’t normally do. Nothing is off the table.”

“I can think of a few things that are.” 

***

Jake was better behaved with a full stomach. The two of you wrapped up reading time, and even played a game of Monopoly that you had found buried in your closet. Before long, it started to get dark, the sun sliding below the buildings until the sky was just a dark blanket peppered by the continuous snow. 

You flicked the news on. “More snow is expected to fall across parts of Manhattan and the wider Tristate tonight,” the newscaster said. “We could see up to another six inches overnight.” 

“Fuck,” you muttered, turning it off as Jake returned with two glasses. He handed one to you. “What is this?” 

“Vodka tonic,” he replied and you took a sip. “Since I know you’re trying to get me liquored up so I’ll have to sleep with you.” 

You sputtered, vodka spraying out of your mouth as Jake cackled, settling down onto the couch next to you. 

“Easy there,” he said, patting your knee, squeezing gently as you wiped at your mouth. 

“I think of the two of us, you’re the one that’s easy to get into bed, Seresin,” you murmured. His hand was still resting on your thigh. 

“Maybe so,” Jake said, his eyes never leaving yours. “The couch isn’t too comfortable, you were right.” 

“You’re not sleeping on the bed with me.” 

“What if I beg?” 

“Is that your kink? You want to have to beg for sex?” 

Jake leaned back, taking a sip of his drink, his hand still hot on your leg. “Sweetheart. I’ve never had to beg a day in my life.” 

You crossed your legs, letting his hand slip off. “Never say never, Seresin.” 

***

Somewhere between the third and fourth vodka soda was when things started to blur. Jake had brought the bottle out into the living room, along with a pack of tonic waters and a lime on a cutting board. At some point, you kicked off your slippers, tucking your feet up beneath you and Jake did the same, scooting closer on the couch, one arm stretched out over the tufted back. 

You leaned forward, reaching for more vodka, sliding a little and Jake’s arm shot out, catching you around the middle, suspending you in midair so you didn’t fall. 

Your faces were close together. He was basked in warm light from the candles on the mantle and the soft yellow lamp in the corner. He smelled good and cozy and for a second, you could almost forget that he was Jake Seresin. He was just a really attractive guy in your apartment looking at you like he never wanted to tear his eyes away. 

“How on earth are you single, Finn?” Jake asked, his fingers tightening around my side. His green eyes were clear and wide. 

You grabbed the vodka bottle, dumping some into my glass, and Jake finally released me. But his knee was pressed against my leg still, warm and inviting. “I don’t like dating,” you said. “Every guy is the same. He’s Midtown East and he has three cell phones or he lives in Fidi and he works twenty hours a day or God forbid he’s from Brooklyn and he wants me to take the L on the weekends. He’s an Upper West side dick whose mother will never approve of me. He’s an Upper East Side prick who would never look my way because I didn’t go to prep school. Or maybe he’s another Stanford alum, but even then I probably won't be good enough for him somehow.” 

“How could you not be good enough?” Jake whispered. 

“You overestimate me, Jake,” you replied. “And you overestimate the New York dating scene.” 

“You’re smart,” he said. “Beautiful. Charming in a really dickish, sarcastic way.” You laughed, head tossed back and Jake’s fingers on the back of the couch tickled your neck. “The whole package, El. Always have been.” 

“You didn’t like me in college, Seresin,” you replied. “What made you change your mind?” 

“Who said I didn’t like you in college?” 

“You did! The way you always gave me shit and how you always avoided me if we were waiting for Suzannah at the same time.”

Jake shook his head. “I didn’t hate you. I’ve never disliked you a day in my life, Ella.” 

“Then what?” you asked. “Why were you always so weird?” 

Jake paused. You watched his jaw tense. He set his cup down on a coaster on the table and stood up abruptly. “We need more liquor.” 

You frowned. “What? No, we still have vodka left.” 

“Then we need gin.” 

“I have gin.” 

“OK, tequila.” 

“Jake, what are you doing?” But he was already down the hall, pulling on his jacket, sliding into his boots. You scrambled off the couch. “Jake, wait!” But he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. 

You stood in shock. What had just happened? After a few minutes, you tugged on a coat and a pair of boots, slipping your keys into your pocket. The hallway was dark and empty, no sign of Jake.  

Five floors later, you emerged in the lobby. “Ella!” Gerry the doorman looked up from behind the desk. “How are you sweetheart?” 

“Hi Gerry,” you said. “Did, um, did a guy rush out of here a few minutes ago?” 

He nodded. “Tall, blond, looks like a total player?” 

“Yeah, that’s him.” 

“He took a left, toward the park,” Gerry said. “Be safe, sweetheart. He looks like he’d break your heart.” 

“He’s just a friend.” 

Gerry nodded knowingly. “Friend. OK, doll. You be safe out there, it’s cold as all hell.” 

You smiled, bursting through the double glass doors, getting smacked in the face by a gust of air. It burrowed into your skin, freezing you whole and despite the heavy coat your teeth chattered as you took a hard left down Fifth. Washington Square Park was five blocks away, but no way Jake had already made it that far, right? 

No one else was out. Who would be so stupid as to go outside at nearly midnight in the middle of the worst blizzard in two decades? 

Apparently you. And Jake Seresin. 

You scampered across the intersection, crossing tenth street, hurrying as the wind gusted from one side, threatening to toss you into the nonexistent traffic on the avenue going downtown toward the park. 

Up ahead, you spotted the familiar Washington Arch that stood at the northern part of the park. Snowflakes dotted your eyelashes and you blinked, pressing them away into liquid, before opening your eyes wide, spotting a familiar head bobbing down the sidewalk. “Jake!” you called out, your voice getting picked up and carried away in the wind. “Jake!” 

Beneath your body, your feet scrambled along, pushing you closer. 

“Jake!” 

The man in the distance stopped and turned. The lights illuminating the arch highlighted him from behind. His jacket was too thin and as you approached you could see it was damp from snow, his hair sticking to his drawn face.

“Seresin,” you said, stepping closer until the two of you were only a few feet apart. “What the fuck? You’re like a shit baby daddy, going out for diapers and never coming back.” 

“Get it all out,” he said. “Whatever you think of me, Ella. It’s time to air the dirty laundry.” 

You frowned. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand what’s happening. One second we’re drunk and laughing and the next second you’re fucking running away and forcing me to chase you through a goddamn blizzard.” 

“You didn’t have to chase me.” 

“You left,” you said quietly. “What did you expect me to do?” 

“Let me leave,” Jake said. “If you think I’m such a bad person, what do you care if I stay or not?” 

“The real question is why did you hate me so much,” you whispered. “Back in the apartment. I asked why you hated me so much back then. And instead of answering, you made up some bullshit excuse about needing tequila. So answer, Jake. Or I’ll let you turn into an ice sculpture and I’ll sell you to 230 Fifth and their stupid fucking igloo bar as decoration.” 

“I don’t hate you, Ella,” Jake said, stepping closer. Even drenched in snow he was warm. A furnace. “I never hated you.” 

“So what was it then?” you demanded. “A Mr. Darcy thing? You ignored me and shut me out and gave me shit because you loved me?” 

“Maybe.” 

“What?” Stunned silence surrounded the two of you. If it was even possible, the snowflakes fell slower. As if they were suspended in the air. It was just you and Jake in the middle of Fifth Avenue in a snowglobe. You looked up at him, eyes wide. 

“Did you ever think, Ella, that maybe I called you for a reason?” Jake asked quietly. “That maybe, just maybe, I spent eight years wondering about what had happened to the one girl who had seen me for who I really was and never let me get away with it? That maybe, just maybe, I took your feedback to heart and tried to change. And now I’m ready.” 

“Ready for what?” 

“For this,” Jake said, closing the distance between the two of you and sliding one hand around your neck, tipping your head back, bending down to press his lips to yours. 

Tag list [using my list from The Off-Season since it's my most up-to-date Jake list but if you're not interested in these types of fics just let me know!):

@double-j @topguncultleader @momc95 @hangmandruigandmav

@teacupsandtopgun @xomrsalliej4787xo @xoxabs88xox @blue-aconite @seresinhangmanjake @eminyourjeans @shawnsblue @babyminghao @sadpetalsstuff @angelbabyange @taytaylala12 @wkndwlff @mygyn @oneelleandaneye @averyhotchner @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @rxmtoon @valkyrja-siren-blog @horseshoegirl @abaker74 @clancycucumber230 @theharddeck @redbarn1995 @shanimallina87

@memeorydotcom @joaquinwhorres @bobfloydsbabe @gretagerwigsmuse @djs8891

@blackcatdhisgf @buckysteveloki-me  @eli2447 @bellaireland1981 @seresinslady @hookslove1592 @shotclock24seconds @fanficfandomlove @ryebecca @onceupona-happilyeverafter-love @t8r-tots

[torscrawls]

A Ghost by Any Other Name ch.4

You can read it on AO3!

If you prefer tumblr: Chapter 1 can be found here. Chapter 2 can be found here. Chapter 3 can be found here.

--

Danny couldn't stop thinking about Tim's questions about where he was from.

A big part of him hadn't wanted to tell the truth, but a bigger part hadn't wanted to lie.

When they—he, Sam, and Tucker—had crafted his new identity they had decided to keep Danny's hometown as Amity Park because it was easier not to slip up if he had fewer lies to keep track of. And Danny already had more than enough of those.

They had banked on Amity being a small enough town that no one would recognize it, and more importantly; not recognize him.

But of course people would ask about his past, it was a normal thing to do between friends. Right? There was no reason to panic. 

Danny just had to become better at quelling the panic and remember the lies so that no one got suspicious and figured him out.

Sadly—or thankfully?—he didn't have time to dwell on the fact that his one and only new friendship was one wrong question away from crumbling, not now when ghosts had started appearing in Gotham.

So far he had been able to avoid getting dragged back into the fighting by threatening most of the ghosts that had shown up to leave him, and the city, alone. Several years of fighting had, if nothing else, made sure that most ghosts at least listened to him.

Which was good since Gotham’s own vigilantes arrived quickly at almost every scene and Danny didn’t want to risk using his ghostly abilities too much and reveal himself, or—even worse—bring his parents here.

That wasn't to say that he was ready to fight if he had to, because he absolutely wasn't. He wasn't even sure he could fight right now with how his body felt.

At first he had chalked it up to a side effect of his massive growth spurt, especially since he very much doubted that it was of a normal, human origin. What with the late and sudden onset, the unnatural speed with which he had shot up and filled out, and considering his increasingly otherworldly appearance it probably had a ghostly origin.

But he doubted that it was the root-cause of his sickness since he had stopped growing, but was only feeling worse.

Maybe his sickness was a side effect of getting his arm removed under such traumatic circumstances. Maybe it was some sort of infection. 

He had almost gotten used to the alarming looks his sudden dizziness earned him and his staggering runs to the bathroom to throw up—what felt like—all his insides. His constant joint pain that wasn't helped by his cobbled together prosthetic arm. His headaches and his too-green nosebleeds.

Because of the whole on the run and living on the streets thing he had been trying out for the last few months, he hadn't exactly had the funds nor opportunity to go to a doctor and have the arm checked out and his own experiences and conversations over the phone with Sam, Tucker, and Jazz only got him so far. 

Now, he did have a job and an apartment but he really didn’t want to risk having to answer any hard questions on just how he managed to lose an entire arm and why he had then proceeded to quite obviously cauterize and stitch it up himself.

Of course, Danny knew one other person with a prosthetic arm and Frostbite had never withheld information from him, but he hadn't had a chance to meet up with the yeti again now that he had first-hand experience.

Whatever caused it, the fact of the matter was that Danny felt like shit and that he was happy he hadn't had to fight anyone lately. But with the number of ghost sightings rising every week, his luck might not last. He didn’t know why ghosts had started to appear in Gotham, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think he didn’t have anything to do with it. And if ghosts had started showing up in town because of him , then it was his responsibility to deal with them. 

History loves repeating itself.

Danny was currently busy coughing up a lung and trying not to let any of the ectoplasm that dribbled out of his mouth stain his clothes, all the while debating whether it was worth the trouble to stagger the rest of the way to the convenience store for his dinner, when he felt the all-too-familiar sensation of cold clawing its way up his throat and escaping through his gritted teeth.

Great.

And that was all he had time to think before he was body-slammed to the ground.

Danny tried to twist in the air, to get out from underneath whoever had attacked him, but large hands grabbed his shoulders and slammed him into the pavement. His face pressed against the rough ground and Danny instinctively raised a hand, ectoplasm building beneath his skin and ready to burst forth, before stopping himself and remembering his human disguise, that he couldn’t fight enemies openly anymore. Not as Dante Armstrong, regular dude, and definitely not as Phantom, his parents no.1 target.

Danny twisted enough under the weight pinning him down to glimpse Skulker grinning down at him with a victorious smile. He wasn’t surprised.

“What are you doing here, Skulker?” Danny gritted out.

“If you thought you could escape me by coming here, then you're dead wrong. I'll hunt you down wherever you go, little whelp.” Skulker grinned down at him with fire in his eyes as his hands tightened on Danny's shoulders until the grip went from uncomfortable to painful.

Ancients, Danny itched to blast the bastard right off him and into the nearest building. He had enough to deal with as it was without someone trying to skin him alive but there were people around, staring at them and screaming. Of course there was. He couldn't very well yell “ going ghost!” and expect no one to see him.

Despite what Jazz always said, he had learnt some things over the years.

But that didn’t mean that he would just lie here helplessly. He tried to buck the other ghost off with just a touch of super-strength, hoping no one saw anything out of the ordinary. If so; Danny would just have to find a new town to live in. It was okay. Really. The thought didn’t make him want to cry or anything.

Skulker growled and Danny decided to try the same approach he had used in most ghost attacks in Gotham. Talking to them. Jazz would be so proud. Even if the talking in question was more akin to threatening .

Danny made sure his fangs were on full display as he growled, “If you don't get off me right now I'll tear open that flimsy tin-can you call a body and drag you screaming out of your own mouth.”

Skulker paused. They had fought enough times for him to know that they weren't just empty words. Most ghosts just needed a little reminder.

Maybe not a preferred way of conflict resolution from a human standpoint, but far from mindless. Just another thing his parents had been wrong about.

Danny consciously flashed his eyes and Skulker immediately jumped back. As he staggered to his feet, Danny gasped as he tried to force the ectoplasm back down.

That short release of energy almost startled Danny from how good it felt. Like releasing some of the pressure on an over-pressurized pot. He had to wrestle back control not to let out any more than he already had, but he couldn’t risk doing that in the middle of the street.

But Ancients, he wanted to. For the first time in months, his headache lifted slightly.

He breathed deep to get himself back under control and lifted his prosthetic arm, as if aiming it at Skulker. “You're not the only one with inbuilt weapons anymore. You want to see what the weapon that took my arm would do to a full ghost?”

It was an empty threat, of course. Danny would never again go anywhere near that weapon if he could help it, much less carry it around, and he had absolutely no idea if it would be more or less dangerous to a full ghost. But Skulker didn’t know that.

“This isn’t over, whelp,” Skulker threatened as he floated backwards, eyes blazing. “I’ll get you eventually!”

“You’ve said that for years, and I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You won’t see me coming.”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Danny deadpanned. Then he gestured with his arm, hoping that Skulker wouldn't see the way it was, in fact, shaking. “Now run along.”

Skulker swore and growled and grumbled, but he did turn invisible and fly away.

Danny felt his shoulders relax as his presence disappeared and he unsteadily lowered his arm back down, wincing at the pain radiating through his shoulder and back. He had been lucky; he didn’t know if he would have been able to actually win a fight with Skulker right then because of how bad he felt. Finally, he could go— 

And then Batman stood in front of him, as sudden and silent as any ghost.

Danny blinked in surprise as his brain automatically assessed the danger of the man in front of him; his multiple weapons tucked into his belt, his broad frame and muscular limbs, his sharp gaze fixed on Danny. Really, he was a lot more intimidating up close than he had been from the other side of the street, which was as close as Danny had gotten during the other ghost attacks.

Then he realized that he really should be trying to convince Batman that he was just an innocent civilian and definitely not involved with ghosts in any way, no sire.

Danny made his best impression of being scared and grateful for rescue, drawing from years of experience of being on the receiving end of it. “Oh, Batman! Thank you for saving me! I was so scared!”

Batman stared at where Skulker had been just a moment before for a few tense seconds before turning the full force of his attention towards Danny. And Danny froze, rooted to the ground, more scared now than he had been facing off against Skulker.

Batman kept his eyes on Danny, silent, but then Red Robin suddenly appeared at his side. Maybe being silent as ghosts were a prerequisite for being a vigilante.

Red Robin had a kinder look on his face than his colleague as he asked, “Are you hurt?”

“I—I don't think so. I don’t—” Danny didn’t have to fake the trembling of his limbs. “I don’t know what happened. Suddenly he just—”

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Red Robin said with practiced patience. “What’s your name?”

“It—It's Dante.”

“Alright, Danny, can you tell us what happened?” Red Robin asked and Danny fought hard not to flinch at the use of his nickname. That made two people who had immediately defaulted to Danny –Red Robin and Tim. He was going to kill Tucker.

Batman, apparently fed up with the niceties, glanced down at Danny's arm and asked, “What did you do to make the ghost leave?”

And wow, Danny was tempted to offer him a cough drop, speaking in such a growly voice couldn’t be good for you. He just shook his head, forcing his eyes to water—thank you Maddie and Jack for teaching him that skill, who knew that having to hide everything from his parents would make him really good at acting scared—as he stammered out a pathetic, “I—I don't know. I just tried to keep him away and—and I don't know.”

He really hoped that him threatening Skulker with his arm could be interpreted as him raising his hand to defend himself at a distance. 

“What did it say?” Batman pressed, no hint of sympathy in his voice.

Danny shook his head. “Nothing that made any sense.”

Batman looked at him in what Danny thought was disapproving silence before Red Robin jumped in again, attempting to smooth everything over. “Go easy on him. He looks scared out of his mind,” Red Robin said with clear sympathy in his voice.

And Danny was. Just not of the ghosts like they assumed. He was scared of them . Ghosts, he was used to, but the two people in front of him were the ones that could drive him out of his new home.

But Danny nodded intensely and put on his most terrified voice as he said, “I thought I was a goner! The ghost could have really hurt me!”

“So you do know about—” Red Robin started before cutting himself off.

“How do you know it was a ghost?” Batman asked as he sent Red Robin a glare and he stepped back, letting Batman take over.

Fuck, fuckity-fuck. He had wanted to stay as far away from Batman's radar as possible, not suddenly be the sole focus of his attention.

What if they found him out? What if they too decided that all ghosts were evil?…What if they also decided that they wanted to try and cure him?

“I—I don’t—” Danny stammered out, desperately trying to come up with a good excuse. He was a ghost fanatic? Too close to home. He had been hunted by the ghost in question for years because it wanted to skin him? No one would believe it. He was a half-dead hero fighting ghosts since his early teens? Great response if he wanted to be thrown into Arkham. Instead he landed on a very meek, “I watch the news?”

Batman didn’t even hesitate before firing off the next question, “I’ve seen you before. At these ghost-attacks. What were you doing there?”

Danny tensed up. Of course Batman had noticed him and put two-and-two together. He was the world’s greatest detective.

Then Batman continued, voice just as gruff as before, “Why haven’t you told anyone if they’re attacking you?”

Or not.

He thought that the ghosts were there to attack Danny? It wasn’t completely wrong, even if Danny generally was the one attacking them to stop them from attacking others. Still, it was… nice that people didn’t automatically assume that he was the bad guy. Danny cleared his throat and looked away. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”

“That didn’t really work out, did it?”

Red Robin had apparently had enough of being sidelined, which was kind of funny for a sidekick, and stepped back into the conversation, “It’s not his fault he was attacked. Stop grilling him.”

Danny wanted to agree, but apparently his throat had other ideas as it chose that moment to seize up and cause him to double over again, coughing until he winced in pain.

Red Robin placed a careful hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Batman’s gruff voice spoke up, “So you were hurt.”

“Yes,” Danny managed after a few deep breaths, ignoring how raspy his voice sounded. “Or, no. But it wasn't because of this.”

“Do you need to sit down?” Red Robin asked and if the concern in his voice was fake, he was even better than Danny.

Danny shook his head. “No, no, I need to go. I have a meeting with a friend and I’m already late.”

Red Robin withdrew his hand, sounding suddenly hesitant, almost guilty, as he said, “I’m sure they'd understand.”

Batman inserted himself into the conversation again with a, “We might need to get in contact with you to ask some further questions. What is your number?”

Red Robin rolled his eyes, and the fact that Danny could tell even behind the mask was a testament of just how often he must do it. “What he means is; Can you give us a number we can reach you at?”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Do I get any in return?”

“No,” Batman immediately answered. Red Robin had no translation for that, just an apologetic shrug.

Danny let out a barking laugh. “At least you're honest.” So he rattled off his number and then scampered off, refusing to look over his shoulder but feeling eyes on his back the whole time until he turned a corner. 

He let himself slump against a wall, shaking legs barely holding him upright. Somehow he had survived. Still, he had thought he had gotten away from everything that had to do with ghosts. But now everyone here was asking him about them; Tim and Batman both.

He couldn’t afford any more slip-ups.

--

Danny dragged himself into work the next day, late and tired after his unplanned run-in with Skulker and subsequent meeting with Batman and Red Robin. To top off the whole evening Tim hadn’t even showed for their planned game-night, which might have been just as well since Danny had barely managed to get home before collapsing in bed.

After the short reprieve he felt after his confrontation with Skulker, stuffing all his ectoplasm back down felt even harder than before. It was as if that short, sweet, taste of freedom had made his body rebel even worse. The headache had come back with a vengeance and he held a handkerchief to his nose to stop the constant dripping, which alarmingly had started to turn more and more green. His joints hurt worse than right after the accident and if he wasn’t deathly afraid of losing his hard-earned job he would have stayed home and wallowed in his misery.

As it was, the walk to work hadn’t been easy with his whole body hurting even more than it usually did nowadays, even though he had left his prosthesis at home for the day.

When he finally stumbled through the door he was sweating, trembling, and wishing he had just caved and called in sick.

His misery and wallowing was interrupted when Tim poked his head into the room. “Hey, Danny, do you have time to take a look at something?”

Danny straightened up and plastered a smile on his face, hiding the paper he had been using to try and stem the blood dripping from his nose. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“I have a project that I need another pair of eyes on.” 

Danny sent his boss, an older woman named Hannah, a questioning look, but she simply stared at Tim with wide eyes and then gave Danny a nod. 

For some reason, his boss never seemed to mind when Danny went to help Tim with something. She never argued and she would just agree with wide eyes and an expression that almost looked awed as she immediately agreed. It was as if she thought Danny was unbelievably kind to help Tim out. As if she was impressed that Danny could stand Tim.

If his boss wasn't otherwise so nice, Danny would call her out on it.

“So what is this project you wanted help with?”

Tim seemed to be distracted by his phone as they walked through the corridors, but at that he looked up and smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing. You just looked like you needed a break. What’s up?”

Danny grimaced at the fact that he was apparently so easy to read. “I had a run-in with Batman.”

Tim placed his phone in his pocket. “Was it the ghost attack?” 

“How did you know?” Danny asked in surprise.

Tim’s gaze flickered to the side and back. “It’s on the news.”

“Yeah…” Danny let out a long sigh. Of course it was on the news, but since Tim hadn’t seemed to know that he’d been involved he took some solace in the fact that he probably hadn’t been mentioned. “I got stuck in the middle of it last night.”

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

Danny waved him off. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s not the first time I’ve been in a ghost atta—” Danny cut himself off. He was too tired to monitor everything he said. He cursed himself.

Tim perked up. “So you do know about ghosts?”

Which was the second time in as many days he had gotten that question. Was he really so bad at keeping secrets? “Why are you so interested in them?” Danny countered.

Why would Tim, his new friend in another town, suddenly ask about ghosts? Danny just wanted to forget his old life, god damn it!

It was Tim’s turn to look a bit hesitant. “Well. There’s been a lot of attacks in the city lately by villains that seem… Strange. So I thought that maybe they’re ghosts?”

Danny really had no idea if that was a normal conclusion to jump to or not. He was the first to admit that his perception was a bit skewed. “Maybe,” Danny allowed.

“So you do believe in ghosts?”

Danny was so tired and he really didn’t feel like denying his own existence today. “Yeah.”

“But… you said your hometown wasn’t haunted?”

Danny cursed himself. Again. When would he actually learn? “Well. It’s not? It’s more accurate to say it’s under attack.”

Tim blinked. “Right.” He stopped walking. “So you know a lot about them? The ghosts?”

“Everyone from Amity knows about ghosts to some degree,” Danny said with a strained smile and as always; careful not to show his teeth.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “And what degree are you?”

Danny shrunk in on himself, uncomfortable. “I mean… That depends… I don't really—” 

Tim leaned back, hands up and with a slightly guilty expression on his face. “Oh, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you. It's just—” he exhaled forcibly and, after what seemed like a short internal debate, said, “We might be having some issues that we think miiiight be related to ghosts.”

That got Danny’s attention. A ghost he hadn’t noticed? That was an issue.

That didn't mean that he wanted to get involved with whatever this was but the least he could do was to listen to what Tim had to say. As a friend he owed him that, at least. 

Tim combed a hand through his hair with a strained laugh. “You're not laughing at me. That’s a start.” 

Danny raised an eyebrow. “I'm from Amity Park. I’m used to worse.” At Tim's nonplussed expression he clarified, “We have our fair share of whack-jobs.”

“Are you calling me a whack-job?” Tim asked with a smile tugging at his lips.

“Yes,” Danny deadpanned and smiled as Tim snorted, breaking some of the tension.

Tim took a deep breath and then hesitantly said, “I’m not really supposed to be talking about it, but honestly we’re at a bit of a dead-end. Do you think you’re up for bouncing some ideas?”

Now it was Danny’s turn to hesitate.

He didn’t want to get involved in any more ghostly problems. He had tried to get away. He had gotten away.

But it had really never mattered what he wanted, had it? The problems were already here, and if he had learnt something over the years since everything went to literal hell it was that ignoring your problems didn’t tend to solve them, it just made them haunt you.

No matter how much he wished otherwise.

Not that this came as a huge surprise, he had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Suck on that Jazz! He hadn’t been paranoid!

So Danny sighed, and prepared himself to have everything he’d worked for come crashing down. Again. “Yeah, sure.”

Tim brightened up. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny waved him off. “I have to help if I can, right? So, what’s up?”

“Well, we have this… Computer. It's not very important.” 

Which meant that it was very important.

Tim continued, “And it’s getting attacked by… something.”

“Right. And why would just think ghosts and not, I don’t know, a normal virus?”

“Well. It learns and adapts quicker than any virus I’ve ever seen.” Tim fumbled his phone back out of his pocket. “Just. Here. Look at these logs.”

Danny looked down at the readings clearly displaying ectoplasmic activity and cursed his whole existence. The only silver lining being that it was restrained to a closed system which meant that his parents shouldn’t be able to pick up on it. But this meant that they were dealing with a big and important computer acting up with ghostly readings. Yeah, there was someone he knew that fit that M.O. Just to make sure, he asked, “This is from the attacks?”

“Yes,” Tim confirmed.

Danny heaved a  sigh. First Skulker and now Technus? Well. In for a penny… “I might know who it could be, but I need to see it to make sure.”

Underneath his absolutely overwhelming desire to do anything besides “making sure”, Danny found that he was impressed that they had been able to keep up with Technus until now. That was no easy task.

“Wait. Really?” Tim looked genuinely surprised.

Danny raised an eyebrow. “You asked me for help, didn't you?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you would actually be able to help.”

Danny snorted. “Glad to disappoint.”

Tim laughed. “I'm glad you're disappointing!” 

Danny joined in, feeling a bit better about the whole disaster as he said, “Lead the way!” 

--

And that's how Danny found himself in an otherwise empty room occupied by a big computer which looked more high tech than anything he had seen before. Well, it looked to be composed of several different parts, but no less advanced for it. It reminded him of his parents’ and his own inventions; the best parts cobbled together to make something that was far beyond anything available on the market.

If Tim was the one who built it, then Danny suddenly felt a lot more comfortable with him poking around in his arm. The only question was; for what purpose was it built?

Danny didn't have very good experiences with rich people who liked to mess with science and computers.

He wondered if this computer also contained a creepy program modeled after some poor unsuspecting victim. Or data to make clones of a nearby child. Maybe even data about all the heroes in the world and plans how to take them down, or something equally ridiculous.

Tim looked from the computer, to Danny, and back, before saying, “Just try to focus on the ghost problem, alright?”

That only made him more interested, more curious. “Sure.”

But even that promise didn’t stop him from sneaking a few glances at the computer as he worked, but sadly he was unable to really get any useful information from it. Whoever owned it took security very seriously. After a short while, Danny leaned back and declared, “Yeah, it’s definitely Technus.”

“Technus?”

Danny just raised his voice as he said, “Yeah, Technus is a ghost who just sucks at everything that’s related to technology!” Danny made sure to pitch his voice even louder as he ignored Tim’s raised eyebrows, “He’s just the worst and everyone back home laughs at him! He can’t even figure out a light bulb!”

Tim frowned in confusion, but before he could do more than open his mouth, Technus—predictably—burst from the computer in a shower of sparks.

Tim staggered backwards. “Holy—”

“Yo, Nick,” Danny said with his hand raised in greeting. “So this is where you’ve been hiding out?”

“Ghost-boy,” Technus growled out, his body still halfway morphed into the computer. 

“I hope I’m not seeing you trying to possess this computer.” Danny tried to cross his arms, realized he only had one at the moment and settled for crossing it over his torso. “Do you want me to call Tucker?”

Technus froze. “No. I’ll just— I’ll just leave.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s for the best.” Then he added, “You know, my parents probably have some new tech for you to infect.”

Technus perked up, moving as if to leave, but then he hesitated and turned back to Danny. “I don’t want to owe you anything, so I’m going to give you some advice. All that ectoplasm leaking out is going to draw more of us in. You can’t contain a system failure, you know? You have to shut down the whole process or it’s going to cascade and destroy everything.”

With that ominous statement, Technus fizzled out like bad static and it wasn’t until Technus had left that Danny realized what he had just revealed to Tim about his own parents.

He relaxed minutely when Tim didn’t bring it up but instead didn’t waste any time before asking, “How did you do that?”

Danny shrugged.  “We have a sort of understanding.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to elaborate on that?”

“Not really.”

Danny could tell that Tim wanted to question him, but he must have looked as uncomfortable as he felt—and Tim must have realized that he wouldn’t say anything more—because Tim just pursed his lips and asked, “And what did you mean about your parents?”

Aaaand there it was.

“They’re inventors,” Danny hedged as he tried to play it off.

“That’s cool! What do they specialize in?” 

Danny waved him off. “Different things. Nothing you would recognize.”

Tim looked like he wanted to ask more, but then he stopped, tilted his head, and asked, “What did he mean about system failure?”

Danny was infinitely grateful for Tim’s curiosity at the moment. “Who knows?” Danny shrugged. “Ghosts are weird.”

Tim pouted. “Do you have tips for how we can make sure this doesn’t happen again?”

“Nick won’t be coming back.”

“But other ghosts might?”

“I mean… Yeah.” At least Danny hadn’t been able to get them to stay away permanently. Yet.

“Can I count on you to help with them if they do?”

Danny hesitated. He didn’t want to say no and disappoint his new friend, but he also didn’t want to promise to help with things he didn’t want to get involved with and he definitely didn’t want to get more involved with ghosts than he had to. He had worked hard to stay under the radar of both his parents and the Bats in Gotham, and this would definitely not do that. He had enough experience to know that accepting this would be a slippery slope right down into getting found out and subsequently, into trouble.

“I’ll think about it.”

Tim looked like he wanted to argue, to push, but then he swallowed it down, muttered what sounded like “not a mystery” and nodded. “Thanks. And thanks for getting the ghost out of the computer.”

“Don’t mention it,” Danny said, and hoped that Tim picked up on how literally he meant it.

[yutahoes]

Caramel

(Part Two)

characters: stripper! Yuta x female! Y/N genre: chaptered, smut, fluff, angst word count: 3.6k words summary: Y/N has everything in her bitter life, not until she meets a sweet-looking stripper. warnings: matured theme, stripper au!, third person POV, rusty writing, curse words, degrading words, complicated family dynamics, shirtless guy, alcohol consumption, lap dance, horny Yuta, there's a specific description of Y/N but you can easily discard that if you're not comfortable

Part One

Y/N had always been an early riser. 

But since she came home late at night, when everyone was already sleeping, she groaned at the sound of the alarm clock by her bedside table. She should have stayed at her apartment unit, not her family home. But she misses the home-cooked meals here at home. 

And if she doesn’t get up, she’ll definitely miss it. 

The girl was done with her usual morning routine, just brushing her teeth, when there was a knock on her door. She shouted for the person to come in and she could hear small pitter-patter steps that made her smile, “Noona, you’re home!” the six-year-old Junyoung shouted while running to give her a tight hug. If there is one thing - person rather - that she missed the most in this house, that will be her younger brother. “Jungwoo hyung said she saw your car outside so I knocked on your door.” He shared while giggling. He might have missed her as much. 

“Sorry if I haven’t been coming home,” she claimed, picking him up and groaning that he had gotten heavier and bigger. 

She remembered when he was a newborn and she had the opportunity to carry Junyoung, she was so scared of the change in her family. But now, she was ecstatic at the change that happened. 

When she was the same as Junyoung’s age, all she could remember were the sound of the thunderous night, muffled cries, and shouting.  

She was relieved at the change that happened in her life. 

The younger boy had been chatting non-stop about his school activities that made his older brother laugh, “You missed Y/N so much, don’t you?” The girl smiled at Jungwoo before grinning at the young kid who only giggled as an answer. “I was surprised to see your car early this morning. What time did you come home?” 

Y/N took a bite of the bacon before answering that it was already early morning when she arrived home. “You didn’t even tell us you were coming home.” Doyoung, the oldest of the brothers, claimed. The girl smiled, she didn’t even intend to come home. But her apartment is on the opposite way and she doesn’t want a man to struggle finding his way home. “Where have you been?” 

“Bachelorette party,” she answered quietly. 

“So that’s why Mr. Song thanked me for the Maserati.” the patriarch of the household claimed, smiling at her. “He was repeatedly thanking me as he saved a fortune for his future son-in-law’s gift.” 

Doyoung’s eyes widened in surprise, “A Maserati for a wedding gift? Y/N, aren’t you spending too much?” 

The girl reasoned out that the groom-to-be kept on complimenting her car so she decided to just give them a car instead. “And I took it from my funds so you don’t have to audit anything.” The eldest male smiled proudly at her. 

“Didn’t I set you up with that guy? From the hospital chain, right?” Y/N’s mother asked in a serious tone. The girl nodded. She did. “Have you been attending the meet-ups I set you up with?” The males on the table became quiet. “All your friends have been married, what do you plan to do with your life?” 

The younger female stared at the older. She now remembered why she hated going home. 

A small smile escaped her lips before eating her breakfast quietly. The father lightly coughed before continuing, “I heard you secured a deal with a French investor. That was amazing!” She nodded, smiling warmly at him. 

Y/N was about to share about the multi-million deal when the matriarch spoke up, “I’m scheduling a meet-up for you tomorrow night. You have to meet him.” She gave a heavy sigh before nodding. 

She shouldn’t have come home. 

—--

Jungwoo was talking on the phone the whole ride. It’s fascinating to Y/N how she was driving on the same road with a different person in the passenger seat. When he put down the phone, he only leaned on the leather chair and stared at her. “You know when I told Junyoung you’re home, he started sprinting to your room. He misses you so much.” 

The girl giggled at how endearing her younger brother was. “I did miss him as well,” she claimed then turned to the person in the passenger seat. “I also miss you, Woo.” 

The guy gave a hearty laugh and Y/N wondered how he resembled Junyoung so much. They both gave such a puppy vibe that it wasn’t hard to be close to him. “You saw me in the company yesterday.” 

“I always see your picture whenever I enter the company, Woo.” He laughed giddily. It isn’t even a surprise that the model Kim Jungwoo is the face of their own company and he has been great in that field ever since he started. With his tall height and very handsome face, the younger Kim evidently has everything. “Are you enjoying your work?” 

Jungwoo nodded. He had been modeling for different products, always on the magazine covers, and even walking the runways of New York, Milan, and Paris. “I wouldn’t even enjoy this if not for you.” Y/N shushed him. “I mean it, Y/N. Doyoung hyung feels the same way but you know he’s not good at expressing his emotions.” The girl shook her head, he shouldn’t say anything. “We’re thankful that you stepped up in this responsibility and Dad found his business-minded child in you.”

Y/N gripped the steering wheel harder. “I hope Mom,” then Jungwoo stopped. “I mean your mom eases up on you like what she does to the three of us.” 

She pursed her lips at that. Even if Jungwoo isn’t blood-related, she knows how sympathetic he is when he comes to her. He understands her better than she understands herself. Maybe that’s why she warmed up to him first when their father and her mother got married. When he asked if she could drive him to his photoshoot, she knew that he only wanted to talk to her about something.

“The guys introduced to you,” he started. “Are they truly that bad?” 

Y/N laughed at the question before nodding. “They’re spoiled jerks.” Jungwoo gave a groan of disgust that earned a chuckle from her. 

She’s very thankful for his stepbrother's presence in her life. 

—---

The valet was easily on her aid when she stopped the car in front of her apartment building. The staff of the high-end establishment greeted her as she made her way to the penthouse of the said building. Her own home. Her safe place. Y/N had only been out of the place for a night but she missed the place and the solitude it brings. 

Here, she could be who she truly is. 

Once settled in the room, she removed her light makeup and sat on the couch. She removed her contact lens, replacing it with her thick-rimmed glasses. The dark living room and the warm confines of her blanket made her sigh. 

“Don’t you feel lonely?”

The question came to her as she stared at her own reflection from the television. She had everything but why does she feel empty? She has a loving family, friends, and co-workers who seem okay but why does she feel alone? She is obviously happy with her life but why does she feel sad? 

Unconsciously, she stared at the cup of coffee warm in her hands. The color of darkness. Bitter coffee.  

Just like her life. 

One side of her lips curled up in a smirk, why is she so lonely? 

Even while listening to the presentation in front of her, her mind was on the endless questions forming in her mind. Should she stop obsessing about the company? She wasn’t even the chairman’s son, wasn’t even a blood relative. She’s only a daughter on paper, a stepdaughter. What makes her think that she can be the next president of the hard-earned family company? Maybe her mom was right. She should just marry rich and wish that her husband wouldn’t care about business and let her run the company. 

But it’s more of an idea than a reality as she listened to the conceited guy in front of her talk about how his father was happy that he had a chance to meet her. He kept addressing her as the company president’s daughter which made her think twice about why she agreed to meet him. And really, him? Her mom could do better. 

He’s not even as handsome as the guy she met the other night. Not as interesting to talk to. 

But why is she even comparing the two? 

This guy definitely has nothing against Yuta. 

When they were teens, she remembered her stepdad always telling his sons to always be a gentleman. Never let a girl open a door or hold her chair, always let her order first, and drive her home. Doyoung and Jungwoo both adhere to that and Y/N wouldn’t be surprised that her youngest brother, Junyoung, would be the same gentleman as his brothers. A quality the guy in front of her doesn’t have. 

She was thankful though. He had an eye-catching bright yellow Audi and the thought that someone could see her in that showy car made her shiver. Immediately, she texted Jungwoo that the date was a disaster and she hated the guy before putting her phone in her handbag. A piece of folded paper inside the handbag captured her attention. 

Maybe she’ll lessen her loneliness tonight. 

The strip club is different from what she imagined it to be. The bouncer just gave her a look while she headed inside, her fingers playing with the folded paper. The speakers boom sensual music and from the stage, she can see men in their small underwear grinding their bodies to the music. Women flock to the stage as the smell of sweat, alcohol, and cigarette smoke fills the lively gold-embellished room. 

This doesn’t seem like a good idea. 

What was the instruction again? Find the manager, give this paper, and ask for Yuta. Yuta Nakamoto. She tried to remember. 

“Hi baby girl,” someone called making her turn to the owner of the voice. She was wide-eyed when she was facing a shirtless man, smiling at her. “Are you lost?” Wait, she remembered him. The tall guy from the bachelorette party. He probably knows Yuta right? “You look like you’re new here.” 

She breathed heavily before handing him the piece of paper, “I’m looking for Yuta Nakamoto.” 

The guy stared at the paper before glancing at her with a questionable expression. “I’ll call him. Wait for me at the bar.” Y/N only nodded, walking to where he pointed at. 

The uniformed man tending the bar was smiling when she sat on one of the high chairs, asking her what she wanted to drink. Should she drink? But she needed to drive back to her apartment. In the end, she asked for a non-alcoholic drink. It’s a different environment that she kept on guarding herself. This is more nerve-wracking than presenting in front of board members. 

Is this even a good idea? Maybe she could still make an escape. 

“Hey,” Y/N turned to see Yuta smiling at her. He was wearing a denim vest with a gray tank top underneath and a cowboy hat. She was suddenly thankful that he was rather clothed unlike the guy earlier. “You came.” 

She mirrored the same smile as him. ���You said to find you when I wanted a drink.” 

Yuta chuckled, then eyed the drink that the bartender just served her. “Well, you wouldn’t be drunk with that.” 

“I have to drive back.” 

The guy shook his head, “I’ll get you a substitute driver.” Y/N nodded, putting her full trust in this man. “Whiskey?” Once again, she nodded. He ordered a bottle from the bartender and then glasses before asking Y/N to follow him. 

If the girl thought that was chaotic, she wasn’t prepared for the image by the hallways of the strip club. Couples were making out, not even reaching one of the many doors on both sides of the wall. It already seemed like a brothel. Now, she wonders what activities are happening inside the rooms. She shrugged, she didn't want to know.

Yuta opened one of the doors, letting the girl inside. He pushed open the lights which had a purple mood lighting that startled Y/N. With another push of the switch, the lights turned white. The room isn’t too bad. There was a couch in the middle with a small table, and a sound system located on the side of the room. The floor has a huge carpet but the ceiling has mirrors which she found odd. “Please feel at home,” The side of her lips curled up. That is a weird sentence. 

She sat down on the black leather couch as he put down the whiskey bottle and glasses on the table. Yuta walked to where the sound system was and started playing a sensual song that startled her. “Don’t mind the music, it’s just so the club manager won’t bother us.” 

Y/N lightly gulped at the idea that there were only the two of them inside the room so she tried easing her nerves by fidgeting on her seat and taking notice of anything around. Should she run away? Ask him how he was. “You’re wearing a cowboy outfit.” The girl noted as Yuta sat beside her on the couch. 

He started pouring drinks into one glass and handing it to her, “I was supposed to have a dance set next.” 

“Oh,” she claimed before drinking the whiskey in one gulp. That was so strong that she couldn’t help but hiss at the burning of her throat. “Then I came early.” Yuta smiled before pouring her whiskey. “You’re already making me drunk.” 

The guy laughed, “Isn’t that the idea why you’re here?” 

She smiled. It is. But it also isn’t at the same time. She now wondered why she was here in the first place. She took another gulp of the whiskey and then poured another into her glass, chugging the contents as if just drinking water. “I went on a date with a guy,” she started. Yuta just stared at her, listening intently. “He kept on saying that his father was happy that I agreed to see his son.” Another shot of whiskey. “Maybe his father was the one who wanted to marry me.” She tried to say it in the most humorous way possible. “Or they just want the company, not me.” 

Yuta brushed the strand of hair away from her face, staring at how she downed another shot of whiskey. “A company that isn’t mine to begin with.” She tried to pour the liquor into her glass but nothing came out of the bottle that made her chuckle. “In the end, I’m the only one who got drunk.” 

The guy smiled before giving her a light chuckle, “You’re so easily drunk, Y/N.” he teased while taking the empty bottle of whiskey. “Your face is so red.” 

She started feeling her cheeks and then her forehead before laughing at herself. She does feel warm. “I have never drank this much. My mom will definitely kill me.” Yuta chuckled at that then stood up to maybe get her something light to drink but before he could leave her side, she held his wrist. “Since I’m dying, do you think I can get that free lap dance tonight?” 

What the heck is wrong with this girl? She’s very unpredictable. 

Yuta sighed before sitting beside her, holding her warm cheek. “You are very drunk.” She shook her head, arguing that she was just tipsy. “You won’t die tonight, Y/N.”

“If I go home in this state, I might be.” 

Yuta laughed at that. She is a cute drunk. The music is still playing in the background and he guessed that it was just past the last half of the full song. “A little lap dance then I’ll get you a driver.” She nodded, making him smirk. How adorable. 

He had to walk back to the sound system, raising the volume. When he turned back to her, her eyes were on him and he felt self-conscious. He had been dancing for countless women before, even going as far as to give them private lap dances. But this was the first time that he got this nervous in front of someone. And she’s drunk for crying out loud. 

Yuta started swaying along the music, body rolling against the sensual beat, as he took gentle steps to her. His eyes locked on her expression but got annoyed that she wasn't showing much emotion. Slowly, he removed the denim vest followed by the tank top before kneeling on top of her. The stripper moved his body on her, hands on the headrest of the couch for balance. He’s shirtless, grinding against her, yet she still looks bored. And it frustrated him. 

Lap dances have different categories in Yuta’s book: the non-physical and the physical ones. He doesn’t need to explain it further. If you pay more, you’ll get the physical service. And although he knew this girl could pay, he offered this lap dance for free. Typical Yuta would keep on reminding in his head that it should be non-physical but the Yuta tonight, held her hand and placed it on his chest. He let her fingers trail south, warm skin against his. He had never liked someone’s touch like tonight. Her fingers were soft, her palm warm as she explored the muscles of his abdomen. 

It feels oddly sexy. Erotic, perhaps. 

His finger was on her chin, raising her head to face him. She’s very pretty with those glistening eyes, flushed cheeks, and plump red lips. Lips that looked so soft. He leaned closer, her breath warm and ticklish against his lips. Then the music came to a sudden stop. 

Yuta blinked in surprise before taking every self-control to get himself away from the girl. “I’ll call you a driver.” He walked briskly out of the room and into the bar where he asked for a glass of cold water. What the heck is wrong with him? Is he seriously trying to kiss her? He might be crazy. The bartender asked if he was alright and he just nodded, asking if he could call for a substitute driver. If he was a little embarrassed earlier, he’s more embarrassed now. He just wanted to be swallowed to the ground. Is this the result of having a beautiful client? Is it the result of his horniness these past nights? This is dangerous. 

“Hey,” he turned to the owner of the voice and there was Y/N, standing while tightly holding her handbag. “Thank you for tonight, Yuta.” She shouldn’t be thanking him. He almost did something sinful to her. There was a smile on her face, different from the expressionless face she had earlier. He felt betrayed that instant. Maybe she didn’t like his performance. “I left something for you back in the room.” 

The guy’s eyes squinted in confusion before standing from his chair to jog to the room. He offered the service for free so why is she paying him all of a sudden? And what is this obscene amount of money? This is way more than what Johnny or Taeyong gets from sleeping with their clients. He immediately returned outside with the empty whiskey bottle and glasses. “She’s rich, isn’t she?” Ten, the bartender, asked. “She paid for twenty bottles of whiskey but when I returned the payment to her, she claimed that I could keep it as a tip.” Why is she throwing money like this? “Just a week and you’ll probably be out of this club, Yuta hyung.” 

His feet started walking to go outside the club. Ten was right. If there is any way to help him get out of this club - to get out of this stripper business - it surely is this girl. But he cannot do that to her. She seemed to hate guys who only wanted her for money, guys who used her for their own comfort. 

He doesn’t want to be that kind of a guy. He cannot use her like this. 

Luckily, the car is still there. Yuta lightly knocked on the window of the driver’s seat and even Y/N looked surprised when the assigned driver asked Yuta what he wanted. The guy just pointed at her window and the driver immediately clicked on a button that pushed the tinted window of the backseat down. Yuta handed the thick cash back, “I gave you that service for free.” She was about to answer when he continued, “And this is too much for a tip, Y/N.” 

The girl only gave him a timid smile. “It’s fine, Yuta. Just keep it, you actually deserve more.” But the guy only laughed at how absurd that was. Is she even hearing herself? Or is she so out of touch with reality that she doesn’t know how huge this money is? “With your smile and handsome face, you should charge a million.” 

Fuck! Yuta thought. She’s fucking good at this game. And it’s pulling him in. He’s fucking interested.  

He wants her. 

So bad. 

“Then Y/N,” Yuta started in a low voice, leaning close that his arms were on the window of the car. “Sleep with me tonight.” 

Part Three

[apotodiplodocus]

Guard Dog

Hi! So I'm back, I had a whoopsie but I am OK now and feeling in a better head space! I will be finishing You're My Idol! But for now I'm making a start on the Pet AU fic I promised all those weeks ago! I hope this is a good enough apology for vanishing. :D

Growing up you lived in semi-luxury. Your parents, humble people, worked high up in some organisation, you’d never been given the opportunity to see. You loved your parents, loved they worked so hard to support you and give you everything you need, but at the same time you don’t like them. It wouldn’t be fair to say you hated them because you didn’t. You didn’t like that they were never home, you didn’t like that while they tried to spare you from the truth you KNEW they did bad things, awful things, and they enjoyed it. It was hard to accept with a nanny that taught you to be good, kind and charitable, that your parents could do so much harm but only care for you and each other.

 

So as soon as you could, you moved out of their house, not their home, because it had never really been one. Too clean and quiet to be a home. You started working at a non-profit and life was good, you had a good life, occasionally having money battles with your parents where they would send you some money, you would send it back and then they would send back more until it was way too much, and you couldn’t bear the idea of them sending even more. In those cases, you would donate at least half of it to various charities. Only keeping the rest for any necessary repairs or emergency fund, knowing they would only send you more if they found out you gave it all away, and they would find out. Three years after you moved out you received a call from your mother. She was frantic, begging you to lock all your doors and windows and to hide in the deepest darkest corner you could find. They had pissed off the wrong person for too long and now people were after you. You were terrified, furious, and worried for your parents. So many conflicting emotions you didn’t have time to sort through while you did as instructed and trembled in the hardest to reach place you could.

 

The night passed and nothing happened. Nothing happened for a long time, you were crouched in that space for hours, muscles cramped and feeling like even if you wanted to get out, by now you probably couldn’t even move. It was around 5am when a brick flies through your window, shattering the glass, landing with a dull thud on your living room floor. You shock yourself when you find you can move, your hand coming up to slap against your mouth and muffle any sound. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait but nothing happens. You wait even longer this time and exhausted from all the fear and tension, you pass out. By the time you wake up its 3pm, you listen for 5 minutes and when you hear nothing you slowly climb out of your hiding space. There has been no news from your parents yet. But you can’t cower for ever, you’ve been hiding for almost a day, you are starving having just gotten back from work when you started hiding. You settle for crawling around your home to get what you need and hopefully stay out of sight. Once fed you receive a text from your mother telling you to pack your bags, they were on their way to pick you up.

 

As angry as you are, now is not the time to refuse. Someone wants to harm you, so obediently, you pack your things and when they arrive settle into the back seat, feeling safer with your parents in their tinted window car. They slap a wig on you and make you wear sunglasses. No-one speaks, barely breathes. They drive for hours, only stopping to quickly grab some last second things from a petrol station at 9pm. That short window where they are out of the car and distracted that you are dragged from the car. A hand is enclosed over your mouth, the other dragging you by the waist. They take you behind the petrol station, and into the forest, seemingly unperturbed by how hard you’re kicking and punching. In the only moment of clear thinking you have, you jam your fingers up your assailant’s nose and push upwards as hard as you can, hooking your nails into their flesh. They yell and let go of you out of reflex, you push off them, sending them hurtling backwards and throwing you forwards. You stumble but just focus on running, you sprint as fast as you can. In the commotion you lost track of your direction and realise if you were going in the right direction, you would have reached the car by now.  Having just run probably further into the forest you freeze and climb the nearest tree. You haven’t climbed a tree in years but in this moment, you are basically a master. Settled on a high branch, you have to adjust your wig so you can see properly and realise your sunglasses vanished at some point.

 

Not too long after you’ve finally slowed your breathing, the man arrives and looks around desperately. He takes off in a random direction when he hears a noise, but not even a minute later you hear yelling and he sprints back past your tree, something fast, so incredibly fast following immediately behind. Just out of sight behind the leaves of a different tree you hear the man being torn apart. Viscera seeping into view ever so slightly. Once the screaming stops, the figure, now covered in gore, appears at the bottom of the tree. You see bright eyes looking up at you and gasp. It had already known you were there; had it been watching? Strands of your wig cloud your vision again and you swipe at them moving them out of the way. It opens its arms to you in a welcoming gesture which just terrifies you further. It clears its throat and opens its mouth, exposing red tinted sharp teeth.

 

“Ume?” It speaks. Confused you don’t move, the voice is creaky, like it hasn’t been used in a while and it has a vulnerability to it, it’s masculine and its terrifying. You can recognise the intent though, it’s quiet and calming in a strange way that when he makes no more movements, convinces you to slowly come down. You carefully shimmy your way down and now stood before him, you realise he towers over you, at least 6 foot 5 possibly more.

 

“Ume? Who is that?” You question gently, keeping your distance cautiously. His arms twitch and withdraw slowly. He seems to realise something and, faster than you can comprehend, grabs your wig from your head hauling it away. The white strands glimmer in the moonlight and it makes you feel so naked, too seen with it off you. He snarls, throws the wig to the ground and turns away from you crouching, one hand over the back of his head and the other scratching deep marks into his neck. Blood spills down what of his neck you can see, mingling with the mud and viscera splashed on him. You gasp and step forward to stop him, but he whirls around and bares his teeth at you. A clear threat. You stop in your tracks and hold your open palms out, eyes on the wound that is now quickly closing. It dawns on you, he’s a demon. A loose demon. There are marks on his neck and wrists that look to be from prolonged exposure to wisteria laced restraints. Your heart shatters a little bit.

 

“Wait! I can help you. You want to find Ume, right?” You whisper, looking from his eyes to those monstrous teeth and both long nailed hands. His eyes narrow and you spot for the first-time little marks in his irises, kanji that indicate pure blood. Strong blood. His posture relaxes just slightly, waiting for you to continue but staying poised to attack if he doesn’t like the proposal. “I work with a charity that deals with rescuing and homing abused demons! I can use that to look for them I’m assuming they’re a loved one, right? Oh, and I can tell you’re a pure blood, if they are a loved one, I can see if there’s any demons with the same markings and take you to her.”

You don’t think about what will happen to you if you fail and you can’t find her, you don’t want to think about it.

 

He contemplates, eyes still wild and staring through you. He crouches to your level looking you in the eye with an intensity you’ve never experienced.

 

“… My sister. If you’re lying, I will tear you apart and make you watch.” He threatens, an amused almost excited grin spreading across his face, like he’s convinced you are lying and is just waiting to be proved right.

 

“OK. I understand. In return, I want you to protect me.” You say hesitantly and quickly expand on your request when he bares his teeth again. “There are bad people after me, I can’t find your sister if I’m killed in my sleep! All you need to do is stay with me, be pampered, and make sure no-one suffocates me!” You throw in pampering to sweeten the deal. He stops again, smirk returning. He says nothing but visibly relaxes. He stands, slouched now, he knows you aren’t a threat, couldn’t be if you tried. He gestures for you to start walking, pointing in what you assume is the direction of the petrol station. You don’t hesitate, walking a bit more confidently now, backed up by the strongest demon you’ve ever come across.

 

When you reach the petrol station, you are dumbfounded to find your parents car long gone. Some part of you was convinced they wouldn’t leave you. The demon behind you watches you slump to your knees staring at where the car had been. Collecting yourself takes a moment and a couple of tears rolling down your cheeks but you take a deep breath and stand up, brushing off some of the mud and debris from your scuffle.

 

“OK. Should have guessed. They probably just assumed I was long gone or dead. I can understand that. They’re still assholes, but I get it.” You mumble to yourself. The demon behind you giggles a little, seeming to take pleasure in your disbelief and abandonment. You let the feelings wash over you but then push on. “First things first, I saw a motel about ten minutes that way,” You point in the direction you had come from “I’ll get a room there, sneak you in get you cleaned up and then tomorrow we can go back to my apartment, and I’ll start looking for your sister.” You state in a matter-of-fact manner. The demon nods following behind you while you walk. It’s a good thing its dark out, walking around with a blood-soaked demon would not end well for either of you.

 

It takes you half an hour to get to the motel, it was a longer walk than drive coupled with the fact you both had to hide in the treeline when a car would pass so they wouldn’t see your new companion. On the walk you question him, asking question after question, the only answers you get to any of them is when you ask him his name.

 

“… Gyutaro.” He states looking straight ahead. You quirk an eyebrow.

 

“Just Gyutaro? If you have a last name, it could help me find your sister. Even if it was a past owner.” The word leaves a bad taste in your mouth but it’s the truth. His body stiffens a bit mid stride but relaxes again just as fast.

 

“Shabana.” You roll the name round in your mind, getting used to the sound, and searching your mind to think if you’d seen or heard it before. Not finding anything you don’t panic; you don’t remember everything you see it could still be somewhere in the records.

 

“Gyutaro Shabana and Ume Shabana.” Gyutaro doesn’t even look at you when you say it so you just focus on the walk and try to use clues to figure out how she might look. You see so many demons that insist they don’t have a name or don’t remember it, it might be easier to find her by appearance. Though Gyutaro is so encrusted with mud and gore you can barely see him. His hair is both flat and matted, twigs and leaves sticking out in every direction the only thing clean about him is his eyes, but they seem to have an unhealthy yellow colour to them. Though that might just be what they look like usually. When you do reach the motel, you have him hang back in the tree line while you book the room, you mime the number to him behind your back and gesture for him to go around the back to the window. As nonchalantly as you can you make your way inside the room, locking the door behind you and heading straight for the bathroom window.

 

Watching him squeeze his way through the tiny window is almost kind of impressive. Though once he is through you have to wipe away the grime he left behind. He takes his time looking around the room while you do.

 

“Gyutaro? You OK? You’ll want to have a quick shower before you have a bath… Gyutaro?” You called through the open door first, but when he doesn’t respond you poke your head out the door. He’s just sat on the bed seeming to be testing the comfort. When he spots you, he stands straight up like he was burned by the bed.

 

“It’s OK you can sit there for a minute if you want.” You smile, rolling your sleeves up so you can test the water temperature. As a demon, temperature probably doesn’t matter to him but you want to put in the care.

 

“But I’m covered in shit.” He states, looking at you like you’re stupid.

 

“Sheets can be washed, and there’s always spares if they get too messy to sleep in, go wild.” He hums and sits back down, gently bouncing on the springs. After checking the temperature and unpacking the soaps from the drawers you call him in for the shower. You show him how to adjust the temperature and leave him to his own devices. Not even a minute late you hear him slip and fall in the bathtub, most likely not having prepared himself. You knock on the door quickly.

 

“Gyutaro, are you OK?” You call. You don’t know why you’re concerned, he’s an adult demon, it would take more than that to hurt him and he wouldn’t die from a broken neck. Unless he found some way to decapitate himself. Right before you were going to open the door to check on him, he grunts out a confirmation and you hear him moving around. “OK, be careful.” He grunts again and you turn back to the room. To your amusement you see that at some point he flopped onto his back and made a mud angel on the bed. It was kind of endearing and heartbreaking at the same time, who knows how long it’s been since he had any form of comfort?

 

It briefly crosses your mind that maybe you should be more scared I this situation. You just got kidnapped, fought for your life, saw someone get eviscerated right in front of you, got abandoned by your parents and now you have to find a demon’s sister, or you’ll be killed in the same way as your kidnapper. You take this moment to hold yourself and try to come to terms with everything. Sorting through your feelings as best you can, you realise you should message your parents, let them know you’re still alive, and pissed at them. Oh, so very pissed. You send a scathing text but put your phone down, you can’t deal with whatever their response is right now, you just want them to stew in what they’ve just put you through. Maybe for once they might feel regret.

 

Eventually the shower stops, and you realise you forgot to give him a towel. As your reaching for one the door swings open, making you gasp and turn away.

 

“Gyutaro!” You want to scold him, but no words come out, you feel too awkward, so you hold the towel out behind you.

 

“What?” He snaps back, taking the towel.

 

“What do you mean what? You know what!” You exclaim still pointedly looking away. He stalks past you, towel around his waist and you properly see his body for the first time, in the awful fluorescent lighting and with no dirt obscuring it. You are shocked by how skinny he is, he had all that power in such a malnourished body? What is he like when he isn’t starving? There are black ink like splodges that litter his pallid body like constellations and you see his hair is two toned, black and green.

 

“I don’t know what you’re yapping about. It’s just my dick.” He snorts throwing himself onto the couch, towel just about staying on.

 

“Exactly! It’s private, I’m not getting my… bits out.” You look to the side getting progressively more flustered. You drag your hands down you face before wiping your hands of the situation. “Whatever, in future please keep yourself covered.” You scold.

 

“With what?” He shrugs at you, giving you that disgusted look again.

 

“Good point. I need to find you some clothes…” You stare at him, trying to guess his size and he takes notice, snarling at you.

 

“What?! Just realising how ugly I am? I bet you don’t even know how lucky you are, good looking, that car you came in sure did look nice, how much was it? Probably more than I’ve ever seen, good for you. Good for you.” He mumbles the last bit.

 

“No! Nothing like that, I’m just trying to guess what size clothes you are. You have broad shoulders, muscular arms… A tiny waist and long legs…” Are you… Attracted to that? Have you always been attracted to demons? Let along such strange ones? You can unpack that can of worms another time and preferably not in front of the demon in question. “I’m just gonna pop out and see if they have anything in lost and found. Don’t make too much noise, I’m supposed to be the only one in here.” He waves you away turning over on the couch, back now facing you.

 

When you eventually convince the front desk clerk to look through the lost and found you manage to find a huge coat, some slacks, and a pair of brogue shoes. And odd match overall but it’ll do to get you back to your apartment. By the time you come back to the room Gyutaro is dead asleep or pretending to be, so he doesn’t have to talk about you. Either way, you leave the clothes on a chair nearby and quietly undress. You hadn’t the foresight to grab some clothes for yourself once you realised you were also covered in mud, undressing was your only comfortable option. You slipped straight into the covers and think about how Gyutaro could have taken over the bed while you were gone but didn’t and you want to believe he chose to let you have it which is too much faith to have in a demon you’ve just met.

But you drift off peacefully, feeling safe in the knowledge that Gyutaro is a few feet away.

[walk-to-gallows]

Mary was too much. The show spent to much time in the past they didn’t need to drag Mary back into their lives for MORE FAMILY DRAMA. There were so many options for Amara to grant Dean some wish or some desire that he wanted there was no reason to dig into his rat nest of a life and drag Mary from heaven as some gift to Dean. To me that was as bad as 11 or 12 seasons later we had to put up with meeting Sam’s imaginary friend. They didn’t ring us dry of Sam pity enough? Do we need something more weird from his life to ring the tears from us?

While I didn’t sit at home hating or blogging about her in some crazy negative way. I think I only made one post about her right after she appeared but I was happy to see her go.

Yeah, you're getting the full rant; Mary was a reclamation.

Like most horror media, Supernatural has a bad habit of fridging its female characters to give its male characters a fighting reason. Up until her resurrection, Mary was only present in the past, she was just a memory rather than a person, the perfect mother, perfect wife, perfect woman because she was dead.

Of course killing off a family member is a customary trick of the trade, it’s strong stuff for motivating your characters, but when your pilot opens with not one, but two female characters being killed for the sake of their male partners arc, there’s a problem there.

Mary’s return is important for many reasons. Her presence parallels Jack’s, the ghost of the past and the hope of the future, the undead and the newly born. She represents autonomy being given to women in horror, like Kelly Kline, these women aren’t just hills for men to die on anymore.

Mary is the beginning, she’s the start of it all. Her return was hardly heralded in a way that made us expect her, but she’s not a random prize. Mary’s death has been the catalyst of Sam and Dean’s entire life, and as they move on to the future, there’s a need for them to reconcile with the past, especially with Jack’s introduction.

From this ask and your next, I'm guessing you're much more a fan of Dean than Sam, and I won't lie, my preferences lie that way too, but I fear that you're letting your biases cloud your judgement.

Mary's return has much more to do with Dean than Sam, Dean was four when Mary died, he actually remembers her. Her return spurs a whole new arc for him where he has to come to terms with her absence in his life and the glorified version of her that he grew up with as a result of his young age, Dean feels abandoned by his mother both in the past and in the present.

And once again, with Jack's introduction and Dean's role as one of his parents, there's more for Dean to move through. Dean was incredibly involved in Sam's childhood, and yet now when he's an adult he find himself often emotionally unavailable like his own father was once.

Not to mention, Sam and Dean's lives have been tightly intertwined beyond what is normal for most siblings, they've spent years apart, but they've often only had each other to rely on. Most things that concern one of them will also concern the other. Yes, Mary's return gives Sam a chance to know his mother the way he was never able to, but it also gives Dean the opportunity to reconcile with his childhood, to say things to his mother he never thought he'd be able to say, to resolve a part of his life that has been an open, festering wound.

Dean lost his father to hunting, it's something he struggles to reconcile with (which is why 14x13 is so important but that's another rant). It's part of the reason he's defensive of Sam's criticism of John, because Dean remembers a time when John was attentive and gentle, and not the soldier he regressed to.

In season 1, we see Sam learn that side of John, the part of him that put away money into a college fund for his boys, that hoped for a future free from bloodshed, and he comes to terms with the loss of a father he had never gotten the chance to know.

This is what Dean gets with Mary, the chance to know his mother as she was, as a person and an individual. The resentment that Sam carried for John is comparable to that which Dean carries for Mary, it's a one-dimensional view of their parents, anger at what they weren't just as much as what they were. Dean blames Mary for his childhood, and while I don't think the culpability rests on her, it is that unresolved anger that brings his mother back to him.

Mary gets a second chance at life, Dean gets a second chance with his mother, and he brings her back to him. I really find it difficult to understand how so many people dismiss this plot line, because not only does it parallel the way Sam and Dean slowly lost their father to the hunting life, it is a direct result of Dean's lingering anger and grief that makes Mary their mother again. She avoids them, throws herself back into hunting because it's what's familiar in this world that has aged beyond her, and the guilt of seeing her boys, who have grown despite her absence, is too much to bear. Dean forces her past this guilt, he allows her to forgive herself because he hates her for being gone, but he loves her too, and her knowing that her absence now counts as much as her absence then is what changes everything.

The character writing in supernatural is something that can be so good, I hate to see the hate-train on Mary coming at full speed because she didn't live up to audience expectations (never mind that those expectations were based on snapshots of her from her grieving husband and sons, or the younger and "innocent" version of her). Anyway, you're free to dislike Mary, at the end of the day my opinion is my opinion and yours is your own, but the fact of the matter is that Mary's return was incredibly significant for the overall plot, and Dean's character arc and growth.

[cainightfics]

instead of answering all the asks individually, im just going to address the main question in one post...

where have i been? am i coming back?

tldr: 1) lots of places 2) yes

to answer in greater detail, it rly all begins with the night i made the horrible decision to hit submit on my application to grad school: december 15 2022. now i would not say grad school in itself has been horrible. my last life update in 2023 i was super broke and not doing well-- since then ive gotten scholarships, funding, and job opportunities, so contrary to most people's experience with grad school ive actually appreciated a (mostly) very financially stable existence here. i am just, to put it bluntly, tired. over the past 2 years, due to both my education and the general state of the world, ive had very little will to write fic. ive spent much of my time producing academic work or writing fiction elsewhere. i burned out bad writing my graduating honours thesis in 2023 and have been bombarded with similarly draining long term projects since. i became a semi-notable scholar in my micro-field and have been at conferences all around the world, on projects funded by the government, teaching classes etc but im ready for it to be over. im glad to have had the experience, but when i graduate in a couple months, i won't miss the mental exhaustion. im the type of person that values my freedom too much for all that.

aside from that, ive had 10 jobs in the last 2 years and been doing tons of random shit lol. i learned pretty early on into grad school that despite my success here, academia is really not my thing, so to deal with my disillusionment i started just doing whatever the fuck on weekends. why am i disillusioned? because there is systemic rot that becomes increasingly ridiculous and hypocritical the further up you get, most things you do are either pointless or happen on such a slow timeline they are rendered pointless through the slog, and because it's basically a pyramid scheme.

beyond the structural issues, a lot of people here are... kind of dumb. or maybe not dumb, but disappointing. i haven't made any friends here. that's definitely partially my fault, but also, i just don't find a lot of these people super inspiring or interesting or fun. i think im kind of the crazy person of my program lol. as some of you may know from my previous ask replies i have a very pessimistic and doomer mentality... and something about the insularity and toxic optimism of many ppl in academia bothers me. also you know when you can tell someone has never had the formative experience of working in customer service and being screamed at, assaulted, or threatened by a customer? and so without that formative experience they are annoyingly fresh and naive and innocent and nervous about everything and haven't been beaten down by life in a way that's made them more chill and empathetic? imagine that but it's every person in the room because you are at an elite school known for nepotism and everyone there grew up rich. yeah.

so onto the random shit ive been doing. ill just include the highlights

- found and raised a baby raven

- lived in the woods and survived off shoplifting and fishing for a portion of the winter

- became a cowboy for a bit

- harvested weed for two days, never got paid

- also randomly worked on a pirate ship for like 4 hrs

- went to mexico with 100usd

- went to nyc and visited e corp and elliots house and realized for myself how much elliots commute in-show doesn't make sense lol

- got a job at a maid cafe bc i thought it would be funny and they guilted me into working there for a full month

- very nearly got arrested while trying to ride the rails, had to hide in a cold metal rail car for 2 hrs in the middle of nowhere while i was literally hunted down

- for a while got very into the idea of becoming a hermit and living in a cave (may still revisit this in some way)

those are kind of the highlights! and the whole time i was plagued by the thought that i needed to go back to ao3 and finish what i started....

on a serious note, ive realized over the past 2 years that im not really built for a stable life. its not that i look down on it per say, i just can't do it. im incompatible with the life we are "supposed" to live according to the current cultural hegemony. what i enjoy is reading for fun, writing for fun, exploring, investigating, solving puzzles. when i feel stifled and overwhelmed, i can't focus on that. i do think the experience of grad school has helped me grow, but the development is almost negative-- that was my shot at taking a normal trajectory, or at trying to find validation and solace in a traditional setting. i realized the feedback and sort of affective dialectic of interacting with you, of writing and having my work read by an audience who shares the same interests as me, is far more fulfilling than what ive been doing. im really looking into trying to pursue a life where i can be somewhat self sufficient and have lots of time (and not just time, mental energy!!) for creative stuff. i have become increasingly pessimistic about our collective future and about The State Of Things, but at the same time, ive found existential freedom in giving up on the life everyone tells me i should be living

so anyways. if u feel inclined, i'd like to know what you've been up to as well!!

[azspot]

Not to get super technical here but, because private companies are constantly trying to maximize profits, they have an ENORMOUS and NEVER-ENDING incentive to chip away at the cost of employee benefits. So it is unsurprising that, over time, such benefits will be jettisoned by employers at the first possible opportunity. I know I am speaking in generalities here, but this pretty much captures the trap we have gotten into: 1) Tie necessary life-sustaining benefits to employment, rather than building a universal public government-funded safety net. 2) Erode the unions which are the only force that prevent companies from engaging in a race to the bottom on the quality of these benefits. 3) The benefits go away and people die. In a mature and serious country, “workplace benefits” would be things like, you know, “a variety of free bagels.” Not stuff like “your health insurance” or “your ability to avoid poverty in your old age.” Remarkably stupid system. Really idiotic.

The Employer-Based Social Safety Is a Disaster. We Can End It.

[not-goldy]

I just want to be honest and speak without being emotional and biased towards bts , like yg have the opportunity to go to his home everyday and I'm sure he can work on his music from home and do the military duty as office job while the other boys especially jm jk and jin really being living in nowhere they can't even breath freely they working their ass off to go through that fouking serving shit , and still he managed to ruin it for himself he could have a 100 drivers and they could drive him home with the most expensive cars or go with taxi but he himself make the decision the media maybe take it to far but this what media do all over the world , army love to always make it like kmedia do it just for bts but this is what they do for everyone like I remember not so long they make a big deal of gdragon being drunk even though his tests was clean and they bring him to court and in the end he was really clean , yg going to the police station is not the big deal that army claims , he did wrong while he is serving and they question his behaviour and thats it , they should keep it Low and doesn't give it to much attention instead of cutting k media including jin up coming shows !!!! Like how they work !! jin working on this shows since the day he discharged and now army want to sacrifices His work for another member's bad decision while hyping western media that just last month have being shady towards jm and they have always been shady towards bts , dropping jm music and using his funds for useless movement , I just want army for once to forget their own prideful mindset and just shut up

I don't think you're saying this because you hate Yoongi. If you do my BS detector isn't picking it up.

And I understand your point of view and where you're coming from.

I just want to say Yoongi isn't doing his service this way because he is privileged. He was injured had surgery and couldn't go through that rigorous harsh system the others are going through.

Jin is brave and strong for conquering that and moving on with his life. Now the government has nothing on him.

The others will be free eventually too.

I think Yoongi should have been exempted all together. Jimin has chronic back pains and BTS as a group deserved an exemption.

Personally I think the laws in Korea are too strict and paternalistic but that's besides the point.

As for Army, I think they are doing what any Fandom would do- support and attack and defend. How big this thing gets, how much people speak against it, how much media attention and international attention it gets can either help or hurt his situation.

If they aren't being fair to him it shall be met with such worldwide condemnation it will push foreskin off dicks. That's the power of Army and the beauty of having amassed such following.

It would be strange if the Fandom went silent and watched this whole thing unfold don't you think??

People are just worried about him that's all. I'm actually worried too cos I feel this whole hing has been blown out of proportion. Any person in that situation perhaps would have been slapped with a warning but like you said because I a kpop idol and a member of BTS people wanna scapegoat him.

People want to humiliate BTS so bad they want humble them and some higher ups want a leash around their neck and will go after them for anything.

And they are falling out of favor with the sky man thems so if I feel they should all be careful how they move.

I know he screwed up, didn't think this whole situation will escalate but I also feel he is prepared to face the law. Actually, you know what? I'm gonna go ahead and research the law on this to understand the situation much better cause I'm hating this every second I write about it.

I think falling off a scooter in front of his own apartment when he wasn't even driving on the road and putting his life and the other's life at risk- is crazy how far this whole thing has gotten. Crazy

Just hope he is doing alright and is prepared mentally for all of this cos from his pov it would seem like everything he has spent his entire career to build is coming crashing i hate it here