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illusionnet · 13 days ago

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Check this new post by @armysantiny "A Cup of Spiced Tea - JWY"

A Cup of Spiced Tea – JWY

P: Jung Wooyoung x male reader | G: one-shot, fluff, angst | Inc: columnist!Wooyoung, coffee shop owner!reader, born vampire!reader, eventual turned vampire!Wooyoung, turned vampire!Yeosang, mentioned Lee Know, mentioned Changbin, mentioned Yeonjun, mentioned Yoongi, mentioned Hoseok, set in suburban town, again sorta based on the town I live in, Wooyoung overthinks a lot, y/n has a fledgeling (oc character), Wooyoung suspecting his best friend is a vampire, fostering-esque dynamics, slow-blooming attraction between Wooyoung and y/n, Wooyoung is attacked, bite scenes, casual and graphic depictions of blood | Wc: 10.5k

W: assault from feral vampire, blood loss, graphic depictions of blood and vampire bite, falling unconscious from blood loss, leg injury (from Yeonjun), anymore please lmk! | R: 15

Summary: Wooyoung can’t do this anymore, can’t keep working otherwise he might just start losing his mind. Thankfully, his boss isn’t a cruel oligarch, so he’s off for a six-month long career break, tasked with nothing but one request; to re-find his inspiration and return to work afterwards with fresh eyes. Luckily enough, finding inspiration is easy; tea and coffee shop A Bite for Tea has all of that in heaps and bounds, the only hard part is trying to ignore all the oddities surrounding the place. And about the people around him, now that he isn’t buried neck deep in work anymore.

Min's notes: I know it's past Christmas, but! Here's my secret santa fic, @nebulousbrainsoup! I enjoyed every moment writing this fic, lux, and I really hope you enjoy reading this as well. I will admit, having you give me advice for this fic all the while knowing I was writing this for you was incredible lmao, I kept wondering if you could somehow tell. Again, hope you enjoy this, I can't wait to start planning out and writing part two to this. This is by far the longest thing I have ever written ^-^

Part 2 (coming soon)

“…and what I’m really trying to say is that I need a break. A long one, I think.” Wooyoung’s chest heaves as he gets the last word out, fists clenched tightly in his lap. So tight in fact that he’s digging his nails into his palms, pain blooming underneath that he’s hardly registering. Sitting here like this, in Editor Lee’s office awaiting a verdict like he’s on trial is beyond daunting, and it’s doing his racing heart no favours at all. His ears are ringing too. And despite the fact Wooyoung knows for certain that his boss is watching him, the name plaque on the desk looks leagues more interesting than the prospect of meeting the older man’s gaze.

At least if his request gets denied and discarded much like his last failed submission, Wooyoung won’t have to look into the eyes of MayFly Arts’ Chief Editor, Lee Minho.

God, he can hear it now already, can’t he? Editor Lee’s tongue clicking in disappointment before the bombshell is dropped on him and Wooyoung will be left to pick up the pieces of his career from the bottom of his broken heart. He’ll have to find a new job. Go through interview after interview. Promote himself like some cheap sellout artist. Rework his resume over and over again. All the hassle he hasn’t had to do in the last five years because there is no way he's walking out of this office with his job still intact—

“Jung Wooyoung-ssi?” Is what breaks Wooyoung out of his spiral, the unusually calm voice of Editor Lee gently taking hold of his attention. The older man has never looked at him so…warmly before, as far as he remembers, that it makes Wooyoung shrink back even further into his seat. He’s sure he looks like some sort of frightened prey animal, now that he thinks about it. “What do you think I’m going to say?”

A trick question. It has to be.

“Uhh…that I should get back to work?” Wooyoung all but squeaks out, somehow maintaining eye contact. Yet that also happens to be the wrong answer…? Seriously, how is he getting this all wrong? He’s the highest rated columnist in their department, figuring this out should be child’s play.

Editor Lee’s face falls, expression morphing into what the columnist can only describe as concern. Can’t be concern for himself, surely, his recent performance has been plummeting faster than those dumb cars-dropping-in-different-gravity videos Changbin shows him during their lunch breaks. Watching in abject horror as his boss gets up out of his chair and walks on over to sit in the chair beside him, Wooyoung has absolutely no frame of reference for his reaction to the next ten words that come out of the Chief Editor’s mouth.

“I’ll grant you your career break, Wooyoung. You deserve it.”

Oh. Well then.

Just like that. Just like that, the rope of tension and fear and potential unemployment are cut and Wooyoung’s shoulders all but slump in relief. He’d cry if he hadn’t already spent a good ten minutes in bathroom before this unleashing the flood gates of tears he was keeping at bay. Instead, he blinks, entirely astonished all the while he thinks he’s breaking out into a smile. Maybe. Hopefully. Honestly it’s been so long since he’s genuinely smiled the action itself feels odd.

“Thank you, sir, really, I appreciate this more than you could—”

“There is one thing I’m going to ask of you though,” Editor Lee begins, and frankly, at this point there’s nothing Wooyoung won’t do for this man after the generosity he’s been bestowed. “And it’s to return to work with fresh eyes and some real inspiration. We both know you’ve been less than happy with your work—as good as it is regardless—so you’re going to go home after work today, rest, and I’m not going to hear a word from you until after those six months are up. Sound good to you?”

“That sounds good. Really good.”

And it still sounds good as Wooyoung punches in the code to his apartment and steps inside, kicking his shoes to the side and dropping his things on the closest surface before making a beeline for his sofa and unceremoniously plopping down on it. It’s almost surreal, now that he’s sitting here at home, thinking about the weight that’s been lifted off of his chest. His first major time off work in god knows how long—five years, three months and ten days, not that anyone’s counting—and Wooyoung almost can’t believe it. Almost. There’s so much he wants to do with the time off he has, the only problem now is figuring out what to do first, staring into the void of his unlit TV screen with only his reflection staring back at him.

What to do…what to do…

He could call someone. The last time he managed to find time to hang out with Yeosang was a few weeks ago, and the other man should be finishing his shift right about now…

It’s the sound of coffee machines and distant background chatter that greets Wooyoung as soon as his lifelong friend answers the video call, Yeosang balancing his phone off of something or other as he unties his apron. In the few seconds of silence between the two of them, Wooyoung unabashedly allows his eyes to linger on his friend’s physique, a low whistle slipping past his lips. Not like he can be blamed, right? Sue him for having pretty best friends.

“Are you done ogling me now?” Yeosang deadpans from the other side of the phone, the other man’s device clearly in his hands as he watches Wooyoung nod like a satisfied cat. But it’s all clearly just fine when Yeosang continues, “My shift’s over, I’m almost done grabbing all of my stuff, how are you? Everything alright?”

“Oh, it’s more than alright over here; I have news~” Wooyoung starts, sitting up in preparation for his big reveal. As the columnist’s longest friend, Yeosang’s been his biggest ever supporter in operation Take a Goddamn Break. “I am happy to report that I have done it!”

“Done it..?”

Wooyoung nods. Again.

“Done…” a few seconds of confused Yeosang mutterings later, realisation strikes the other man like a freight train. “Your career break?! Your boss allowed you to take a break?”

Wooyoung almost wants to cry with relief, grinning through incredulous laughter as Yeosang almost appears to pack his things together at record speed. His heart feels warm, overjoyed that Yeosang is just as happy as he is. He chats with Yeosang for a little while longer, listening to other man recount his day as well, hanging onto every word with enthusiasm.

“Hey, how do you feel about a celebration?” Yeosang blurts out, his eyes looking at something past the screen that Wooyoung can’t quite make out. “A successful operation calls for one…and the guys at work really recommend this one takeout place I’m looking at right now.”

…Fuck it, why not?

Decked out in casual clothes, a spread of fried chicken and cans of beer between them, Wooyoung cuddles right up against Yeosang as he reaches for another chicken drumstick, nearly cackling at the drama on screen alongside his friend’s half-stumped half-frustrated commentary on the plot. In all honesty, Wooyoung can’t even remember the name of whatever it is that they’re watching, having far too much fun acting like the pair of them are naïve university students again staying up late before a nine am lecture and not the busy—and overworked, one would argue—working adults that they are. And it’s no crime, returning to the bliss of their younger years, if just for the night.

So, he indulges himself in another piece of fried chicken, graciously moving to the side so Yeosang can get up and grab an extra can from the fridge. A can of what, he doesn’t recall, and neither does he recall Yeosang ever looking so…buff before. Has he been working out? And how didn’t he notice when he was using the other man like a glorified body pillow?

“I’m going to start charging you, you know that?” There’s a cold press on Wooyoung’s forehead. Looking up from the Yeosang-shaped wall of muscle to the man himself with a sheepish smile, and with a much closer view of the barista than before, the smile morphs into something more curious. Searching.

“Mhm,” is the columnist’s non-committal response, squinting his eyes to get a closer look. Yeah, no, surely there’s something different. “Sang-ah, I should’ve asked, but when did all of this happen? Swear the last time I saw you, there was considerably less muscle. I mean— not that I’m complaining!”

Yeosang clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he goes to sit down, ever the bashful man about his own appearance. It’s almost too easy to make him flustered, and Wooyoung wants to take advantage of that fact, but he’s feeling merciful tonight. And the subject of his questioning has provided him with an offering. Another can of beer. Sweet.

“So~?”

“Alright, alright,” Yeosang concedes, “I started going to the gym with some of the hyungs from work, and they helped me stick to my old workout plan. It’s really helped…clearly.”

“What about the looking like you haven’t seen the sun in three months?” Wooyoung asks, leaning in close. In turn, Yeosang also leans back, deftly opening his can with the free hand not currently holding the columnist a normal distance away from his face.

“I’ve been streaming more now; it’s properly taken off and everything. So…I haven’t really been outside much lately. That a good enough answer, Mr Journalist?”

“I am a columnist thank you very much!” And yes, of course it is, Wooyoung doesn’t say.

“Eh, same thing.”

A weekend later and with the beginning of his career break well underway, there’s nothing much for Wooyoung to do at the impeccable time of five in the morning. And there’s no hope of getting back to sleep. His body clock is far too adjusted for that. Lying in bed and staring at the ceiling won’t give him all the answers and neither will photosynthesising from the sunlight filtering through his blinds, so Wooyoung hauls himself up, swinging his legs over the edge and stretches like a well-rested cat. If he can’t already think of something to do with his time, he’ll just have to enjoy breakfast and take a walk around the town he’s called home for the last few years. A pretty solid plan, right?

Breakfast comes and goes—an iced americano and that pain aux raisin Yeosang brought last night—quickly enough that Wooyoung’s out of apartment building and in the fresh air to still see the odd office worker making their way to work. A glance at his phone reveals it’s seven thirty, a time that’d usually have him in the midst of his commute. But he’s not doing that. He doesn’t have to do that now.

It's pretty freeing, actually.

Tugging his coat closer around his body, Wooyoung sticks his hands in his pockets and continues walking along the pavement. It’s not long before he’s nearing the high street, and even then he’s already passed a few buildings and stores he’s never noticed before. Between work and the commute to his downtown office, Wooyoung’s less familiar with his own neighbourhood that he probably should be. There’s the odd convenience store he’s been inside a couple of times, sure, but other than that?

Damn, he’s practically a stranger here. Is he that much of workaholic?

Determined to familiarise himself with the neighbourhood, Wooyoung keeps up his tidy little routine for the next week or so. He visits the stores nearby, spends an evening or two in a café (okay, these are alright, but not exactly to his slightly particular tastes) and befriends a music store owner named Yeonjun. The latter of which took him a few hours; the fastest he’s made a friend, in fact.

“Is this new..?” Wooyoung mutters under his breath as he takes a left turn onto a quaint alley he’s only just noticed during his walks. It’s a tea and coffee shop, he thinks upon taking a few steps closer and huffs a laugh when he catches sight of the sign. A Bite for Tea. Of course it’s a pun. “Might as well take a look inside then.”

The inside of the place itself is…well, it’s warm, inviting and just the sort of place he’d have recommended in one of his articles a few months ago, if he had known of its existence. A cozy little find, or something along those lines. He takes a breath, and the immediate hit of coffee and a myriad of other kinds of tea in the air wrap around him like a gentle hug. And he’s smiling at nothing in particular. What the hell—in a good way, he thinks. The door’s already shut behind him, a door chime above his head sounding out that he’s only just noticed, and if he leaves now he’ll look only a little out of his mind.

No big deal.

“Uh, hi,” he says, approaching the counter and trying not to stare at the—damn, he’s blushing—man at the counter. “Can I get an iced americano with caramel, please?”

“Sure thing,” the barista grins, “do you want anything else with that? All the baked goods are made in-house.” And surely, Wooyoung’s eyes travel over the counter at the tidy display of baked goods and everything looks homemade. In that artisan-bakery-but-not-snobbish way.

A few minutes later and he’s sitting at one of the handful of tables, sipping on his coffee between bites of lemon drizzle cake and jotting down ideas in his Notes app. Between the citrus sweetness of the cake and the atmosphere in this coffee shop, Wooyoung’s never felt so inspired. There are ideas pouring out of him, filling up the notes page faster than he’s ever written before. He takes another bite of the cake, catches himself almost moaning at the taste—seriously, this is witchcraft, how is it this good?!—and makes a promise to visit the coffee shop more often. This place is inspiration turned physical. The fact this has been a few minutes away from his apartment for who knows how long, and he’s not known about it? Absolutely criminal.

Yes, it’s technically his fault for burying his head in work. So what? Still a crime.

He brings a journal with him now, each day that’s stepping foot inside A Bite for Tea and taking advantage of the surge of creativity it’s giving him. It’s not exactly any kind of work that he’s writing, just some short stories and prose, but he is writing and that’s what counts here. Without fail, every single baked treat he orders (by far his favourite has to be either the cinnamon sugar croissant loaf or those ‘everything’ bagels Wooyoung swears he’d sell his soul for) is practically perfect and has that fresh-out-of-the-oven warmth he adores. Every single time he’s stopped by these last few days, oddly enough.

Y/n doesn’t put too much faith in stereotypes, or overdone tropes, but he’s certainly been picking up on pattern lately. A new regular of his, if a week straight of visiting the coffee shop meets the criteria, likes sitting in the exact same spot. Under the window y/n affectionately nicknames the ‘sun-canopy’ with a drink, snack and journal in hand. Like a cat basking in the sun’s warmth. Or one of his coven’s members on their days off.

It's a thought that makes the coffee shop’s owner grin as he pulls a fresh batch of bagels out of the industrial-sized oven, setting it aside to cool and dusting his hands on the apron tied around his waist. It’s still pretty early, no later than nine am at most and thanks to a quick peek out front, there’s no one at any of the tables yet. Apart from Reddie, but the Abyssinian cat gets a pass.

Just enough time to dash upstairs and retrieve the thing he had delivered last night.

Right on time. Y/n perks up as Journal Writer™ enters the shop around half noon, congratulating himself on timing when he’d bake the latest batch of bagels. They’ve just finished cooling, definitely still warm to touch and the smell of them alone is making y/n’s mouth water. He’ll just have to settle with toasting one later and having it with that spiced preserve he’s been saving. Or perhaps with a cup of blood-infused tea. Journal Writer looks to the display case and for a moment, y/n’s worried he might have assumed wrong.

“Can I get an iced americano and an everything bagel, please?” Whatever worries he had a minute ago are gone, because the raven-haired man orders exactly what y/n was expecting. He fulfils the order, a pleased smile etched onto his face.

It’s rare for his vampiric intuition to fail him.

Y/n hears rather than sees the confused hmm while he’s giving the coffee shop counter a quick wipe down, peering up and unable to resist the amused huff that slips past his lips. The sight itself is pretty picture-worthy; Reddie curled up right where Journal Writer plans to sit down, leisurely batting the little reserved sign on the table. Storing the cloth and disinfectant under the counter where it belongs, y/n steps around it and closes the short distance before gathering the cat in his arms, admonishing her with a gentle tap on the forehead.

“Sorry about her,” y/n says, giving in and giving the cat a few scritches before sending her on her way. “Reddie’s not usually the type to sit on the tables. Let me give it a quick wipe down for you.”

Returning behind the counter to grab wipes and a couple tissues, y/n gives the table a once over, catching the confused look his new regular’s giving him out of the corner of his eye. Why’s he looking at him like that..?

He follow’s Journal Writer’s gaze, and right. The reserved sign.

“Ah right, I should have mentioned, but the sign’s actually there for you.”

“Huh? Really?” And y/n has to be forgiven for the way he can practically feel his pupils dilating at the sight in front of him. Journal Writer looking at him with wide eyes, raised brows and lips parted in surprise. With enough focus, he can hear a pulse, steady but strong, picking up the pace a little and—

No. He’s not even hungry. Y/n can hold off until sunset.

“Yeah,” y/n starts off, straightening up. “I know it might be a little… much, but I’ve noticed you’ve liked sitting at this table for the past week or so. Since this place doesn’t get too much attention, I figured putting the sign here wouldn’t be too much hassle.”

Y/n leaves that conversation with a few new pieces of information to himself. First, that Journal Writer’s affinity for the sun-canopy isn’t something he’s imagined up, and that his new regular is pretty cute. And human, though y/n really should have noticed that by now. Though with the modest customer base the coffee shop does have, it’s hard to deny that y/n assumes most people who walk through the doors aren’t human.

In between serving the handful of customers that show up over the next few hours, sustaining his cravings with the flask he keeps in the kitchen and looking after Reddie, y/n admires the way the sunset begins to creep over the sky. Or what of the sunset he can see from the front counter. It’s beautiful, painting soft pinks and orange overhead and dusting the side-street the coffee shop sits on in a cozy glow. With hardly anyone in the coffee shop, y/n excuses himself—to no one in particular—and makes a spiced mug of peppermint tea, letting the warmth of the mug seep into his hands as he watches the last remnants of daylight pass by.

Until a very familiar car parks by out front. The Coven is here.

“Councillor Jung,” Y/n says, discarding the half-empty mug on the counter and making his way round. “Is something the matter? You don’t make unannounced visits unless—”

“I need to, I know.” Councillor Jung Hoseok answers stoically, finishing y/n’s sentence. The older vampire merely looks back towards the car, where Councillor Min helps someone—a fledgling, no doubt—out of the grey SUV and into A Bite for Tea. The sight alone sends a chill down y/n’s spine the longer he takes in the young fledgling’s dishevelled appearance.

Who is this and what on earth happened?

“We knew you were open to emergency cases,” Councillor Jung continues while y/n remains in shock. “And we’ve only just had this young lady’s case come in, may we speak inside?”

“Yes, yes of course, come on upstairs. We can speak inside my apartment.” Y/n stammers out, clearing his throat and leading the two older men up to his home above the coffee shop. His mind races, the mere sight of the fledgling stirring up possibilities that the vampire rather not imagine.

He doesn’t even register Councillor Min’s comment on the human currently half-asleep at the table.

Wooyoung’s still thinking about it. It’s been a good few days since he’s been to the coffee shop—a full month since his career break started too, now that he thinks about it—and Wooyoung cannot stop himself from questioning what on earth it was that he heard that evening. Nor does it help the fact that he was half-asleep when it happened, dragging himself out of A Bite for Tea that night with a yawn and languid steps. It’s maddening, he realises while taking a spoonful of the omelette rice he made earlier, letting the TV play without paying much attention to it anymore.

Is something going to happen to his new favourite spot? Why did he hear two strange voices talking about fledglings and maintaining a regular feeding schedule?

“I’m losing my mind. I have to be.” Wooyoung announces to his empty apartment, shoving another spoonful of rice into his mouth and nearly choking on said rice when he’s jump scared by a loud sound effect from the TV show he’s been ignoring. He takes several deep breaths, trying to steer his mind in another direction entirely.

It doesn’t work.

He seriously can’t stop thinking about it.

He finishes the rest of his lunch in a huff, frustrated over his inability to figure out what exactly he heard that night and why he’s so fixated on it. With nothing else to distract himself from the incoming spiral, Wooyoung practically jumps off the sofa, putting his bowl away in a hurry and searching for his phone—which he swears he left in his room, god knows where.

Just as he thought, the blasted device is exactly where he left it, waiting for him on his desk and Wooyoung snatches it up as he sinks into his desk chair. The brief dopamine hit plummets like a stone when he unlocks the device and reads the latest message from Yeonjun, an understanding pout on his face.

Jjun: Woo mate I’m so so sorry :(( [14:32]

Jjun: Gonna have to cancel tonight, shelving unit dropped on my leg + stuck in A&E rn [14:33]

The mental picture alone makes Wooyoung grimace, pins and needles shooting down to his legs as his mind ever so kindly makes the mental image more and more realistic. Either way, that’s his plans out of the window, leaving the man with nothing concrete to do for the rest of the day other than veg out on his sofa and catch up on his drama watch-list. Or get back to playing Baldur’s Gate 3, his last save leaving him with much to look forward to. But while he can wallow in the misery of no longer having plans later, what he should do right now is let Yeonjun know that everything’s perfectly fine. Minus the possible broken leg, of course.

Woo: Dw! It’s all good ^-^ [14:46]

Woo: Be careful in future tho lmao, if you need me to pick you up after you’re done, lmk! [14:46]

Jjun: I will, and dw, my cousin’s here with me, but thanks :D [14:50]

Scrolling through his phone for a few more minutes while he mindlessly spins back-and-forth in his chair, Wooyoung loses himself to the joys of online window shopping, adding more and more things to his various wish lists. He’ll get round to buying some of them eventually, just maybe when he can afford to spend more time working from home. And building his dream desk setup. Though he does treat himself to a new keyboard, humming in satisfaction when one of his many wish lists gets ever so slightly smaller.

“…do you want me to bring takeout again?” Yeosang asks from the other end of the call, Wooyoung ever so grateful that his childhood friend is willing to indulge his boredom.

“Nope~ just bring yourself, I’ve got some cheesecake in the fridge from the dessert place we like.” He chuckles, making his way over to the fridge and taking another look at the majestic slices of cheesecake sitting inside. “You’re not streaming today, right? That’s tomorrow?”

“Mhm, I’m thinking of doing something cozy,” he hears Yeosang hum, “there’s a few indie games I want to play, take my mind off of work, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. On your way?”

“Like, five minutes away, yeah. See you then.”

Hearing the sound of his door code being entered in successfully, Wooyoung hurries up bringing the cheesecake to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table and covering it with the cloche. There’s no one else it could possibly be, so he relaxes against the sofa as Yeosang invites himself inside, placing his shoes off to the side and collapsing onto Wooyoung’s sofa with a huff.

Ah. It’s a no questions asked kind of mood.

Apart from the sound of Yeosang letting off steam and the soft echo of oncoming rain outside, Wooyoung’s apartment is rather quiet, a serene stillness that not even the dimmed noise of his TV could disturb. It’s rather nice, actually. He’s not thinking about what happened the other night—or what he thinks happened—and he gets to spend the rest of the day with company he’s all too fond of. And the more he listens to Yeosang, the more he’s adding in quiet assertions of his own, engrossing himself in the retelling of a Karen who just wouldn’t leave the café, Yeosang’s place of work, alone.

“…honestly, Hyerin noona was a good five seconds away from calling the cops,” Yeosang giggles, obviously coming to the end of his retelling, “I swear, the temperature dropped like, a whole ten degrees, she was so angry.”

“She’s your boss, right? Does she actually work front of house?” Wooyoung asks, then shuffles Yeosang’s head off of his lap to get up. “Hey— do you want hot chocolate? I bought some from this artisan place.”

“Yeah, that’s her. I mean, she’s not always at the front but she says it’s good for business or whatever that she spends at least some of her time out of her office.” Yeosang nods and then nods again when he processes the request tacked on to the end.

Well then, hot chocolate for two it is then.

Clicking his tongue along to the rhythm of nothing in particular, Wooyoung leans against his kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. The seconds feel like minutes, especially when he could be back in his living room enjoying the rest of Yeosang’s Karen story. In fact, he could do just that, since his kettle likes taking its sweet time the more water Wooyoung forces it to boil. So, he pushes himself off the counter, dramatically spinning around on his right foot so he can make his way back to his living room sofa.

Except his left foot catches on the leg of his laundry stand. Sending him careening towards the laminate flooring.

“Wooyoung!” Is the sound that greets him when he opens his eyes, and not the sound he was expecting: his body slamming against the floor. In a daze as Yeosang stands him the right way up and checks him over, Wooyoung can barely get a word out over the rushing sound of his panicked heartbeat in his ears nor the sound of the kettle—the little traitorous machine—finally done boiling. When he doesn’t respond beyond merely nodding when Yeosang asks if he’s okay, Wooyoung allows himself to be walked back to the sofa.

How did he not immediately faceplant his kitchen floor? How did Yeosang make it all the way over to him in that span of time?

“You’re okay, right?” Yeosang asks, having apparently finished prepping the hot chocolate and brought it to the coffee table. “Do you need me to call 112 or—”

“How did you do that?”

The dumbfounded look Wooyoung gets in return absolutely does not help.

“Yeosang I swear to God,” he stresses, reaching for his own mug of hot chocolate. “You know what I’m talking about. How the hell did you catch me in time?” Wooyoung’s question hangs in the air, tension building between them thick enough it could wrap around the living room in layers of uncomfortable warmth. All of a sudden, it feels like an interrogation, and the both of them take strangely long gulps of the beverage in their hands.

Well, shit.

If this has anything to do with his best friend looking strangely different lately, Wooyoung might just start spiralling even more than he already was these past few days. First he starts hearing these strange people walk inside the café he frequents, and now Yeosang is capable of crossing the entire expanse of his living room in the seconds it took for him to lose his balance and nearly fall over?

“I was already getting up when you started falling over.” Yeosang shrugs, unmuting the TV and paying attention to the show they were both ignoring a few minutes ago, sipping on his own hot chocolate.

He doesn’t know why, but Wooyoung can tell that that answer is bullshit. It has to be.

No less than five minutes after he finds himself alone in his apartment again, Wooyoung makes a beeline for his laptop. He needs to find an answer to this…thing that’s been plaguing him, otherwise he’s going to go stir-crazy. Entering his password and opening the browser as soon as he’s able to, Wooyoung’s fingers dart across the keyboard in record speed, entering his highly pressing question into the search bar.

My best friend doesn't look like himself and he's faster than usual. Is something wrong?

He’s met with a few odd-looking adverts, websites that lead to questionable services and finally, finally, the thing he’s looking for. Technically. It’s a reddit thread, with an alarmingly similar title, but it’s got what he needs, so Wooyoung clicks on it anyway.

“The fuck..?” The man mutters, reading further and further along the thread. Everything he’s reading matches up with all the weird nonsense he’s been going through, yet Wooyoung can’t wrap his head around it. It’s all so outlandish, something out of a fantasy novel or a young teen’s favourite fanfiction, but it just makes sense. “Turned— born— vampires?!”

If what he’s reading is true, and it’s slowly staring to seem so, then that means Yeosang is a…

No, he can’t be! Who would even do such a thing..?

Nausea settles in Wooyoung’s chest as he shuts the laptop, not bothering to turn it off properly. A chilling dread works its way through every part of his body, stealing the breath out of his lungs the more he dwells on everything he’s learnt. It keeps him trapped at his desk. Keeps his body frozen despite the way his subconscious yells at him to write something, to do something, anything about his discovery. The retro clock on his desk ticks away the seconds, only made louder by the stillness in the air until Wooyoung inhales sharply and almost knocks himself out from the sudden oxygen spike. Staying like this surely can’t be good for his health. He needs to move, work off the anxious ball of stress winding itself around his heart, he…

He needs to sleep.

“I need a drink.”

Three days. Three days of fretting and pacing around his apartment later and Wooyoung is without a doubt a mess. How in the world is he not supposed to be? The things he learned in that reddit thread still haunt him, ever in the back of his mind. Even as he finishes tying the laces on his shoes and steps out of his home, intent on getting outside. His journal��s been untouched lately too. Maybe checking in on Yeonjun or finding a new trinket to buy will distract him from the image he keeps flicking back to of Yeosang being attacked and turned into a vampire against his will. Or visiting that stationary store near the train station—his supply of washi tape has been slowly depleting.

Frankly, whatever it is, he needs to get out of the house and get some fresh air.

After a few hours outside, a good number of purchases in his bag and a surprisingly little number of stress-inducing thoughts, Wooyoung’s feeling much better. The breeze is gentle, rustling the leaves that remain now that the weather’s growing colder. He tugs his scarf just that little bit tighter around his neck while he continues to walk through town, a breathy chuckle slipping past his lips as a chill makes his way down his spine.

The chill leaves him as soon as he steps inside A Bite for Tea, door chime sounding out above as warmth wraps around him. It’s only been a few days, yet it’s like coming home after months away. Home to a cozy coffee shop with its handful of customers and swathes of inspiration.

“The usual?” Is what greets Wooyoung as he approaches the counter, coupled with a charming smile from the man opposite him. For a moment, he loses himself in the added familiarity of it, until he clears his throat and finally gets round to ordering.

“Yeah, but a regular americano this time, I think.”

“Sure thing. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll bring it to your table.”

Y/n’s worried. No, he’s… concerned? Reasonably unnerved? With how Journal Writer’s practically staring a hole into the untouched mug of coffee and oddly still, it bugs him. It was only a few minutes ago that his human regular was looking at him with a pleasant smile, after all. Surely it’s none of his business. He’s here to serve his customers with good coffee—spiced or otherwise—and food, not to push any buttons by asking questions. Yet y/n has plenty of questions he wants answers to, mostly about Journal Writer and why he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

When noon begins to bleed into late afternoon and even the evening without any sort of sign that Journal Writer’s feeling better about whatever it is, y/n sighs, washing a mug while his eyes keep trailing over to his regular by the sun-canopy. It wouldn’t be fair to keep ignoring it now—given the fact he’s had Lily, the fledgeling from a few nights ago, pester him to go and do something about that guy for the last few hours now. He puts the mug away, dries his hands, and sighs again. Time to find out what’s up with Journal Writer.

Luckily enough, it doesn’t seem like there’s going to be any more people coming into the shop today, so y/n abandons his post behind the counter. He leaves the sign on the door, in case anyone does decide to show up, and walks over to the sun-canopy. Journal Writer still hasn’t looked up from the rather bare journal page, and y/n chuckles, knocking the table and light-heartedly raising a brow when his presence is acknowledged.

“Knock-knock,” he says, pulling out a chair to sit down. “Mind if I sit here?”

“Sure, that’s alright.” Journal Writer answers, briefly looking up from his journal to y/n and shrugging. Only to look to the coffee shop counter, back to y/n, and right back to the counter. “Aren’t you usually behind the counter..? Are you allowed to..?”

Y/n laughs. God, he’s cute.

“I’d certainly hope so; I run the place after all.” He explains, watching the realisation dawn on the man in front of him. But since he’s sitting here for more than just a bit of small talk, y/n gets right to it. “But I, uh, I actually wanted to come over here and ask if you were okay? You spent a few hours just sorta…staring into space.”

“…I did?” Y/n nods. Journal Writer’s mouth falls into a silent oh. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“You can talk to me about it, if you want. Customer confidentiality and all that jazz.”

“Isn’t that for doctors?” Journal Writer asks with an amused tilt of his head, which y/n shrugs to. Semantics, he muses. Which is all takes for Journal Writer to laugh, call him curious and begin unloading everything that’s been worrying about.

It’s…well, it’s a lot.

“…and frankly, it’s really not that I’m worried about there being vampires in town or anything! I’m sure the majority are absolutely great! Wonderful, even! But Yeosang’s my best friend, and I have no idea how on earth he even turned. Whether he was forced to turn into one, attacked or didn’t know what he was getting into. I don’t even know when he was turned! And we’ve been friends for a decade; we tell each other everything!” Journal Writer forces an exhale as he barrels through the final part of his rant, talking as fast as the frantic heartbeat that y/n’s picking up.

Journal Writer’s desperate fretting the longer he goes on only helps to fester concern for the supposed turned vampire his regular’s talking about, y/n’s own temporary fledgling case fresh on his mind. Again, the vampire silently reminds himself, this is technically none of his business. It really isn’t. Yet the reminder doesn’t do anything about the growing desire to do something and help.

“…it’s probably not that big of a deal anyway, but I can’t stop myself from worrying, you know?” If only the—now that he’s really noticing—brunet knew how much that was true.

“Yeah, I get what you mean, it’s hard not to worry.” Y/n admits, then grimaces when he glances outside at how dark it is. “You’re free to tell me I’m overstepping, but will you be okay heading home tonight? It’s already pretty dark outside, and I do live just upstairs—"

Journal Writer giggles. If there was more blood in his system, y/n would be blushing right now.

“Thanks, but uh… I’ll be fine, my place isn’t too far away from here. I’m Wooyoung, by the way. Jung Wooyoung. And thank you, again, for listening to me talk your ear off. I appreciated it.”

“No problem, I’m glad I could help.” He says, and then promptly remembers that he hasn’t introduced himself yet. Or at all, since he’s vicariously known Wooyoung. “Oh— and I’m y/n. Y/n l/n.”

Somehow the rest of that conversation ends with numbers being exchanged. Mostly in the guise of y/n knowing when to expect the brunet in the shop. Wooyoung’s off soon after that, bowing his head as he leaves the coffee shop and leaving y/n with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest.

A feeling that makes its way past y/n’s lips as a surprised huff an hour or so later as he finishes closing the shop and the dots connect themselves. Journal Writer. What a coincidence.

It doesn’t escape y/n either that he kept quiet about his own vampirism.

Wooyoung’s really starting to regret not accepting the coffee shop owner’s offer to stay the night, teeth practically rattling as he walks home. Clutching onto his coat isn’t helping either, the fabric not as equipped to the chill of winter as the columnist thought. It’s overcoat weather, frankly. The kind of weather that calls for hand warmers and thick scarves that wrap around like a blanket. Two items of clothing that Wooyoung decidedly chose not to wear tonight, instead betting his luck on a cotton trench coat and a pair of gloves.

He swears under his breath the moment he feels the air change around him. Hairs off the back of his neck stand up, alerted by the sudden stillness, both by Wooyoung and whatever it is that has him on edge. He’s not alone, and everywhere except the spots under the streetlights is practically pitch black. It can’t be anything, not when Wooyoung’s come to know these streets like the back of his hand over the last thirty or so days. Surely it’s nothing.

Still, he picks up the pace, walking with a lot more purpose now.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m going to be fine…” He whispers, repeating the mantra like a prayer while keeping an ear out for footsteps of any kind. There aren’t any.

But he’s still being followed. He just knows it.

Come on, one more street to cross and we’ll be there, Wooyoung reminds himself, letting his subconscious do the talking now that he’s too scared to utter a sound. His heartbeat’s loud enough as is, thank you very much. Walking so fast he’s almost jogging, it’s sheer luck that he’s not tripping over himself or anything else, barely focused on where he’s landing his feet. There’s just one more stretch of road ahead of him to cross before he’s on his street, before he can begin to count himself lucky and—

“Oh, stop running already.” A voice snarls, and Wooyoung’s being thrown against a lamppost.

His head hits on impact, a throbbing pain blooming like roses as he’s dazed and stumbles for balance. Everything happens so fast, the hands forcing him still, fangs grazing spot where his neck meets his collarbone, biting down and his blood rushing, rushing out of him. His attacker gulps it down greedily, audible, stomach-turning sounds of elation echoing in his ear all while Wooyoung body grows colder and colder by the second. This is it; he belatedly realises, this is where he’s going to die.

His face grows wet with tears. It isn’t supposed to end like this.

A last burst of adrenaline gives him enough strength to shove his attacker off, sending them only a few feet away, yet the assailant—some feral-looking vampire—doesn’t seem to mind. They head off, sprinting off into the darkness and leaving Wooyoung to crumple to the ground as the agony truly starts to kick in. His mouth opens in a silent scream, clutching at the open wound with both hands as blood continues to pour out of it, coating his hands, his clothes and filling the air with its iron-clad scent.

“Call…call, I need to—” call someone, he gasps, freeing one hand to rifle for his phone and shaking as he unlocks it. A wave of dizziness washes over him as he opens the dial menu, shaking like an autumn leaf as he presses on the first number in his recently dialled list. It doesn’t really matter who it is anymore, all Wooyoung needs is someone to help him.

It rings once. Then again. Then again.

“…Wooyoung-ssi? Is everything alright?”

Wooyoung’s phone clatters to the ground, the man already unconscious.

Y/n’s face pinches into a frown when there’s no response, the concern mounting even more the longer hears nothing but wind from Wooyoung’s end of the call. He sits up on the sofa, shifting Reddie off of his lap and muttering an apology when she meows in protest. He tries again, calling the other man’s name again and cursing when there’s still nothing. Like that’d solve anything.

Does he need to find him? He needs to find Wooyoung.

“Lily!” He calls out, having hung up the call and shrugged on a coat and shoes. She stumbles out of her room, eyes curious and watching him with trepidation. “I need to go look for someone; keep an eye on the apartment for me, hm?”

“Sure, uh, no problem. Are there rogues out?” She asks, unaware that y/n’s now thinking of worst-case scenarios. Councillor Jung had said rogue activity was picking up with the drop in temperature, why hadn’t he thought about that earlier?

“Hopefully not,” he says anyway, a placating smile that probably looks a tad too forced. “Optimism never hurt anyone.”

Oh, hells below, it’s freezing. Optimism be damned, y/n blows warm air between his hands as he runs down the street, trying to locate what’s expecting—and frankly dreading—to be Wooyoung hidden away somewhere. Hopefully just frozen to the bone and not…he pushes the thought away, not even willing to entertain the idea. The man was very much human just a few hours ago, and y/n can only wish that Wooyoung stays that way when he finds him. All he remembers is that Wooyoung was heading home, but he doesn’t know where the hell that is and he’s been running around town for the last ten minutes, thanking whoever can hear him for vampiric speed.

Desperation clings to y/n like a parasite, cloying heavy in his mouth with each frigid breath. There’s no way he’s going back to his apartment tonight unsuccessful. He just needs to keep looking, because if his unfortunately pessimistic gut-feeling is correct, the state he’ll find Wooyoung in won’t be good.

There’s a slumped body in the distance.

“Wooyoung-ssi!” Y/n calls out, praying he’s correct. He all but sprints over, skidding to a stop and kneeling down to examine the body. It is him, and y/n nearly cries out in relief until his senses catch up with him and he smells it. Blood.

It coats Wooyoung’s clothes, creates a small stain on the ground and y/n’s gaze is laser-focused as he searches for the source, a pit settling in his stomach at the nasty and vicious bite wound. It’s grim to look at, but y/n can’t afford to either keep staring or allow himself to taste the other man’s blood from the way the scent clogs his nose and reaches the back of his throat. The man’s still alive and getting him somewhere safe is what matters, not his own hunger.

He needs to try and wake Wooyoung up.

Y/n takes a deep breath—not that he needs the oxygen—and shakes the man’s shoulder, calling on Wooyoung repeatedly in a frantic attempt to get him to wake up. Seconds feel like minutes, y/n trying whatever he can to get a response. It’s freezing cold, so the faster that Wooyoung is awake and able to accept the vampire’s help, the better. Preferably in the next minute, because the chill is starting to seep through the thick overcoat he’s wearing.

“…y/n?” He hears Wooyoung breath out hoarsely, and latches onto it as a sign on life. Honestly he’ll take anything right now.

“That’s right, it’s me. I need you to stay awake, okay?” He asks, lacing his tone with as much reassurance as he can, though Wooyoung stares at him through delirious eyes. “It’s not far to my apartment, we’ll head there.” He hoists Wooyoung up, muttering apologies while he manoeuvres around to grab some of the things that have clattered to the ground, namely the same phone that dialled him earlier that evening.

Y/n: Bringing a friend back, he’s not doing too well [21:23]

Y/n: Bring the first aid kit and some spare clothes from my wardrobe to the living room for me? [21:24]

Lils: Got it! [21:25]

Lils: Hope your friend’s okay tho [21:25]

Y/n pockets his own phone after that, giving the almost empty streets and a dazed Wooyoung his full attention. They’re almost there, making slow progress, but still making progress, nonetheless. Readjusting his hold, y/n makes it to the other side, but frowns when Wooyoung becomes even more of a dead weight. It doesn’t deter him, merely making y/n hold onto him tighter with each passing step.

And then y/n feels Wooyoung grow limp, slumping in his arms.

“Hey, Wooyoung— look at me, hey,” y/n pants, patting Wooyoung’s face a tad more firmly now, jaw clenched, and brows pinched in effort. “You gotta stay awake, c’mon, just a little bit longer. I know you can make it, just hold on for me.”

Come on, come on, be alive dammit. There’s ringing in y/n’s ears when he presses his fingers to Wooyoung’s neck, searching for a pulse. It’s hardly even there, a weak echo of the strong and very much alive heartbeat he heard a few hours ago. Trembling as he pulls his hands away, y/n stares at the face cradled in his hands, a lump in his throat at thought of what he has to do. He can’t, but he has to. He doesn’t want to sink his fangs into Wooyoung, to turn him against his will but y/n needs to.

He needs to. He doesn’t know how old Wooyoung is, but the man’s too young to die. Not yet.

So, he opens his mouth, sinks his fangs into Wooyoung’s neck and drinks what’s left.

Lils: You still outside? [21:40]

Y/n: Got caught up. [21:49]

Y/n: I’ll be picking up extra blood tmrw morning. We’ll need it [21:51]

Waking up feels like being hit in the head with a sledgehammer. Everything’s much sharper, much clearer and Wooyoung isn’t sure he knows what the hell is going on. Between the strange ache in his gums and the pounding well, everywhere, headache, the columnist’s pretty sure today sucks. He blinks at the ceiling, staring at it a few minutes more trying to piece together just what about it looks so unfamiliar. Last he remembers, he was walking home after unloading his anxieties to the owner of A Bite for Tea, then got freaked out and—

Oh, right. This isn’t his ceiling.

“What the hell?!” He exclaims, shooting up into a vague sitting position and wincing when the motion worsens his headache. He’s not home, nowhere he recognises and in so much pain Wooyoung can hardly piece together his next thought. Squinting only relieves so much, so he abandons it all together, simply opting to look around and figure out where he is. He hears footsteps, snapping his head in the direction of the sound and freezing at the sight of a young woman staring right back at him, a hoodie drawn around her body.

“You finally up?” The woman says, observing him before turning to one of the doors. “Y/n, your friend’s awake!” She’s gone after that, entering a kitchen and leaving Wooyoung to stew in his confused shock.

Somehow the knowledge that he’s in y/n’s home puts Wooyoung’s mind at ease. At least he’s not in a complete stranger’s home, which isn’t the same as actually being at home, but it’s better than nothing. He’s pretty much left alone in the living room again, minus the oddly familiar cat wandering around, and there’s no time like the present to do a bit of snooping.

Adjusting and tightening the towel around his hips as he leaves the bathroom, y/n gives Reddie an appreciative scritch behind the ears before heading to his room in search of a change of clothes. The last eighteen hours have put him through the wringer, the sudden weight of new responsibilities bearing down on him. But it’s alright now; Wooyoung’s okay, the Council understand the situation and all he has to do now after getting dressed is have a conversation with the newly-turned vampire about it all.

Except the newly-turned vampire in question isn’t in the living room, but in his bedroom..?

“Wooyoung-ssi?” Y/n starts, the rest of his question hanging in the air as said air thickens with awkward tension. Wooyoung’s gawking at him, either mortified at being discovered or staring at his physique, and y/n can really only chuckle. It doesn’t help that the other vampire is wearing his clothes—after the bloodstained items were carefully stripped away to be dry-cleaned—making y/n traitorously think about how cute it looks.

“Is everything—”

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” A gust of wind travels past y/n as Wooyoung bolts out of his room, unwittingly using his new physical capabilities. Physical capabilities that y/n’s going to have to explain in detail. He sighs, closing his bedroom door and opens his wardrobe.

Today is going to be a long day.

Sat on the sofa after a lengthy explanation of Wooyoung’s new predicament—that y/n would rather never have to do ever again—y/n clears his throat, the deafening silence hanging over the space creating a heavy blanket of tension. In fact, he can feel the hole that his newest fledgling is staring into the side of his head, unable to maintain eye contact longer than a few seconds at a time lest he feel even more guilty. Not for saving Wooyoung’s life. He could never feel guilty for that. Instead, y/n counts the already visible changes; the pallor tone of the man’s skin, visible heightened awareness of their current surroundings, and how y/n’s clothes hang on Wooyoung’s body. The last change he notices makes the older vampire (thanks to Wooyoung revealing he’s twenty-five. God, so young. Too young.) clear his throat again, too aware that he quite likes the image beside him.

“Let me get this straight,” he hears Wooyoung say, finally breaking the silence. “I’m vampire now?”

“A turned vampire, yeah.”

“Because you turned me, after I called you for help? Since you’re a vampire as well?”

“That’s right.” Y/n answers, voice strained. “You were succumbing to the blood loss and… I don’t know, I couldn’t just leave you there to bleed out in the cold.”

The silence is there again, until Wooyoung hums in a way that y/n hopes is acceptance. It’d be hard to take back his actions now anyway. And if Wooyoung chooses to avoid the coffee shop from here on out, he’ll understand.

“Right, okay… makes sense. I think. What about that girl who lives here? Did you turn her as well?” Wooyoung asks, and this, y/n can answer confidently. It’s something he’s passionate about, after all.

“Her name’s Lily, and she’s only really here for the month or so, until some things in her life settle.” He explains and definitely doesn’t think about why Wooyoung almost looks relieved, watching and listening to him intently. “I work with the National Coven to provide shelter to struggling new fledgelings, give them somewhere to stay whilst they get their life back in order. Usually after being unknowingly turned or their Sire disappearing far too soon. I guess you could say it’s a bit like fostering young people, just… with vampires.”

Wooyoung’s looking at him with a raised brow as his explanation comes to an end, a question clearly on the younger vampire’s lips. Is something the matter, y/n’s own expression says, brows raised as well. The silent counter-question translates easily apparently, since Wooyoung voices what’s on his mind.

“What about that coffee shop? I swear I remember you saying that were the owner…”

“I am, and well, it’s downstairs, so I might head down later to—hey! What’s with that look? The coffee shop really is downstairs, I’m serious! Do you want me to show you?”

“Sure, why not? Lead the way.”

Taking another sip from his new flask and in his own clothes again a few days later, Wooyoung counts down the seconds to when he knows Yeosang finishes his afternoon shift. There’s a conversation he needs to have now. Tell his best friend a secret that he suspects Yeosang should have told him as well. He watches the last few people leave the café, and then promptly starts getting impatient. Just what’s taking him so long? Tapping his foot, he zeroes in on the sound of familiar humming and pushes himself off the wall, almost predatorial in the way he waits for the moment to strike.

…That’s a new instinct.

“You. Come with me.” Yeosang’s only a few steps out of the café before Wooyoung’s pulling him in the other direction, towards the park across the road. Sure, the other man’s complaining, but for all his strength, Wooyoung isn’t feeling Yeosang pulling back.

“Young-ah, the hell?! What’s going on?” Yeosang questions as he stumbles towards the park bench, catching himself in time to sit down. Wooyoung forces an exhale and sits beside him, readying himself to let the floodgates spill open. “You’re acting odd, is everything okay?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you became a vampire?” He spits out, then runs a hand through his hair. Y/n did mention that he’d be more impulsive, but damn, he sounds like a right arse. He just wants the truth. “And don’t… don’t act like I haven’t caught on, I spent a whole day freaking out about this, alright? You already lied once; you owe me~”

He watches Yeosang try to come up with an answer, opening and closing his mouth enough times that Wooyoung lovingly calls him a fish, and then finally seem to admit defeat.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d worry about me,” Yeosang admits, “and I asked for this, Woo. No one attacked me or anything, promise.”

Lucky bastard, Wooyoung finds himself thinking. Not that he isn’t grateful that Yeosang’s vampirism was a choice, he is, but he would have liked to have been given that same choice. Yeosang looks at him strangely, repeats the first word and Wooyoung blinks, confused. Huh?

Did he say that out loud?

“What do you mean, lucky?” Oh, he absolutely said it out loud. “Jung Wooyoung? What. Do. You. Mean.” Yeosang frowns, leaning in closer like he’s trying to summon the answer through the power of eye contact alone. So Wooyoung smiles, a new set of sharp fangs poking past his lips.

“…surprise?”

Y/n’s not expecting any surprises by late afternoon, especially after the last few nights he’s been having. So, he nearly jumps out of his skin when the doors to A Bite for Tea all but fly open, Wooyoung stumbling inside as he’s pulled inside by another person—a friend?—until he’s made to sit at one of the tables. It almost looks like his fledgeling’s been scolded; hands clasped on the table like a child after dropping their parent’s prized vase. The sight’s endearing, and Y/n almost laughs from where he’s standing behind the glass display case at the front, still plating the slices of banana bread that have finished cooling.

He straightens up as Wooyoung’s friend approaches the counter, looking around like a man on a mission until y/n gently clears his throat, the friend zeroing onto him with a precision that y/n recognises. A turned vampire, he has to be. Whether this is the same friend y/n remembers Wooyoung mentioned being so concerned about a while ago, he can’t tell.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Yes, uh— do you know who y/n is? I heard he owns this coffee shop, and I need to speak to him.” The friend asks, looking less agitated with each word. “If he’s not here, can you send a message?”

“No need to, you’re speaking to him.” Y/n replies, a brow raising as he watches Wooyoung’s friend’s expression shift. From surprise, to relief, to something he can only really describe as… stern. All in a matter of seconds, too. “What is it you need to say?”

Instead of an answer right there and then, y/n ends up following the man to the table and taking a seat, still utterly confused. Looking between the two sat opposite him, he catches Wooyoung muttering I tried to stop him I swear, still looking very much like a scolded child, and what this is all about becomes abundantly clear very quickly.

“…and it was already freezing outside, there was no way I was going to let him succumb to the blood loss as well. There really was no other choice, and I felt responsible. Wooyoung-ssi had called me, so I was determined to help.” Y/n says, rounding off his explanation of the events leading up to Wooyoung’s vampirism, a solemn sincerity hanging over his words. Recalling the night itself isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, and the born vampire excuses himself to give Wooyoung and his friend—Yeosang, who is the friend y/n remembers hearing about—space to…discuss, process, or say whatever it is they need to say, judging by the silent verbal conversation he sees the two having.

“I’ll be back at the counter if you need anything.” And he tucks his chair in, heading to the front counter to get back to his role as A Bite for Tea’s owner.

Now, Wooyoung doesn’t need anything from his new Sire yet, or whatever Yeosang called y/n, but Wooyoung sticks around long after his friend leaves the coffee shop, instead keeping himself busy with his phone and the cat. In between looking through social media, watching the odd cooking video and stroking the cat’s fur as she passes by, the newly turned vampire ends up staying in the shop until closing, a new brand of curiosity springing forth within his subconscious.

The kind of curiosity that y/n can help him with.

“Hey, y/n-ssi,” he says, helping the older vampire stack up chairs while said vampire sweeps the floor. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do Sires and the vampires they turn have any kind of, I don’t know, relationship? Like a mentor and mentee kinda thing, or…?” Wooyoung doesn’t know what other kind of relationship he’s picturing when the question comes out of his mouth, or what he wants to picture either. So, he pauses his impromptu job of stacking chairs to turn to y/n, watching the cogs turn in the other man’s eyes.

“Well, as far as I know, it tends to just be different for everyone.” Y/n answers. It’s a satisfying enough answer for now, though knowing himself, Wooyoung’s fully aware he’ll be digging through that response for a clearer answer, something more defined he can fall back onto. “I was meaning to ask the last time you were here, but do you want me to go over some basic vampiric fundamentals someday? There are some things like the Coven, where to get blood and etcetera that’ll make life a lot easier for you.”

Huh. He hadn’t thought about that stuff yet.

“Why not?” Wooyoung replies, blasting through his vampiric speed to get the last of the chairs stacked up. “I’m pretty much always free, is there a time that suits you?”

It’s a back and forth, practically a negotiation when Wooyoung realises just how busy y/n actually is with these other responsibilities the older man apparently has. But eventually the date of his vampire classes is set for the next upcoming weekend, and Wooyoung gathers his things in order to head home.

“See you at the weekend!” He calls out as he leaves, y/n off somewhere in the coffee shop’s kitchen.

“It’s a date!” Y/n laughs, calling out in return.

…hopefully it will be.

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#illusionnet #member: wooyoung #genre: fluff #genre: angst #wordcount: 10-15k #rating: nc 17 #type: oneshot #author: armysantiny

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bunnypansy · 1 year ago

Text

Unbalanced Diet

Rated NC-17, read at your own RISK!

This is a dark fic, read ALL of the warnings before you consume. If anything mentioned in the warnings makes you uncomfortable, TURN AWAY. As a creator, I do not condone the things I write about, though that should be obvious enough.

That being said, welcome dear viewers, to our special Halloween showing! You and Rook are celebrating your one year anniversary together with a delicious dinner and a bit of intimacy afterward. Though this film contains romantic elements, make no mistake, this is a horror movie, intended to disturb and discomfort the audience. Featuring: Rook Hunt, and you, dear viewer, with minor cameos from from guest stars Vil Shoenheit and Neige Leblanche Beware! This film contains: Dead dove do not eat, non-con/dubious consent, non-consensual touching, kidnapping, unwilling cannibalism, sexual reactions to cannibalism, drinking blood, blood/injury, implied murder/torture, implied ptsd/flashbacks, controlling/toxic relationship, starvation as manipulation, physical/mental abuse, dissociation, Rook being generally fucking terrifying, implied existence of ghosts??? sexual biting, nipple play, light infantilization, sadism, blood kink, dacryphilia, blood as lube, teasing, oral (reader receiving), cis!male!reader, the french language, dog/master metaphors

“I love you.” You know. It sits on your tongue like a stone in your mouth.

He says it everyday, his devotion total, complete, unwavering; it should be admirable. At first, you tried to count how many times he said it, tally marks carved in the grooves on your brain- you lost track four days in.

Warm hands creep under the hem of your silken robe, roughed palms smoothing over your cold shoulders, a honeyed voice whispering in your ear. “I love you more than anything, mon amour.”

The silence of anticipation is loud, but you stay quiet, even as Rook’s warm hands wander their way down your chest and the white silk falls away, feeling more like a wildfire on your skin. Bare legs and arms are laid open the frigid air of the dining room and you sink back against the fine oaken dinner chair, as if trying to steal Rook’s heat through the seat back.

His hot fingers pause over your stiffened nipples, still tender and aching. “It’s our anniversary today, darling.”

“It-” There’s a little flick over the swollen nub as you try to answer, Rook just wants to hear you stumble for him, watch you squirm. “It is?”

“Oui, c'est le cas.” Idly, thumbs brush back and forth over your sensitive nipples, slow and patient. “Every moment of this year with you has been utter bliss, mon amour, beyond ecstasy.”

“For this momentous occasion,” Rook’s lips press against your temple, the crest of your ear, your jaw, “I believe a special meal is an order, non?” Then finally land on the column of your throat.

The points of his teeth nip at your thin skin, a soft pinch, soothed with the flick of his tongue. A kiss from any other man would be so sweet. You shiver under his touch, from the crisp air or the terror you can’t decide. When you swallow back a distressed noise Rook can feel your throat bob under his tongue, teeth scraping against your Adam's apple, eager for a bite. You wonder how exactly he wants you.

All at once the heat of his breath disappeared from your skin and Rook’s weathered hands returned to your shoulders, pulling up your silken robe to once more cover your skin. “I’ll get started on dinner then, don’t go anywhere mon chéri!” He laughs, and it’s not funny.

You listen, listless, as heavy work boots stalk away from you; the steps are slow and deliberate, as if he wants you to hear exactly where he's going. Five long strides behind you, then three more to the left and… he's passed the kitchen. There’s a sort of rhythmic pounding in your skull, it might be your pulse, but your brain had it confused for the beat of Rook’s boots against the hardwood as he stalks down the hall. The footsteps fade but the throbbing in your head stays, freshly renewed as a weighty metallic click meets your ears, and paired with a profound tightness in your chest when you realize Rook has opened the door to the basement. Beyond that, he’s left the door open, which he’s done before- how many times you’re not sure.

All at once you’re pulled to the mouth of the basement again. Now is your chance, maybe your only chance, since Rook wasn’t home. Your sheer silken socks did little to protect the soft soles of your feet from the splintered wood on the first step. How odd, the rest of the house is in mint condition, but this corridor is left in disrepair. As you felt along the wall for a light switch, you came to the realization that perhaps the basement hall had never been in repair; your groping did not reveal a lightswitch, rather that the walls were unfinished. Fingers grazed the flesh and bones of the house, a wooden skeleton filled with soft insulation in its gaps. The foundation groaned, perhaps a reaction to touching the open cavity in the wall, perhaps a warning to turn away. You felt around a moment longer but there was no light switch to be found. You’d continue in the dark.

At your back, the creaking of the steps and rattle of chains followed close on your heels, you were terribly aware that if you needed to run, you’d be doomed. The length of chain was too short for a full stride. It rubbed, cold and insistent over your ankles, a reminder. In front of you, only blackness, a warning.

The entire world seemed to disappear behind you as you delved deeper into the intestines of the house, and the farther you went, the more alive it felt- and God did you go far. The basement stairwell seemed to stretch on into the abyss ad infinitum, it gave you plenty of time to reconsider your choice, especially when the air began to change around you. Where the house above retained a cold, sterile feeling, the narrow passage of the stairwell grew warm and humid the further you pushed on. Soon enough it took on a putrid stench, growing in strength with every step; by the time you reached the foot of the stairs it was so potent you had to suppress the urge to gag. Rancid eggs or animal feces or something of the like: you could name a thousand things as olid and never once touch the intensity with which the basement reeked that night. While you couldn’t logically place the smell, a deep instinctual part of your brain put a name to the stench as easily as you took a breath. Something had died here.

A wave of nausea rocked over you so violently that you blindly grabbed for the wall to steady yourself, surprised when you found a thin metal chain in your grasp. Before you could properly debate with yourself, something cool brushed across the back of your neck; too light to be a sigh, yet too undefined to be a gust of wind- how would the bowels of the house even get fresh air? It felt more like someone letting go of something they had held onto for a long time, a final exhale. Or maybe it was nothing, you’re not sure you want to know.

“...Hello?” Your voice sounded miniscule in the face of the unending blackness.

Anxiously, you waited for a reply- rather a lack thereof. Your ears caught the sound of buzzing insects, you became aware of the flitting gnats and flies as they zipped past your face, the lack of ventilation, the-

“Turn on the light.” Rook was not home.

You kept taking in breaths to scream, but the noise remained stuck in your throat, only making awkward, fish-like gasps that left you lightheaded. The dark, the bugs, the smell, it was messing with you. There was nothing down there. There was no one down there. There couldn’t be. To die in that basement, surrounded by the rancid air, losing count of the days- could there be a more horrible fate? Would it be worse to live here, or die here; you’re no longer sure.

Thin, cold hands slithered over your shoulders- Rook wasn’t supposed to be home -slid over the expanse of your collarbone, traveled further up your throat and tilted your head back. Stretching, straining, the tendons in your neck began to ache, but you leaned as far as he made you, until you were eye-to-eye.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?”

You wake up in cold sweat, tell tale heart hammering against the bars of your ribcage, traitorous to the calm you’d sworn yourself to keep. The gleam of the dining room table, the stiffness of your chair, the incessant pain in your tendons- it all comes bleeding back in. Time is slippery, you could’ve been dozing for an hour or a week and you wouldn’t know the difference. The tantalizing scent of steak grounds you, the sizzling of the pan in the kitchen, Rook humming a tune you’ve grown familiar with. That memory was weeks ago- or days, perhaps.

It’s a sliver of comfort, your lighthouse on the wild waters of your relationship, these small domestic moments. As time goes on, the fragrance grows stronger, creating a mouthwatering aroma that reminds you of the emptiness in your stomach. You suck in a deep breath, eager to somehow satiate your hunger; the scent of steak hits your palate, followed by the hypnotic perfume of rosemary mingling with red wine and butter. It's thick, intoxicating, the delirium is enough to make you forget your nausea. By the time Rook deposits a plate in front of you, the basement is as far from your mind as it could be.

His plates are simple milk porcelain with a gold lined rim, because that's how Rook likes things; simple, expensive, delicate. The meat in the middle appears like an open wound on the pristine plate; a ruddy gash in the porcelain, delicately seared and glistening with a bloody sauce. Beyond that, the food smells divine, every ounce as decadent as it looks. Instinctually, your forefinger attempts to uncurl and reach for the golden silverware on either side of the plate, only to stop short with an agonized whine.

"Oh ma chéri," a chiding sigh brushes across your cheek, you just can't help but flinch away. Rook has taken a seat beside you, despite the opposite side of the table being perfectly clear. He's close enough that your shoulders brush. "You simply must quit irritating those, or they'll never heal."

As if it wasn't him who severed your tendons. His thin fingers grab for your wrist, turning it over to inspect the gauze, now freshly dampened with your blood. A sick flush overcomes Rook's face at the sight, stark crimson on clean white- you can tell he's suppressing a smile. Your stomach turns.

"Oh, la vache…" the gentle caress of his thumb against your knuckles brings forth the urge to rip your hand away, you force yourself to deny it. "How dreadful. I suppose I'll have to patch you up after dinner, ce n’est pas la mer à boire."

You asked him what that meant once; ‘it’s not the sea to drink’, or something like it. A bland encouragement to stay collected, despite the torture he’s made you endure, but it works. Maybe the phrase is effective, or maybe you have no choice but to make it so; Rook stands at the lip of a cavern, the lightest brush either way and he’ll send you both careening into the dark. It’s become your career to stand so perfectly still, even as he waltzes on the knife’s edge, desperate to make you follow in his depraved steps like his lovers before.

The screech of wooden chair legs against the floor makes you flinch away, though you’re well aware Rook has become your master and you, his dog. You will only ever walk as far as he allows- recently, he’s decided to keep you kenneled. Your achilles tendon aches as he lifts you from the dining chair like a bride, a belonging, then takes your place in the seat- you find your place on his lap.

For a few heartbeats, you’re lost in the romance of Rook taking the serrated knife to your portion of steak; his arms warm around your shoulders, deft hands cutting away a bite-sized chunk for you to eat. You feel honored that he cares enough to feed you.

“Say, ‘ah’.” There’s a sort of genuine delight in his voice that still feels belittling when he raises the fork to your lips, but your stomach comes before your dignity, and you let Rook put the bite of steak in your mouth.

The flavor melts on your tongue, savory, acidic, rich, everything you’d hoped for- but you’re a few chews deep when you realize something amiss. This does not taste like steak. In every aspect it appears as such; the darkened, almost leathery brown of the exterior, the scent, but its flavor more closely resembles pork. You chew a few more times and swallow, and make the terrible mistake of turning to look at Rook.

“What is-” The words shrivel up and die on your tongue, silenced completely by the bloodcurdling expression on Rook’s face.

There’s a wild, thrilled look in his arsenic-green eyes, something bright and excited that makes your heart still. His smooth, pale skin has been set aflame and the ivory points of his teeth threaten to pierce his bottom lip.

Your mind conjures images of the cream cotton bags, once white but stained with overuse and blotted in red, the fabric stretching at irregular angles to contain whatever Rook had stuffed inside. Buck, or doe, or veal- whatever he would promise with glimmering eyes. You imagine silky blond hair and soft brown eyes, perfect skin and straight teeth. You imagine the basement, the voices you might’ve heard, Rook’s past lovers.

There’s a violent turn in your stomach, so strong your eyes water and you instinctively lift your hands to clasp over your mouth, only drawing more blood from your open wounds- but Rook doesn’t scold you this time. No, he only watches in cruel silence as you dry heave in his lap, running his hands up and down your sides as you scream hard enough to make your parched throat sting.

It’s an arduous ten minutes and sobbing and retching before you reach some sort of calm, reduced to miserable hiccups, lamely attempting to dry your eyes. Somehow, you feel immature for being sickened at the prospect of eating human meat.

“How is it?” The question nearly makes you devolve into sobs all over again, because it’s good- perhaps the most heavenly thing you’ve ever eaten.

“It’s…” You can’t make yourself say it. That you crave more, like an addict.

“That good? Mon amour, I’m flattered beyond words.” Strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you back against Rook’s chest, you fight your every instinct and do not pull away, even when something twitches against your ass. “Here.”

Cold dread sinks into your stomach when he cuts you another piece, holding a slice of human to your lips. You tremble in place for a few breaths, refusing to open your mouth, but your body betrays you, as always, growling like a rabid dog for another taste. He taps the fork against your lips once more, and you concede. Rook cuts you bite after bite, you swallow each and every one, the meat is further salted by your unending tears.

By the time you work your way through the entire plate, Rook’s erection presses hot and heavy against your backside, somehow he’s restrained enough not to hump you like an animal; you realize now what you’ve been starving for. Your stomach aches, heavy and bubbling with turmoil; guilt, disgust, betrayal, but it’s soon overshadowed by a chilling numbness.

When Rook brushes a thumb across your split bottom lip, you scarcely stir, your tongue flicking out to wet your dried skin. The crisp rim of a wine glass clanks lightly against your incisors and your thirst flickers to life. Your gaze slides down to the contents of the bowl, a dark burgundy wine so pitch it nearly reaches a shade of black. Fingertips smooth over your jawline, gently tipping your head back to follow the pitch of the wine glass, letting the maroon liquid slide over your lips. It’s thick, coolly oozing down your throat and leaving the taste of pennies heady on your tongue, though you lack the clarity to care. He forces more and more down your throat, and you willingly guzzle away, content to slake your thirst with blood, no matter whose, as long as the pain of dehydration disappears. Scarlet blood pools at the corners of your mouth carves a path across your skin, first pooling on your chin before drawing a trail over your throat.

When the glass finally empties, you lick your lips and Rook can no longer repress a moan, the nails of his spare hand digging into the softness of your waist so tightly it hurts, sure to leave crescent shaped cuts behind. A trail of open mouthed kisses dances from your shoulder to your cerise stained throat, where Rook takes the liberty of licking what remains of his lost lover from your skin, all the while groaning incoherently- you barely pick up the word ‘obéissant’ amongst his mutterings. A man possessed with his own lust, Rook hastily shoves aside his fine dishware in place of laying you down against the cold wooden dining table- splayed out across the tabletop, haloed by silverware and white plates, now you are the meal.

Your body becomes a canvas, the victim of an artist with red stained hands as he borrows paint from the font in your radial artery, burrowing his smoothed nails into the thin webbing of gauze until your blood squishes around his knuckles and seeps beneath his fingernails. His hips fit perfectly between your legs, the defined points of his bone sliding like blades against the softness of your thighs, sharp and unyielding as you gingerly tuck your legs around him- better to give the wolf a taste now than deny his growling stomach. By God does he savor that ‘taste’. Moans pour from Rook’s lips like life from your veins, oozing around your skin warm, wet and vulnerable, punctuated by his grotesque slurping at your throat. Rook sucks hickies into your neck with such harsh desperation you think he might be trying to draw the blood from your arteries with his lips alone, overlaying plum and claret blotches with the yellowing remains of your last endeavors.

The pale lace and silk Rook has taken the effort to swaddle you in is marred with ruby droplets, round and glittering rhinestones for a moment, before they melded with the smooth fibers of your robe. It would be no effort on Rook’s part to dress you in vibrant shades, something that would hide the rusty stains, but that wouldn’t be half as cathartic. Perhaps more sensual, perhaps more tantalizing; but not nearly as visceral and intimate as peeling open a flower bud, digging his fingers beyond the milky satin petals and revealing the blushing center.

“Oh, mon chéri,” He’s breathless as he gazes down at you, his lips rosy and glistening with a slick mix of blood and spit. “You are beguiling in every element, a blessing upon my unworthy eyes.”

You clench your jaw and avert your gaze.

“I beg of you, s'il te plait mon amour, give me the honor of showing you my passion?” It’s not really a question, Rook’s very presence is so oppressive you’re suffocating in the open air. You feel small beneath him, size notwithstanding.

Truthfully, he does not need your permission either way- it’s a petty ploy to force a word up your throat -his hands would’ve snaked their way beneath your bloomers nonetheless. You’re bare beneath your sleep shorts, as Rook preferred, and with the brush of a warm palm against your soft cock, you’re just as excited as he’d please too.

Experienced fingers gently enclose the head of your cock, rolling your foreskin back to the base, all while Rook keeps his eyes trained on yours, the smallest expression of delight on his face. Though coarse, Rook’s hand felt heavenly wrapped around your dick, the grip delicate and pace agonizing as he began to work you up. It didn’t take long for you grow hard- Rook knew exactly how to make you twitch and squirm -pulling his hand along your shaft before pausing just below the tip, only for his thumb to press harshly against the your slit, drawing a long squeal from your throat.

At long last, Rook drags your shorts from your hips and over your legs, leaving streaks of blood like rivers on your thighs. The chilled air finally meets your warm cock, bringing forth a shudder of discomfort. Rook will choose to interpret this as a show of anticipation. Again, Rook closes his fist around the base of dick, now choosing to stroke you with more fervor, the squelch of precum of blood growing louder and louder with every pump. It’s enough to make your face hot, swapping frantically between rapid panting and holding your breath, if only to deny yourself the shameful satisfaction of letting loose a moan.

“Tell me how this feels, mon amour.” Rook’s eyebrows pinch in a way that almost seems genuine, even as he stills his movements and squeezes the base of your cock tightly; watching a tremor pass through your body, your muscles tightening, eyes fluttering open and shut in quick succession, determined not to grant him a single noise. “Is it good?”

Precum drools from the tip of your cock in a slow, sticky stream, mingling with the tacky blood coating Rook’s hand and coating your length in a thick, marbled mixture of the fluids. It’s sickening, disgusting, and makes your stomach turn slow and dreadful- yet, somehow, the sight makes another bead of precum gather at your tip.

“Or do you need something more, hm?” Rook’s free hand smooths over your inner thigh, knuckles brushing lightly over your balls, his thumb smoothing flat over your taint, before his middle finger finally teases against your rim. “Do you need me in here, ma bichette? Dis juste oui.”

The tip of his finger presses in lightly and you inhale sharply, bringing a small chuckle from Rook’s chest. Your struggles amuse him. Rather than wait for any kind of response, Rook instead encircles your cock with only his forefinger and thumb, pinching it tight enough to make you writhe as he scoops the slurry of blood and precum from your shaft.

For a second, Rook spreads his hand open and watches the sticky webs spread from finger to finger, before he bends down and lets a small exhale hit your dick, suppressing a laugh when your hips jerk in response.

“Ah, si mignon.” The tone is almost dreamy, it would be cute in any other situation, with any other lover. As though to reward your endearing behavior, Rook leans forward and places a kiss on the tip of your cock, forcing a cry of sensitivity from your throat. “Tellement mignon, mon chéri.”

A tiny strand of precum stays stuck on Rook’s bottom lip as he pulls away, only broken when his tongue darts out to lick up what remains- your cock throbs at the sight, so fiercely that you can’t help yourself any longer, a sound somewhere between a wail and a moan makes its way from you before you can even think to stop it. When you calm enough to refocus your attention on Rook, a smile spreads across his face like the plague.

One of his broad hands digs into the fat of your thigh and drags you to the end of the dining table with ease, perfectly aligning your hips with the edge. You’re still reeling from the movement when Rook abruptly pushes two fingers beyond your rim and immediately curls them up into your prostate with cruel force; at the same time, he laves his tongue over the slit of your cock, eagerly swallowing every drop of pre you leak. Your whole body spasms in response to the pleasure, your back arching and legs flailing wildly, a litany of whorish moans falling from your lips- control has not just slipped away from you, the leash has been ripped free of your clenched fists and instead given to Rook. Thick fingers pummel mercilessly against the sensitive bundle of nerves in your ass, punching air from your lungs with every thrust and simultaneously shoving your nearer and nearer to the brink of orgasm- but before you ever reach it, Rook pulls away. His mouth leaves your cock, your hole is left empty once more, and you are left desperate. In a moment of weakness, you almost sit up to beg Rook for more, whine for him to let you cum, before your shame roars back to life.

Though you’re laid bare for all to see, Rook is finally rabidly throwing off his clothes, as though any moment without your touch was one of pure agony. In mere seconds, he’s completely nude and readjusting your body as he pleases, tucking a hand under either thigh before guiding them to wrap around his hips. Your eyes are immediately drawn between his legs, where his cock rests against your own, heavy and twitching, the flushed tip glistening with wetness. Lazily- unfairly -Rook squishes the soft head of his dick against your slickened rim, just shy of fulfilling your desires.

“Oh my, regardez ça…” His hips push forward ever so slightly and you let out a puppyish whine, distraught when he retreats again just to watch your hole clench in an effort to pull him back. “You’re just so terribly cute, my dear, so cute.”

The torture feels endless, though he only teases you for a few seconds longer, tapping his cock against your ass one more time before he asks the question that makes your heart go still. “Tell me what you want, mon cheri.”

Your throat closes. You can’t admit that you want- no, need -Rook to fuck you, you need his warmth, the pleasure, the comfort; the same way you need food and water. Still, you can’t say it, not anymore, because Rook will come unraveling like a linen with the lightest tug on his heartstrings. A couple months ago you would’ve happily cried and screamed for Rook to finally shove his dick into you. Now you feared he’d finally break.

You spread your legs wider, arch your back further, whimpering like a stupid animal as you give the weak attempt to rock your hips back into Rook’s cock with teary eyes.

“Ah-ah.” He takes a pace back, moving just barely out of your reach. “Do you want me?”

There’s a quiet thump as you let your head fall back against the tabletop, squeezing your knees around his waist in need.

“Just nod for me, d'accord? That’s all I need, ma bichette.” His hand smooths over your waist, trying to soothe you, but it does nothing to stop the rapid thrumming of your heart.

You heave, too humiliated to meet his eyes, instead throwing your arms over your face and giving the subtlest dip of your head. There’s hardly a second after your approval before Rook’s hands grip your hips so firmly your bones creak under his strength, dragging you back to meet his thrust and sheathe his cock inside you in a single smooth movement. You receive no mercy, no time to adjust, as Rook fucks into you like a feral animal, his movements unrestrained and frenzied, unyielding as you squeal and scream beneath him, legs locked around his hips for a single scrap of stability.

You think- if you can think -that he’s begun muttering something between open-mouthed pants, gasps of how much he loves you, how beautiful you look, how he’d like a taste of you. You let your thoughts scramble with every thrust of his hips, you let go of the fear for a few minutes. It not hard when Rook actively makes an effort to take your breath away, clumsily smashing your lips together in something that could barely be called a kiss; it’s all teeth and tongue, Rook sloppily stuffing his tongue into your mouth with an animalistic grunt- he feels more monster than man to you. Everything about him is suffocating, you can’t breathe around his love, head spinning, vision darkening- at the same time, Rook tilts his hips just right and jams the head of his cock against your prostate, and you’re ready to die for this orgasm. Pain is irrelevant, your weakened hands tangling in Rook’s hair and pulling despite the violent ache in your tendons. The euphoria is incomparable, so sudden and violent you spray cum over both of your chests, your whole body trembling and tightening within Rook’s grasp, milking his cock for all you could with a series of strangled moans Rook is happy to swallow.

Lucidity quickly sets in and you begin to panic, beating your bloodied fists against Rook’s shoulders in a useless attempt to push him away; if Rook wanted you dead, you would die. Your lungs have been set alight with Rook’s passion, parched for the cool touch of oxygen you’re worried may never come. Only once you’re entirely convinced you’re about to die does Rook finally break away and let you breathe, both gasping like you’ve drowned, and still Rook pumps his hips back and forth, chasing his release.

“Tell me- putain -tell me, mon amour,” his words are gasped out against your throat, muffled by your skin. “Tell me you love me, ah, dis moi que tu m'aimes”

It’s not a request, it’s a demand, his teeth lock around the thin skin of your esophagus, canines pressing sharply against you. Any answer could end in a crushed windpipe, and you’ve never been good at gambling; but you are his dog, and he is your master. No matter how many times the hand beats, you will return.

“I love you, Rook.” Quick as a flash, Rook readjusts and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, iron filling his mouth in a flood he’s happy to swallow. Rook manages only one more thrust before stilling inside you, shuddering from head to toe with a guttural groan as he fills you with his cum. You’re utterly revolted.

Your wounds have left you in agony. You’re still afraid Rook might rip a chunk from you. You’re sick to your stomach. You might cum all over again. A few stray tears roll over your cheeks, but you suppose this can’t be so bad; your stomach is full and Rook is warm. So warm. You are Rook’s dog, and he is your master. You loosely wrap your arms around his neck. A dog always loves his master.

That's all for our Halloween special folks! I hope you enjoyed, and as always, thank you for viewing. I. Am sorry for writing this ngl. During the uh. hard-on people steak scene, I just stared at my computer screen wondering what the fuck I was doing with my life. I hope you find it spooky though, i definitely do... (also I think I'm very funny for the Vil/Neige cameo hehe)

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