#red streetlight world

[hyombus]

Sitting with Takofuusen 7/23/23 - 7/25/23

[tak0fuusen]

Red Streetlight World has gained a sub area by wataru in version 0.120d patch 2

[daily-ynfg-worlds]

Red Streetlight World

[mxmade-up]

Idk where that post about red streetlights went but y’know that cities would start looking a little something like this

[freshfrenchangel]

Frequented passage.

Credits on my Flickr.

[skywalkerslvt]

Pierced-Ellie Williams x AFAB!Reader

❥Pairing: loser!Ellie Williams x AFAB!Reader

❥Summary: After playing two truths and a lie with your best friend ellie, you reveal you have secret piercings. things ensue...

❥CW: smut, nipple play, reader has nipple piercings, fingering, oral sex (reader receiving), tribbing, ellie is a bit of a nervous loser in the beginning, top ellie, reader is sorta a power bottom, 4.2k words

❥a/n: This was supposed to be a really short fic but i went crazy (horny) and wrote all of this lmfao. hope u enjoy! <3

The basement was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from a flickering lamp in the corner and the soft glow of the streetlights seeping through a small, grime-covered window. You could hear the muffled hum of the world outside, distant enough to feel like you were the only two people left in the world. The scent of old wood and dust filled the air, mixing with the sharp tang of alcohol from the half-empty bottle of whiskey resting between you and Ellie.

Ellie was leaning back against the basement couch, cheeks flushed and eyes hazy from the booze. You both were sprawled out on the floor, legs tangled as you reached for the bottle once again. Laughter bounced off the walls as Ellie threw her hands up in defeat.

“You're really bad at this game,” you teased, shifting a little closer to her. “But hey, maybe you'll catch me in a lie this time.”

Ellie cleared her throat, her nervous energy spilling over as she sat up straighter. “Oh, yeah, for sure. I got you this time,” she mumbled, rubbing the back of her neck like she always did when she was flustered.

You smirked, knowing exactly how to make her squirm. “Alright, here goes. I've broken my arm twice, I can speak a bit of French, and… two years ago, I got nipple piercings that no one knows about.”

Ellie's face went bright red, her hand freezing halfway to the bottle. She blinked at you, then laughed nervously. “Wait, what?”

You leaned in slightly, watching her face closely as you spoke. “You heard me. Nipple piercings. Two years ago.” You let the words hang there, watching as Ellie shifted awkwardly, her gaze quickly darting to your chest before settling on your eyes.

“Th-that's gotta be the lie,” Ellie stammered, clearly flustered as she fidgeted with the label on the whiskey bottle. “Right? I mean, I…you wouldn't…would you?”

You gave her a sly smile, brushing your leg against hers just enough to get her attention. "Guess you'll have to figure that out, huh?"

Ellie swallowed hard, her cheeks burning as she tried to come up with something witty in response, but all she managed was an awkward laugh. "I mean... y-you're messing with me, right?"

You leaned back, letting your gaze linger on her for a moment longer than necessary. "Maybe I am," you said with a shrug. "Or maybe you just don't know me as well as you think you do."

Ellie looked like she was about to implode, her mind racing a mile a minute, trying to figure out if you were hitting on her or just playing the game. You could see it written all over her face—the nervousness, the uncertainty—and it only made you grin wider. She had no idea how into her you really were, and it was almost too fun watching her try to piece it together.

Ellie shifted nervously, clearly out of her element as her eyes flicked between you and the bottle, as if it might give her some kind of answer.

“Is that your final guess?” you asked, leaning in, your voice teasing as you watched her squirm.

Ellie swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “Yeah… yeah, that’s my final guess. The piercings, they’ve got to be the lie,” she said, but there was hesitation in her voice, like she wasn’t quite convinced.

You smirked, biting back a laugh. “Wrong.”

Ellie’s eyes went wide, her face an even deeper shade of red. “What? No way. You’re messing with me.”

“Nope.” You shrugged, acting casual as you leaned back. “That was a truth.”

Ellie blinked, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “There’s no way. You’re just messing with me to screw me up. I don’t believe you.”

You leaned in, your voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “You wanna check for yourself?”

Ellie’s eyes went impossibly wider, her throat bobbing as she swallowed nervously. “I—I… uh, what?” Her voice cracked, and she quickly looked away, fidgeting with the bottle in her lap like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

You couldn’t help but laugh, watching her completely unravel. “Relax, I’m kidding,” you teased, though the glint in your eye said otherwise. “Unless… you really want to know.”

Ellie’s whole face burned, and you could practically hear her heartbeat from where you sat. She stammered, her words falling over themselves. “I—no, I mean—wait, are you actually…”

You bit your lip, amused by how lost she was. “Nah, I’ll just show you. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep over it.”

Before Ellie could stammer out another response, your shirt was over your head and thrown across the room. Her eyes were glued to your chest as you reached back to unclasp your lacy red bra.

Ellie's breath hitched as your bra fell to the floor, revealing the small silver barbells glinting under the flickering light. For a second, she just stared, her mouth slightly open, completely frozen in place. You could see her trying to form words, but nothing came out.

"Believe me now?" you asked, voice teasing as you leaned in, your chest close enough to brush against her arm.

Ellie blinked rapidly, her face bright red, looking like she might pass out from sheer embarrassment. "Holy shit," she muttered under her breath, finally managing to say something, though it sounded more like a dazed confession than an actual response.

You chuckled softly, leaning back just enough to give her some space but still close enough to keep her flustered. "Told you it was the truth."

Ellie's gaze flickered up to meet yours, her expression somewhere between awe and disbelief. "I—I mean... yeah, l believe you now." She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly, her usual nervous tic in full force as she fumbled to find the right words. "I just didn't expect you to actually... show me."

You grinned, clearly enjoying the effect you had on her. "Well, I'm not one to back down from a challenge," you said lightly, your voice still laced with that teasing edge.

Ellie let out a nervous laugh, her eyes darting away from you as she tried to regain some composure. "Yeah, uh... challenge. Right." She was flustered beyond belief, and it was almost too cute how lost she looked.

Ellie's eyes were still glued to your chest, her breath shallow and uneven. You could feel the tension between you both, thick and electric in the dimly lit basement. The way she looked at you, completely entranced, sent a thrill through you.

"You can touch them if you want," you said softly, the invitation hanging in the air between you.

Ellie's head jerked up, her eyes wide and unsure. "I-uh, what?" She stammered, clearly caught off guard by your offer.

You smirked, brushing her knee gently with yours. "You heard me."

Ellie swallowed hard, her face burning even brighter. "Does it... does it hurt?"

You shook your head slightly, your voice dropping lower. "It hurt when I first got them, but now..." You leaned in, letting the words roll off your tongue, "...now it just feels good."

Ellie's eyes flickered back to your chest, her hand twitching like she was debating with herself. She hesitated, nervous, her fingers hovering near her lap as if she wasn't sure what to do. You could see the uncertainty in her, but also the undeniable pull.

Sensing her apprehension, you crawled closer to her, swinging your leg over one of her thighs so you could straddle it. "It's okay," you whispered, reassuring her. "I don't bite... unless you want me to."

That seemed to snap something in Ellie. She gave a shaky laugh, her hand finally reaching out, her fingers brushing tentatively over your skin. Her touch was featherlight at first, careful, like she wasn't sure if this was real or not.

"See? Doesn't hurt," you murmured, your voice soothing, though your heart was racing with excitement.

Ellie's fingers, still a little shaky, began to trace the outline of your piercings, her touch growing bolder as she got used to the sensation. You watched her face, the mixture of fascination and nervousness playing across her features. Her thumb brushed against one of the barbells, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips.

Ellie's eyes flickered up to meet yours, her breath catching at the sound. "Did I–was that okay?" she asked, her voice low and breathless, like she couldn't believe what was happening.

You smiled, biting your lip as you nodded. "Yeah, Ellie. That feels good."

Hearing that seemed to give her a little more confidence. She exhaled slowly, her fingers moving with more purpose now, gently rolling one of the piercings between her thumb and forefinger. The sensation sent a spark of pleasure through you, your body reacting to her touch in ways you knew she couldn't miss.

Her other hand hesitantly joined in, tracing the other barbell, her eyes locked on yours as if she was watching your every reaction, unsure but so eager to please. You could feel your heartbeat quicken, the warmth of her hands sending waves of heat through your body.

"Does this...feel good?" Ellie's voice was a low rasp, her own face flushed, eyes wide with anticipation.

"It feels really good," you whispered, your voice heavy with the tension between you. You arched your back slightly, pressing into her touch as her hands grew more confident, playing with your piercings in a way that had your breath hitching.

Ellie swallowed hard, her gaze dipping to your chest again as her hands continued to explore, experimenting with different pressures, watching your reactions closely. Her nervous energy was still there, but there was something more-something hungry in the way her touch lingered now, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife.

You could feel her pulse racing, her breath hot and shallow as her fingers tugged gently at the piercings, testing the waters. Every touch sent shivers down your spine, your skin alive under her hands. You leaned in, lips brushing her ear as you whispered, "You're doing so good, Ellie."

Her breath hitched at your words, and she stifled a groan as her hands moved more boldly now, her fingers teasing and pulling in a way that had your body arching toward her, craving more of her touch.

The air between you was electric, the playful teasing long forgotten, replaced by something far more intense. Ellie's lips parted, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she leaned in closer, her body pressed against yours, her hands still playing with your piercings like she couldn't get enough.

Ellie's hands were still moving over your chest, her touch growing more assured with each passing second, but there was still a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. She swallowed, clearly trying to steady herself before she spoke again. Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with uncertainty and need. "Can I... can I try with... my mouth?"

You felt a surge of heat wash over you at her request, her shy stammer only adding to the electric charge between you. "Yeah," you breathed, your voice soft but encouraging as you straddled her thigh, the fabric of her jeans pressing between your legs as you ground down slightly. "Go ahead, Ellie."

Her gaze flickered up to yours, a mixture of nerves and excitement, before she leaned in. Her lips hovered just above your skin for a moment, as if she was gathering the courage, and then you felt the soft brush of her mouth against your nipple. Her tongue flicked out, gently grazing the piercing, and the sensation made your breath hitch.

Ellie's hands settled on your hips, steadying herself–and you–as she grew more confident. Her mouth closed over the sensitive skin, her lips soft but eager as she took one of the piercings into her mouth, tugging gently with her teeth. You couldn't stop the moan that slipped out, your hands instinctively burying themselves in her hair, holding her closer as the pleasure intensified.

At the same time, your hips moved against her thigh, the friction of her jeans sending jolts of pleasure through you with every slow grind. Ellie groaned against your chest, clearly feeling the pressure of your body against her leg, her mouth working more fervently now, her tongue swirling around the piercing before she tugged again, harder this time.

You gasped, your fingers tightening in her hair, your hips pressing down harder on her thigh. "Ellie.." you whispered, your breath coming in shallow pants as the sensations built inside you, a delicious mix of her mouth on your chest and the steady pressure between your legs.

Ellie pulled back for just a second, her lips slick and flushed as she looked up at you. Her eyes were dark with lust, her breath ragged. "Is this... is this good?" she asked, her voice low and strained, like she was trying to hold herself together.

You bit your lip, your head tilting back as another wave of pleasure washed over you. "So good," you murmured, grinding down on her harder, urging her to keep going. "Don't stop."

With a renewed sense of determination, Ellie dove back in, her mouth working over your chest with more confidence, her hands gripping your hips tighter as you rocked against her. Each pull of her lips sent a jolt of pleasure straight through you, mixing with the rhythmic grind of your hips on her thigh. The heat between you was overwhelming, every touch and movement amplifying the tension until it felt like you might explode.

With a sudden surge of confidence, Ellie gripped your hips and gently pushed you back, guiding you to the floor beneath her. You gasped in surprise but quickly surrendered to her touch, your heart racing as you felt the cool floor against your skin.

Her hands moved with purpose, brushing up your thighs as she shifted to hover over you. The flickering lamp cast shadows over her flushed face, illuminating the desire in her eyes. "You okay?" she asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping back into her voice, but it was mixed with a hunger that made your stomach flutter.

"Yeah, Ellie. Just... keep going," you encouraged, feeling a thrill rush through you as her fingers slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, inching higher.

She hesitated for just a moment, her fingers brushing against your skin, and then she boldly lifted your skirt, exposing your thighs. The rush of cool air made you shiver as her fingertips danced closer to where you needed her most.

Ellie hesitated for just a moment before her determination surged back. With a swift motion, she shifted to kneel between your legs, a glint of mischief in her eyes. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against your skin, as she pushed your panties to the side and used her fingers to part you slightly, allowing her to find that sweet spot.

"Can I... try something?" she asked, looking up at you with a mix of eagerness and uncertainty.

"Yeah, please," you urged, your voice barely above a whisper, the heat pooling in your core.

With a teasing smile, Ellie brought her mouth back to your piercing, her tongue swirling around the metal as she simultaneously slid two fingers into you, pushing deeper as she began to stroke your sensitive spot. A gasp escaped your lips, the combination of sensations causing your body to arch instinctively toward her.

"Ellie!" you cried out, the heat of her mouth and the skillful movements of her fingers driving you wild. She watched you closely, her own excitement evident as she felt you tighten around her.

"Just relax," she murmured, her voice vibrating against you as she continued her exploration, her fingers working in and out while her mouth kept teasing your piercings. You could hardly keep still, your hips moving in rhythm with her fingers as waves of pleasure washed over you.

As Ellie continued to work her magic, she shifted her focus, her fingers moving more deliberately to target your clit while her mouth lavished attention on your piercings. The combination of sensations sent shockwaves through your body, making you writhe beneath her.

"Ellie, that feels so good," you gasped, lost in the bliss of her touch.

With every flick of her tongue and stroke of her fingers, the tension inside you built higher, the sweet pressure almost unbearable. "Just let go," Ellie encouraged, her voice low and sultry, her determination evident as she worked tirelessly to bring you to the edge.

And then, with a final flick of her fingers, you shattered, your body arching off the ground as pleasure washed over you in waves. "Ellie!" you cried out, your voice a mixture of ecstasy and disbelief at how incredible it felt.

Ellie didn't waste a second; she licked her fingers clean, a devilish grin spreading across her face. "Fuck, you taste so good baby," she said, her eyes dark with hunger. "I need more."

Before you could respond, she began kissing her way down your body, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin until she reached your thighs. She quickly removed your skirt and panties, leaving your slick cunt bare before her. Her fingers gripped your hips as she pulled you closer, her breath warm against you as she settled between your legs.

With expert precision, Ellie took her time, her tongue swirling around your clit, teasing and sucking in just the right way. Each movement sent shivers down your spine, your body instinctively responding to her every touch. "Ellie, yes!" you gasped, the sensations quickly building again.

She worked you closer to another peak, her eyes locked on yours, filled with both mischief and desire. You could feel the pressure mounting, a familiar tightening in your core as she expertly brought you to the edge once more.

With one final flick of her tongue, you let go again, your body trembling and shuddering beneath her as another orgasm washed over you. "God, Ellie!" you cried, the intensity leaving you breathless.

Ellie pulled back, wiping her mouth and grinning widely. "You really know how to make a girl happy," she teased, but you could see the need in her eyes, an unspoken desire lingering between you.

"Please," you breathed, your voice a husky whisper, "let me get you off." You could feel the heat pooling in your core again as the idea electrified you.

She looked at you, surprise flickering across her face before it shifted to a playful smirk. "You sure?" she asked, her voice low, excitement dancing in her eyes.

"Absolutely," you replied, determination flooding your veins.

With a swift motion, you shifted positions, settling yourself beside her.

You locked eyes, a silent agreement passing between you as you straddled her thigh, your fingers dancing down her body.

You guided her to open her legs wider, your body buzzing with anticipation. As you began to grind against her, the friction of your bodies sent waves of pleasure radiating between you. "Just like that," Ellie encouraged, her breath hitching as you pressed down against her.

Your movements grew bolder, your hands exploring the curves of her body as you brought your lips to hers, kissing her hungrily. You could feel the heat rising between you, the thrill of the moment igniting every nerve.

"Fuck, you're riding me so good, baby," Ellie rasped, her voice raw with need as her hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements. You ground down against her, the heat between your bodies almost unbearable as your slickness coated her, making each slide of your hips easier, smoother, and more desperate.

The wetness between your thighs mixed with hers, the sensation of your clits brushing together sending shivers through your entire body. Each movement was electric, your hips finding a perfect rhythm as you ground down harder, the friction driving you both wild.

Ellie's hands slid up your sides, rough fingertips grazing your skin before she cupped your breasts. Her thumbs brushed over your nipple piercings again, flicking them just right, making you gasp. "You like that?" she murmured, her voice thick with desire as she tugged gently on the metal, your nipples hardening under her touch.

Your body trembled as you pressed your chest further into her hands, the pleasure shooting through you with every little tug and pinch. Meanwhile, your hips rocked faster, sliding your wetness against hers in perfect rhythm.

The slick sounds of your bodies moving together filled the air, each grind pushing you closer to the edge.

Ellie's hips began bucking up to meet yours, desperate and needy as your clits rubbed together again, sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.

"Fuck, Ellie," you moaned, grinding harder as the pressure between your legs built to an overwhelming peak. You could feel her trembling beneath you, her breath coming in ragged gasps, matching your own.

Your wetness coated her thigh, smearing across both of your bodies as you moved together, the friction just right. Every grind of your hips made your clits brush against each other, the pleasure intensifying with each slick, desperate slide. Ellie groaned beneath you, her hands moving back down to grip your waist, pulling you harder against her.

You could feel her arousal mixing with yours, the heat between you almost unbearable. "God, you feel so fucking good," Ellie groaned, her voice thick with lust as she bucked her hips up to meet yours, the slickness between you making each grind smoother, more desperate.

The tension in your core was building quickly, winding tighter and tighter with every movement. Ellie's fingers dug into your hips, guiding you as you rocked against her, the pressure of your clits rubbing together sending you hurtling toward the edge.

Your body trembled as you leaned forward, bracing yourself on her chest.

Ellie took the opportunity to reach up, tugging at your nipple piercings again, sending sharp pleasure shooting through your body. "I love watching you ride me," she rasped, her voice breathless as she pinched your nipples harder, making you gasp.

The combined sensation of her rough hands on your chest and the relentless friction between your legs was too much. Your hips bucked wildly, grinding down against her as your orgasm slammed into you. "Fuck, Ellie," you cried out, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your slickness dripping down her thigh as you came.

Ellie groaned, her own body trembling as she watched you fall apart above her, your hips still moving, slower now, but still grinding against her, drawing out every last bit of your release.

As you came down from your high, Ellie's hands moved to your waist again, guiding your hips back into a steady rhythm. You could feel her need, the way her body trembled beneath yours, the slickness between you making it impossible to stop.

You leaned forward, capturing her lips in a heated kiss as your hips started moving again, faster this time, the friction of your clits rubbing together driving both of you wild. "You're so wet," you whispered against her mouth, your breath ragged as you rocked your hips down harder, desperate to feel her come undone beneath you.

Ellie groaned into your mouth, her hands gripping your waist even tighter as she bucked her hips up to meet yours. "Fuck, you feel so good," she gasped, her voice breaking as the pleasure became too much to bear. "Keep going, baby, don't stop."

Your bodies moved together, faster and faster, the slick sound of your wetness mixing with hers filling the room. Every grind of your hips made your clits brush against each other, sending sparks of pleasure through you both. The heat between your thighs was almost unbearable, the need to push her over the edge driving you harder, faster.

Ellie's breath hitched, her body tensing beneath yours as her orgasm built. "I'm so close," she groaned, her voice shaky as her hips bucked up wildly. You could feel her trembling, her body on the verge of release, and you ground down harder, determined to push her over the edge.

With one final grind, Ellie's body tensed, her back arching as she came with a shuddering moan. Her hands gripped your hips so hard it almost hurt, pulling you down against her as her orgasm washed over her, her body trembling beneath yours.

You slowed your movements, rocking gently against her as she came down from her high, her breath ragged and uneven. You pressed your forehead against hers, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and arousal as the last waves of pleasure faded away.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only sound in the room your heavy breathing. Then Ellie let out a breathless laugh, pulling you down into a soft, lazy kiss. "Fuck," she whispered, her voice still thick with pleasure. "That was incredible." You smiled against her lips, your body still trembling from the intensity of it all.

"You're pretty incredible yourself," you teased, pressing one last kiss to her lips before collapsing onto the floor beside her, completely spent.

[yannawayne]

INJUSTICE 2 INTRO INTERACTIONS. batboys x villain! reader

SYNOPSIS: I have very specific and odd hyperfixiations. Warnings for typical blood and violence + suggestive flirting in Dick, Jason, and Tim.

-> BATMAN X ALTERNATE UNIVERSE! BATMOM -> NIGHTWING X CATGIRL! READER -> REDHOOD X AMAZON! JOKER'S KILLER! READER -> RED ROBIN X IVY! READER -> DAMIAN X FORMER ARRANGED L.O.A WIFE! BLIND! READER

──────── ⵌ GAME LOADING ...

-> BATMAN X ALTERNATE UNIVERSE! BATMOM

Bruce is transported to an alternate universe where you two were never in love and instead enemies. He can't bare to see what you might have become without him or his sons.

(Bruce slowly removes his cowl, revealing his pained blue eyes staring at you, filled with sorrow and longing.)

BRUCE: "You'd be proud of the men our sons have become."

(You tighten your grip on your sword, the knuckles turning white. For a brief moment, a flicker of something unreadable crosses your face, but you quickly mask it with indifference. You shake your head and raise your blade.)

AU! BATMOM: "They mean nothing in this world."

(With a burst of speed, you launch yourself at him, the clash of metal on metal resonating through the night as your blade meets his defense. The force of your attack drives Bruce back a step, but he holds his ground.)

BRUCE: "In mine, they are everything because of you."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(A cloud of smoke erupts, obscuring the dimly lit alley as Bruce emerges from the shadows. His cape billows behind him, creating a striking silhouette against the flickering streetlights.)

BRUCE: "Our sons would never recognize you like this."

(You stand still for a moment, the sharp slice of blades cutting through the air as you flip them effortlessly. The sound is a whisper of danger. Your stance is guarded, eyes steely and cold, betraying no emotion.)

AU! BATMOM: "Good. I have no use for children."

(Bruce scowls, the harsh lines on his face deepening. He curls his hand into a fist, muscles tensing visibly under his suit, readying himself for the inevitable confrontation.)

BRUCE: "But every son deserves a mother’s love, no matter the universe."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Bruce reaches into his utility belt with practiced ease, pulling out two Batarangs. He holds them firmly, the metal cool and reassuring in his grip)

BRUCE: "I can't look at you without seeing her."

(You lift your chin defiantly, a sharp smile playing on your lips.)

AU! BATMOM: "Ha! I am not your wife."

(Bruce frowns, his eyes narrowing as he shifts his weapons closer to his face, preparing to defend. He refuses to fight you.)

BRUCE: " "But you wear her face, and that’s enough to remind me of what I’ve lost."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Bruce maneuvers the Batmobile with precision, stopping abruptly before flipping out and landing on the ground.)

BRUCE: "I see the pain behind your eyes. It's the same pain she hides."

(You huff, striding towards him with purpose. The sword at your hip sings as you draw it, the blade catching the light ominously.)

AU! BATMOM: "Don't presume to know me."

(Bruce stands straighter, his glare unwavering as he meets your gaze head-on.)

BRUCE: "I know her, and that’s why I can’t give up on you."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Bruce holds a photo in his hands, a photo of your family. His eyes soften as he looks at it, his grip tender despite the battle raging around him.)

BRUCE: "I dream of bringing her here to show you what you could be."

(Your back is turned against him, but you slowly face his way, the sound of your sword being unsheathed filling the tense silence.)

AU! BATMOM: "Dreams are for the weak."

(Bruce pockets the photo with care, then assumes a combat stance, his eyes never leaving yours.)

BRUCE: "No, they’re for the hopeful. And I will never stop hoping for you."

 ༻⊰───⋅ (Bruce grunts as your legs tighten around him, choking him. His face contorts with effort as he twists his body, managing to knock you off and get to his feet, breathing heavily.)

BRUCE: "In my world, you're my everything. Here, you're my nightmare."

(You walk off the fall and stand tall, your posture defiant and unwavering. A cold smirk plays on your lips as you step toward him.)

AU! BATMOM: "Dreams and nightmares are two sides of the same coin, Bat."

(Bruce braces himself, legs apart, muscles coiled like a spring, preparing for the inevitable clash.)

Batman: "I just wish I could flip it back."

 ༻⊰───⋅

-> NIGHTWING X CATGIRL! READER

You've been playing this cat-and-bat chase ever since he was Robin. Now as Nightwing, he can't help but long for something deeper.

(You perch on a rooftop edge, your silhouette lit by the moonlight as you smirk down at him. Leaping from the edge, you flip gracefully through the air before landing in a crouch in front of him.)

CATGIRL: "You know, curiosity killed the cat."

(Dick steps towards you, pulling his escrima sticks from his back. He hits them together, producing a crackle of electricity that illuminates the smirk on his face.)

NIGHTWING: "Good thing satisfaction brought it back."

(Purring, you trail your claws down your chest, your eyes locked on his.)

CATGIRL: "Show me how you satisfy, Nightwing."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Dick whistles as he walks towards you in his police uniform, swinging handcuffs with his fingers. The polished badge on his chest glints under the bank’s dim lights.)

OFFICER! GRAYSON: "Why don't you switch sides? You'd make a great hero."

(You laugh and stalk towards him, not even bothering to avoid the tripwires in the bank. The alarms remain silent, disabled by your expert touch.)

CATGIRL: "A kitty in a cape? Not my style."

(Dick shakes his head, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he unlatches the handcuffs, the metal clinking softly.)

OFFICER! GRAYSON: "You could do so much good, you know."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Laughing, you knock Dick to the ground, but with a swift move, he rolls you over, tackling you to the side and straddling you with a grin.)

NIGHTWING: "I know all your weak spots."

(You feel the heat of his body against yours, but you twist from his grip, slipping out and flipping away to a safe distance. You land lightly on your feet, drawing your claws with a predatory smile.)

CATGIRL: "You think you can make me purr?"

(Dick smirks, his eyes glinting with challenge. He rolls his shoulders, the muscles rippling under his suit, and tosses his head back.)

NIGHTWING: "I’ll have you screaming my name."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Dick watches as you strut along the edge of a building, hips swaying with each step, your balance effortless. )

NIGHTWING: "You know, Blüdhaven could use someone like you."

(You toss your head back with a playful smile, bending before executing a flawless flip towards him, landing gracefully.)

CATGIRL: "What, their own version of Catwoman?"

(Dick’s expression softens, the playful smile fading from his face, replaced by a more earnest look. He steps towards you and twirls his escrima sticks in the air.)

NIGHTWING: "No. Another hero."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You flip yourself over a rooftop edge, your hair falling in loose waves as you look down at Nightwing's panting form from above.)

CATGIRL: "What's the matter, Nightwing? Can't handle a little cat-and-bat chase?"

(Dick grins and throws his head back to look up at you, exposing the strong line of his jaw. Beads of sweat trickle down his face and neck, glistening in the moonlight. With a slow motion, he tucks his batons back into his back.)

NIGHTWING: "Oh. I can handle a lot more than that."

(Smirking, you slip off the rooftop and land right in front of him with a thud. You purr as you step closer, lashing your whip around you.)

CATGIRL: "Prove it, and I might let you handle me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Snarling, Dick licks at the stripe of blood running over his lip. You saunter a few feet away, licking your canines, which are stained with his blood.)

NIGHTWING: "You know, we could stop all this fighting."

(You smirk and draw your claws, eyes narrowing into slits.)

CATGIRL: "And what would we do instead, loverboy?"

(Dick smirks and crosses his arms, giving you a tantalizing view of his biceps, the fabric of his suit straining slightly.)

NIGHTWING: "I have a few ideas. None of them involve clothes."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Dick speeds through the city on his motorcycle, the engine roaring beneath him. With a swift, fluid motion, he flips off the bike, landing perfectly on his feet. The bike crashes in the distance, a burst of sparks lighting up.)

NIGHTWING: "You keep running, but I’ll always catch you."

(You turn to face him, a sharp smile playing on your lips, a shiny new jewel glinting in your hand under the moonlight.)

CATGIRL: "Maybe I just like the chase."

(Dick rolls his eyes, a mix of exasperation and amusement crossing his face, before he drops into a fighting stance, tensed and ready.)

NIGHTWING: "How about we skip to the part where I pin you down?"

 ༻⊰───⋅

(The jail cell door clanks shut as Dick locks you inside. You coo at him, reaching out to cup his cheek, but he knocks your hand away, his eyes filled with anger.)

NIGHTWING: "Every time you run, it feels like you’re slipping away from me."

(You frown and move away, slipping back into the shadows of the cell, the dim light casting eerie patterns on your figure.)

CATGIRL: "Running is all I know."

(Dick frowns, his hand tightening on the cold metal bars. His voice is filled with a deep, aching sincerity as he gazes into the darkness where you stand.)

NIGHTWING: "I just wish you'd run towards me instead."

 ༻⊰───⋅

-> REDHOOD X AMAZON! READER

Wonder Woman's daughter, once a proud heroine, now an outcast from the League after you killed the Joker in a vengeful rage for your lover's death. You try to run, he doesn't let you.

(With a fierce cry, you bring your sword down in a powerful arc, slicing through your enemies. Blood sprays as you cut down your chasers, the ground beneath you becoming slick with the crimson evidence of your wrath. You turn around just in time to see Jason charging towards you.)

A: "Cease this. The League will hunt me down like an animal."

(Jason scowls, his expression dark as he cocks his guns and reloads his rubber bullets. He barrels into the fray, firing relentlessly and mowing down the wave of heroes coming after you.)

JASON: "They won’t touch you as long as I’m breathing."

(You spin, delivering a bone-crushing blow to an opponent's jaw, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone beneath your knuckles.)

A: "You can’t fight the whole League, my love! I’m a liability."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Jason frowns and reaches for your wrist, pulling you back into his arms. The battle still thrums in the air around you, but in this moment, it's just the two of you.)

JASON: "Don’t let B’s opinion define you."

(You knock him away with a fierce shove, drawing your shield up defensively. Your sword hangs by your side, stained with the blood of your enemies, the weight of it a reminder of your actions.)

A: "He’s your father. His scorn is a heavy burden to bear."

(Jason steps forward, dropping his guns. He cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him, his touch both gentle and firm.)

JASON: "To hell with what he thinks. I love you, and that’s what matters."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(The two of you circle each other, eyes locked in their own battle. Jason's guns are pointed at you, his face twisted in agony.)

JASON: "I hate that your hands are bloodied for my sake."

(You drop your shield and sword, the clatter of metal echoing in the tense silence. Raising your stained hands, you step closer, showing him the blood that marks your skin.)

A: "I’d stain them a thousand times for you."

(Jason's eyes flicker with pain and frustration as he lowers his guns.)

JASON: "And I wanted to keep them clean."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(With a growl, you swing your sword at Jason, the blade whistling through the air. He ducks, rolling to the side and coming up with his guns aimed at you. You charge forward, deflecting his shots with your shield.)

JASON: "You think running away will solve anything?"

(You catch his leg with your shield, throwing him off balance before punching him in the jaw.)

A: "You don’t understand the price I’ve paid!"

(Jason wipes the blood from his lip, eyes flashing with anger and sorrow as he lunges at you.)

JASON:"I understand more than you think! And I’m here to help you!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You stand at the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping through your hair as you face Jason. Swinging your sword, you knock it against your shield, the clang echoing in the open air.)

A: "You think you’re man enough to stop me?"

(Jason scoffs as you lunge at him. He blocks your hit, twisting your arm behind your back and pulling you close.)

JASON: "I’ve got the scars to prove it."

(You twist out of his grip, using your strength to knock him to his back. You pick your shield back up, foot moving to press down on him.)

A: "Show me those scars up close."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You scream as you're thrown back with his kick, your back slamming into the wall. Gasping for breath, you watch as Jason reaches for your shield, which had been knocked away during the fight. He picks it up and walks over to you, dropping it to your feet.)

JASON: "They say love makes you do crazy things."

(You take the shield from him, your breath still heavy from the exertion. You stand tall, despite the pain coursing through your body.)

A: "Like taking a life for the one you love?"

(Jason's gaze intensifies, and he steps closer.)

JASON: "Like risking your heart for a broken soul like mine."

 ༻⊰───⋅

RED ROBIN X IVY! READER

Poison Ivy's protégé, you and Tim couldn't be more different. He thrives on technology and his man-made gadgets, while you draw your strength from the untamed power of the green.

(A large vine from above dips down, its lush, green leaves swaying gently as you perch on it. Your eyes sparkle with mischief as you look down at Tim.)

IVY: "You think you can handle all this greenery, techie?"

(Tim smirks, twirling a small device in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, the device emits a pulse, causing the vine to tremble and wither.)

R! ROBIN: "I’ve got a green thumb, but I'd rather get my hands on you."

(You slide down the vine, landing gracefully in front of him, your eyes narrowing. You summon a thick vine to wrap around his legs, but Tim's quick reflexes kick in as he flips over it, landing in a crouch.)

IVY: "Hm. Only if you promise to get dirty."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Tim steps closer, his expression softening as he activates his bo staff, the weapon extending with a mechanical whir. He swings it in a wide arc, deflecting the thorny vines you hurl at him.)

R! ROBIN: "You're not like her, you know."

(You scoff, crossing your arms as a cluster of flowers bloom at your feet. You raise your hand, sending a barrage of petals sharp as knives his way. Tim deftly spins his staff, creating a shield.)

IVY: "Who, Ivy? Maybe not yet."

(Tim's eyes soften, his grip on the staff loosening slightly as he steps closer.)

R! ROBIN: "And you don't have to be."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You pace around him, a vine curling up from the ground and snaking towards his feet. Tim notices and sidesteps, slashing at the vine with his staff.)

IVY: "Ever think about leaving the Bat?"

(Tim frowns, his bo staff sweeping down to cut the vine before it can ensnare him.)

R! ROBIN: "Ever think about leaving Ivy?"

(You grin, a sly smile playing on your lips as you summon a wall of thorns behind him. He leaps backward, landing nimbly on top of the thorns, balancing effortlessly.)

IVY: "Touché."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Tim looks around at the flourishing plants, his staff humming with energy as he uses his tech to scan for weaknesses in your creations.)

R! ROBIN: "I see you've been busy with your plants again."

(You gently caress a leaf, your voice soft as a tendril wraps around his ankle. He quickly discharges an electric shock from his staff, causing the tendril to release him.)

IVY: "They listen better than people do."

(Tim's staff whirls, cutting through the tendril effortlessly as he advances.)

R! ROBIN: "Maybe you just need the right person to listen."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Tim steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as he disarms a trap you set with a quick twist of his wrist. He flips over another set of vines you send his way, landing in a crouch.)

R! ROBIN: "Your touch brings life to these plants."

(You raise an eyebrow, intrigued as flowers bloom around you. You step down from your vine and saunter toward him.)

IVY: "Imagine what it could do to you."

(Tim smiles, a challenge in his eyes as he deactivates his staff, stepping closer.)

R! ROBIN: "I’m willing to find out."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Tim walks towards you, engrossed with the device on his wrist, tapping on the holographic table that hovers above it.)

IVY: "What’s a techie like you doing in a place like this?"

(Your voice coos at him as you emerge from the ground, vines whipping all around you. Tim smirks and turns his attention back to you, the holograph shutting off.)

R! ROBIN: "Looking for a beautiful flower to pick."

(You smirk, your vines thriving in the light as you swipe at him, narrowly missing. He ducks and rolls, coming up with a blade ready. Scoffing, you trace a hand up your neck, your eyes narrowing with playful menace.)

IVY: "Just make sure you can handle the thorns."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Tim reaches out, brushing his fingers against a blossom, his staff ready at his side as he keeps an eye on you.)

R! ROBIN: "We could build something beautiful together."

(You shake your head, a hint of sadness in your voice as you create a protective barrier of foliage around yourself. Tim uses his tech to create a small opening, stepping through it.)

IVY: "Beautiful things always wither and die."

(Tim takes your hand, squeezing it gently as he deactivates his staff, the barrier of foliage parting around you. He pulls you closer, his voice soft and earnest.)

R! ROBIN: "Not if we tend to them with care."

 ༻⊰───⋅

-> DAMIAN X L.O.A! READER

Arranged to marry since birth by Talia, Damian had promised to be yours for life. However, after his betrayal of the League, he left you behind. You were labeled as a co-conspirator, and as punishment for his treason, you were blinded.

(Blades glint under the dim light as you twirl your fan, the air around you whistling with its sharp edges. Damian stands a few feet away, his katana ready in his hand, emerald eyes fixed on you.)

DAMIAN: "Has my mother sent you?"

(You laugh and throw your head back in disbelief. The cloth wrapped around your eye flows in the wind. Raising a hand, you slip it off and show him your empty eyes.)

L.O.U: "Do I look like her pawn? Do you not see what she has done to me? This is my kill, not hers."

(Damian's eyes narrow, his stance shifting as he prepares to engage. )

DAMIAN: "Then why do you hesitate?"

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You feel the rush of air as Damian's katana swings towards you. Instinctively, you duck and counter with a sweeping arc of your fan, sensing his presence.)

L.O.U: "You walked away from everything."

(Damian's footsteps echo as he moves swiftly, his voice carrying a note of deep regret.)

DAMIAN: "Only to realize everything is you, habibti."

(You pivot on your heel, using your heightened senses to track his position, your fan poised to strike again.)

L.O.U: "Fool! You think words can mend this?!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

(The sound of his breath and the shuffle of his feet guide you as you launch a series of rapid strikes. Damian blocks each one, his katana creating a rhythmic pattern against your fan. Finally, he pushes his blade against yours, locking it between his fist.)

DAMIAN: "Beloved, losing your sight... I did not know my mother... I cannot even imagine—"

(You lash out with your fan, the blades narrowly missing Damian’s face as he parries with his katana. You both step back, circling each other, the tension between you palpable.)

L.O.U: "I do not need your pity, bastard!"

(Damian's eyes harden, but his voice remains soft.)

DAMIAN: "Not pity. Guilt. And a desperate need to make things right."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You leap forward, your fan spinning with deadly precision. Damian blocks the first strike but then purposefully drops his katana, stepping into your range. You scoff, surprised, as he grabs your wrist and forces you to drop your fan.)

L.O.U: "You think your guilt means anything to me?"

(Damian's movements falter for a brief moment, his voice raw with emotion. You kick and scream against his chest so hard he felt as though there would be bruises but he could care less.)

DAMIAN: "It tears me apart every day."

(You pull back, freeing your wrist and shifting into a defensive stance, your voice dripping with bitterness.)

L.O.U: "Good. Now you know a fraction of my pain."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Without your weapons, you both engage in a flurry of hand-to-hand combat. Damian blocks your strikes, deflecting your blows with minimal force, showing his reluctance to hurt you.)

DAMIAN: "Our marriage was more than a strategy to me."

(You laugh, a harsh sound, as you aim a kick at his midsection. He catches your leg and gently sets it down.)

L.O.U: "Yes. It was a lie."

(With a scream of anger, you tackle him, but he twists mid-fall, using his momentum to pin you to the ground. You struggle beneath him but he leans closer, his breath warm against your ear.)

DAMIAN: "No, it was the most real thing I've known."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(Wind whirls as you scream and hurl your fans in his direction. The blades spin through the air, nearly striking him, but he dodges with a series of agile flips. Laughing haughtily, you reach for your dagger in your belt.) L.O.U: "What do you desire, Habibi?"

(You advance on him, your steps swift and deliberate, knives dancing between your fingers. You hear a thud as Damian lands back on his feet with a grunt.) DAMIAN: "You. Only you."

(You scoff and fling another fan at him. He sidesteps and deflects it with his katana, the blade slicing through the air with a sharp hiss. Undeterred, you rush forward, using your heightened senses to anticipate his next move. Your fan blades clash against his katana in a shower of sparks.) L.O.U: "Then come and claim me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

(You sit on a stone bench in the garden of his new home. Wayne Manor, he had said. The night air was cool against your skin. Footsteps echo as Damian approaches, his katana sheathed at his side. He sits beside you, his gaze filled with longing.)

DAMIAN: "I dreamt of you every night."

(You scoff and trace the edge of your fan, the blades cool under your fingers.)

L.O.U: "Did you dream of my pain as well?"

(Damian’s expression turns into anguish, his hand reaching out to cover yours. A thumb moves to caress the metal band on your finger.)

DAMIAN: "Yes, and it’s unbearable."

 ༻⊰───⋅

ive been playing this damn game and mk1 for dddays

[sunsburns]

not you too

pairing: jason todd x ex vigilante!reader

summary: for the first time in a long time, you're hurting, deeply. an old wound that's reopened, the knife that was once there finding its place back between your ribs. jason todd comes to you in the middle of the night, bleeding all over your floor, rubbing salt to an old wound.

word count: 3.5k+

warnings: mentions of violence, blood, angst, the good old cleaning the other's wounds after a rough patrol but this one has a little bit of plot and spice to it ngl.

based off of this request

You always try to keep your nights as simple as possible. Working under Commissioner Jim Gordon had its perks, but peace of mind wasn’t one of them. Between juggling case files, analyzing crime scenes, and trying to stay ahead of Gotham’s ever-growing list of threats, your days were more than chaotic.

Gordon, a mentor as much as a boss, trusted you with sensitive information that only a few had access to—and you took that responsibility seriously. What he didn’t know was how deep your connection to Gotham’s vigilantes truly ran.

While Gordon believed in the power of the law, you knew sometimes it wasn’t enough. That’s where Batman came in. Your dual role—an officer of the GCPD by day, and a secret informant for Batman by night—had become second nature. You fed him intel and helped him stay ahead of Gotham’s worst, all while maintaining the facade of loyalty to the department.

You weren't proud about it, but he gave you enough hush money that you don't question it whenever he appears by the office as you leave your later shifts.

Friday nights were your escape. After a week of handling reports, dissecting evidence, and sidestepping questions from Gordon about your mysterious late-night absences, you let yourself disconnect. You skipped the gym after work, came home early, and cooked yourself a proper dinner. By the time the sun set, you were showered, dressed in your comfiest pyjamas, and settled on the couch with a movie.

Tonight was no different. You’d just closed a case with Gordon’s team, a robbery ring, criminals now behind bars, but Gotham never truly rested. Tomorrow would bring another wave of crime, another set of challenges. Still, for now, you had this moment of peace.

The movie droned on in the background as you finished dinner, exhaustion from the week creeping in. Your eyes fluttered shut halfway through, the comfort of your quiet apartment lulling you to sleep. By the time the credits rolled, you were completely out, wrapped in the safety of your little corner of the world.

That is until a faint creak from your window broke the silence.

You stirred groggily, blinking at the clock. It was well past midnight. Gotham was still alive outside—sirens in the distance, the occasional rumble of a motorcycle passing by—but your apartment had fallen into stillness. You stretched, ready to drag yourself to bed, but something wasn’t right.

The creak came again. Your blood ran cold.

Someone was in your apartment.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as your eyes darted around the dimly lit room. The faint sound of creaking had stopped, leaving an eerie silence behind, but there—a shadow moved. Your heart pounded, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you reached blindly for something, anything to defend yourself. The remote was the closest thing at hand. You gripped it tightly, feeling foolish but unwilling to let go, and scrambled to stand.

In the faint glow from the streetlight filtering through the curtains, you finally saw him—a large figure by the balcony door, hunched over, struggling to quietly close the glass behind him. He moved slowly, cautiously, as if he didn’t want to be noticed. But you had already seen enough.

The silhouette was unmistakable.

“Jason.”

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name, freezing in place for a second before turning to face you. Even in the darkness, you could feel the weight of his gaze through the red-tinted visor of his helmet, his expression unreadable beneath it.

You lowered the remote slowly, heart still racing, but now for a different reason. “You can’t—you can’t just break in like this,” you stammered, your voice tinged with frustration and worry. You’d seen him do this too many times, yet it never got easier.

He let out a gruff, annoyed sound beneath the helmet, shoulders sagging as he took a step closer. “Not like you were gonna answer the door.” His voice was rough, and the bitterness in his tone was impossible to miss.

Your irritation flared, but then you noticed something—a slight tremor in the way he moved. His steps were sluggish, almost hesitant, and he favoured his right side, trying to mask it.

He wasn’t just annoyed.

He was hurt.

As he stepped out of the shadow, the dim lamp light caught the outline of his armour. That’s when you noticed it—dark stains creeping across the front of his suit, and the way his hand pressed against his side, the faint sound of a pained breath slipping past his otherwise guarded posture.

“You’re bleeding,” you muttered, the frustration quickly giving way to concern. He didn’t respond, his gaze avoiding yours as he leaned back against the wall, clearly uncomfortable with being here. Jason never wanted anyone to see him like this—least of all you.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he grumbled, the words tinged with a mix of guilt and exasperation. “Go to bed. I’ll be out in a minute. Just needed some stuff. Still got that first aid kit?”

You shook your head, taking a cautious step closer, your heart sinking at the sight of him in pain. “Jason, you can’t just—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off sharply, pushing himself off the wall, wincing as the movement aggravated his wound. His stance was defensive like he was already preparing to run before you could offer to help.

But the moment his knees buckled slightly, the tough exterior he was trying to maintain cracked. You could see it in the way his breath hitched, the way he clutched at his side like he was barely holding it together.

He wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He was here because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Jason pulled the mask off his head, his breath coming in sharp gasps as if the helmet had been suffocating him. He tossed it carelessly onto your dining table before glancing at you, his expression tight. “You got it or not?”

His voice startled you into action. “Uh—yeah, I’ve got it.” You scrambled down the hall toward the bathroom, hands shaking as you rifled through the drawers for the first aid kit. His footsteps echoed faintly in your living room, boots heavy against the hardwood. Now that he’d been caught, his presence filled the space in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it was no use. No matter how many times you’d imagined running into Jason again, it was never like this. In your daydreams, you hoped you’d bump into him on the street, or maybe during work.

There were even moments where you’d foolishly fantasized about seeing him at Wayne Manor, handing over files to Bruce as a favour, only to lock eyes with Jason from across the room. But this? Jason bleeding out on your floor, breaking into your apartment in the middle of the night? This wasn’t what you wanted.

When you returned to the living room, he had already shed his jacket, revealing a deep gash along his side. It was messy, and the blood soaked into the fabric of his suit, leaving dark stains that made your stomach drop.

He’d settled into something uncomfortably familiar—boots kicked off by the door, sitting against the wall like old times, but this time he kept his distance, his body tense.

He didn’t want to be here.

You hesitated as you approached, the kit in your hand. “Jason, let me—”

“I’ve got it.” His voice was sharp, cutting you off as he took the first aid kit from your hands without so much as a glance. His glare kept you at arm’s length, and it hurt. The way he shut you out, even when he was barely holding himself together.

He didn’t trust anyone—not entirely.

Not after everything.

Still, seeing him like this made something twist in your chest. Bleeding and worn down, but too stubborn to ask for help. There was a heaviness in the air, lingering in the silence that stretched between you both. It wasn’t just about tonight—it was everything that had been left unresolved before, all the words that had gone unsaid the last time you’d seen each other. But now, with Jason sitting right in front of you, neither of you dared to speak.

You crouched a few feet away, sitting on the floor across from him, watching as he tried to clean the wound himself. His hand shook slightly, though he tried to hide it, his jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth against the pain. It was bad—worse than he was letting on.

“Jason, stop,” you finally said, your voice softer than you intended. “You’re gonna make it worse.”

“I don’t need your help,” he bit out, refusing to meet your eyes. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”

He huffed, annoyed, but when he tried to move again, his breath hitched—pain breaking through the cracks of his tough exterior. His hand slipped, and the antiseptic bottle nearly fell from his grip. You didn’t wait for his permission this time. You slid over, taking the kit from his hand.

“Just let me do it,” you murmured, your voice firmer now.

Jason didn’t argue this time, though his jaw was still set in that stubborn way you knew all too well. You could feel the heat branching off him as you gently touched his arm to move it out of the way and clean the wound. His whole body stiffened at the contact like he wasn’t used to being taken care of—or maybe he just didn’t want it.

His eyes shifted to the far wall, jaw clenched even tighter, refusing to meet your gaze, but you caught the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when your hands moved over his skin.

He wasn’t saying anything, but his body told you enough. Every time your fingers brushed a sensitive spot or when the antiseptic stung, his lips pressed into a thinner line. He didn’t flinch exactly, but his posture—rigid, unmoving—betrayed how uncomfortable he was.

You weren’t sure what was harder for him: the wound or the fact that he was letting you help. His pride had always been a barrier, a wall he rarely let anyone get through. Yet here he was, in your apartment, wounded and unwilling to admit just how much he needed you.

As Jason shifted slightly, wincing, you took the moment to observe him. It had been a while since you last saw him, and for a second, you searched for something—anything—that might’ve changed. But he was still Jason. Still, the same stubborn man who couldn’t stay out of trouble. Even that white strand of hair was right where it had always been. He looked older somehow, but not in the way time ages people. It was something deeper, worn into him from the life he led.

And then his eyes flicked up, catching you watching him. For a brief moment, neither of you moved. His gaze softened, just barely, before the guarded look returned as quickly as it had slipped away.

He shifted again, his body tense, and glanced around your apartment—anything to avoid looking directly at you. His gaze lingered on your desk, the files from your latest case scattered across it, and his expression darkened. You could see it in his eyes—a mix of suspicion and something else.

“You’ve been busy,” he muttered, his tone gruff, though the edge in his voice told you there was more to it than a simple observation.

You didn’t look up, keeping your hands steady as you applied pressure to the wound. “You know how it is.”

Jason’s jaw twitched. “Yeah,” he said, his tone sharp. “I know how it is.”

It was a jab, even if it was subtle. You could feel the accusation hanging between the lines of his words. He wasn't just talking about your busy schedule—he was digging at the gap between you two, at all the things neither of you had addressed. Your loyalty to Batman. Your work with Gordon.

A little fucking traitor to everything Jason worked for.

You sighed, pressing a little harder than necessary to make a point. “You’re not here for that, Jason.”

He winced, and you almost felt bad. Almost. But the look in his eyes—calculated, like he was searching for the truth behind every move you made—made your chest tighten. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

“You’re not going to ask why I’m here?” His voice was softer now, but there was a bitterness to it. He knew you weren’t stupid. He wasn’t here by choice, and you both knew it. You wanted to ask, but what was the point? Jason never came to you for help, never came to anyone unless he had no other option.

“I figured you’d tell me when you’re ready,” you replied quietly, not daring to meet his eyes. His presence in your home felt heavier than the blood on your hands.

He scoffed, shifting to take the bandage from your hand. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Your hand stilled for a moment, hovering just above his skin. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a reminder of just how close you were to crossing a line neither of you dared to acknowledge. He was still the same Jason, still stubborn as hell, but the space between you felt like it had grown into a chasm. One you weren't sure either of you could cross without everything falling apart.

“Why are you really here, Jason?” you asked, giving in. He was a wanted man, or at least Red Hood was. If you were up to it, you could have him arrested within seconds.

His eyes snapped up, the guarded expression faltering for a moment before his usual defiance returned. “It’s not like I had a lot of options,” he admitted, though the words felt forced like he was offering you an excuse instead of the truth.

“I thought you always had a plan,” you said, words sharper than you intended. “Or is that just another thing you’ve changed your mind about?”

He flinched, and for a second, you regretted saying it. But the hurt between you two had been simmering for too long. His loyalty was always a wild card, and yours? Well, Jason had never forgiven you for staying close to the people he had walked away from.

Jason’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, but close. “The Bat keeping you on a tight leash?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or is it Gordon now?”

You stiffened, the accusation hitting home more than you liked. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, knowing it sounded weak but unwilling to offer more. It was always the same with Jason—he pushed, prodded, and pulled at the places you tried to protect.

“Yeah, right. Because we both know where your loyalties lie,” Jason snapped, his tone harsher now. His eyes bore into you like he was searching for something—anything—that would confirm his suspicions. That you’d chosen Batman over him. That you were still working with the people who had crossed him.

“I didn’t betray you,” you said quietly, though even as you said it, the words felt hollow. You didn’t know if you believed them anymore.

Jason let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. There was too much between you, too many things left unsaid, and no amount of stitching his wounds would ever fix that. He was right, in a way. You hadn’t chosen him—not when it counted.

Not when he needed you. And for what? For comfort? A little bit of safety? An alliance with Batman? A raise at work? The questions ran through your mind like jagged edges. It wasn’t that simple, but neither of you had ever really said the things that needed to be said back then, too busy trying to fix things that did not need fixing.

His breathing had become more laboured as you worked, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. The wound you were treating was deep, and too close to critical areas for comfort.

Jason’s hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into fists as if he was fighting the pain, refusing to show just how much it hurt. But you could see it in the way his body trembled under your touch—he was reaching his limit.

“Let me finish,” you said, your tone softer, more insistent. "Stop fighting me."

For once, he didn’t argue. His jaw unclenched, his shoulders slackened slightly, and his eyes—usually so guarded—softened just enough to show how exhausted he really was. Physically, emotionally, all of it. He wasn’t invincible, and tonight, that truth was catching up with him faster than he could hide.

You moved closer, hands brushing against his skin as you worked quickly, trying to keep your focus. His skin was warm, slick with sweat and blood, and the faintest tremor ran through his frame as your fingers traced the edge of the wound. But the closeness was unnerving—both of you acutely aware of each other in a way that made the room feel smaller.

You caught his eyes as you reached for more gauze, and for a split second, neither of you looked away. His gaze burned into you, full of unspoken questions, of things he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. And for the first time, you wondered if you weren’t the only one who had felt betrayed.

But you’d both been wrong. You could see it now, in the way his eyes darkened with unsaid accusations, in the way your heart ached with unresolved regret. You thought you were protecting him by walking away—by choosing the safer path, Batman’s path. And Jason, with all his reckless defiance, had been too far gone in his need for vengeance to understand why you couldn’t follow him down that road.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, barely loud enough for you to hear. “I can’t trust anyone anymore.”

Your fingers stilled, hovering just above his chest. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air between you.

"I never asked you to trust me," you whispered, the words hanging precariously on the line between honesty and regret.

But the truth was, you wanted him to. More than anything.

Jason’s lips tightened into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might push you away. His muscles tensed beneath your touch as if bracing himself for another fight. His hand twitched, lifting halfway like he was going to shove you back, but he stopped.

The strain was written all over his face now, and you could see his breathing growing more ragged. His eyes were slipping out of focus, and you noticed the faint green glow flickering at the edges of his irises—Lazarus. It was always there, a reminder of how far he’d gone, how close to the edge he still was.

“Jason…” you said quietly, watching the pain ripple through him. He was losing consciousness, slipping into the darkness despite his stubborn refusal to admit it. His hand finally dropped, brushing against your arm before it hit the floor, the strength leaving him in waves.

“Just… get it over with,” he rasped, his voice cracking.

You pressed the final bandage into place, your hands gentle now, more careful. For a moment, you let your fingers linger, brushing against the rough skin of his shoulder as you finished. His breathing was shallow, but steady, his eyes fluttering shut. The tension drained from his body as the exhaustion finally won, leaving him vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen in a while.

It reminded you of when he used to sleep beside you. Jason had always been restless, even in sleep, twisting in the sheets, his mind never fully at ease. But there had been nights when he would finally relax, his hand instinctively reaching for yours, his head resting against your chest like he found his peace there, with you. You remembered how you’d stroke that same shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin as you whispered for him to rest, that you were there, watching over him.

And yet, here you were, caring for him again.

He stirred slightly, a soft grunt escaping his lips as he adjusted, trying to find a position that eased the pain. His face softened with the kind of weariness that came from more than just the physical strain. You watched his chest rise and fall, the quiet sound of his breath mingling with the hum of the city outside.

Jason’s hand twitched again, brushing against your knee, his fingers grazing your skin with a familiar yet distant touch. It made your heartache.

There was a time when you would’ve done anything to keep him safe, to protect him from the world—and from himself. But now, all you could do was sit there, hands still resting against his skin, wondering if either of you could ever come back from this.

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ UNCHAINED MELODY, PART SIX !

summary :: surviving raccoon city together, you catch the affections of leon kennedy, ada wong, jill valentine, and carlos oliveira. six years later, you reunite with them and realize their obsession with you has increased tenfold.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 12.3k.

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!leon, yandere!ada, yandere!jill, yandere!carlos, gender neutral reader, smut (not involving reader), murder, death, violence/gore, suic1dal tendencies, suic1de attempt, alcoholism, weaponry, panic attacks, ptsd, hallucinations, & sleep paralysis.

leon kennedy's yandere traits are . . .

clingy, heroic, & territorial

──── Leon Kennedy hates sunlight in his eyes. Yet still, he finds himself basking in the warm rays.

When the sun hits the window just right, ensnaring the room in its golden hues, he bathes in its light the same way he'd lay in a hot bath. The lulling warmth melts his muscles and eases his body. After he falls asleep in the office after another unsuccessful investigation, your sunset is there for him. When he passes out after a drunken night at the bar, your sunrise is there for him. You're looking down at him always, embracing him in splotches of sunlight.

For a while, Leon thought he knew what it meant to be alive. To touch the hands of guttural pain; to feel the jagged juts of his past nestle against him. But, after that horrid night six years ago, after the exposure to sunshine he did not know existed, he truly touched the scorching surface of rock bottom.

And it is killing him. All because of a singular person.

Y/N L/N. The name he will never forget.

Leon remembers your exuberant eyes, your adorable mannerisms, the glimmer of your smile; he will never forget how you sparked the beginning of his life in Raccoon City.

He remembers the orange lights had swayed in his vision. How everything was stuck in a blistering sea of vertigo. Listening to the fire crackle and creatures groan, Leon coughs from the tickle caught in his throat. There is a weight pressed to his chest, something akin to a cushion. White. Artificial fabrics, a plastic touch. An airbag, maybe?

September 28th of 1998. The memories all return to him like a violent supercut. The yell of his name, the squeal of the brakes, the collision afterward. His precious Jeep Wrangler had now been flipped upside down and he was now caught in the savagery of the aftermath. The blood rushing to his head has the world swirling around him, lulling him into another state of unconsciousness. Leon touches the passenger seat with his red hands, terror ensnaring him upon realizing the seat was empty.

Something blurry in his trail of vision grips his attention. Through the shattered window, a figure stumbles through the brume of the flickering streetlights. Blue glares frame the dirt-stained "R.P.D" sign and the figure hastens towards its doors.

A whimper of your name is stuck on his tongue, as words get trapped in his congested throat. Don't leave me. In Leon's efforts to escape, his foot gets caught on the gear shift. He pulls with all his might, despite the twists and strains his ankle endures. Y/N, please don't. Shards of glass fall from his hair as he wrestles his way out. A few pieces manage to leave shallow nicks against his flesh. Come back to me.

Leon then plummets to the wet pavement, finally free of his demolished car. Frivolous debris and fresh corpses litter his path. His newly-purchased white sneakers (which he bought solely to show off to you) are splattered in the disgusting matter. Stumbling, he is able to persevere through all of this and he quickly trudges through the wreckage.

Leon barrels through the doors of the R.P.D. and surges through the police department. Bullets pierce through the skulls of pedestrians and coworkers roaming the building. Blood paints his body like rainfall. All while he is searching for the face that will end the torment reigning havoc through his mind.

The holding cells are inspected thoroughly while Leon's disposition is one of acute desperation. The adjacent areas are consumed with infected prisoners, all of which he promptly executes. Much to his dismay, however, the rookie does not find you sitting at a bench or clinging to the rusted bars. It is all empty, leading him to become more frantic in his search for you.

Something navy blue then captures his attention. Left on the floor of a cell is a name tag. Something small and wet with blood.

Leon takes the object into his fingers. His heart wrenches when he reads the name stamped on the plastic. The familiar "Mizoil Gas Station" is printed above "Y/N L/N".

A gasp fills the empty silence. Y/N... Where did you go? Why did you leave me?

"Hey.”

He jerks around to the intruding voice.

"Who is that?"

"Stay sharp."

Behind him is a rotting face with dead, paper-white eyes staring right through him. The zombie towers over him, growling for a bite. Leon yanks Matilda from his holster. The action is swift. Adept. Exactly the way he was trained. The echo of a gunshot permeates through the large expanse and fuses with the squelching sounds of brain matter oozing from the zombies' open skull. The corpse falls to the grimy floors with a thud and once more, silence returns.

The click of stiletto heels treads closer to Leon. On the threshold of the prison cell, a woman walks into his train of vision.

Ada Wong.

Finally, a human! Leon thinks to himself. He is quick to take advantage of the company of a normal, uninfected person. The pestering questions he has all tumble out out his mouth like an avalanche of blabbering nonsense.

"Please, you have to help me! I-I'm looking for someone!"

Her lack of articulation urges Leon to continue.

"My name is Leon Kennedy."

He takes a breath before continuing.

"The person I'm looking for- they, um- they're about... this tall." He holds his flat hand up to demonstrate your height. "Their eyes are Y/E/C. Well, maybe not like an exact shade of Y/E/C. It's more like a softer, prettier-"

She scoffs, cutting him off from his incessant rambling. Turning her heel, Ada begins to walk away from the pathetic mess she stumbled upon.

"Wait! Their name is Y/N!”

The woman halts.

“Y/N L/N! Please, you have to help me find them!"

Body tense, her eyes peer at him through the dark barrier of her sunglasses. Her arms weaken, once sternly folded over her beige trench coat.

"They're my partner... Please..."

Ada's lips part. From them, a sharp inhale.

Leon begs her with desperate worry, encompassed in a vehement frame of mind. His plead is spoken with such clarity, Ada can only assume it as truth. And the prospect of you belonging to someone else cuts like a dull knife. It is gross, it is nauseating. Unnatural. Like worms slithering around in her stomach, trying to escape the heart-shattering effect this information has on her.

Then, there is the anger. The betrayal is like a song too loud, the resentment like sheer alcohol on her tongue. Everything manifests into a spirit so overwhelming that Ada cannot find air to breathe. This blanket of rage stirs with her sorrow like two conflicting chemicals. The reaction sparks something iniquitous.

So, in turn, she does what she does best.

Lie.

"Y/N is dead."

A silence settles in the room.

Leon stares. That is all he does.

He stares at Ada and tries to scrutinize her to find some other truth. Anything other than this.

"Ambushed. No possible way of getting them out of that mess..."

Ada speaks with defective emotion. The words land mercilessly and hit with ruthless force.

A harsh ringing noise permeates around Leon. He covers his ears, blunt nails digging into his scalp. He shakes his head no, as though he merely disagrees with fact. It's not true. It can't be! Losing grasp on the only good thing in his life is something he will not accept. He refuses to.

You are his sun. What is existence without its warmth? What will happen to Earth without its necessity?

How can he possibly survive without you?

Ada rolls her eyes at the dramatic scene now playing out at her hand. She ignores her own hypocrisy, of course. If she had learned of your demise, only God knows what blood-curdling reaction she would have. When it comes to Leon, however, every blink of his eye and twitch of his muscle has her riddled with irritation. Does he not know how lucky he is? Ada would endure any pain if she knew she had the comfort of calling you her lover. It is a dream she would kill to make reality.

Leon soon collapses to the floor. A shot of pain courses through his knees from landing harshly on the cement. His hand clutches over his heart, absolutely gutted by the torment forced upon the organ.

Ada then leaves this lie where she puts it down. She struts out of the prison cell, thus continuing her search for wherever in Raccoon City you may be.

You do not need a boyfriend. Especially one as pathetic as Leon Kennedy.

The man in question has been rendered into a puddle of blubbering nonsense. Questions still fill the silent air. How, when, why? Why did it have to be you? The one person on this disgusting planet who did not deserve it. Why couldn't you have just stayed with him and let him devote his life to protecting the precious gem of your life? Why? Why? Why?

Leon has already lost so much, you were the very last thing keeping him afloat. You are his life preserver in the middle of the ocean. He has now succumbed to the thrashing waves, as he was always destined to be swallowed by the sea. Saltwater permeates his lungs and his limp body sways with the lulling current. As though this is what his life was always meant to be: crawling after happiness just to have it yanked away when he gets too close. In the end, his sugar-sweet delusions will always sink down to the ocean floor.

Tears do not escape Leon, no matter the weight of the pain. He does not care for anything but you. Now that you have left him, nothing else matters. Therefore, no emotion can be elicited from him anymore. He has been touched so violently by this intensity, it eradicated any surviving nerves.

His handgun had been left on the ground, a few feet away from him. Assumably falling from his grasp after his knees gave out. He takes the weapon and it shivers in his trembling grasp. It's blurry in his gaze, as his entire vision is overwhelmed with stupor. Should he? God knows he wants to. What is there left to experience in life without you there with him?

As he guides the barrel of his gun to his temple, the static ringing in his ears accelerates in volume. Somehow, though, Leon does not feel fear. He does not feel anything. No dread, no despair — just sheer, hollow nothingness. It infuses his entire body like a roaming virus, ensuring it does not leave any traceable fragments of emotion.

A quivering finger hovers over the trigger. One pull and he will be free.

Leon presses his finger down.

Click.

Nothing.

Click. Click. Click.

Nothing happens.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

"FUCK!"

Leon chucks the gun to the ground. His yell comes out guttural, a touch away from being a growl.

The clatter of Matilda's impact is not enough to appease him, as this swamped nothingness is more than he can endure. In a fit of defeat, Leon balls his fists and punches the cement floor. Agony surges through his entire hand and blood smudges his knuckles. The sound of his bones cracking still does not satisfy him in the slightest. Nothing can aid him now. Absolutely nothing.

With heavy legs, Leon stands to his feet. He holds his broken fist close to his chest and limps out of the empty prison cell. As he meanders through the station, he finds a set of car keys to a police cruiser on the corpse of his former co-worker. Despite claiming the title of "hero" when he first earned his badge, he does not intend to help anyone tonight. He couldn't save the only thing he ever loved, what kind of hero fails to do that?

The screaming of pedestrians and desperate pleas for help fall on deaf ears. The vehicle's engine rumbles and Leon's dead eyes stare at the road ahead. He leaves Raccoon City forever in his dust.

Six years have passed since the night you were taken from him. Leon wants to die, that much is for certain. The only thing preventing him from giving in is the fact that people need him. They all fail to see that he needs you, as he always will. Besides, he’s got some last few words he wishes to tell Umbrella before he bids this life farewell.

This is his life now. And in a morbid way, he thinks it is romantic. He read somewhere that if a swan dies, their surviving mate will fly into the sky and let themselves plummet to their death. Is that you and him? Should he put the final puzzle piece in your happily-ever-after and end it all? When the sun shines through the window and he wakes up without you again, however, Leon cannot romanticize the empty shell he is trapped within. He is desperate to know why you couldn't have taken his body with you on your way to heaven. Why death couldn’t have brought him eternal peace the very second you passed.

These several years have been spent drowning in alcohol. Leon has no preference for whatever booze he consumes, either. Anything that will make him forget it all will do the trick. At the bar with concerned bartenders or in his almost-empty liquor cabinet at home — he’ll take whatever he can get his hands on.

All his nights are now spent beneath the golden lights of the local bar. Dawn is spent crying on the kitchen floor with a queasy stomach. His days are all the same, too. Saving the lives of helpless citizens, he never forgets how the glimmer of gratitude in their eyes should have been yours.

This night in particular was no different. Leon has nearly drunk the entire bar's alcohol supply in hours. He imbibes a glass of whiskey and cringes at the cheap taste. Too sweet. Poorly made. He does not mind this, however, as anything that can ease the pain is satisfactory enough. And just like any other night, Leon is thinking of you. He watches the ice cubes dance in the cup, arms lazily resting on the sticky countertop. If only things were different, then he wouldn't have to be in this shit-hole right now. He could spend all his nights with you, instead. God, he misses you.

"You look lonely."

Leon didn't have to look up from his glass to know what was happening. At a place like this, it was inevitable.

He never took to heart whenever his coworkers teased him with names such as "pretty boy" or "Leonardo DiCaprio." It seemed to be a "chick magnet," as they so called it. So, when another stranger approaches him with that familiar glint in their eye, he knows what they want from him.

"I can fix that."

Leon looks to where the woman is sitting beside him. Like he does with every courting, he searches her for any remnants of you. If he were honest with himself, these people served as a good distraction. Enough bottles and he can delude his fuzzy brain into believing it was you standing beside him instead of another stranger.

The sight is blurred from his intoxicated state, but his judgment is clear as day. Her face shape and height contrast from yours. She is an inch or two shorter. Her smirk is sensual, not as toothy and adorable as your vivacious smile. Her body is entirely different, as well. Too bony, with wonky proportions that were nothing like you. The only similarity was her eye color. Your exuberant shimmer was missing, but the collection of hues shared puny similarities.

Eh. Good enough.

"Daddy! S-So big- fuck!"

The blaring sounds of heavy rock playing outside the motel room do not ease the headache Leon has, nor does the vociferous calamity of this woman. She doesn't sound anything like you. Too submissive, too goddamn insufferable. In his head, he can only imagine the dulcet sounds he could pull from your pretty lips. This woman was ruining that heavenly fantasy.

"I told you to be fucking quiet."

He uses his strength and pins her harder against the squeaking mattress. Insufferably irritating moans are muffled upon shoving that loud mouth into the pillows. Leon squeezes his eyes shut and puts all attention to the image he has painted in his mind.

You'd be different, much different. He can only imagine you beneath him like this. Harsh demands formed from your dulcet voice, commanding his every move and action. Telling your puppy dog to make you feel good with the promise of a reward — the thought alone never fails to send a shiver through his body. Leon is sure your golden voice praising him is all he needs to die happy.

"Fuck, 's too much. Daddy-"

The reverie shatters as quickly as it was formed. His calloused hands find the woman's hair and he forces her further into the pillows. She is not opposed to being treated roughly in the sheets, discernible in the way her moans and mindless babbles increase in volume.

"Shut your fucking mouth!"

Leon would be different, too. Much softer than this. He would handle every inch of your skin like he's unmasking an archeological masterpiece. God, he couldn't treat you roughly even if he wanted to. Ruin every orgasm of his, leave his body littered with bruises and scratches. He would be a slave to your every whim, as pain at your hand would bring him bliss like no other. And in return, Leon would still touch your body with the same glass-like softness he is only ever capable of treating you with.

He buries his face into the stranger's shoulder and inhales the scent of their perfume. It is nauseating and nothing like you. Artificially sweet and too strong. Leon desperately fills the plot holes in his fantasy and imagines you dolling yourself up for him. Maybe after a tireless day at work, he would arrive home to you greeting him with a surprise. Where you got all dressed up for his eyes only and allowed him to indulge in your body again and again and again and again.

He can only imagine the look in your eyes when you call him your puppy, your husband, your good boy.

The thought sends him over the edge.

It is not a euphoric unfolding. It is sharp. Gross and weak. It is merely something to help him get by, even just barely. At least tonight Leon was able to finish inside a warm body instead of the plastic toy he keeps in his bedside drawer.

He doesn't even remember the name of this stranger. However, that doesn't matter when loud whines of your name jump out of his throat instead. The word tumbles from his mouth as though if he spoke it enough, you would materialize into this bed with him.

The unsatisfied woman does not overlook this. Another person's name shamelessly moaned by the man she thought she would have some late-night fun with, is he serious? She rolls her eyes and escapes from his sweaty hold. As she dresses herself, rehearsing how she'll tell this horror story to her friends, Leon stays on the bed. He does not try to stop her from leaving.

The afterglow is feeble, but he merely pretends it is as strong as he knows it would be with you. He wants to ensnare his body around yours and reaffirm just how deeply he loves you. He just wants to be with you again, no matter what the circumstances are. In the sheets after Earth-shattering sex with the love of his life or back in the grimy streets of Raccoon City, he will take anything if it means looking into your eyes again.

The door closes with a slam. Leon is now alone. But, then again, how could he notice? It is what the past six years have looked like, after all.

2,327 days and counting since he lost you.

If you asked him all that time ago where he thought he'd be right now, he would answer with the hope and happiness he only had then. He'd sit cozy in the little cabin in the woods you and he would occupy, he was sure of it. Summers would be spent in the sunlit lakes and Winters would be spent huddling for warmth by the fireplace. Years would pass like this. All laughter and kisses, snuggles, and healing hearts.

These fantasies haunt him like a horror-flick ghost floating around an attic, as it is what his life could have been had he not failed to protect you. He could have you in his arms this very second, but because of his God-awful driving skills, your body was left behind in the rubble of Umbrella's mistakes. It is what he devoted his entire career to now: tearing down that damned corporation. It is why he is in this motel room, to begin with, where he rots in these musty sheets and sleeps with people he can't remember the names of.

Images of you and him sharing smiles flicker through his brain and lull him. Your eyes are the last thing Leon sees before he falls asleep.

It is a light slumber. He does not dream, he is merely unconscious. When he wakes an hour later, it is like he has not slept at all. As if the short period of time passed in a sheer blink. This is what his sleeping schedule normally looks like nowadays, complemented by the heavy, storm-grey bags beneath his eyes.

The sheet draped over his waist leaves him cold. The Winter weather creeps into the room and engulfs his naked skin in goosebumps. When Leon tries to grasp more of the cheap blankets to drape himself in, he is at a loss when he finds himself unable to move. Almost as though a weight had forced him back onto the bed. He can't move even a muscle; he is wholly and utterly paralyzed.

There's a soft footstep that permeates. Leon's eyes dart around the room, but there is nothing to perceive in the dark emptiness. When he tries to open his mouth and question if that woman has returned, his jaw remains locked shut.

Another footstep. He searches for anything to defend himself from whatever monster lurks in the shadows.

Then, another step. There is no doubting someone is in this room with him. He tries to regain mobility of his body, scrambling to use his fists or to find his gun.

"Leon?"

Something blooms within him. A vibrant, healthy flower persevering through the fiery ashes.

"It's me..."

Home. That is the only word Leon could use to explain your voice. Like the swirling scent of oven-fresh cookies made by his grandmother. Like the imagination in his mother's voice when she read him a bedtime story. Like the scent of freshly mowed grass when he plays outside after school. The cadence and inflection of your words bring a sense of comfort like no other. Honey-sweet in the purest form.

Through the dust-ridden curtains, the hues of streetlight seep into one corner of the room. You step into the light, midnight shadows framing your features. You're dressed in the exact clothing he last saw you wearing, in the absence of all that blood and grime from that night. Those beautiful, beautiful eyes bore into him as you step closer. Sitting down on the edge of the mattress, a smile grows on your lips and robs him of all coherent function.

Leon can't but wonder if this was it, if he had died on this disgusting motel bed and you were finally taking him back into your arms. He doesn't even mind losing all sense of mobility, as long as you keep looking at him like that. Neither his face nor his body can physically react to the rush of emotion that comes with your presence, but it is more than perceptible in his eyes. Sky-gray irises drowned in oceans of fervor. Baby blues overwhelmed with shimmering, flamboyant love.

"If only you had just heard me out, then I could actually be with you right now." Your words, as heavenly as they sound, confuse Leon.

You tuck some fallen wisps of blonde hair away from his face and he swears it is real. His heart hammers like a snare drum. This is real, it must be real, it has to be.

"If only you had just looked at the damn road instead of me. Then neither of us would be in this mess, would we?"

Something shifts in your gaze. That smile he loves so much is torn away and replaced with a scowl. There is now a perceptible rage in your expression, drowned in hollow emotion that clenches his heart.

"And look at you now! Cheating on me with someone you knew for three fucking seconds!? Like everything we have means jack shit to you!"

No, no, no, no, no! It's not like that! She means nothing, she is nothing! He only used her as a placeholder for you! There isn't a single redeeming feature about her that compares to you. Jesus Christ, how could he want anyone else when you exist?

Leon tries to respond, he really does. He wants to tell you how sorry he is, how badly he wishes he could go back six years and change it all. How many hours he has spent with his hands clasped in prayer, apologizing relentlessly to the sky and hoping you'll hear him from down here. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry.

You stand from the bed, hands balled into fists at your side. "You're not gonna say anything? Just lay there and look at me like I'm nothing but-!"

A figure then barrels at you from the shadows. Your infuriated rant was cut short with a gut-wrenching shout when you are knocked to the ground. Saturated flesh peeking from dead skin and groans of hunger plunging from their slack mouth — a zombie had leaped from the darkness and sunk its teeth into your shoulder. Blood spouts from your wound and cascades down your body. You plead for Leon to help you, that he not leave you behind like he did all those years ago. And so desperately, Leon tries to.

A scream is locked behind his closed mouth as he tries to wrestle his way back to you. It pries and fights to escape, as though the force of his shout would be enough to convince this brainless creature to leave you be. Eyes blown wide with dizzying panic, all he can do is watch. His toned chest, sheen with sweat, rises and falls with rapid movements. Muffled whimpers of horror escape from the subtle crease of his mouth.

With every beating second your life fades away, the more Leon latches to any vigor he can grasp. His efforts to save you are overwhelmed in sheer desperation. He cannot let this happen all over again; he cannot lose you a second time. It would kill him, he is sure of it.

Something twitches in his finger. Then his foot. And for a moment, hope flickers in his mind. He can save you and atone for what he failed to do before. When the squelching sounds of flesh torn asunder fill the silence, that hope wears thin.

Like a bag of sand, Leon is able to drag his limp body across the mattress. His jaw weakens, to where sounds of despair are granted the ability to escape in roaring fervency. Off the side of the bed with the speed of a slug, he hits the ground with a harsh thud. Hauling himself onto his stomach, a verbiage of your name leaves his mouth.

He begins to crawl helplessly to where you are, only to stop in his efforts when he finds nothing. The lights from outside still seep into the room and the racket sounds of rock music still play from a room over. But, you have vanished. Leon stares at where you had fallen, scrutinizing every detail for any resemblance of you.

Misery strikes like a gunshot through his chest. Why did he fail again? Why can't he be enough, even for just once?

Why do you always leave him in the end?

He is alone again. Sat by himself on top of the soiled motel carpet and used condom he had frivolously thrown across the room. But, once again, how could he notice? It is what the past six years have looked like. And now, it is what the rest of his life will likely be encompassed in — empty solitude and hopeless dreams of you.

Leon does not sleep for the rest of the night. He is far too restless from the stressful events, terrified of watching that scene play out all over again. The digital clock on the bedside table provided minimum light, where the vibrant red numbers tick away. All he does is lie in this mess, watching the hours drift away.

A dark blue soon ensnares the sky. Birds squawk and sing. Dawn has finally arrived and so does the sun, bathing the room in its glowing orange and pink hues.

Your sunrise welcomes him, once again. The warmth and its serenity fails to placate him, though. Sitting here, he realizes how much of a fool he was to believe it was you in some form. The very second you left, you took everything warm and bright with you. You left him cold and empty and lifeless. You nestled the sun behind your resting eyes when your life faded away.

Cuddling up with you in that imaginary cabin is the only thing that can vitalize him. Two cups of steaming tea, watching the wind sway through the trees from the porch. Oh, the things Leon would take to bring this fantasy to life. To bring you back into the warmth of his arms is all he could ever need, where you will be safe and forever alive.

6:02 AM on the clock, Leon is expected at work in the following hour. Without a morsel of energy left in his feeble body, the thought of standing on this grimy floor overwhelms him with disdain.

Despite how badly he wishes to beat all scientists involved with Umbrella to a bloody pulp, he must take a course of action that abides by legal standards. To do this, Leon must work behind the scenes, ensuring every nail and screw is fastened with flawless finesse. This slow journey toward his goal of tearing Umbrella to shreds has taken a toll on him. No punching bag to take his rage out and his anger nestles itself into his body. Once Umbrella is six feet under, only then will he grant himself permission to join you and let Earth reclaim his body.

Today, Leon is now a part of the Torrents: a Capture-Force team designated to take down Umbrella's rumored return and prosecute those working for them. He has been assigned to replace someone on the team upon their suspension for "severe mental issues,” or whatever that entails. Alcohol heavy on his breath and bags beneath his eyes, Leon arrives at work for the day. He walks through the doors of a sanctuary Umbrella was confirmed to have been located at but has since fled from.

"You're late."

Leon doesn't care to look at the voice, as he already acknowledged and dismissed the vibrant "7:39 AM" on his wristwatch. They should be grateful he was even here in the first place and not rotting in bed.

"Not exactly rooting for employee of the month. Do I look the type?"

Leon's comment causes him to let out a quick huff of laughter. This new guy is much more amusing than his previous coworker, after all.

"Tyrell. Call me 'T."

He takes his hand out for Leon to shake, which he ignores. Tyrell stuffs his hand back into his pocket upon his refusal to reciprocate. An awkward silence settles between them.

"Leon. But, you knew that already."

The blonde then walks away from his new acquaintance. He can't recall the last time he had one, no less a genuine friend. The only person he put honest effort into discerning was you. Everyone else was just painfully bleak background noise stood behind your radiant aura. There is no one in the universe he wishes to befriend anymore, not when you're gone.

Leon treads through the building in search of the office organized by the team. Working behind a desk provides him his wanted rest, but taking part in the action scene provides an acute distraction. With his hands covered in blood and his fingers reeking of gunpowder, it is the most peace he can feel. Punch after punch, shots upon shots — the thought of you is eased little by little. The memory of you still lives on, but it is ephemeral moments like this where Leon can forget it all.

Several workers walk through the halls with heavy boxes marked "EVIDENCE". Others photograph imperative scenery around them, while some are busy scribbling on their notepads. Leon passes all of them without a second thought. However, two of his coworkers in particular capture his attention.

They both guide a surviving patient through the hallway. A young man holding a file in his hands and a perceptible fear in his eyes. The man then swiftly, albeit pathetically, throws himself at Leon and the file is shoved against his chest upon impact. A few of the files' contents slip from the folder and splat against the tiled floors. Hands curled around the sheepskin hems of his jacket, the man begs Leon for his help.

"Please, you have to help me! I-I'm looking for someone."

Leon's stare is harsh. Cold and empty. Any living creature would surely keel over beneath that terrifyingly vacant gaze. The man, riddled with desperation, perseveres through this fear and continues to plead.

"They're my best friend... Please..."

The guards quickly shuffle over to the scene. Their hands grip the man's shoulders, but do not apply any further pressure. They look to Leon, waiting for the demand of their superior.

And without breaking eye contact, Leon speaks.

"Get him out of my sight."

They do as told, nearly shoving the man to the ground in their efforts to escort him out of the building. The hopeless gleam in his eyes should have sparked some form of guilt within Leon. Looking into that man's eyes, however, he feels nothing. Leon instead shifts his gaze to the ground. There, right beneath his boot, the sight of something causes his heart to quicken. Swiftly taking it into his gloved hands, his breath is then yanked from his chest.

In the polaroid is no other than you.

Snow engulfs the ground and you’re dressed in a large coat that practically swallows you whole. Pine trees blanketed in the white matter surround you. With chunky mittens on, you form a heart with your hands. Snowflakes descend from the sky, a few landing on your shoulders and knitted hat. Behind you, a stack of plastic sleds. You're captured with that smile of perfection on your face, the very smile that could rival the sun.

How...? 

How did he have this? Leon could've sworn he had every picture of you...

He crosses the hallway in several large strides and finds him in mere seconds. With every sliver of strength in his body, Leon tears the man from the grasp of the guards and shoves him against the wall.

"Where did you get this!?" His voice has been reduced to a gruff timbre. A horrifying whisper.

Gesturing at the Polaroid, the man looks at him in bewilderment.

"W-What are you talking about-?"

Leon's forearm pushes against the base of his throat, pressing harder and arousing choked gasps from his throat.

"I won't ask you again..."

"Me! Me, I-I took it! I took the picture!" The man, wide-eyed and terrified, desperately exclaims the truth. However, his answer seemed to be the exact opposite of what his interrogator wished for.

Calloused hands clasped around his collar, Leon pulls the man back before shoving him back into the wall. A blood-curdling crack, then a grunt pervades the air. The unmistakable scent of iron diffuses from the man's skull, inevitable from the force of the hit. Leon practically snarls through his heavy breaths.

"When!? When'd you take this fucking picture!?"

The man slurs out his answer, now rendered delirious from the strike his head endured.

"Jan... January... La-Last January..."

The world then shatters around Leon.

The tumultuous clamor of everything falling apart before his eyes robs him of any coherent, proper function. These past six years play out like another nightmare. Every sip of alcohol, every aimless nightmare, every mediocre hookup — it all crumbles and joins the rubble of the destruction.

This whole time... This whole time you...

His vision blurs as the revelation settles, swimming through a void of vertigo and devastation. A sharp ringing permeates around him. It complements the sound of his hyperventilating breaths and hammering heartbeat. The firm grasp he once held on the man weakens, to where he scrambles away from Leon and his violent antics.

This whole time you were... 

Alive...?

Leon turns his feet and stumbles away. Sweat seeps down his face and then his neck, staining the musk-stained clothes he had not washed in weeks. The sheer luminosity of the white lights, white walls, and white floors do not aid him in his attempts to soothe his sorrows. There's a sudden tightness in his chest. Leon brings his hand up to the painful ache, falling in his efforts to mend his affliction, once again.

"Are you alright, sir?"

The new voice could easily be spoken from miles away. Vanished and impossible to discern. Leon tries to clutch the walls to maintain his stability, but this inevitably fails him, as the shock derived from this epiphany sends his weak body to the unforgiving ground.

"I'm dying..."

He can hardly recognize his own voice. It is now a higher, fearful pitch than he is used to. The other person speaks once more, but he cannot perceive what was said. Their words are merely a quiet boat in a thrashing ocean.

"I can't breathe. I can't breathe."

This feeling of realization bubbles in his chest and infiltrates every inch of his form. His chest is overwhelmed with panicked breaths. Up and down, up and down. The stranger then sprints away from Leon. Their shouts for a doctor are distorted, now an echo Leon cannot discern.

Voices from his past speak to him from all directions. As though the very walls surrounding him were taunting him. Mocking every failure of his.

"Leon- LEON-!!"

"And look at you now! Cheating on me with someone you knew for three fucking seconds!?"

"I wanted to. I wanted to kill him."

"Ambushed. No possible way of getting them out of that mess..."

"If only you had just looked at the damn road instead of me."

His world has been torn to paper-thin shreds. Then, it all goes dark. Leon is left alone and unconscious in this vast abyss of nothingness.

Tyrell sighs in frustration. He wonders why this team has such a knack for hiring people with "severe mental issues".

A harsh cut to reality is what Leon was next met with. Inside this shoebox-sized hospital room, ragged belts are restrained around his limbs. Doctors rush in and out of the blinding-white room. A myriad of drugs course in his system, intended to ease the rampant panic pumping through his body. The aftermath of his panic attack was fresh, yet still, all Leon could think about was you.

How you, his sunshine, his sweet baby, have been alive all this time.

Leon thrashes and fights against his restraints, as though you were just outside the door, waiting for him to come scoop you in his arms and close the distance between you at once. For the umpteenth time, several nurses race into the room and sedate him. Again, he is forced into another fit of unconsciousness. This routine will go on to repeat numerous times. Knowing you are out there somewhere, alone, makes for a man inconsolable.

Several days pass before Leon is brought to a state of mediocre tranquility. His heart is still rampant, but with fear of more time wasted without taking proper action, he abides by the doctor's demands. He will do anything to get to you, after all. Kneel before God, succumb to the Devil. Face him with the most torturous, humiliating, gut-wrenching fate with the promise of your return and he will simply smile in response. Leon will lay with blood painting his teeth and purple bruises caked into his skin, unhinged with euphoria knowing you are the prize at the end of the tunnel.

Mere picoseconds had passed before he sprung into action. He is swift to return to his work. Fervently, he begins scouring through every detail Umbrella left behind to pinpoint the exact location you reside at.

The most valuable piece of evidence was security camera footage. A prominent clue that made Leon's stomach coil like a snake ensnaring itself around its prey. Outside of the window to your bedroom, the night-vision camera highlights the scene of two intruders. With careful ease, they pull your unconscious body through the room and flee to the adjacent forest with you in their arms.

Jill Valentine and Carlos Oliveira are their names.

Or, as Leon prefers to refer to them, two names that have now been added to his lengthy list of those who will face his wrath.

The team has theorized the two have been working for Umbrella and were assigned to sneakily escort survivors to a new location. Due to this, patients still in this present location are now being sent to a hospital guarded by the Torrents. A place where they will be kept far away from Umbrella's grasp. What the team can't piece together, however, is why the two never came back to take more survivors. They had plentiful opportunities, but you, Y/N L/N, are the only missing patient. Or, as the team has now assigned your code name as, "Baby-Eagle".

Now, Leon is coursing through Spain. Guns strapped in their holster, knives out at the ready, and a reveling rage in his eyes — he counts every second spent away from you. The chilling temperatures gust against his skin like sharp teeth as he practically tears the country asunder. All that matters is finding the face that has been stamped in every dream of his for the past six years.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

He still can't believe it. You are alive.

If Leon grants himself permission to revel in this fact, he will lose what little control he still possesses over himself. God knows how much he needs the slivers that still remain. These feelings, despite all, have kindled strength Leon never recognized. A new spark; a fresh, riveting chapter. Emotions which only you, some sort of sorcerer, are capable of conjuring.

A day has now passed of his relentless search. More and more does fear cradle Leon. Like a warm blanket nestled around his heart, he is horrified by the silence that ventures through the land of Los Iluminados. The mere thought of potentially stumbling across you, lifeless, is enough to evoke a gag from the back of his throat. He cannot handle that. He cannot lose you again.

The dim light of dusk irradiates the loading docks. Every rushed step Leon takes causes the decrepit surface to moan weakly from the weight. He scrutinizes every shipping container, every nook and cranny, every barrel splattered with yellow paint. He becomes increasingly more ridden with desperation as his lasting hope begins to flicker.

Leon turns a corner and finds it: the sight he has been crying every night to see for six years. His mouth speaks before his brain can emulate these soul-crushing sensations.

"Y/N...!?"

You turn your head to the intrusion. Leon is shocked he had not died right there beneath your gaze.

You, his epic, undying love, rest there as though Botticelli painted you as the focal point for 'Birth of Venus'. Sat against some paper sacks like Venus stood on her scallop shell, Leon has never seen a sight quite as perfect as this. Strikingly similar to the pearl Venus resembles, you and her are pure and exquisite as you are brought to life. In a way, it is precisely the events which take place now. Six years wrestling with the burden of your death, only for you to be reborn before his very eyes like the natural, divine God you are. Absolutely, irrevocably perfect in your stance.

Leon stands frozen in place. Staring at this work of art, this utter masterpiece mere yards away from him. He is then taken aback when he feels something wet trickle down his cheeks. What he assumes to be rainfall is actually... tears?

All these years, he has begged the universe to feel his emotions. Or to feel anything, for that matter. It will not bring you back, as he wholly prayed for every night, but it would bring temporary, weak relief. Right now, as though you had some form of superpower, Leon cries. He cries like he has never before. His face twists into an ugly scrunch; he can feel the hot tears and stringy snot seep down his skin. He listens to the gut-wrenching sobs protruding from his chest and holds his hand over his heart, overwhelmed by the intensity the organ is enduring.

Despite the tragic scene, Leon has never been happier. The journey these six years have taken him on has been rough. Irrevocably soul-crushing. Seeing you here, beautiful as you always were, makes everything worth it — utterly, indubitably, and completely.

Then, someone else interrupts.

Ada Wong, a few years older, steps into view. Guarding you from the unwelcome intruder.

The epiphany strikes like a broken heart. It is not betrayal, as he has never trusted Ada. Rather, it is a flood of humiliation. It is absolute shame, unadulterated and pure. How could he have been such a fool?

All this time, Ada had kept you with her. She was the reason he was apart from you; she was the distance that stood between two soulmates. That must be the story, right? She sunk those acrylic claws into your pretty skin and took you away from him, spewing lies about your death and granting Umbrella access to you.

Leon is hit with this epiphany. Hit with what he perceives to be the truth. And it makes him alive with rage.

"It was you, wasn't it...?"

The silence is shattered by his voice. Sewn with fury and nestled deep inside him. His attention, once solely devoted to the love of his life, has now been shifted towards someone else. The one he believes to be responsible for these six years of sheer agony.

"This whole fucking time-!"

In one swift motion, Leon storms over with his fingers clenched to his holster. You stand from the paper sacks and use your body as a shield between Ada and him. Your hand ghosts over Leon's chest to prevent any more unwanted violence. And how unaware you are of the sheer impact your physical touch has on this man.

For a moment, just a fleeting second, Leon is able to overlook the context of the circumstances. Your hand barely makes contact with his body, and from them, he can feel your warmth. The same warmth he has been chasing after; the same warmth he has killed himself over and over to try and retrieve again. It is like a gentle breeze, like tepid bath water. Somehow, your simple touch has pacified his rage as though it were merely child's play to you. Something Leon never thought was feasible.

And just like always, Ada Wong is there to shatter yet another trance.

"Have you really gone so far off the deep end, that you think you could ever amount to being their boyfriend? You truly believe you deserve that title?" Ada laughs. A deep, mocking chuckle. "Are you really that delusional or just naturally blonde?"

You look at Ada and speak for the first time.

"'Boyfriend?'"

An expression of puzzlement is plastered on your face. In return, their heads whip to stare at you, brows furrowed while searching for confirmation.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Leon was never my boyfriend...?"

Their confusion deepens. Ada questions how she could have so foolishly fallen for a fantasy this dumb boy created. Leon questions why you are telling her such lies. You've been dating for almost seven years now, what are you talking about? 

"Y/N/N, you don't have to lie to her. You know I won't let her hurt you."

Now, it is your turn to be just as perplexed as they both are. What the fuck is he talking about?

As you're busy scrutinizing him for an explanation, Ada grasps hold of your forearm. Protectively and with softness, she guides you away from the deranged antics of Leon. You lean into her touch in response, as your trust in her is stronger than whatever you feel for him. Especially after the events you and Ada have both endured today.

The man in question, however, does not favor this action. With a swiftness that makes you dizzy, Leon shoves her off of you. Ada falls to the ground from the force of his strength but gracefully springs to her feet. Eyes narrowed and hunting knife in hand, she is ready for battle.

A shriek then falls from your mouth when Leon takes his pistol from its holster but is replaced with shocked silence when Ada kicks the gun from his grasp with her stiletto heel. A stab towards his chest is easily blocked by his meaty forearm, but she still manages to retaliate and surges a punch across his jaw.

Everything happens so fast that it is impossible for you to keep up with the speed of it all. When Ada drops to her feet, encasing her leg around Leon's ankles and sending him to the floor, the loud clamor of his harsh landing takes you back to a few days ago. That bang! is all too familiar. The fire of gunshots out of Jill's gun and the pounding of their fists against flesh — these memories return more harshly than before. Your heart hammers with dread and adrenaline, as though the same inner turmoil has returned yet again.

Once again, who do I choose? The clingy customer at Mizoil, the overly affectionate Superwoman, or myself?

In a state of pure instinct, you do what you predominantly fail at the most. Run.

You don't anticipate how close they may be behind, or if two of your past lovers may be waiting somewhere in the forest. You do not pay these thoughts any attention, for that matter. Focused entirely on the path ahead, you run like you never have before. And if it weren't for the rampant adrenaline coursing through your system, you could say you've become familiar with this forest. It is almost ridiculous how much you have raced past all these trees. Burning lungs, numb legs and all — oh, this is really getting old.

When a sudden force knocks you to your feet, you can feel yourself begin to succumb to lethargy. The relentless sprint and post-laser-induced pains have become too much for your body to endure. Shifting your gaze up, however, you are met with a burst of energy when you see that you have collided with... A person?

Thick gear is strapped to his strong body. Glasses are rested upon the bridge of his nose. This is the first stranger you have seen in months and you do not know how to handle it.

"Oh, shit. It's really you..." His concerned gaze peers at you through his foggy eyewear.

When his fingers ghost over your arm, you flinch away from him. You do not mean to do this, but your body, riddled with turmoil and trauma, reacts before your brain can.

"It's alright, it's alright..." His voice goes softer. "My name is Tyrell. I'm here to help you."

He reaches a cautious hand out to you, as though you were a feeble, terrified animal backed into a corner. Your trust has been worn thin, but whatever fight left in your system has entirely perished. You cannot run anymore; you cannot defend yourself. If this is death, then you will welcome it with open arms. At least you can say you've made it this far.

Lifting a shaky hand up, you let out a gentle gasp when you make physical contact with him. With tender encouragement, Tyrell brings you to your feet. Your tired legs wobble as though you were a baby fawn. Touch that does not inevitably follow with romantic expectations is something foreign to you. This level of kindness has almost become a stranger. Although you would never verbalize it, his touch feels good. It is a comfort; a softness.

Before you know it, your eyes flutter shut. Your body fails you and you collapse into Tyrell's arms. Now, unconsciousness comes as a solace, instead of that familiar trepidation.

And so engrossed in their own feral need for dominance, neither Ada nor Leon had taken notice of your sudden disappearance.

Fresh bruises and blood splatters permeate their bodies. What neither of them realizes about the other is that Leon fights hard, yes, but Ada doesn't fight fair. In a matter of several seconds, she takes the man to the metal floors, once again.

Leather heels pressed to his neck, she points his own pistol to his face.

"Now stay down."

Leon has never been one to back down. Even with death staring directly into his eyes, never once has he begged. However, with you here, alive, he can't bear to be torn from you again.

"Don't... Please, I-I'll do whatever you want. Just please don't take me away from them. Not again..."

Ada is nearly struck dumbfounded by this new side of him. Leon Kennedy, the savior of the president's daughter, one of the few survivors of Raccoon City, is begging for his life? What has she done to this man? Or, above all, what have you done to him?

"Tell me what Umbrella wants with Y/N."

Leon's eyes trail off behind her, seemingly searching for something with frantic movements. Her words had merely gone through one ear and out the other. His silence is only met with frustration.

"I've kept you away from them for this long." Her finger moves to hover over the trigger. "I can easily turn those six years into forever."

"Where did Y/N go?" Leon cuts her off.

Ada nearly snaps her neck with how fast she turns around. Dark eyes scanning the loading docks, her stomach sinks into a sea of dread when she cannot find you. Leon scrambles to his feet and searches alongside his nemesis. Shouts of your name echo into the gloomy skies; their hammering hearts could rival a war drum.

From here, yet another search for you begins. And between them, there is now an unspoken agreement, a newfound alliance. Although their plans rarely come to fruition, they have both found a conclusion together. The two are now wholly focused on the scheme they will achieve or die striving for.

Find you, ensure your safety, and keep you forever in their arms.

A warm, wet rag pressed against your forehead is what you awaken to next. The sudden shift into consciousness causes you to jerk back. Your eyes burst wide, scrutinizing as much of your environment as you can.

You're finally out of that dark forest. Now, you've been rested upon a dilapidated couch. Damp clothes are still stuck to your body, but a thick comforter has been draped upon you. The golden lamplight highlights Tyrell, who sits on the coffee table beside you. With a bowl of water and a rag in his hand, he looks at you with a concerned gleam in his gaze.

You are brought to a mild sense of ease once you comprehend your surroundings. You do not have it within you to trust anyone, but for some reason, this man has brought tranquility you cannot explain. Safety has become a rarity. And you gobble every breadcrumb of it you are able to garner.

"Welcome back." He jokes. His tone is still quiet, as it has been. Careful.

Your throat aches, but you still speak.

"Where am I?" You nearly cringe at how scratchy, how pathetic your voice is.

"My house." This does not calm you. Tyrell notices.

"Hey, no one can get you in here. You are safe, I swear it." His assurances help ease you. He, once again, takes notice of this before continuing.

"I'm sure you have a 'lotta questions for me, huh? I got some for you, too."

"Umbrella. What do they want from me?"

"That's a good question because I don't know either. It's what we're trying to figure out." You furrow your brow, to which he answers to your confusion. "I work with a team called the Torrents. We've been tasked with locating Umbrella and finding any survivors. You were top of our list, 'Baby-Eagle'. Now that you're safe and sound, my teammates can finally get some sleep."

Your smile grows at that nickname. God, when was the last time someone elicited a genuine smile from you?

"We think they may have been testing on some of the patients they have. Do you happen to know anything about that?"

Then, the dread settles with the realization. Jill and Carlos were right this whole time. When you would travel to the ends of the Earth to defend that corporation, it was all for a lie in the end. When Jill and Carlos saved you from them, you paid them back with cruelty and distrust. You left them both in the dust when all they wished to do was save you. Should you have ever left them?

"What about Carlos Oliveira? Jill Valentine? We know they had, um... taken you. If you're willing to talk about them, I'm all ears. 'Got all night, anyways."

There Tyrell goes again. The voice of reason in a bubble of incoherent regret.

"All I-um... All I remember is being at the sanct- er, Umbrella. I drank some tea and then I woke up in Jill and Carlos' house. The next several months, they-uh, they convinced me we were in a... relationship, of some sort. Matt- or Umbrella, found us in the end. They all hurt each other. Real bad. Then, I ended up here." Your words are quiet and broken, but Tyrell manages to pick up every cracked piece of your voice.

"Okay. I see..." He nods. "Do you think Jill and Carlos could have possibly been working for Umbrella?"

This question leaves you taken aback, evident in your dramatic reaction and scrunched face.

"God, no! They despised Umbrella. And I... I defended Umbrella. I thought they helped me, I thought they were the good guys. Every time Jill and Carlos talked shit about them, I would get so-" You interrupt yourself with a coughing fit.

Reaching to his side, Tyrell holds a plastic bottle of water in his large hands. The prospect of drugs floating through the liquid fills you with apprehension. However, with your throat on fire, you eagerly take the bottle and nearly down the entire beverage. Tyrell is one of the good ones, he wouldn't do that to you. You're sure of it.

"It's alright. You don't have to answer any more of my stupid questions, don't worry. All you 'gotta do is rest."

If you were more conscious and without the weight of fresh trauma, you'd make a joke of how he should be a voice actor with such a soothing voice like his. Tyrell's hand finds your shoulder and softly guides you back down to the couch. You ignore the unfamiliar, teenage-love-like bolt of electricity that flows from his touch and you follow his lead. When your head hits the rough fabric of the pillow, you let your heavy eyes fall.

When a door down the hallway bursts open, you cannot tell if you had been asleep for hours or if you had slept at all. Without Tyrell's presence, that all-too-familiar sense of terror returns. When you are barely able to discern his muffled voice through the walls, that terror is slightly diluted with ease. The context is what lies outside this room still has you riddled with fear.

Then, like every cheesy romance film you've ever seen, Leon Kennedy stands on the threshold of the living room entrance.

You are barely allowed a mere second to process his presence before he is barreling for you. His arms, thick and warm, ensnare around your waist. He exhales your name with a breathless tremor, burying his head further into the crevice of your neck. And you melt into him. After everything you've been through, a hug is something you are in dire need of. Leon croons in response, latching onto you tighter. Nestling himself closer against you like a touch-starved, needy puppy-dog.

"Oh, sunlight... I was so worried...!" Although this man has suffered drastic changes in the six years you've been without him, he never seems to have let go of that saccharine tone. Unbeknownst to you, you are the only one capable of summoning that side of Leon.

Although you feel safe in the comfort of Tyrell's home, there is still that stagnant terror fizzing in your stomach. A myriad of questions overwhelm your brain. What has happened? How much time has passed? Where is Ada?

You weaken your hold on him. He does not like that. "Leon. Please, I need to know-"

"Shh..." He interrupts, his hands trailing up your form until they grasp hold of your face. His grip on you, tighter than ever, shifts so he can gaze into your eyes.

"Just let me look at you..."

And that he does. Seconds, then minutes pass. All Leon does is stare directly into you. As though every inch of your irises were being studied to memory by him. As though he was pulling the depths of your soul to the surface of your eye, all for him to gawk and goggle at. It should make you blush and avert your gaze, as the characters normally do in those romance movies. However, you can't bring yourself to. You feel uncomfortable and scrutinized. As though you are restrained to a metal table for strangers and doctors to poke and prod at.

The doorbell then rings and the echo roams through the halls. You are broken from this entrance with Leon, but he is not. God, how could he?

With you here, all the cruelty he has been faced with is now wrapped together in a pretty bow. It was all a present, he now realizes. Everything that has happened led him to the personification of utmost, perpetual happiness. So, you must forgive him if he finds himself staring for too long (not that he even realizes, for that matter). It is impossible to fathom the flood of euphoria rushing through him, hence the dumbfounded, love-struck expression stamped on his face.

"Y/N..." He exhales, honey dripping from his voice.

Although he does not wish to close his eyes, Leon cannot imagine a better time to kiss you. Where the music swells, the candles glimmer, the moon gleams. It is what he has been dreaming about for six years, after all.

Just as Leon leans in, his intentions are cut short. Someone else, once again, interrupts.

Tyrell avoids the death glare from Leon and focuses on you, oblivious to how this action is the root of Leon's fury.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything. Someone was just here for you, Y/N."

Carlos and Jill are the first people who enter your mind, here to take you back to the affection-ridden toxicity of their humble abode. When Tyrell holds his hands out and displays what this stranger left, however, you're taken aback.

"She claimed to be your wife...?"

Tyrell informs you with uncertainty in his voice.

"And she left this."

What he then gives to you is a plushie, one you remember all too well. It is an opossum, the very same opossum you cuddled with every night during your time at the sanctuary. You've missed him very much whilst you were stuck with Jill and Carlos. Despite your expressed wishes, they never made the effort to retrieve your darling opossum. Why cuddle some measly fabric and cotton when you can cuddle them instead?

You let out a sigh of relief. Thank God it is not those two at the door.

The only striking difference in your fuzzy friend is the blood-red ribbon tied around the opossum's neck. Wedged between the silk and faux fur is a folded piece of paper. Both Tyrell and Leon watch as you open the letter, digesting the contents written on the surface.

In red ink, "Wait for me, petal..." is written with flawless, cursive handwriting. Beneath, a dandelion is drawn. The pappus drifts through the wind and scatters across the paper.

Ada?

Why is she here? Where has she been?

Or, more importantly, how the hell did she find your opossum?

A rough, sharp gasp sprouts from Jill's throat when she awakens.

A flickering light sways above her, the sight blurred in her tired gaze. Her body aches from the awkward position she was unconscious in. Lifting her weakened body up, Jill discerns several bodies, painted in blood and grime, that had been splayed in a frivolous mess. There are miscellaneous documents scattered amongst this violent disarray. Shifting her distorted gaze, she finds two metal doors that had been sprung open. How the hell did she get inside of a truck? What caused it to crash in the first place?

Using the dented walls for support, she stumbles forward. Black dots dance in Jill's vision for a moment, before returning to a hazy blur as she staggers out of the vehicle. With an abrupt grunt, she collapses into the mud. Her hands, stained with dirt, hold her ribs in an attempt to ease the stagnant pain.

For this simple moment, Jill is alone in the world. When the most important thing in her life finally flashes through her mind, the pumping of her heart accelerates.

Y/N... Where did you go?

Memories of her last encounter with you return, as well. It harbors terror like no other. She speaks your name and it sprouts from her throat in a desperate call.

Jill's breath quickens when she discerns a voice. The indubitable sound of someone crying for help echoes through the forest. She turns to the source with hope and worry shimmering in her eyes. Oh, it's her baby, her butterfly! You need her help!

"Y/N...! I'm coming..." Her voice is weak, but her attempts are the entire opposite.

Jill limps through the forest, clambering over wreckage with frantic effort. Averting her blurred gaze to the sound of cries, her face drops when she finds something entirely different.

That doctor you are evidently so infatuated with is stuck beneath a pile of rubble. His face appears as though it had been sunken in. Drowned in a mess of gore.

And sitting on top of the doctor is no other than Carlos Oliveira, whose fists are painted in that same gore.

His clenched fists plunge into Matt's face over and over and over again. His teeth are barred and bloodied like some sort of animal. His voice is several octaves lower than ever before, all guttural growls and grunts like some sort of rabid creature. It is something Jill has never seen before. Not in Raccoon City, not when they took you from the sanctuary, not even when she took you out for a ride on her motorcycle. He is now a monster in its absolute form.

However, Carlos is not something she is concerned with at the moment. She hurls herself over to the two and shoves Carlos off of Matt. He falls to the ground with a loud thump and a harsh curse. Jill ignores his dramatic reaction, before climbing atop of Matt and ensnaring her hands around his red-stained neck. Jill then proceeds to interrogate him of your whereabouts.

"What did you do to them? Where the fuck did you take them!?" Jill does not recognize herself, either. Her voice has morphed into a low, violent tone, an inflection she never knew she was capable of producing.

Matt does not respond to her pressuring questions. He chokes and gurgles on chunks of blood, teeth, and spit. His eyes, now puffy and swollen from the relentless blows they have endured, gape at her in confused terror. However, not that Matt could even be given the chance to respond. Jill glances at the sudden movement in her peripheral and is met with Carlos' fist striking her cheek. The force of the punch sends her to the dirt.

"This is all your fucking fault, Jill!" Her ears almost ring from the sheer volume of his shout.

Once again, it is a side of Carlos she has never seen before. She can take a punch, that's for damn sure. God knows she's handled worse. But fuck, is he out for blood right now.

"If you had never taken Y/N outside, they never would've wanted to leave in the fucking first place!" The tremble in the back of Carlos' throat jeopardizes his intimidation factor. Of course, he is crying, Jill sighs to herself.

Her lanky fingers press into the damp ground to stabilize herself. Before she can bring herself back to her feet, however, something catches her eye. A single document among the millions. She takes the closest one into her grasp and reads through the classified contents. With that damned Umbrella logo in the corner, Jill is fully aware of what evil, corrupt plans await her in the following passage.

As Carlos sobs like a child behind her, whimpers of "my baby" and "come back to me" filling the silent air, she scours through the information printed on the page. Three names are stamped in bold: Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira, and Y/N L/N. More survivors collected from Raccoon City, they claim. There are reports of your physicality and state of being, accompanied by their predictions on how you'll react to their new testing. "Las Plagas" is what they refer to it as.

At the very bottom of the document, most imperatively, is a series of coordinates to their new location.

With this newfound, fruitful information, Jill trudges over to Carlos for additional aid. When she finds him practically tucked into a ball, sobbing his lungs out, she cannot restrain herself from rolling her eyes.

"Get up. Get up, pussy, come on-!" When she tugs on his arm, he pushes her harshly away from him.

"You don't understand!” Brown eyes, overwhelmed with tears, glare at her in accusation. “I can't live without them..."

Jill is swift to counter back. "Neither can-fucking-I! And we will never see 'em again unless you man-up and fuckin’ listen to me!"

This grabs his attention.

"So, are you just gonna sit there and fuckin' whine about it or are you gonna help me?"

With a sniffle, Carlos nods in agreement.

"Good. Now get your shit together and find me a goddamn map."

Jill does not waste another second before springing into action. She begins with a thorough scrutinization of the scene of the crash, searching for any specific landmarks that will inform them of their current whereabouts. When all she finds is a street sign made of decaying wood that reads "Los Iluminados," she knows her luck is wearing thin.

When Carlos announces with a cracked voice his discovery, Jill limps with urgency to him. Nestled beneath the passenger seat is a map, crumbled and stained with filth. Jill yanks the paper from his hands and searches for the street they are currently stuck on, while also discerning the coordinates Umbrella had disclosed in their document.

Meanwhile, Carlos chokes out demands left and right. Asking her what all of this is for, and how this will help him in his efforts to reunite with his sweet bumblebee. Despite his irritating questions, she does not respond to him. She is too engrossed in her own head, manipulating her detective skills.

"There." Jill finally breaks her fit of silence.

Presenting the map to Carlos, she points to where the coordinates line up.

"That's where Y/N is."

A beat passes as Carlos, too, inspects the contents before him. Then, he snatches the map from Jill's hands. He storms off in the direction she advised with a desperate vengeance in his disposition.

When Jill takes a step to follow him, something clutches around her ankles. With a sharp gasp, she looks down to identify the sudden matter. When the hopeful fraction of her mind told her it could be you, she was met with disappointment when she finds Matt. Whining and pleading for her help, blood still oozing from his butchered head and seeping into the mud below.

Jill stares at the man with absolutely nothing in her eyes. She, instead, snatches a loose, sharp twig from the mess of detritus scattered around. Before Matt can obtrude another helpless plead, she drives the stuck directly into his eye. Blood squirts from the fresh wound like a fizzy soda. One last gurgle for air and his body finally goes limp.

She spits on his corpse. Then, Jill turns back to follow Carlos on his trail.

Wherever you may be, she will find you. Even if it kills her.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ I TRY TO FALL FOR HER TOUCH,

BUT I'M THINKING OF THE WAY IT WAS . . . ❞

long wait but we back again babyyyyy

gif creds :: leon.

[star-sim]

exe.enhaboy_stopped_working.exe ☆ ot7

☆ non-idol! ot7 enhypen x fem! reader ☆ summary: how to fluster your enhypen boy beyond words! ☆ genre: FLUFFFFF, can be interpreted as established relationship or pining stage lolz ☆ warning(s)? made one (1) chemistry reference, mentions of drinking and throwing up lol ☆ word count: 3k words total ☆ today is lunar new year, year of the dragon. happy new years to anyone that celebrates it, may the spring treat us well! take this as a new year charm.

heeseung ☆ ask him for help

"can you open this for me, hee?"

on it.

"heeseung, can you carry this for me?"

already taking it out of your hands.

"heeseung, how do you do this problem?"

he appreciated that you think he's smart enough to help you with your homework, but truth be told, if you were struggling in this subject, then he'd be drowning.

there's something about the way you look up at him with wide, star-filled eyes, smiling along with your words as you asked him for help.

outwardly, heeseung would shoot you a smirk, maybe even tease you with a, "oh, you need me so bad, don't you?"

but inwardly, he'd be freaking out.

you, the most perfect person in the world, needed his help.

heeseung had always been the baby of his family, and even when he was with his friends, where he was the eldest, he found himself slipping back into the role of being taken care of.

but when it came to you, heeseung was more than eager to be the strong, dependable one.

and you asking him for help meant that you you saw him as reliable, that you could depend on him. it made his chest fill with pride.

but it also made heeseung feel so shy.

did you think of him that highly? he wondered what you thought of him when you asked him to open jars for you. did that mean that you wanted to marry him? you wanted a man that could take care of you right? did that mean that you wanted him?

"hee?" your voice broke him out of his thoughts.

shit. by the way your bright eyes gazed at him, a small smile playing on your lips, heeseung knew that you could see right through his smug facade. if not the red color of his face, or the way his hands gripped the hem of his shirt like his life depended on it, it was probably the way his eyes widened a fraction in sheer panic as he realized that you were chuckling at his dazed expression.

"y-yes?" perfect save.

you laughed, handing him one of your hard-to-open chip bags. "can you open this for me?"

"of course."

honestly, that hard-to-open chip bag was kind of hard to open, but heeseung would never admit that to you.

"thank you, heeseung," you gave him another one of your bright smiles, as he handed the bag of chips back to you, popping one of the crisps into your mouth. "love you."

then, you left.

you were so pretty.

wow.

wait...

LOVE?!

jay ☆ pull him by the collar

honestly, jay knew that he was being a bit of an asshole right now. he was tired, and so were you, but he tuned you out as you talked to him.

as the two of you stood under the streetlight, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn on, jay's feet ached. after spending an entire day out with you, his good friend, he was exhausted. even if he liked you a lot (a lot), even he couldn't ignore his fatigue.

"jay, are you even listening to me?"

"hm?" did you just say something? he had no idea, getting lost in the blankness of his tired mind.

"i asked you what you..." jay tuned out the rest of your sentence.

when he only nodded blankly, his eyes very clearly unfocused, you let out a huff.

you grabbed the collar of his shirt, harshly yanking him down so that he was eye-level with you.

"i said," you snapped into his ear, your tone annoyed, "what do you want to eat later?"

oh god.

that forced jay awake immediately. if someone dumped a bucket of iced water on him, he still wouldn't be as alert as he was now.

it was a combination of things: the way you gripped his shirt so harshly, the force at which you jerked him down, the way you looked irritated at him, how close your face was to his now... all of it.

jay heard your question, loud and clear, yet he couldn't register it properly, not when you were so close to him. his eyes were wide like saucers, a sudden wave of embarrassment washing over him. his lips parted, in an attempt to give you an answer, only to let out choked out stutters.

"i— w-well..."

you let out an annoyed sigh. you let go of his shirt, pushing his chest away, as you began walking the intersection, as the stoplight changed.

"whatever," you grumbled, rolling your eyes.

jay stood there stunned, under the streetlight as other pedestrians passed by him, watching your retreating back.

he'd always known that he was attracted to you. but this may have been the turning point.

you were rough with him, aggressive even. it made his heart plummet to his stomach.

when he realized that you were a good distance away from him already, jay snapped back into reality. his feet picked up, running after you.

"w-wait!"

jake ☆ run your nails along him + say he's strong

it was a friendly gesture. because you and jake were friends. and you saw him exclusively as a friend. was what jake told himself.

so why did he feel this way?

the two of you were just hanging out, talking about whatever came to mind, when jake randomly brought up the topic of working out. sure, maybe he was glazing himself a little bit when he was talking about how much he had bulked up in the past few months, especially because he wanted (and needed) to look cool in front of you. he didn't know what he was expecting, but you obviously got curious, asking him with owlish eyes if you could feel his arms.

of course he let you.

you started off with his biceps, feeling the hard muscle under your palms. you gave it a squeeze, giggling when jake flexed his bicep for you. in fact, you now got a good look of his entire arm now.

it was veiny and toned, the type where whenever he did anything you could see the muscle bulging from under his skin. you bit the inside of your lip, before you ran your nails along the length of his arm.

"you're so strong, jakey," you mused into his ear, before your hands trailed up to feel his strong shoulders.

jake froze.

his chest swelled with pride, attempting to bite back a proud grin on his face to stay humble about it, but deep down, he knew that he hoped that you'd say that.

but the worst part was the way your hands had felt on him. when you ran your nails against his arm, a warm chill struck through his entire body. it was such a strange feeling. but he liked it. he wanted more.

feeling the tension in his shoulders, you ran your nails on the back of his neck, fingers brushing up against the muscles on his back.

"relax," you said, and he could feel your breath on his skin.

were you doing it on purpose?

jake felt like he was about to evaporate. you were so close to him, and even if your light touches were friendly, it sure didn't feel like it.

it's safe to say that the moment that you put your fingers in his hair, running your nails against his scalp, jake's soul left his body.

sunghoon ☆ show some love to his moles

sunghoon wasn't always a fan of his moles as a kid. kids liked to tease him, pinching his skin in an 'attempt' to take the 'speck of dirt' that was his mole off his face. and when he was young, his mom took him to some korean fortune teller, and the moment the lady looked at his face, she pointed out the mole below his temple. "bad luck," she said. even in high school, his classmates would point to the dark mole under his eye and call it Avogadro's Number, because it was a mole. ha ha, funny enough, but sunghoon would only frown.

"did you know that moles are where you were kissed the most in your past life?" you asked him one day. his head was lying on your lap, something that sunghoon had to fight himself to not freak out over.

it was a quiet afternoon, just the two of you relishing in each other's presence.

"who told you that?" sunghoon asked, his hands scrunching up the hem of his shirt. it made him a little nervous, the mention of his moles. what if you didn't like them? "what evidence do you have for that?"

"have some fun in your life, sunghoon." you brought your finger up to poke the mole under his eye. then, you dragged your finger across his face, to trace the two moles below his temples, then to the mole on the side of his nose. sunghoon let his eyes fall shut under your gentle finger.

"i love your moles, hoon," you finally said after a moment of silence.

sunghoon choked on his spit, jerking up to cough up a lung.

love? his moles? absolutely no way!

"are you okay...?!" you clutched his arm as he choked on his own coughs.

when he was finally done coughing up a storm, sunghoon whipped his head over to you, his expression painted with sheer horror.

"why do you like my moles?!" he asked, his tone laced with what could only be called offense (even if he wasn't actually offended).

you shrugged. "they're cute."

"cute?!"

sunghoon's world was crashing upon his shoulders. in a good way.

you didn't hate his moles? and you thought they were... cute?!

his cheeks flared with heat, while his chest filled with warmth. he swallowed down hard, before opening his mouth to speak, yet he couldn't form any coherent words. what he spent his whole life hating was something that you loved.

his hands were getting clammy.

"why are you so surprised?" you nudged him with your foot. "doesn't everyone love your moles?"

"not really," sunghoon frowned.

you stared at his face, assessing him, before you clicked your tongue. you grabbed his head, gently pulling him back onto your lap.

"they're clearly blind then," you muttered. "your moles make you so cute."

you continued to trace his face, connecting his moles together like they were constellations, completely oblivious to the fact that sunghoon was both completely fried in the head, yet still somehow consciously planning your marriage.

sunoo ☆ take care of him

you and sunoo were just hanging out in your apartment with a few friends, when someone suggested drinking.

and that's how sunoo found himself sitting in a circle, with five or six empty soju bottles in the middle, with the rest of his friends passed out. you were in the kitchen, grabbing a recycling bag for said empty soju bottles.

sunoo was the only one who didn't drink. not even a drop. even when they reassured him that nothing bad would happen, sunoo's resolve stayed. because he had one reason, and one reason only: he said, looked, and did dumb things when he was drunk. even if he had a relatively high alcohol tolerance, sunoo would rather die than run the risk of embarrassing himself in front of you.

you, on the other hand, had a few shots along with your friends, but remained sober.

you came back to where sunoo was, bag in hand. you muttered a small, "hi," at him, before you began collecting the green, glass bottles. sunoo wanted to say hi back, but his voice came out in an embarrassingly small whisper.

"why didn't you drink?" you asked him suddenly, quickly adding when his face pinched, "sorry, i just feel like i've never seen you drink before."

yup, and there was a reason for that.

"it's okay." sunoo only nodded understandingly, hiding his excitement to finally have alone time with you (as if he wouldn't die on the stop right now). "i do dumb things when i'm drunk, y'know?"

you blinked owlishly. "like what?"

sunoo felt awkward. it wasn't like he never spoke to you at all, but just that he felt so intimidated by you and your beauty. how could he not?

though, he couldn't help the twinge of jealousy that seeped into his chest as you brushed stray hairs out of jake's sleeping face, grabbing a pillow off your couch so that heeseung could sleep peacefully on your living room floor.

"i dunno," sunoo shrugged, his eyes fixed on the way you took care of your friends. "last time i drank..."

he trailed off, causing you to turn your head toward him, watching him for an answer.

"... i threw up all over the kitchen," sunoo grimaced at the memory. "it was nasty."

you smiled. "no shame in that. if you threw up all over my kitchen, i would have cleaned it up happily."

sunoo's ears burned. he loved that about you, how you were so willing to help people.

"my roommate wasn't so happy," sunoo frowned. "jungwon yelled at me, even when i got sick the morning after."

you crawled over to him, putting the bottles aside. "well, that's jungwon. i wouldn't mind."

you poked him, nudging him with your foot. "i'd have no problem taking care of you, sunoo."

you met his gaze, your hands reaching out for his, your lips spreading out into a smile.

sunoo flushed.

you? take care of him?

that would be a dream.

he could imagine you ruffling his hair as you tucked him into bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you told him good night. the thought of you petting his head, letting him bury his face into your chest after a bad day made him feel dizzy. the idea of being enveloped by your warmth and perfume had him trifling, fighting for his life as more and more thoughts of your tenderness attacked him.

"r-really?"

you squeezed his hand, you other hand coming up to brush his bangs out of his face. "of course."

sunoo was going to die!

jungwon ☆ eye-contact

jungwon knew that you had a bad habit of looking at people's hair or noses instead of their eyes when you talked, he knew it better than anyone because you'd confided in him about how shy some people made you.

he was happy that you trusted him enough to tell him about your troubles.

and he should now be happy that you felt comfortable enough with him to stare straight into his eyes when you talked to him. and he was. but now he felt like he was going to melt.

were eyes always this beautiful? how come he never noticed the way they shined so brightly, the way they creased into thin crescents as you smiled?

"jungwon, are you okay?" you asked, cocking your head as your eyes innocently blinked at him.

jungwon cleared his throat, sucking in a sharp breath. "y-yeah, i am."

you blinked again, your wide eyes filled with a little concern as they stared straight into his. "are you sure?"

"of course..."

and it was then that jungwon was hit with the realization that he was probably one of, if not the only, the people that got to see your eyes like this.

"w-wait, look at me!" he blurted, and your eyes flickered back to his. jungwon winced at his sudden outburst.

you smiled. "what's up?"

"i.. uhm.." jungwon didn't know what to say. he just needed an excuse to look at your eyes. "you.. uh.. you—"

"what about me?"

"you look really pretty today!"

you blinked slowly. in that moment, jungwon saw the way your eyes darted around his face, running away from his eyes as you processed his words.

you didn't meet his gaze when you said, "th-thanks."

no! did he make you uncomfortable? "wait—!"

as you've told him before, when you got shy or nervous, you avoided making eye-contact.

(if he used his critical thinking a little better, jungwon would realize that he, indeed, just made you feel shy. not because he was making you uncomfortable, because he just called you pretty, for goodness's sake!)

riki ☆ be mean to him

riki thought of himself as a fighter, the type of person that never backed down in the face of a challenge. sometimes, he did the exact opposite— he liked to fan the flames, letting the blaze that was his friends' anger rise so high that it burned everything around him, all for a little chuckle and a heightened sense of pride.

but as the two of you sat in class, you (who sat in front of him) sent him a glare, your gaze hardening as it met his, followed by your lips parting to mutter a soft, but venomous, "shut the fuck up," riki's breath caught in his throat.

it was weird and uncomfortable, the way that riki's face began to prickle with heat. his ears burned into a red color. he couldn't bring himself to look you in the eye after that.

at first, he thought he was just embarrassed, embarrassed that someone like you had to reprimand him.

but the more that that scene replayed in his head— the sight of you angry and annoyed at him, as poison laced your sharp tongue— the more he felt queasy inside. you looked so... attractive when you were angry at him. he liked the way your eyes were filled with so much displeasure and dislike for him. it made him feel so small, but it made riki's chest pound.

he squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip to suppress a frustrated groan. alas, he couldn't keep it in, as riki buried his head in his hands, fighting off the warmth that was bleeding onto his face, letting out a loud, exasperated sigh.

your head whipped around to him. your brows crashed together, annoyed and irritated by his loudness.

"i'm serious, riki," you spat, kicking him with your shoe. "shut up."

riki flushed.

all he could do was mutter a soft (and slightly-pathetic), "s-sorry."

[avocado-writing]

The idea of Wade as a used car salesman found a love of his life during his midlife crisis before he met Logan. They don’t have a clue that he’s Deadpool. They just fall in love with Wade the used car salesman Wade Wilson, even see him as a funny, harmless person till one day his partner showing a picture of Deadpool and goes “He looks hot, could we find some costume to wear next time we fuck, dear?”

Wade totally forgot that he’s retired from Deadpool cause he’s in his suit, ready to fuck the love of his life for eternity. 👀

Wade Wilson knew he was in love the first time you cried laughing over one of his stupid jokes.

You’re probably too good for him with your easy smile and kind heart, and he knows he’s punching above his weight when he asks you out - but somehow you end up saying yes. 

At the bar that night he keeps you laughing until there are tears in your eyes and then continues the show in bed. It’s so lovely to have you all giggly under him, pressed into the mattress as he makes you cum so hard all you can do is moan. 

You lie there, walking your fingers up and down his chest, molasses-slow as the streetlights outside your apartment silhouette you both in fluorescence. 

“I like you, Wade. You’re nice,” you sigh, in a way which suggests you don’t often meet nice people. Ah man, he fucking melts. He’s never letting you go. 

Your relationship is pretty easy. He never feels like he has to work to impress you or keep you onside, you like him for him. It’s a… refreshing feeling, from a world where Wade Wilson constantly feels like he’s too much. 

He catches the Deadpool keyring on your house keys one night after the two of you have grabbed pizza on the way home; spotting the telltale red and black while trying to keep a pile of boxes in place between his hands and his chin. 

“Oh, Deadpool fan?” he asks, trying to affect nonchalance. He sees you get a little flustered. 

“I mean… yeah? Back in his heyday I thought he was cute, kind’ve a shame he disappeared. Merc with a mouth, what’s not to love?” you pause for a second. “He reminds me of you actually.”

Wade laughs at that way too loud and way too hard.

“What? No. That’s crazy!”

You throw him a side-eye but don’t comment further. 

He lets it rest for a couple of days so as not to draw suspicion, but when you make yourself a cup of coffee and his own mask is staring back at him from the ceramic, he can’t hide his wandering eyes. 

“What’s up?” you ask. 

“Nothing. Just didn’t realise they made those.” He didn’t get a cut. Should he have gotten a cut? Would have been nice if whoever had merchandised his face had asked him if he was cool with it.  

“Oh, look, everyone has a crush on at least one superhero, okay? It’s impossible not to. They’re everywhere and they’re hot!”

He lets himself digest this. You think Deadpool is a superhero? He didn’t get that much. Mostly he was referred to as “god’s curse to crimefighting”. But also you have a crush on him? Both of these facts are… interesting. 

“I… think Deadpool is hot, too,” Wade blurts out when he realises he’s been silent for ten uninterrupted seconds. 

“Oh,” you reply, settling down a little when it turns out he’s in agreement with you. “Well, cool! Glad we can agree.”

Phew. Got outta that one, then. 

He really doesn’t think any more of it, or tries not to, until a couple of weeks later when you bring it up in bed. 

“Wade, can I ask something kinda kinky?”

Cuddled in post-coital bliss, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, he pauses. 

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely, sweet cheeks. I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

“How do you feel about roleplay?”

He turns to you with a grin which threatens to split his face in half.

“Oh, you’ve been keeping that under your hat!” he laughs, “But, in answer to the question, very positive. What were you thinking? Cop and criminal? Nurse and patient? I’m down to play any of those roles by the way, I believe in equal gender opportunities in the bedroom.”

You chuckle, but when you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and try to work out how to phrase the next part of the question, he cottons on. 

“Oh my god. You want me to roleplay Deadpool, don’t you?”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to! It’s just, you said you thought he was sexy… so I wondered…”

He puts a finger on your lips, stoppering the spill of panic from your lips. 

“Baby, I am so down to clown that you might as well call me Pennywise. Let me sort the details and I’ll give you the best night of in-character boning that’s ever been known to man.”

You look giddy at that promise. Truth be told, he’s kinda excited himself. 

Wade retrieves the suit the next day and feels a little weird putting it back on, covering his body again with red and black. When he’s done this in the past it’s in order to go and kill like, a lot of people, not to fulfil a fantasy. But hey - there’s a first time for everything. And it’ll make you so happy, too.

You scream when he taps on your window from his perch on your fire escape. Admittedly he should have told you he was coming, but he thought it could be a fun and sexy surprise. He was wrong. 

“WHAT THE FUCK—!”

Wade whips off the mask as you lunge for your kitchen knife set, hands up in a gesture of peace. 

“Baby! Babe, it’s just me!”

You go limp with relief, leaning against the counter to support yourself. 

“Holy shit! Wade, what the fuck do you think you’re…”

You trail off as you take in the picture of your boyfriend crawling in through the tiny window decked out in his suit. An eyebrow raises. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah! See, I told you I’d sort it.”

Anger and fear now completely ablated, you walk a slow circle around where he stands in your kitchen, appraising his look. 

“This is a high quality suit. Where did you get it?”

“Peter,” he says quickly. This isn’t a lie. He did get it from Peter… Peter’s locker anyway. You look confused. 

“Our coworker Peter?” When Wade nods you furrow your brow. “He… he hasn’t fucked in this suit, has he?”

“No!” says Wade with far too much force. Actually he can’t prove that. Now it’s an image he can’t shake from his mind. Not super conducive to the mood. 

He takes a knife from his belt, and your eyes go wide in a mixture of panic and arousal. 

“Oh my god…”

“It’s blunt! Well. It’s sharp enough for me to cut your underwear off, which I’ve been rocking a semi all day from imagining…”

From the smile which takes up your face, he knows he’s done right. 

Any way you ask him to fuck you, he does. Over your dresser. Against your wall. While running the dulled point of baby knife over the curve of your ass as he pistons his hips inside you, getting the mess of your cum all over the front of his suit. It’s filthy. It’s fantastic. 

But when you lay there cuddled up to his chest that night, Wade feels… conflicted. It isn’t that he’s lying to you, exactly, but it feels like he’s keeping a pretty fucking big secret. 

If you knew, would you still like him? Still want to be with him? Having a crush on a superhero is one thing, but being with one is entirely different. Ask any of the assorted Spider-Man and their various fucked up partners. It isn’t always pretty.

As if determined to take his mind away from this thought you nuzzle into his side, blissfully fucked out. He buries his lips into your hair. 

It never needs to be an issue. Deadpool is retired. He’s never gonna be used for non-kinky reasons again. 

…right?

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

[ki-yomii]

down on you | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, pet names, mild praise kink, squirting, hair pulling, standing missionary, rough sex, porn w/ plot, mafia!jk, detective!reader, established relationship, mild angst, mild violence ➥ summary | It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all. ➥ notes | the mafia!jk au no one asked for aka an excuse to write smut w/ feeling lol.

💚 masterlist | inbox | AO3 💚

On his knees staring down the barrel of a loaded gun with a mouthful of blood, he knows this is the end of the line. He’s going to die like a rat in the gutter - no mercy to be found, loopholes to exploit or bribes to be made.

This is the real deal, and there’s no coming back.

Judgement Day comes in the form of a man with dark eyes and a dangerous smirk: Golden, the deadliest guard dog of the underground.

Credited with dozens of hits, you won’t know he’s there until it’s too late. Trying to keep him pinned is like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, or a whisper on the wind.

And you won’t know he’s coming until you feel the breath on the back of your neck, hear the crack of a bullet ringing in your ears.

Belonging to one of the most powerful men in the world: Kim Namjoon, he’s more war machine than man.

“Go ahead, do it!” He spits at Golden’s feet, a mess of blood and drool staining the crisp leather of his combat boots. “Killing me won’t change a goddamn thing.”

A coy smile tugs at Golden’s mouth, his grin all sharp teeth and violence. He stays where he stands, his silhouette haloed by distant streetlights.

Water laps at the docks, the tang of salt heavy in the mid-summer Seoul air. There’s no rush; they both know he’ll be dead and dumped just like all the rest of the garbage in this rotting city.

“Come on, you prick! Pull the fucking trigger already.”

Golden cocks his head, and hums in the back of his throat. 

“Tch! I hope you’ve got a lot of bullets - we’re gonna knock the crown off Kim’s head one way or another.”

Golden thumbs at the safety of his gun, the barrel glinting through the shadows. “Ahh, is that what you think?” He shrugs, a lazy ripple of muscle. “Well, I have to say: I’d love to see you try.”

The night is shattered by the resounding crack of a gunshot and an echoing splash of something heavy dropping into the water below.

You climb out of the nondescript government-issue car. The faintest tremble of your fingers nearly gives you away but you’re able to reign in the impulse to smooth your hands over your clothes at the last second.

Showing weakness is the last thing you need to be doing right now.

Especially here.

Right in front of where you’ve parked - shoved between two looming apartment complexes - sits a quaint, vintage building. The rough brick face is at odds with the sleek surroundings, but tinted windows keep prying eyes at bay while the classy signing hanging above the door reads The Red Bullet written in caps.

If you didn’t know better, it would be hard to believe this otherwise mundane storefront is a cover for one of the most dangerous international organizations based out of South Korea.

Not only do they hold the keys to the kingdom, but their success is largely in part because they spearhead operations from government espionage all the way to simple blackmail.

Even though it’s been several months since you darkened its doorstep, the familiar sight is enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Send your heart galloping into a tailspin as your stomach swoops.

While time away helped clear your head of stolen kisses and promises whispered in dark rooms, it also drove the longing bone deep.

In those quiet moments to yourself, when you have nothing else to distract from how lonely you are, you miss this place like one misses a limb.

You didn’t realize how attached you were to these four walls until it was too late: the hazy air filled with whorls of smoke, the overhead lights that bathe everything in red, the plush chairs you spent many nights sprawled across, the glossy black stages.

You don’t know how, you don’t know when but at some point it (he) started feeling like home. A luxury you can’t afford. Not again. After all, if you give in, any progress you made outside of his gravitational pull will be for naught.

Which puts you in a dangerous position as you find yourself back where it began; feelings at war with duty, mind vs heart. Because even if it leads you to a place you could go a million years without ever seeing again, you have to follow the trail of bodies.

A bouncer grants you access, the heavy door slamming shut behind you like a death knell as he herds you towards the back of the club.

It’s outside of official operating hours but it’s no less busy inside, men and women alike in scattered conversation as you pass through.

“It’s nice to see you again,” the bouncer murmurs, chancing a quick glance at your profile. “Been a while.”

You swallow, gaze darting down to your shoes. “Ah - yeah… Got busy with work. It’s - it’s nice to see you too.”

The small talk fizzles out, a snuffed candle as you arrive at a cordoned off room, “Here we are. Mr Kim is already expecting you.”

Any further pleasantries grow stale on your tongue as you enter the private booth, fighting against the lump in your throat to manage a hoarse ‘thank you’.

And then you find yourself left alone with the man himself, Kim Namjoon. He’s as intimidating as you remember, lounging back into the leather booth with his ankles crossed.

A lukewarm smile stretches across his lips, the slightest hint of a dimple peeking out from the valley of his cheek. Standing at attention on either side of his reposing form are two massive bodyguards. Their hands rest on the butts of their guns, daring any who enter to try and make a move.

“It’s good to see you again. But I gotta ask - what’s the occasion, Detective?” Namjoon hums. “I thought we were past all this.” He waves a nebulous hand between your bodies. “After all, you’re practically family.”

You ignore the hidden barb with a wince. “Mr Kim, you know why I’m here.”

“I used to know why a long time ago.” A well-groomed brow raises, his gaze glacial as it spears you in place. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“Please, Mr Kim. I don’t want to make this more difficult than it is. I just need to know about the man they fished out of the harbor, and then I’ll be on my way. So… who was he?”

Namjoon scoffs. “What makes you think I know more than the police?”

There’s a flash of a smirk, barely noticed, before his face returns to its neutral expression. As calm and cool as a placid river. “A john’s a john. What I do want to know is why you care so much?”

The underlying question is clear; why are you really here?

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters with civillians.”

“Oh? So I’m a civilian now.” His expression is not unlike the cat that caught the canary: vicious and delighting in the discomfort his evasions are causing. “Gotta say that’s a new one for me.”

Sighing in defeat, you say, “Alright, enough. I get it. I’m wasting my time with you. Let me ask this instead: where is he?” 

“He doesn’t know any more about this than I do,” he says, waving a blase hand towards a door off to the left, “But if you insist, you can find him in the office. Oh, and Detective?”

“...Yes?”

“Take your time, I’ll be out on business all afternoon.”

With a curt nod, you flee the room amid low-throated chuckles and enter the office. Standing near the desk, his broad back turned towards the door, you find the man you simultaneously want to see the most and run from the fastest.

He turns around, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement. Your breath stutters in your chest, and you nearly swallow your tongue as your eyes trace over the cut of his body.

The moment your eyes meet, those many months spent cultivating time and distance turn to ash. You forgot how even the mere sight of him affects you, any resistance to his many charms virtually nonexistent as the world falls away.

Rich, coffee dark; his gaze sucks you in until it’s all you can do not to reach out, to brush your fingers over his edges and feel them soften beneath your palms.

Rocking back on your heels, you clear your throat and glance to the side as you remain standing in the entryway, more than a little off-kilter.

Coming back after so long apart, only to find him the same as the day you left… How do you reconcile everything that’s changed with everything that was?

“Well, hello there.” Jungkook croons, leaning his hip against the corner of the desk with a roll of his shoulders. His arms cross over the trunk of his chest, accentuating the bulk of his chest, the flex of inked bicep. “Long time no see.”

Shifting, you gulp. “Ah - yeah…”

The burn of his gaze - a palpable sensation prickling across your skin - tracks a path from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes as he gives you a thorough once-over.

“You’re looking good,” Jungkook hums in approval, “real good. I’ve missed those pretty eyes of yours.”

“You - you too.”

Your attention doesn’t know where to settle: drifting from the curve of his shoulders to the jut of his bloody knuckles, the tuck of his trim hips to the thick-soled combat boots.

Tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand on end, and your palms slick with sweat.

“I mean, you look… y’know, uh, good too.”

A flash of a crooked smirk, the raising of a pierced brow gets your blood pumping, your heart tattooing a rhythm against your ribs. Emboldens you to reach back with shaky fingers to turn the lock. The sound grates down your spine, bolts of anticipation slicing through you.

It was dumb to think coming here, seeing him again, would end any other way than his taste on your tongue and his cock in your cunt. Hope makes fools of us all.

Should’ve known better but you’d been hopeful those days were long behind you. Now you realize it was inevitable.

After all, Jungkook is magnetic.

The black hole at the center of your universe, consuming everything in its path until he’s what remains in your head, your heart. You’re helpless, ceaselessly drawn to him like a moth to flame.

And try as you might, you can’t say no to a face like that.

Never could, in fact.

Failure to extract yourself from his orbit during your not-relationship is nothing new. That doesn’t mean you can’t make it difficult.

After all, you still have some dignity intact.

So try, try, try again.

“Ahem.” You try to banish the heat from your cheeks, guiding the conversation into the correct territory. “I’m not here on a-a social call, Jeon. I need to know: were you the one that killed and dumped the john in the harbor?”

Stalking closer, a lazy jungle cat on the prowl, Jungkook crosses the distance between you. He only stops once your bodies brush with every labored inhale. Heat radiates from him, and you’re achingly aware of every point of contact.

The light scent of his cologne teases your nose, and his eyes - god, his eyes. They’re shaded and hungry, devouring your expression with single-minded possessiveness. 

“What makes you think I know anything about that?”

“Jeon -- Jungkook.”

He hums.

Your heart thrums, pulse rushing hard through your head until you feel faint, blood surging the longer you stay in close contact. The shameful clench of your cunt makes your cheeks burn all the brighter.

The last time you were looking up at him like this, his hand was on your jaw while his cock thrust balls deep.

“C’mon, you know that isn’t going to work. This is me you’re talking to, not some rookie.”

“Mm,” he purrs, “it is you I’m talking to, isn’t it?”

You manage to bite back the groan but can’t stop your eyes from rolling even if there’s the slightest hint of a stutter when you reply, “Please, I just need to know if you killed him.”

Jungkook looms tall and proud, crowding closer. “And if I did, baby?” he asks.

Instinctively you back up, only to be followed step by step. A game of cat and mouse that finds you pinned against the wall before long. With nowhere to run, you watch, heart in your throat, as Jungkook dips his dark head.

His nose runs along the length of your neck, breath puffing across your sensitive skin as he inhales the pleasant scent of your perfume.

“I - I…”

“Would you see me in handcuffs?” His lips caress the underside of your jaw, a soft groan escaping him. “… C’mon, answer me. Would you?”

“I would - if I had to.”

As much as you wish that was true, you know in your heart of heart's you would do everything in your power to make sure that never happens.

No matter how much you like to think you’d do the right thing when push comes to shove, you’d choose him a thousand times over.

His eyes dance playfully. “Careful, I might like it.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” you say with a snort.

Jungkook chuckles low and warm, using the arm around your waist to tug you into the safety of his body. The softness of your breasts presses into the hard planes of his chest, your nipples pebbling through the thin cotton shirt you wear.

With a deep-throated groan, his hands encircle the curves of your hips as a thickly muscled thigh slots between yours.

An answering quiet sigh gets his blood pumping and his cock twitching.

“Mm, something tells me you’d enjoy it just as much, Detective.”

The use of your title is a rude awakening.

“Jungkook,” You warn, moving to push him away. Only once you start touching him, you can’t stop. His muscles flex beneath your curious fingertips. “We really shouldn’t.”

You’re sure if he could, Jungkook would spend days worshipping between your thighs, velvet heat wrapped around his tongue and hands in his hair as he brings you to peak again and again until you’re a sobbing, sopping, boneless mess beneath him.

“Come on, I know you want me - that you’ve missed me. I can see it in your eyes.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, tongue flickering out for a brief taste before a rough thumb skates across your bottom lip, tugging down to expose your teeth, the glitter of your tongue as it darts out to flick over the pad of his finger..

“I’ve certainly missed you, baby. Want me to show you?”

Even though you refuse to admit anything out loud, you can’t help but angle your throat back and grind into his hips pressed against yours.

Jungkook tsks, “That’s alright. I’ll get that pretty mouth open one way or another.”

Before you can retort, a mouth swoops down to fuse with yours in a fierce, all-consuming kiss. A low, broken moan punches from your chest.

Reaching up, your fingers sink into the mane of dark hair that brushes the cut of Jungkook’s jaw. Soft, thick, and wavy in your grip; you tug at the roots.

Jungkook hisses. 

Teeth nip at your lip, kittenish licks soothing away the string as blood bursts across your tongues. The thigh shoved between yours grinds up with every wet, sloppy pass of your lips.

Thick muscle spreads your pussy open through the thin slacks of your work uniform. Sparks of pleasure dance down your spine with every rock against your swollen clit.

“S-Shit!” Your shoulders curl in, a shudder jerking through you. “K-Kook, I… !”

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me.” Jungkook growls, rutting his cock against the jut of your hip. The wet patch you’re making on his jeans grows larger with every filthy grind. “You’ve been gone too fucking long. Never again, you hear me?”

You claw at his shoulders, stuttering out, “there’s noth-ing you can do t’stop me.”

“If you don’t come back to me,” his eyes are dark and stormy, voice whiskey rough, “I’ll find you.”

It’s not a threat - it’s a promise.

“Then make sure I never want to leave,” you challenge breathlessly, staring into his blown out pupils, “Make me want to stay.”

Above all else, you think.

The words are barely past your lips when Jungkook accepts your challenge with gusto (just like you knew he would). Without delay, he thumbs open the button on your pants.

Refusing to let you look away, Jungkook yanks them to your feet and swings you up into his arms one-handed. They hang from your ankle like a chain.

Your surprised squeak is quickly swallowed up by a moan when he settles you over the bulge in his pants, your cunt hovering over his erection.

The heat of his skin sinks through the thin cotton of your panties, so, so close to where you need him. Slick soaks into the fabric, and clings to your inner thighs.

Every shift is a smooth, sticky glide of folds that stirs, and stokes the ember of desire smoldering behind your navel.

“Kook,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your head rolls back, and you sag into his chest. Your hips twitch in pathetic little attempts, trying to get pressure where you need it. Having him hot and hard and all for you; any distance between you is suddenly unbearable.

He needs to spread you wide and stuff you full with every inch of his thick cock until he’s so deep you won’t be able to walk for days.

“Shh baby, I’ll give you what you want,” he says, gaze heavy and possessive. “I’m gonna ruin you so good, you’ll have no choice but to come back. You’re mine.”

“Says who?”

“Hmm. You don’t think you are?”

Nibbling on your ear, Jungkook slips a finger under the hem of your panties. He smirks when you keen, rubbing his knuckle up and down your sloppy folds with teasing pressure.

“How about I show you what your body already knows?”

Wasting no time, he lifts you off his cock, the scrap of cloth fluttering to the ground. His free hand dives between your bodies. Then comes the clink of a belt, the sound of a zipper pulling down.

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, your body coiled with anticipation as your stomach swoops at the brush of his fingers along the underside of your thigh.

“Look so pretty like this, baby.” Jungkook twists his wrist, hips arching back. “And it’s all for me. Fuck, I can’t wait to get inside this pretty pussy.”

Any response dies on your tongue, brain short-circuiting as the slick, fat cockhead rubs along your slit. Pressing against your entrance the slightest bit before slipping up to nudge at your clit - coating himself up in your sticky juices.

The ultimate tease - something Jungkook’s always been overly fond of doing until you’re out of your mind with desperation.

“Please, please, please,” you chant, cheeks on fire and eyes half-lidded as you circle your hips. “Stop playing around. I want it - want you, Kook.”

“Oh, baby,” he smiles, ducking down to kiss your forehead. “You’ll take whatever I give you.”

You can’t stifle the broken sob, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Liquid fire surges through your veins, a thousand bolts of lightening crackling beneath the surface of your skin. Your pussy is tender, swollen. Walls fluttering in time with your heartbeat. 

“Ha, you’re so needy for me.”

Jungkook’s lips brush away the moisture around your eyes, his thumb drawing soothing circles into the base of your spine. All the while, his torturous grinding never ceases.

“Aren’t you?”

You croak, “I can’t – Kook, please. Anything, I’ll do anything you want just fuck me.”

The flash of his eyes is your only warning before he’s right there, your walls embracing the girth of his erection inch by inch. Every ridge, every jerk as he seats himself as deep inside your silken heat as he can is absolute heaven.

The stretch as you take him to the hilt sends you careening towards the edge, eyes rolling back and toes curling in your shoes.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” you whimper.

“Shit!” Jungkook grits his teeth, squeezing the base of his cock as you tighten  around him. With every deep inhale, his pelvis brushes your swollen, needy clit. “Forgot how good you feel wrapped around my dick, baby.”

“Me too,” You gasp, tightening your legs around Jungkook’s hips.”Me too, Kook.”

Dropping his forehead to yours, he says gruffly, “‘m not gonna last long.”

Making a noise of acknowledgement, you wiggle your hips. Sinking your teeth into the side of Jungkook’s jaw, you bite and suck at his skin, wanting to leave a mark to remember you by. His reaction is instantaneous, releasing the grip on his shaft to grab a fist full of hair.

He yanks back.

The long, elegant line of your throat is exposed to his butterfly kisses and scolding love bites.

“Now you’ve really asked for it,” Jungkook huffs out with a dirty chuckle.

“Then give it to me.” You lick your puffy lips, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. “Show me who I belong to.”  

The brewing hurricane in his eyes is unleashed. Wide palms and strong fingers grip your hips so tight you feel bones grind together. His stance widens, his unwavering gaze locking onto your face, brow pinched, and mouth slack.

His lip piercing glints in the light, his tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip. Dark curls tussle about his head, a wild halo that sweeps down into the burning umber of his eyes.

Helpless, you succumb - enchanted by the darkness peering at you from behind those dangerous eyes. He’s ethereal; a siren song that threatens to drown you, swallow you whole.

You’d happily let him, you realize with a shiver.

It’s true, he owns you: blood, bones, and all.

“Hold on tight,” Jungkook says, hooking his hands under your bottom. 

And then, he’s jackhammering into your cunt so hard and fast all you can do is hold on for the ride. Punch drunk and moaning as he manhandles you how he likes, spreads you wide and stuffs you full until you’re panting for breath and clinging to sanity by your fingernails.

“Fuck yes, that’s it. Look how well your pretty pussy always takes my fat cock.”

His low voice whispering filthy praises in your ear makes you whimper, whine, and writhe as the band of pleasure coiling tight in your belly comes close to snapping. It’s the fastest he’s ever fucked an orgasm out of you, and it feels so good you don’t even care.

The pace is brutal, slamming into you so hard you’re sure you’ll have bruises on your hips come morning. But it’ll be so fucking worth it. You’re going to cum hard and long, you just know it.

About to melt as Jungkook fucks the slick out of you, groaning as you drip down the base of his cock, his balls - his very own pretty little mess.

“Yeah, you gonna cum, baby?” he laughs, pressing a sweaty kiss to the side of your face. “Can feel how - haaah shit - how tight you’re squeezing me.”

“Uh-huh,” you cry, holding onto the tops of his wide shoulders. Every thrust has his cockhead dragging over the spongy patch of your g-spot, sending fissions of pleasure rocketing through your nervous system. “So - so close, baby. Just a little more, I--”

Balancing yourself, you lift up only to slam back down, meeting Jungkook’s thrust with all the force of gravity. “Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

Crashing over you like a tsunami, your orgasm shoots through your limbs and zips down your spine. A warm rush of cum soaks Jungkook’s shaft, the wet and messy sound of your squirt splashing against the floor secondary to the cry that claws its way out of your throat.

“K-Kook!”

Jungkook grunts, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips as he helps you keep bouncing up and down on his erection. “Yeah, that’s it - keep going, baby. Wanna feel you keep cumming all over this cock.”

Aftershocks slice through you like lightning, tiny jolts of electricity. As you come down from your high, your gummy walls pulse, milking at Jungkook’s thick shaft.

He groans softly whenever your muscles tense, release; your body a worn-out rubber band as your breath stutters from you.

Then a hand pets down your flank, your skin shivering with hypersensitivity at the tender touch. “S’okay. Just breathe, baby.”

Peeling open your heavy eyes, you look up at his face. Take in the crinkle of his brow and the ravenous expression. Even floating on a sea of bliss, white noise fills your ears, you want more.

You slur, determined, “Kook, baby, please. Cum in me, want you s’bad.”

“Fuck! Can’t just say shit like that to me or I…” Jungkook bites down onto the tender crook of your neck, muffling his grunts in your flesh. “Shit - ’m so --”

You cry out, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders, “A-haah, K-Kook!”

Snapping his hips forward one last time, Jungkook grinds as deep as he can get and lets go. The fat head of his cock kisses your cervix, his length throbbing in time with his heartbeat as a rush of cum floods your insides.

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunts, rutting once - twice into the cradle of your body, “take it like a good girl.”

He croons when you whine at the press of his pelvis against your oversensitive clit. Thready sparks of pain shoot down your legs that hang limply over his forearms. Every breath stutters from your lungs, slow and deep.

“No more, can’t - can’t…” Shifting, you arch your spine and burrow your head into his chest, nearly catatonic in his arms. “S’too much.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Fingers brush over your closed eyelids, smoothing over the arch of your brow. With every kiss dropped to the top of your head, he mumbles in dulcet tones, “I really have missed you, you know.”

You mewl in response as strong fingers knead the backs of your thighs.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”

“Oh,” you can’t muster up enough energy to say anything more, body tender and trembling with little aftershocks, “s’that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He chuckles. “You’re staying here - right where I want you.”

In lieu of a response, you pick your head up off the pillow of his chest and seek out his gaze. Liquid soft; he’s looking at you like you hung the world on a string.

“I’ve missed you too, Kook,” you say with a gentle smile.

You’ll allow yourself this moment of weakness when there’s no space between your bodies or hearts. Titles don’t matter much when he’s cradling you to his chest like a piece of precious china.

Between the two of us, you’re the one who hung the moon and stars, you think while combing back his sweaty bangs.

And I think I love you, you whisper voiceless against his lips.

[murdrdocs]

every passing moment

description. sitting in the front seat of patrick zweig’s car, it’s nearly impossible to pretend like you don’t want him. it's impossible to pretend you didn't come for this.

includes. SMUT 18+, car sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected p n v, lots of denial from reader, some manhandling, sort of mean patrick, also mean reader, hooking up w a friends ex (but consensually!), takes place in the 2000s

wc. 3.6k+

a/n: cannot be bothered to edit sawrryy. based on a req i got forever ago. art creds unknown. title from so into you by tamia

“You can stop pretending.” 

You pause your insistent flipping through radio stations to glare in Patrick’s direction. His eyes are straight ahead, staring at the red streetlight through the rain still pattering down onto the windshield. You narrow your eyes in distaste, trying not to notice the way the light illuminates the shape of his face. 

“Pretending?” 

Patrick shrugs, glancing at you for a moment before the light is green and he’s facing the road again. 

“Yeah. Pretending that you’re not into me.” He says it with such assurance as if his statement is a fact of matter and not just an arrogant assumption. 

You scoff and decide on a station playing the final bits of a Katy Perry song. Maybe you would have been able to distinguish the song if it weren’t for the volume of the blood pumping through your body. You’ve been attempting to ignore it the entire time, ever since you and Patrick dropped Art off at a friend's place.

But there was something about being alone with Patrick and sitting in the front of his car. It affects you. When you were sitting in the back of the car and looking out of the window, you weren’t focused on anything other than how long it would take to get back to your dorm. Patrick and Art were as they usually were—Patrick and Art, extensions of the other. They joked, laughed, and included you for a bit before Patrick wrongfully proclaimed that you were asleep. You were in your world and they were in theirs. But now you’re part of Patrick’s world, forced to listen to him scoff at the song playing and click to another station. Forced to kick away an empty Monster can that rolls back and hits the toe of your sneakers. Forced to smell his cologne, previously too strong but now worn off to a more pleasant intensity, carry towards your nose with the cold AC. 

Before, you were able to pretend that you didn’t want Patrick. Now, you’re right next to him, bumping your elbow with his as they both rest on the center console. Mumbling the same lyrics—although Patrick gets the words slightly wrong—to the same song. There is a certain harmony that exists in this space, shining a light on your true desires, the ones you pushed down with eye rolls and groans whenever Art insinuated that you had feelings for his best friend. The desires you pushed away even whenever Tashi exclaimed that what she and Patrick had was nothing but a thing that they had, and you were free to swoop in if you pleased. 

Now, sitting in the front seat of Patrick Zweig’s car, it’s nearly impossible to pretend like you don’t want him. It’s impossible to pretend like you didn’t come dressed for this. 

Your meticulously crafted outfit screams in your face. Your best pair of jeans, the ones that hugged your ass just right and had gotten you laid twice this semester already. A tiny enough top to warrant attention without being obvious that that’s what you wanted—it ended right above your navel and was thin enough for your tits, unrestrained by a bra, to press against the fabric. In certain lighting, like the lighting coming from the stoplight, for example, you could see your nipples poking through. 

When you glance over at Patrick again, you catch him glancing down at your tits. You scoff like it’s not what you wanted, but you cross your arms under your bust and enhance the pair anyway. 

The car ride is going fine. Patrick’s chosen station plays hit after hit to fill the silence as he steadily heads toward your dorm. You’re only a few minutes away, no more than 7 if the stoplights weren’t taking too long, and then Patrick pulls into a gas station. 

You look over at him, your eyes squinted and your eyebrows furrowed. 

“What’re you doing?” 

He puts the car in park next to a pump. “Getting gas,” he tells you factually as if you’re the outrageous one. 

He closes the door before you can argue with him but you reach over and press the button to roll down the window before the battery completely turns off. 

“My dorm is literally right down the street. You couldn’t wait?” You hiss at him through the open window, watching him insert his card and put his PIN in. Unsurprisingly, his PIN is his birth year. 

“It’s easier this way,” he takes his card out of the reader and opens the tank. “Otherwise I would’ve had to double back. Too much work. Waste of gas.” 

You huff and fall back into your seat, just a tad bit upset that Patrick would’ve had the perfect view of your tits if he looked away from the dirtied gas pump for just a second. 

You sit for a moment, tapping your finger against the plastic door handle. You pull a stick of gum out of your purse. 

“Pass me one,” Patrick demands, doesn’t ask. 

You make a point of smacking on your piece as you tell him, “It’s the last one.” 

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls the corner of his lips into his cheek and glances back at the screen steadily counting up. 

He looks back at you. His eyes scan your frame and you can’t help but feel a little satisfied. 

“You look really pretty right now.” He tells you. His compliment should flatter you, and it mostly does, but he gave you those eyes. The ones you’ve seen him throw at multiple women, hoping it would get him what he wants. 

You’re sure that you and him currently share the same wants, but you want him to be a little shameless about it. For the sake of your pride, you can’t give it away this easily. So you retort. 

“Oh my God, Patrick. Fuck off!” Petulantly, you cross your arms over your chest and focus your attention on the mostly empty building in front of you. 

“I’m serious.” And he sounds serious. He sounds earnest. It’s the softest you’ve ever heard Patrick speak and you don’t know if he’s doing it to get in your pants, or if he has no ulterior motives. 

You don’t know which one you prefer more. 

You don’t know how to respond. Silence seems to be the best answer for you. 

It’s not satisfactory for Patrick. “This is usually the part where you’ll accept my compliment. Maybe give one back.”

“That would be the part if I were another one of your conquests. Which I’m not.”

“You wouldn’t be another one of my conquests.”

“You tell everyone that? Or just girls that you think ‘look really pretty’.”

“Alright, whatever. Will thinking that you’re another one of my conquests help you? Would it take some pressure away from all of this?” He gestures wildly between the two of you. The tank reaches its limit behind him and he places the nozzle back in its home. 

He’s back in the car with the engine turned on and his seatbelt on when you respond. 

“It doesn’t matter, Patrick. Because I’m not sleeping with you.”

He laughs. The sound is irritating. It makes your nostrils flare and your skin burn. 

“What’s funny? I didn’t think someone finally not wanting you would be so entertaining.”

“Oh, people don’t want me all the time. You’re just not one of them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look,” he puts the car into drive and starts off towards your dorm. “I know you wanna sleep with me. It’s fine if you don’t admit it to me, maybe even yourself, but it’s obvious. You’re just too egotistical. You think you’re superior to me because—what? You chose a ‘real job’ over tennis? That doesn’t make you superior, it makes you scared. And that’s okay. You’re scared of your own potential and you’re scared of how bad you want me. That’s fine,” he spits your name out with a natural ease that used to flatter you. Now it pisses you off. “Just don’t walk around like that’s not the truth.” 

You have the urge to tell him to pull the car over. You have the urge to spew out every nasty insult you’ve ever thought about him, some of them even Tashi’s own t words that she’d shared with you after the breakup. But you’re only a block away from your dorm and you refuse to waste your energy on Patrick. That and you know if you try, your voice will crack and you’ll embarrass yourself. 

Instead, you turn the radio up and sit with your anger until Patrick pulls up to your dorm. 

Your seatbelt clicks to free you, the door is unlocked, opened, and closed, and you’re turned to face the entrance when the sound of the window unrolling stops you. 

“Call me when you’re done lying to yourself.”

He doesn’t leave until you’re inside the building. 

Even then, he isn’t gone for long. 

You’re standing in front of the elevator, waiting for the familiar ding! so you can crawl upstairs to your room, call Tashi, and tell her about this horrible night. 

But you knew you wouldn’t be satisfied. You knew the night couldn’t end like this. 

So just when the elevator reaches you and opens its doors, you have your phone pressed to your ear and Patrick’s number ringing. 

He picks up on the second ring and he just laughs. Big and boisterous like you’ve just told the funniest joke in the world. 

You huff, considering hanging up and going upstairs. But you shift your stance and the seam of your jeans presses right into the center of your cunt and you know you couldn’t ignore it anymore. 

“Don’t be an ass. Just come back.” 

When you walk out the door, he’s back in the same spot. 

The car door is opened, the yellow light turning on and illuminating Patrick’s sick fucking smirk, and you don’t say anything as you sit in the passenger seat. You don’t bother clicking your seatbelt on. 

“Why don’t we just go upstairs?” he suggests. 

“I’m not checking you in.” I don’t want proof of this ever happening, is what you don’t say to him. Even without the fine print being verbalized, Patrick knows what you mean. 

He hums, a sound that infuriates you just as much as his laugh, but then he puts the car into gear and starts off towards wherever he’s taking you. 

You end up in the parking lot behind one of the science buildings. It’s empty, completely desolate besides a half-drunken bottle of blue Gatorade and a campus security pole that shines a deep blue. The light isn’t bright enough to penetrate the foggy windows of Patrick’s Honda, but the streetlights that keep the parking lot lit are. 

The white light sits along Patrick’s cheekbones. It’s flat against the straight line of his nose. It’s barely there, right along his prominent cupid bow. 

You can’t help but sit and admire his face. You can’t help but admire the way sweat has started to coat his hairline, threatening to drip down over his thick eyebrows and fall onto his cheek. You can feel your own sweat coming through your pores, but you can’t feel that more than you can feel Patrick’s fingers fucking up into you, two thick digits plunging into your walls over and over again. 

You can’t believe you’re actually doing it, following up on the encouragement from both Tashi and Art. You’re finally giving in to all of those dreams that you pushed out of your mind as soon as you could, or those brief pictures of Patrick’s face in your head whenever you were trying to picture your latest celebrity crush instead. 

Now, Patrick is all you see. 

When you’re verbally asking him to use his mouth on you, you only see Patrick’s smirk. It’s real and raw and right in front of you. And you can’t stop staring. 

Even when he contorts his large body to bring his face right between your legs, and you can only really see from the tip of his nose up, you don’t stop staring. When the pleasure mounts and climbs up your spine, you don’t stop staring, even when your eyes beg to flutter closed just to focus on the pleasure. 

You’re zoned out and you know it. You’re staring at Patrick’s eyes, even when he’s watching your cunt and you can only see his eyelids. Your own eyes have glazed over from refusing to blink, and when you do blink—an action that’s pulled from you when Patrick flicks his tongue over your clit just right—a twin set of tears glide down your cheeks. 

It’s then that Patrick decides to look at you again and you can feel his smile. 

Thinner than usual and more pursed as it’s the position of his lips, but the expression is pressed right up against you and you can feel it so intimately. It’s really a shame that the thing you hate most is the thing that gets you right to the edge. 

Patrick baring his teeth and gently nipping on your clit as he twists his fingers inside of you is the thing that makes you throw your hand out to grip the back of the passenger seat, your back arching as your mouth throws out moans that you don’t mean to be as loud as they are. 

And Patrick just helps you ride through it. Even when you hook your legs around his head and twist your fingers into his hair, keeping his face dangerously close to your cunt, he helps you out. He’s more generous than you would’ve thought, and you don’t want to think about how many orgasms Patrick Zweig would be willing to give you before asking for one of his own. So you don’t. 

Instead, you think about the way you’re grinding your cunt against Patrick’s face. As soon as you realize you’re doing it, you stop. You unhook your legs and let his hair go and when he comes up for air, you refuse to meet his eye. 

After all of that staring, you suddenly are completely uninterested in Patrick’s blue eyes, including the little speck of blood-orange he has in them. 

Patrick snickers and with him being this close to you, you can smell yourself on his breath. Why does that make you want to kiss him more?

“Come on. After I just made you cum you won’t even look at me?”

You reach above you to click the car light on and immediate regret finds you. Because now that there’s a substantial amount of light in the car, you can see the way Patrick’s clean-shaven chin, plump lips, and perky nose shine. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where all of the shimmer has come from, especially not when the evidence is still smeared all over your pussy and inner thighs. 

You dart your eyes to the side, looking at Patrick’s floor in search of the firetruck red pair of panties you were wearing. You look, and look, pushing away bottles and plastic bags and a pair of sneakers, and when you don’t find them, you huff and try to reach around Patrick to grab your jeans that have landed on the center console. 

He bends out of the way, letting you grab the jeans, waiting for your next move. 

“You can take me back to my dorm now.”

He hesitates. He doesn’t say anything. And then, “Don’t you want me to fuck you?” he asks it as if he knows the answer. 

You know the answer. Still, you look at him, feigning unimpressed with your jeans hanging limply in your hands. You should put them back on. You’ve got what you came here for, a really good orgasm, and now it’s time you start working on the paper you’ve been putting off. A paper you absolutely despised. A paper that you would do anything to escape, or at least put off a bit. 

Anything including letting Patrick Zweig fuck you. 

Yeah, that’s not the only reason why you let Patrick fuck you. You’ve wanted him for a while and you’ve been fairly obvious about it. The classic childhood approach to your attraction wasn’t fooling anyone. Masking your attraction with annoyance didn’t do anything but make you want him more. 

In the end, it wasn’t effective, as it still brought you here:

On your hands and knees in the back of Patrick’s car, letting him defile you from the back, remaining completely uncaring of the heat and the volume of your moans. 

You’ll admit, this isn’t how you imagined fucking Patrick. You imagined it being somewhere more appropriate, for starters. In a bed or on a couch perhaps. But everything else about it, you’ve imagined. 

The way he fucks you, rough and without abandon, is how you imagined it. The way he just takes and takes is how you imagined it. Late at night when you would slip your hands between your thighs, hoping to provide even a bit of reprieve, you imagined it like this. 

You imagined his grunts right in your ear. You imagined the feeling of his balls slapping against your cunt. You imagined the feeling of his hands on your hips. But now you don’t have to imagine, it’s all real. 

“Good?” Patrick asks from behind you. 

Your lips move on their own accord. “‘s so good. Just like I imagined.” 

You regret the admission as soon as it’s in the stiff air. You regret even thinking about it whenever Patrick snickers, curt and confident. 

“Just like you imagined, huh? Knew you—fuck, you feel good—I knew you wanted me.” 

His words are redundant at this point. It’s obvious that you’ve wanted Patrick the entire time. Now, he just wants to rub it in your face. He’s treating you like a pet, a big hand on the back of your head and rubbing your face in the mess you’ve made. Quite literally, as he palms the back of your head and pushes your face down into the seat at one point, smearing your nose in the sweat and arousal left over from your first orgasm. 

But he’s not reprimanding you. He’s encouraging you. 

He’s hooking a hand over your shoulder and pulling you back onto each of his thrusts. He’s hunching over your body as best as he can in the tight space and resting his head against your spine. 

When you feel a glob of drool meets the center of your back, it suddenly occurs to you that Patrick has wanted this as much as you have. He’s been chasing after you the entire time, apparently, if you could trust the words of Art and Tashi. 

You tune in, allowing yourself to hear him, to be with him in this brief moment. You’re made aware of his groans, how deep and throaty they are, how sincere they are. You notice how the drag of his cock out of you is slower than the push back in. It’s almost as if he’s savoring the time that he’s in you, prolonging it as long as possible. Yet, he slides out nearly all the way, only stopping when his mushroom tip is settled within you, your cunt clasped around it like a vice. And then he glides back in, swift and gentle. 

Over and over again. And no matter how much he’s trying to prolong it, no matter how much he’s trying to prevent the inevitable, it approaches steadily. You’re close before you notice it, hands gripping the door handle and the leather seats. 

You don’t warn him. If you feared he was going to stop or change something, maybe you would have told him that you were close. But Patrick isn’t one to change something that’s working well so you really had nothing to worry about. 

Soon enough, when your orgasm is at its peak and you’re letting noise after noise spill past your lips, Patrick joins you. His forehead resting against your shoulder, his hips sloppily knocking into yours. 

It’s harmonious. Possibly the most (willingly) in tune you and Patrick Zweig have ever been. Likely the most willingly in tune the two of you will ever be. 

When it’s over, it’s over. There’s no more harmony. You nudge yourself back, getting Patrick off of you. You abandon the search for your panties and just settle with slipping your jeans back on, doing the same for your bra and shirt. You climb into the front seat, leaving Patrick in the back to catch his breath and redress. 

He leaves the car to walk around to the driver's side and you use that one moment where he isn’t there to ask yourself what the fuck?

The drive back is silent. No music, no conversation, just the sound of rubber against asphalt. Patrick asks you one thing. 

“Do you wanna go anywhere else?”

“I’m fine.”

And then you’re back at your dorm. You take a moment, mulling over your possibilities. You could have Patrick park in a visitor's spot, come up to your dorm, and spend time with you. You could resort back to your usual banter, maybe throw in an insult that doesn’t have to do with the way he defiled you just a few minutes ago (because there really isn’t anything negative you could say about that). 

Instead, you open the door and step out. 

“Thanks,” is all you tell him. 

When you get upstairs, you consider the possibility of telling Tashi or Art. Instead, you take a shower and go to sleep. 

[totheblood]

I WISH I NEVER MET YOU.

pairing: ex!ellie williams x reader

warnings: SUGGESTIVE mdni 18+... not sm*t but close... cursing, drinking, bitchy ellie

a/n: i love this song and was like wait... i need to write a fic based off of this song so i did that and i just love mean and spiteful ellie like... i apologize.. ai audios in the fic <3 reblogs, asks, and replies are so appreciated and encouraged! thank u kisses

wc: 2.3k

"tryna forget the seven minutes we had in heaven."

The world was spinning.

Or that was what it felt like. The tequila you had downed earlier was now starting to mix with the joint you shared with Dina earlier on her front step. She had held the nearly finished stub in between her fingers and had her other hand tracing circles on the fleshy part of your thigh. It was all innocent as you laughed about the new job she had started and her weird coworker who had asked her out a few times. It was all innocent until she mentioned Ellie and how she said she was going to stop by later that night. 

It wasn’t a party, but it wasn’t not a party. A few of your friends had gathered at Dina and Cora’s new place, a housewarming party done their way. Inside a few friends had gathered around a table playing some card game and taking shots, but you needed some fresh air and Dina had followed you. From out here you could hear the faint music coming from inside, and the streetlights made Dina’s skin look golden, but it was still early and you were already fairly drunk. 

“She said she’s coming?” you confirmed, needing to double-check that Ellie agreed to be in the same room as you. 

“Yeah,” Dina coughed, taking a deep hit of the joint, the end glowing yellow and orange, “Said she feels bad about not coming around anymore.”

“Right,” you scoffed, grabbing the joint from her and taking a deep hit, closing your eyes as you blew out the smoke. 

“Can you not do that tonight?” Dina set her face up in a pout, eyes dramatically wide, “She’s finally getting over whatever this was and I just want us to be normal again.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you rolled your eyes, sitting up straighter, “I tried to talk to her but she didn’t want to. Not my fault.”

“But isn’t it?” Dina started. She knew she was crossing a boundary she shouldn’t, but she was also tipsy and exhausted from the standoff you and Ellie had.

She wasn’t wrong, it was technically your fault. Months ago you were at a party gathering just like this, twice as drunk as you were right now. Some idiot, probably Cora, had suggested playing 7 minutes in heaven, just like you all had done in high school. No one in the room was sober, therefore everyone agreed. 

A circle was formed in the living room, everyone sitting with their legs criss-crossed on the floor, giggling and blushing like 10th graders. One couple had decided to sit it out and watch the game from the couch. Two seats to your left sat Ellie, hair pulled back into a loose bun and her face already a bright red. She never was your closest friend, but she was still someone you talked to often. You’d occasionally Facetime, send each other TikToks, and sit next to each other if the group went out for dinner. But you were not her best friend, and she definitely wasn’t yours.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t think about her often. She had this girlish charm that usually translated as awkwardness and she would always make jokes under her breath, just loud enough for only you to hear them. You didn’t notice how red she got whenever she made you laugh like she had just won the world’s biggest prize. But besides that, she was cute. Really cute, and perpetually single. The group would often make jokes asking why she never dated anyone, and she would just make some comment about how she was waiting for the ‘right one’. Her eyes would always flicker over to you when she said that.

But this night, when she spun the bottle and it landed on you she nearly choked. You looked up at her with your doe eyes, those fucking eyes, she thought, and she nearly lost it. Everyone was laughing, clapping, and hollering at the idea of the two of you being locked in a dim closet for 7 minutes. 

“We don’t have to…” She started, preparing herself for rejection, “if you’re not comfortable.”

“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?”

Click. 

The door locked the two of you inside the tiny room. This close to you she could smell you. She could smell the liquor coming off of you in waves mixing with vanilla perfume. There was just enough light for her to make out your features, the tip of your nose, and the crease in between your eyebrows. From this close, she could see everything.

“So…” her voice faltered, nervousness seeping into her tone, “what do we do?”

“I think you’re supposed to kiss me,” you whispered back, your voice immediately sending a flood to her pants.

“Do you want me to?” She whispered back, eyes searching your face and landing on your lips. You pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth, before nodding. Fuck. She took a shaky breath, her calloused fingers grazing the open skin of your waist. Her fingers were cold but your body ran hot, you were unsure if it was the alcohol or her having this effect on you. Her fingertips curled inwards, pulling you closer to her.

You were now chest to chest, both of you heavy breathing despite not having kissed yet. You were so close that she could feel your heartbeat and your tits. She gripped you a little bit harder causing you to groan. It was all so painfully slow, each movement dragged out. She dipped her head down, her lips now just hovering over yours making your eyelids flutter closed. You could feel her smile before she kissed you, as slow and languid as her movements were before.

Her lips were soft, tongue peeking through and grazing your teeth, urging them open. She was kissing your like her life depended on it. Your hands gripped at her neck, trying to pull her closer but she stumbled forward pushing you into the shelf. 

“Fuck,” she breathed in between a wet kiss, “you okay?” 

“Mhm,” You hummed. Her hand moved down now, ghosting your ass before giving it a light squeeze and lifting your thigh up so she could get even closer. If it kept going like this she was going to be inside of you within minutes. She pushed closer, her clothed cunt griding up against yours, causing you to gasp.

“Feel good?” She teased, now moving to kiss up your jaw when- 

Click.

The two of you separated, hands smoothing out your clothes as the door opened. It was obvious what had happened, a little bruise had formed on your jaw where she had kissed, and she was now wearing lipstick she didn’t come to the party wearing. 

That night you went home with her. 

You shuddered thinking of that night, not knowing it was the beginning of the end. Whatever relationship you had with her was now ruined, and it was your fault. You spent nights crying over how much of your fault it was, but that wouldn’t change anything. You ended things, and Ellie wanted nothing to do with you now. 

“I guess,” you shrugged, “but people break up every day Dina. People move on.”

It was Dina’s turn to scoff as she snatched the tiny joint back from you, “You don’t move on that easily when you’re in love with someone.”

“She was not in love with me,” you rolled your eyes again, your high making you feel anger more than anything now.

“Oh, so you’re just fucking stupid,” Dina deadpanned, taking another hit, giggling as you shoved her playfully.

“Oh, fuck you,” you laughed, trying to keep your real emotions at bay. 

“Can’t,” she laughed, blowing smoke out her nose, “Ellie would probably murder me.”

The conversation wasn’t productive, but you didn’t want to be on the front step when Ellie arrived. You feared that if she saw you, she probably wouldn’t even come to the door, let alone inside. You honestly missed her, and you were beginning to forget what she even sounded like. 

Thirty minutes had passed and you started nursing your third drink, playing beer pong in the backyard when you noticed a familiar sound. Her laugh, over everything, was the only thing you heard. 

“Oh, um I have to use the bathroom,” you excused yourself running up the stairs and straight into the kitchen where Ellie was now alone, getting a drink from the fridge. She obviously didn’t see you come in, or thought you were Dina because she was speaking. 

“You only bought Truly’s,” she scoffed from the fridge, “fucking lame.” 

“Still better than a Four Loko,” you joked. You watched her pause, her whole body stiffening before standing up straight and closing the door. She stared at the refrigerator so she didn’t have to look at you. You watched her chest rise and fall as she took deep breaths. 

“What do you want?” Her tone was much colder now, her voice icy and mean. 

“Just wanted to say hi,” your voice was small, you hated yourself for it.

“Well, don’t,” she shook her head, turning to the counter now, the hard liquor lined up in front of her. She picked up vodka, bad choice.

“Can we just-” you stepped next to her, voice in a whisper loud enough she could hear. She tensed up as you stood close to her and you hated the position you were in. 

“No, we can’t,” She shook her head, pulling a red solo cup from its place on the counter and pouring the vodka in the cup, “I told you I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“But-”

“No fucking ‘buts’. You don’t get everything you want, okay?” She looked at you now, her green eyes now accompanied by dark circles. Her freckles were more prominent with summer finally coming to an end. She looked tired, but still beautiful, “You’re so fucking selfish.”

“I’m selfish because I couldn’t date you?” You laughed bitterly, that third drink hitting you like a bag of bricks, “That’s real rich considering you’re the one who’s been an asshole to me because you can’t fuck me anymore.”

She looked pissed. Her hands gripped the sides of the counter as she looked down at it, trying to stop herself from doing what she wanted to. Instead, she downed the vodka, not even flinching.

“No one wants to fuck you,” she looked at you, eyes glossed over, “and you’re the one who dumped me over text like a fucking coward.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“I’m an asshole to you because I want to make it perfectly clear I want nothing to do with you. I don’t want to fuck you, I don’t want to see you, and I definitely don’t want to hear any sob story about how you ‘couldn’t’ do it. You’re a pathetic loser who broke up with me over text on our 6 month anniversary.”

“Ellie,” a voice from behind you caused you both to turn around. You wiped at the tears rolling down your face, “What the fuck?”

It was Dina, standing with her arms crossed as she watched you two in disappointment. You ran off pushing past her and into the bathroom, crying pathetically on the toilet and blowing your nose in the toilet paper. Back in the kitchen Dina had approached Ellie, an eyebrow raised as if she was waiting for an answer. 

“She just,” Ellie poured another cup, “she gets under my fucking skin, okay?”

“But talking to her like that?” She shook her head in shame, “What’s gotten into you?”

“She has!” Ellie replied, “That shit fucking hurt, okay? And I let her get away with it at first because I loved her but all she thinks is that I’m mad because I can’t fuck her. I’m over it.”

“She’s just saying that,” Dina’s voice was now more tender as she talked to Ellie, “she misses you and doesn’t know how to deal with it.”

“She doesn’t fucking miss me,” Ellie downed the second cup.

“You just tell yourself that because you wouldn’t know how to feel if it was true.”

“If she missed me she wouldn’t have done that,” Ellie sighed.

“Not everything is black and white,” Dina sighed looking to the side. “Just try to get over it before the trip. It’s a really big deal to Cora and I don’t want it to be a mess because you both are so miserable.”

“I don’t think I can come, D,” Ellie shook her head, fingers tapping on the counter, “Not like this, not with her.”

“Ellie, please don’t do this,” Dina held her shoulders, her eyes wide and sad. Ellie had a soft spot for Dina, which was the only reason she came to the housewarming party, but she was unsure of how much she would take before she snapped. 

“Fine,” she sighed, “but I’ll be driving by myself. I’m not sitting in a two-hour-long car ride with her.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Dina squeezed Ellie tight, making her groan and attempt to push her off. 

---

The trip came sooner than expected, the party being nearly a month ago. You drove down with Dina and Cora, singing Lana songs the whole drive. The Hamptons were quiet around this time and Cora (and her rich family) owned a vacation house out there on the water. You spent nearly every summer here, you, Dina, Cora, Ellie, Jesse, Faye, and Cora’s twin brother, Orion all crammed into their giant house. Except this time was different. This was the trip that Dina and Cora were going to announce their engagement. 

No one knew yet, and Dina had wanted your little group of friends to be the first to know. A special intimate moment between the group and the place it had started. However, when you pulled up to the house, driving up the long driveway, you saw Ellie’s jeep parked out front with her and some girl leaning against the side of the car. 

You all hopped out, but you stood to the side as you watched Dina and Cora hug Ellie and this new girl. 

“Hey guys, I hope you don’t mind,” Ellie spoke, eyes drifting to yours for a moment before she smirked, “this is my girlfriend, June.”

Fuck.

[inkedtae]

elixir of the damned ⇾ bgc. [M]

⎡sun bright, sun light burns the flesh of those that bite. moon’s gleam, night’s scream as shadows linger in lonely blight. but in the dark where spirits wail, a witch will rise— her power prevails⎦

⌁ pairing; vampire!chan x witch!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; vampire au, s2l, some angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 19.5k

⌁ summary; leech, nightcrawler, monster— chris is a vampire aching for sunlight. when he swims to a witch’s hidden island, badly burned, she offers him a secret remedy to survive daylight; he must drink her blood during her cycle, unleashing her true power and binding them for life.

⌁ warnings; graphic depictions and consumption of blood, graphic depictions of severe wounds, dom!chan, sub!reader, masturbation (f.), voyeurism, degradation, slight humiliation, rough sex, period sex, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, rough oral (f. receiving), body worship, spanking, teasing, slight edging, cum eating, blood play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 prefer ao3? keep reading here

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a special thanks to dee ( @awrkives ) for making this sexy banner for me, and to my ride or die beta reader, jen ( @anobodyslove ) for consistently supporting me and reading over all the nonsense i write. i am nothing without you.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪  please enjoy this final Chantober fic!

On the brink of winter, Elderwood is a haze of greys. Roads are bleak black. Sidewalks are cracked and chipped. Streetlights illuminate no more than five inches in diameter, dim and distant. Seemingly void of life, the little town exhales a puff of condensation as it inches towards November. In a matter of days, the saturated warmth of autumn reds will wither, the cold air frosting  over every morning, until all pigment completely fades.

It’s depressing to watch the world around him drain of colour as he wanders the streets. Still, Chris is grateful for the consistency. One thing he can always count on is the changing seasons. He may not be getting older, but the world is.

The wind whips against his muscular frame. It should make him shiver, but he can barely feel the chill, only aware of the wind because of its force. The only time he ever felt the cold was midnight on a particularly wet February two years ago. It was pouring down on him as he walked back to Jisung’s house from the shore. The wind was knocking down street signs. The earth was drenched and cold. Chris felt the chills on his skin, the faint prickle of goosebumps. He inhaled and pretended his lungs worked, filling up with oxygen. Pulling his shirt off, he exhaled and pretended a cloud of air was breathed out. The chills running down his spine made it easy to pretend he was alive.

Now, Chris pretends he can feel the breeze blowing through his muscle tee, still exhilarated by the memory.

There are only two moments when he forgets he’s a vampire. One is when he can feel the cold, and the other is when he’s feeding. The taste of bitter iron and copper staining his tongue makes him feel real . With every gulp, Chris can feel the consumed blood run through his veins, drenching his heart and organs. There is the lightest hue of pink in his skin once he’s done. It lasts for a few hours before it fades and he grows hungry again. As much as it annoys him, Chris looks forward to every meal.

In a matter of days, he will be closing in on eight years as a vampire.

Leech, nightcrawler, monster— Chris cannot block out the voices that chime in every time he thinks about that word. They loop in slow circles around his mind on a daily basis and taunt him between his insecurities and mistakes.

He’s not sure how it happened. He stopped sleeping. It was hard to keep things down. He didn’t like to eat much before swim practise anyways. Even a bite of food would sit like a rock in his stomach. He’d have to excuse himself five minutes into his laps to empty his stomach in the nearest trash can.

“Knocked up?” one of his teammates teased from the pool.

Chris wiped his chin with the back of his wrist. He glared at the diver, eyes wet and red, before clearing his throat, swallowing thickly, and diving back in himself.

Hand on his stomach now, Chris yearns for that disgusting feeling that burned his chest and scratched at his throat. He hates throwing up, but it seems so humane now to get sick, to feel sick.

Once he attempted to starve himself in hopes of emulating something similar to an illness. All it did was make him irritable, almost rabid. He thought it would at least be similar to sleep deprivation but it instead sharpened his supernatural senses for blood.

More than anything though, Chris misses the sun. Every morning, he senses its warmth against the boarded windows of Jisung’s basement. For a handful of minutes, he can bypass his inherent fear of the sun to imagine beams of light cascading over him. He imagines the heat kissing his flesh, returning his admiration, and basks in the feign brightness.

Sand invades his shoes.

Chris opens his eyes to find the sea before him. The waves crash against the shore, inches away from his toes. He inhales sharply. Salt and seaweed plague his tongue. He swallows breathfuls of the scent anyway, chasing nostalgia.

He took his first steps here, had his first kiss by the rocks at thirteen, learned to swim, to build extravagant sandcastles and raced along the shoreline with Jisung and Changbin. How many summers had he guarded the lives of beachgoers? How many bonfire bashes had he patrolled?

Chris gazes out at the horizon. His enhanced vampiric senses have sharpened his sight, refining the mesmerising image of the serene scenery. Even the far island of Crow’s Nest looks clearer. It has been bogged down by heavy fog for as long as he can remember. Sometimes the island seems so hazy, Chris is only reminded of its presence by the crows circling around it. He smiles to himself as he recalls the countless times he, Changbin and Jisung dared each other to swim towards it, each one boasting about how they would be the one to swim the closest only to rush back to shore.

Fuck— it all feels like a life time ago.

The ocean laps closer to Chris’s feet. He surveys his surroundings. Fog settles over the quiet town. Silence replies to his inquisitive stare. He turns back to the sea and considers the horizon. It must be nearing four or five in the morning, dawn slowly approaching. The sky is mostly cloudy too.

He wonders if— No.

His vampiric instincts shudder at the thought. Chris fights through it, resisting the urge to turn around and hurry back to Jisung’s basement.

I have time , he mentally hisses.

The sun won’t be up for another hour or so, and given how considerably cloudy it is, he might have an extra fifteen minutes to collect his clothes and rush back into the safe darkness of the basement. His enhanced speed would get him there within ten minutes anyway.

Chris tugs at the hem of his shirt while kicking off his shoes. He feels the wind push around his muscular torso. He takes a moment to inhale deeply, swallowing the scent of the salty sea, and resists the urge to gag. Determined not to let the suppressed reaction discourage him, he unzips his jeans and pulls them down along with his briefs. For a second, he braces himself, expecting a chill upon his full nudity.

Then the reality of his being sets in.

He huffs an annoyed groan and marches into the water. He’s so frustrated he doesn’t feel it at first. However, as he continues to wade further into the ocean, the water now lapping just above his waist, Chris shivers .

Cold— ice cold. The sea welcomes him home.

Chris chuckles, relief blossoming in his chest. He caresses the surface of the water as another chuckle tumbles out of his full lips. If he was still human, tears would prick his eyes from the sheer relief of finally feeling something. Embracing the biting chill, he dives in.

Under deep blue darkness, the world muffles around him. He points his hands in front of him, the same way he was training eight years ago, and propels further into the ocean. Seaweed dances beneath his feet, the current moves around him. Being undead gives him an advantage as he can remain submerged for longer now.

Twirling, swirling, he swims and swims— faster than he could before his shift. The rush of the waves propel him further into the water, caressing his toned body. Chris suppresses a smile as he watches fish dart and algae float around him.

When he finally surfaces, he lets out a heavy breath on instinct, but he doesn’t care. He pushes his hair back and wipes his nose, heaving anyway because in this still moment, Chris is teetering on the edge of humanity for the very first time in eight years.

Looking back to the shore, he finds that he may have gotten carried away. The mainland is almost a figment of his imagination with the amount of distance he has created.

And Crow’s Nest is completely visible.

Chris looks between the shore and the island, then lets out a full bellied laugh, one he hasn’t been able to muster in years. Changbin and Jisung are never going to believe him when he tells them he got this close to Crow’s Nest .

Not only is it far, but most believe the island is haunted. Townies for years have claimed to witness figures lurking between the trees and flickering lights throughout the night. Someone once swore they saw a figure flying over the island on a broomstick amongst the crows. Throughout the years, many sceptics have tried to travel to the island, only to be deterred by the current and pushed back to shore. Changbin once told him that one person did make it onto the island but was never heard from again.

Chris was not completely convinced by the tall-tales of Crow’s Nest, but he still constantly felt unsettled by its presence.

However, surveying the island now, he cannot remember why he was so scared. Sure, the myths were strange, but they were myths in the end.

Vampires were once a myth , a little voice murmurs.

Stifling the sinister voice, Chris looks to the sky and finds it’s still a swirl of charcoal grey and slated blue. His smile returns before another chuckle bubbles from his eased chest. Floating upon the surface, he lays back, allowing the current to guide him for a moment. He shuts his eyes and focuses on the fading sensation of the cold upon his pale skin.

While Chris knows he has more time to revel in this rare human moment, he cannot help the anxiety festering in the base of his stomach. What if he never feels this way again? What if he has to wait another eight years to feel something, anything again? And yes, this has been a cathartic experience by himself, but some of his favourite human memories are shared with his loud, chaotic friends. He can imagine Changbin complaining about how deep the water is and Jisung making jokily suggestive comments about how naked they all are. He would never be able to convince them to go skinny dipping in the middle of October at dawn. Changbin is too much of a whiny baby to handle the cold and Jisung sleeps as deep as the dead— Chris would know being undead himself.

So, while he may feel a fraction of his humanity again, he cannot forget that he is still alone.

A sense of deep danger surges through him, silver eyes snapping open. Amber light spills across the once frosty charcoal-blue sky.

The sun is rising.

His vampiric instincts rage in his chest, as if scolding him for being so reckless.

Chris internally curses at himself. He’s about to swim back to shore when he notices rays of light shining against the sand, inching towards his clothes.

Fuck .

How long had he been floating? When did time start to move this quickly? The last eight years have felt like eternity, but it’s as though the last two hours flew by within twenty minutes.

Chris lets out a shaky sigh and considers his options. He can try to make it back to shore and sprint home, grabbing his clothes later (if the current doesn’t swallow them). He can try to dive deep enough in the water to evade the sun, but risk drowning over and over for the next twelve hours. Or…

A murder of crows circle the island to his right.

Crow’s Nest.

“ Shit ,” he mutters under his breath.

Chris dives. He uses all his strength to fight against the current. The closer he’s gets to the island, the harsher the ocean becomes. The waves are not forceful, simply persistent with their suggestion to turn back. It’s as if the sea is warning him against reaching the island.

He fights through it still, pushing himself to swim faster.

Though he does not have a pulse, Chris is heaving by the time he can walk onto the shore. He runs a hand through his hair and spits the excess seawater out of his mouth. Leaning on his knees, he takes a moment, for the first time in eight years, to catch his breath.

Vision blurring, hands shaking, Chris mutters a string of vulgar curses. The swim has depleted his energy. Thirst— No, hunger gnaws at his chest, his gut, his very being, tearing through his innate instincts to find shade. His senses instead sharpen for a hunt. The scent of crow, frail and small, immediately overwhelms him. He can nearly taste the thick blood that pumps under their onyx feathers.

“ Ah!” Chris hisses, jolting forwards as the light nips at his ankles.

The sun .

Using the last bit of his strength, Chris dashes towards the trees. However, as he’s about to cross into the safety of the shade, the sun strikes, scorching his skin.

Chris screams, collapsing to his knees. His back stings with a relentless hiss. Scurrying forward, he manages to make it into the shade with only a few more minimal, yet painful welts on his thighs and calves. He chokes back more groans as his pale skin bubbles and burns from the intense heat.

He shifts further into what he thinks is the shade, trembling and whimpering, when the breeze kicks in and rattles the already loose leaves from the trees. Chris looks up, watching a gap form and give way for another attack from the sun.

Bright rays blaze his face. Another fraught scream tears through his throat and he tries to shield his eyes with his arm. Only one eye could be saved, the other feels as though it is melting into his skull.

Pain, pain— aching pain. Chris screams, his voice cracking as he channels that last of his strength and throws himself against the tree stump with unnatural speed.

Hiccuped moans tumble from his wounded, cracked lips. He heaves, voice nothing more than a wheezing shattered mess. His flesh deteriorates, once eternal body now crumbling under the bright light. The rotting smell of his dead body simmers around him, brewing nausea deep in his gut.The sand bites into his burnt skin, like salt on a fresh wound. Whimpering, he grits his teeth and attempts to bear the pain.

It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. It’s not tha—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groans, the pain overtaking his mind. He tries to repeat the phase again but can barely get past the first syllable.

Chris knows he can’t stay here. The sun will move, the light will shift, the fucking wind will betray him. He is not guaranteed safety if more leaves fall and the light seeps through again. Yet, he cannot move. Without blood to sustain his movements or renew his vampiric healing abilities, he might just die anyway.

So, Chris simply stares at the clutter of copper and gold leaves around him and suppresses whimpers. Is this the sickness he was previously craving to feel? Is this the humanistic pain he so badly yearned for? Chris cannot help but curse at himself over and over as his vision slowly blurs.

Is this really how it ends , he wonders. Wet from the sea, hot from the sun, eight years of demonic hell inch to this painful end.

Coughing up bile, he spits it over his shoulder and exhales deeply. Well, at least, he was able to experience a final moment of humanity, even if it was alone. And when he sees Changbin and Jisung again, he’ll tell them all about how he swam to Crow’s Nest and wasn’t immediately devoured by the monsters that they believe lurk within.

And if nothing else , he thinks as the darkness slowly closes in on him, I had one last moment in the sun.

“What have you done to yourself?”

A soft flowery voice caresses him. Chris mentally leans into the feminine allure of the voice, allowing himself to be wrapped in her gentle tone.

Then, the voice suddenly solidifies shattering the warm cocoon Chris found himself giving into, as she repeats, tone firmer now, “Are you insane?”

Chris tilts his head, choking on more bile as a surge of pain ripples through him. A curvy figure dressed in a thin, white sundress rushes towards him. He can barely make out her face, his sight almost completely gone, but her scent— fresh rain, lavender and sage— overwhelms him. For a second, he sees himself strolling through a field of wildflowers after a rainstorm, following the full figured beauty into the warmth of the light.

“Wow, you’re really naked,” she suddenly mumbles under her breath.

Voice raspy, Chris asks, “Are… you an angel?”

Soft hands cup his face; delicate, sweet, and gentle. Chris tries to regain some semblance of his sight, eager to take in her ethereal features but the pain hinders his focus.

And then, all at once, darkness claims him.

Dawn is still. While the sun peeks through clusters of clouds, the sky shifts from pale blue to rose-gold. The wind, once flowing through the small cottage through the open windows, disappears. Even the crows, who often guard your little hideaway, fall silent.

You freeze mid-chop and turn towards the backdoor. A murder of crows still lingers around your backyard, but they seem rigid, as if they are not sure how to react.

Furrowing your brows, you set down your knife and abandon your half-chopped eggplant. You wipe your hands on your apron, making your way to the door.

A loud buzzing rings through your ears, stopping you mid-stride. You furrow your brows, senses finally flaring.

Abandoning the back door, you move towards the front instead. The moment you pull it open, you feel it— the shift in the air, swirling with panic, fear and… pain ?

A loud scream suddenly echoes through the morning fog, taut and sharp.

Chills run down your spine.

You’ve found many injured animals while hiding in Crow’s Nest within the last decade. You’ve repaired broken bones, mended mangled wings and even helped beached sea creatures find their way back into the ocean. However, nothing you have encountered has ever sounded so huge.

Shaking off your nerves, you step out and shut the door behind you. The wind picks up, colder than before. It ruffles through your white sundress, forcing you to wrap your arms around yourself. Another frail scream echoes, this time starling the crows back into motion. Hawthorne, your clingiest crow, lands on your front porch with a concerned tilt of his head, as if coming to check on you. Your face deadpans as more crows settle on the rickety, oak wood and peer up at you.

“You literally saw me from the garden,” you sigh. Stepping around them, you ask, “Do you know where that sound came from?”

Poe squawks before fluttering into flight, and a few other crows follow after him as well. You trail behind them, pulling your wand out from between your breasts. You assume that whatever washed up on your island must be harmless enough for your wards not to alert you upon its arrival. Still, you keep your twelve-inch mahogany wand, the polished ebony wood twisted and glittering like silver stars, steady before you.

Rotten vanilla and burnt, parched oak intoxicate your next breath. The scent envelopes you in despair, as you draw closer to the source. Heaving, whimpering, coughing, the broken sounds of pain become clearer with every step.

And then you see him— extremely pale and teetering consciousness. His face, which might have once been a handsome blend of soft masculinity, is grey and blistering. Arm, shoulder, ribs; the left side of his body is peeling skin, almost as if dusting and rotting all at once. The edges of the wounds are lined with black. It’s as though he’d been charred under open flames.

“What have you done to yourself?” you whisper under your breath.

You draw nearer, trying to make sense of this… being? You’re not quite sure what he is. He most definitely cannot be a human. He should be bleeding and the welts would be blistering, eager to reverse the damage.

His eyes squint open and you almost miss it. The right one is a rich chocolate, purely humanistic and warming. The left, however, is a blinding silver. Swimming with thirst and desperation, even exhausted, that gleaming grey eye conveys more threats than promises.

Vampire .

Dawn, light, burns, it all starts to make sense.

“Are you insane?”

He chokes on bile, resting his head back against the tree trunk.

As he tries to find his voice, you take a moment to scan his frame, looking for more wounds. It’s then that you notice just how naked he is. Guilt and shame fester in your chest at the realisation that, despite the wounds, he does not look so bad, perhaps even… attractive.

Your attention lingers below his waist. The sight heats your face. “Wow, you’re really naked,” you whisper more to yourself than him.

“Are…” he starts, summoning your attention back to his mismatched eyes, “you an angel?”

The question startles you. After a few blinks, you swallow thickly and clear your throat.

Wraith, nightshader, monster— you’ve been called many names throughout your life as a blood-witch. Your previous coven conjured most of the insults, but the mundane town of Elderwood has never been a friend to the supernatural either, despite its mythical origins. Ridiculed for your magic, banished by family and supposed friends, you didn’t think you’d ever meet another paranormal being, let alone be confused for an angel.

Cupping his face, you decide that he’s delirious. Scorched by the sun, thirsty for blood (if his nearly translucent skin is any indication), he probably took one look at your white dress and assumed he was dying.

You gasp as he suddenly falls limp in your hands. You’re about to check his pulse when you remember he’s a vampire. Muttering curses, you stand up.

“Create some shade,” you order the crows. As they cluster overhead, you add, “We need it dark enough to move him.”

More crows fly in to help, clouding over the wounded vampire to shield him from the rising sun.

Deep breath in and out, you centre yourself. Your lungs carry his festering scent, the faint notes of sweet vanilla and sturdy, dry oak soothing your erratic heart.

You open your eyes with a heavy, steady exhale. Holding out your wand, you dig your heels into the ground. Magic flickers from your fingertips and warps into the wand, waiting for your direction. Only, you’re not sure if you’re making the right choice.

Healing animals, saving helpless lives is much of what you do on this little island, besides tending to your magical garden, brewing potions and crafting talismans. You’ve always felt grounded when you’re able to help someone, anyone . The only other time you feel as accomplished and useful is when you update your journal. Keeping a detailed grimoire of new spells, potions, thoughts, and observations has been your only other source of stabilising your sanity amidst such a solitary life.

But, a vampire is not some other helpless animal. You don’t know a lot about the blood-demons, only that they have been damned upon their own moment of desperation. He clearly made naive deals without much consideration of the consequences. And the fact that he wandered out in daylight does not help his case.

He could be recently turned or just simply stupid and desperate. Either way, you wonder if this is a good idea. Moving him would mean inviting him into your home. Is that really the wisest decision? It would mean that he would have access to the little cottage without your permission, even if you reinforce your wards. Your invitation would be enough to welcome him in every time.

Still, you know you cannot heal him out here. The sun will shift and only shine brighter throughout the day. The crows can only fly for so long as well. And while your magic is malleable, it is not infinite. It will not be able to sustain a shield weaved of your powers without an anchor like the hearth of your cottage to truly ground and replenish your strength. The only way to save him would be to bring him into your sanctuary.

Or, a little voice mutters, you can just let him die.

You recognise that internal voice as your mother’s. It carries the same sharpness and disdain for your intuitive decisions. You’re not surprised it has reared its ugly head in a moment of uncertainty and distress. It often has a habit of kicking you while you’re down, or coaxing the worst out of you.

Shoving the vile voice back to the farthest corner of your mind, you wave your wand. The handsome vampire levitates under the allure of your magic.

“We move as one,” you order. “And, be careful.”

The crows mutter amongst themselves, but follow your commands. Together, you slowly move further into the forest.

Once you step foot onto the porch, the cottage anticipates your needs. The windows and curtains shut and candles flicker to life along with the hearth. You push open both front doors to accommodate his broad frame. Guiding him into your living room, you wonder if he was an athlete or swimmer prior to turning. His lean yet muscular figure indicates one or both hobbies.

Shame rises in your chest again. You have no idea what has gotten into you. When did you become so perverted and disgusting? How could you check out a wounded man so casually like that, like he’s not unconscious and on the brink of death? 

Swallowing your shame away, you lay him down on your soft, velvet green sofa. He sinks into the comfortable cushions, still and frail. Draping a handknitted, midnight black blanket over him, you notice his skin becoming grey. And even the parts that have not been touched by the sun begin to peel. 

You mutter a curse and rush to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, you look between jars of carefully crafted salves and mud masks. Aloe, honey, shea butter, coconut– what the fuck would heal the undead flesh of a vampire? If he was conscious, you’d give him a jar of blood from your preserves and hope that with enough consumption, he’d eventually heal himself. 

The cottage attempts to help you. It pushes open drawers of loose ingredients. Even a few stray crows, who managed to sneak in before the house could shut the door behind you, fly from book to book, trying to inspire you to just look up the information you need. You wave off the house and ignore the crows. You need something quick and complete. You don’t have time to brew something or search through old pages. 

Shifting its approaches, the cottage offers salves you’ve already made and saved from different cabinets around the kitchen. It hovers the jars before you, continuously suggesting a variety of creams as you wave them off. 

You’re about to wave off the next suggestion when the name catches your eye: Sunveil Balm . Golden yarrow and rosemary oil, lunar lilac extract, white ash bark powder, dewdrop resin, the essence of morning fog and the rare but potent dust of golden pearls, you remember crafting the balm for a bat with scorched wings. It stayed out in the sun for much too long one blistering summer and received several burns. A few generous swipes of the salve repaired the damage within ten minutes.

You snatch the gold-shimmering cream, darting back to the living room. With a wave of your hand, the jar twists open. You dip into the pot and scoop out a good amount before gently tilting his face and slathering the soft, creamy balm over his left cheekbone and temple. 

Mismatched eyes of brown and grey snap open. A loud scream tears through his throat as the wound hisses under the golden salve. He instinctively brings a hand up to his face to wipe it off, only for the salve to burn his fingers. 

“Shit,” you murmur before shouting, “Get me blood, now!”

The cottage complies, hovering various jars of animal blood in front of you. It’s the human blood that catches your eye, though. You know that if you want him to recover quickly, you have to supply him with your best stocks. Human blood, however, is rare for you. Without a coven of well-connected witches, harvesting human blood from your remote little island has proved to be a difficult and daunting task. You only have about five large jars left. 

He trembles into the sofa, choking on his own bile. 

You sigh, realising you’ve made it this far. You have already invited him into your home and made the decision to save him. If that weren’t enough, you’ve just deepened his pain with fresh burns.

With another wave of your hand, you twist the jar of human blood open, then snatch it from the air. “Shh, shh,” you calmly whisper, snaking your arm under his head to support the lift of his neck. He tries to swallow thickly, but chokes on the smell of fresh, cold blood. You bring the lip of the jar closer to his mouth and administer small, careful sips.

You watch as his eyes roll back from the taste. Arousal pools between your thighs. You curse yourself three times over for the way your body reacts. It’s been ten years of using your wand as a vibrator or making do with your fingers. You tell yourself that it’s simply pathetic desperation, a chronic need for human interaction that triggers this sort of reaction to him. Shame and regret still tighten in your chest, encouraging the continuation of your internal insults and curses.

A croaky groan echoes within the jar, pulling you out of your thoughts. The vampire sits himself up and takes the jar from you. He starts to down the blood in large gulps. His chest heaves, throat bobs and rogue trails of blood leak from the corner of his lips. 

You stand and turn away from him, much too aroused by the animalistic sight. Trying to ground yourself, you take shaky breaths in and out, and focus on the length of your breaths, the sound of the exhale. You don’t realise he’s done until you hear him clear his throat. 

Turning back to face him, you find his skin has solidified back to its normal pale, white colour. The black soot around his wounds remains along with a few remaining welts, however life (or lack thereof) has returned to his undead body. 

“More?” He quietly asks, voice deep and husky. 

You nod and hold a hand towards the kitchen. Another large jar of human blood shoots into your grasp. The vampire blinks as you wave the lid open, and lower the glass down to him. He trades you the empty one, letting his attention drift up and down your frame. 

Your shoulders roll back, chest puffing forward under his curious gaze. 

You are pathetic , you think to yourself.

Embarrassed by your actions, you leave him in the living room with his meal and return to the kitchen. Hawthorne and Poe perch on the counter by your recipe books. They cast disapproving stares in the dim candlelight as you enter.

You roll your eyes and whisper, “He was dying.” When they continue to silently judge, you add, “I happen to recall a time when two little birdies got into a fight for the fourth time and begged me to help them even when they promised not to let it happen again. So, maybe we shouldn’t be so judgemental.”

Both crows tilt their heads downwards in shame. 

“Who are you talking to?”

You squeal, jolting as you turn to face the vampire. He stands in the archway of your kitchen, blanket wrapped around his waist. He clutches the soft fabric with one hand by his hip and the empty jar with the other. You resist the urge to look at his fully healed chest, knowing it will only further arouse you, and fixate your attention on his face. 

While the blood has completely reversed the damage of the sun on his skin, his eyes still remain discoloured. You draw closer to examine it, getting within a hand’s reach before remembering that you two are still strangers, he’s still naked and there’s still steaks of blood staining his chin. 

He raises a brow at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. 

Does he think I’m into him , you wonder as panic fills your chest. You clear your throat and take a step back. 

“Your eye,” you start, pointing to your left one, “It’s still silver.”

He reaches up to touch it. Understanding shifts his features from arrogance to self-caution. 

“Do you need more blood?” you ask, wondering if perhaps more consumption would help.

He shakes his head. “I’m full,” he replies. Stepping into the kitchen, he holds the empty jar out for you. 

You take it and place it on the counter by the other one he finished. You turn back to face him, regrettably letting your gaze flicker down his defined chest again. It’s buff and broad, the perfect addition to his strong shoulders. His waist is slim, toned and narrows down to delicate hips that you are sure have some unforgiving moments. Internally cursing yourself for your lack of self-control, you note that, at least this time, you’re lusting after him while he’s conscious and not in active pain. 

He suddenly clears his throat, beckoning your attention back to his face. A shy smile settles on his lip and he raises a brow. 

Great , you sarcastically think, now he’s going to think I only helped him because I think he’s hot . 

“I’m Chris,” he introduces, holding out his hand. “And I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

You bite your lip. Maybe he was tired before or you were just too preoccupied by the gravity of the situation to catch it the first few times he spoke, but he has a thick, lazy accent that comforts your reclusive soul in ways it probably shouldn’t.

You offer your name, accepting his hand. The chill from his skin is all encompassing and it takes everything in you not to shiver. After a couple of good shakes, you release his hand to reach back and grab a clean tea towel. You hand it to him and gesture to your chin. “You’ve got a bit of blood,” you carefully inform. 

Chris scrubs his face harshly. You thought the knotting brows and darkening eyes were an indication  of embarrassment upon the mention of the little mess he made of himself. However, from the way he drags the tea towel over his newly healed skin, you wonder if he is upset, perhaps hateful. 

“Thanks,” he mutters again, catching your lingering gaze. 

You take the tea towel back when he’s done and toss it to Poe. The little crow catches the stained cloth and flies it over to the dirty pile. A little amused smile plays on your lips as you watch Chris look between you and the crow. He parts his lips to ask something, but he cannot find his words.

“Let’s have a seat,” you softly suggest, nodding towards the archway. “You must be exhausted.”

Chris nods, letting out a heavy breath. He steps to the side to let you weave around him and lead the way back to the living room. His steps are so light and gentle as he follows. You probably wouldn’t have heard them if you weren’t paying such close attention, sneaking a look behind you. 

His gaze focuses around your hips, or rather the sway of them. You catch him biting his lip before turning to face the front again. Letting out a shaky sigh, you try not to let the little gesture go straight to your head. You’ve received quite a few stares when you lived with your coven once upon a time ago. Most would either linger around your breasts or rear. Sometimes it was due to the sheer size of your voluptuous body and very rarely was it done in admiration when it came to staring at your arms or stomach or thighs. Your backside, however, always received that same carefully longing attention. 

So, he doesn’t like you , you tell yourself. He just likes what he sees .

You take a seat on the black leather armchair by the fireplace, sinking into the comfortable cushions, and nod to the emerald couch he previously laid on. 

Chris sits across from you. Shifting in his seat, he adjusts the blanket to properly cover his hips and crotch. Your eyes meet and, for a brief second, you swear you catch the lightest, faintest hint of pink creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. 

Shifting uncomfortably in your own seat, you offer an apologetic smile and say, “I don’t think I have any clothes for you.”

He returns the gentle gesture with a small grin of his own and shakes his head. “It’s fine. I can try to get the ones I left on the beach later tonight.”

You raise your brows at the new information. Leaning over one of the arms on your chair, you attempt to peek into the kitchen. “Hawthorne?” You shout. 

Chris looks back at the archway only for Hawthrone to dart out. He flies over head, startling Chirs as he ducks his head to avoid the fast bird. 

“Go to the mainland and see if you can find some clothes on the shore for me,” you order once he lands on the arm of your chair. “And take Tenny and Poe with you.” 

Hawthorne squawks. He takes flight again, heading to the front door when you tsk at him. He returns to your side, waiting for instructions. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask then nod to the back of the cottage, “We have a sun sensitive visitor. Take the back door.”

He caws again and zooms right over Chris’s head. There is a ruffle of feathers, followed by more cawing before the slam of an open and shut window sounds. 

Chris swallows thickly, sitting back into the couch. “So you talk to birds,” he says as a way to break the silence. 

“Yup,” you nod. 

He nods along with you, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your attention falls on his cleanly shaved armpits, the flex of his bicep. You cross your legs and press your thighs tightly together at the thought of being caught in a headlock, or cuddling under his arm and inhaling his thick, sickly sweet scent.

“Um,” he starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You blink at him upon meeting his gaze. There is a knowing look in his mismatched eyes, and the faintest flicker between your own and your tense thighs. But he does not comment on your suddenly rigid posture. Gesturing to his face instead, he asks, “What was the–”

“Sunburn cream,” you answer, cutting him off. “It’s called Sunveil Balm. I guess it doesn’t work on vampires.”

He tentatively nods. “And what are you?” He registers the bluntness of his question the moment it leaves his full lips, and panic floods his eyes. Quickly, he adds, “No offence. It’s just– the magic–” he cuts himself off, pointing to your hands. 

A little smile plays on your lips with a slip of a chuckle. “I’m not offended,” you reassure, shaking your head. “I’m a witch. A blood-witch.”

“What makes a blood-witch different from a witch?”

“What makes a vampire different from a demon?”

Your voice is light and teasing but your playfulness falters at the sight of his concerned features.

“I-I’m a demon?” he asks, confusion creasing between his brows. He looks so lost, you’d think he’d never seen one before. It’s as if he didn’t conjure darkness to trade his soul away. 

Perplexed yourself, you nod. “Well, yes. How did you not– No,” you shake your head with a few blinks, then look back at him, starting again, “How long have you been a vampire?”

“About eight years.”

“Eight?”

He confirms with a nod. 

What the fuck?

Now, demons are tricky and conniving. They always make a deal that falls more in their favour than their summoner’s, but they have some decorum, especially towards each other. Upon their summoner’s shift into a vampire, the demon must have visited and informed him of his new, undead state. You recall reading about countless accounts of demons shadowing their newest additions and teaching them how to hunt, run and hide in the shadows. It’s common practice.

But more than that, you wonder how a vampire of eight years would miscalculate the rise of the sun and self-inflict such terrible wounds. Given the fact that he used his last bits of strength to find shade, you have to assume it wasn’t done on purpose. But, you also have a hard time believing that he’s naive enough to not know when the sun will rise during this time of year, especially after eight years of being undead. From the few books you’ve read on vampires during your studies as an apprentice, you know that they have a biological clock, an inherent instinct to not only avoid the sun, but fear it. 

Chris, pretty eyes round and youthful face uncertain, looks like he woke up one day, never went to sleep again, and was never told why.

“Am I missing something?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” you reply. “This doesn’t make sense. How did you turn? And why were you out this late, anyway?”

He bites on the inside of his cheeks and averts his gaze. “It’s complicated.”

Furrowing your brows, you’re not sure which question that was supposed to answer. You decide to take it one step at a time, asking, “Did you want to get burned?”

“No,” he immediately replies, meeting your gaze. 

Had it not been for the firm eye contact, you might have doubted him. 

“So, what is it then?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, running a hand through his damp hair. “Complicated.”

You raise a brow, lingering your attention on his head. Recalling your thoughts about his physic earlier, you wonder if he really is a swimmer. If he perhaps ventured too far out into the sea and exhausted himself in the process. However, noting the way he nervously averts his gaze, you decide to redirect the conversation to something that’s hopefully less complicated.

“You don’t need to tell me why you summoned the demon,” you start, knowing the reason must have been dire for him to turn to the darkness for help. “I just don’t understand how you didn’t know that you, technically, are one.”

His face scrunches in concentrated confusion. He thumbs his nose and tilts his head at your words, and you’re starting to wonder if he’s been cursed or simply a pretty face. 

“I didn’t summon a demon. I just…” he trails off, averting his gaze as he searches for the best way to word his transition, “ became a vampire.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s what happened.”

“Explain the process,” you order, sitting back in your seat. “How did you know you were a vampire if no one told you?”

There is a twinge of challenge in his narrowing eyes. He flits his gaze up and down your relaxed frame and tongues his cheek. He then leans his elbows on his knees, broad shoulders now on full, flexed display under the warm glow of flickering candle lights. 

You swallow thickly and force yourself to maintain eye contact. 

“Do you always use that tone?” He suddenly asks, voice low and deep.

Barely above a whisper, you reply, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He smirks as newfound understanding glimmers in his silver eye. “That’s better,” he says before sitting back into his seat. 

You’re not sure what’s more lethal, the way he leans forward, every curve of his muscles contrasted perfectly in the shadows of the dim lights, or the way he leans back, legs spread and chest open. Both are equally as inviting, enticing you to shed your inhibitions and completely lose yourself against him. 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he starts, shattering your focus on his sprawl body. “I was feeling sick for weeks. I could barely keep up with my training, and–”

“Training?”

“I was a swimmer.”

Knew it – Your eyes flicker to his shoulders for a split second.

“I was the fastest on the team. I even had a scholarship,” he says. A faint smile hovers over his plush lips at the memory. “I stopped drinking. I stopped eating. And on the day of the championship, I was terrified to leave my dorm. I nailed wood and bedsheets over my window and hid under the bed. My friends found me at one point, much later in the night, and I…” he pauses, swallowing thickly, “I attacked them.”

You remain still, expression neutral. He watches you closely, as if waiting for a gasp or blink of acknowledgement. 

“I just remember being really, really thirsty. I chased them through the courtyard until they talked me out of ripping them apart. And–” he cuts himself off with a little laugh. 

You raise your brown trying to fight off your own smile at the sweet, deep rumble emitting from his buff chest.

“Sorry, I just remembered one of my friends’ screams– Changbin. He’s a complete wimp and was squealing the whole time. You’d like him. Everyone likes him,” he explains. When you return his sweet smile, he continues, “Anyway, they talked me out of killing them, helped me hunt a rabbit, which took too fucking long for three grown men, and then made fun of me while I drank it’s blood.”

“They sound like idiots,” you joke, fighting your own laughter at the image he crafted for you. 

“They are,” he nods, voice thick with nostalgia. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “Anyway, there weren’t any demons or witches or anyone else. Just us and the internet.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “While that sounds like a terrible disaster,” you tease, much to his amusement, “that’s not really how vampires are made.”

“I wasn’t bitten either.”

“That’s misinformation,” you dismiss. “No one gets bitten to turn. Anyone who has been bitten by a vampire and survived merely experiences more drastic symptoms of rabies then dies. They are bats after all.”

Judging by the constantly confused expression on his face, you deduce he has not discovered he can turn into a bat yet. You hold off on that nugget of information for now, returning to your explanation, “Vampires are the result of humans making deals with some sort of demon. While possessions are common, demons do not want your body. They are always after your soul. Whatever remains is the demonic shift from humanity to deviance. You may still have your body, but your connection to the supernatural is your only thread to the living.”

Chris nods, sitting up in his seat. You regret to find that it doesn’t make you want to straddle him any less than before. 

 “I can understand that, I just don’t know what that has to do with me. I swear I had no reason to summon anyone from any realm or world or wherever the fuck these things come from.” His voice wavers with sincerity, eyes distressed with confusion. He takes a second to breathe in deeply, trying to ground himself, only to clench his jaw, never exhaling. “I just want my life back,” he mutters. 

Me too , you think as you gnaw on your bottom lip.

While your mother discouraged you from being yourself, and so-called friends betrayed you, there was a life back between the Mountains of Cleo that was waiting for you to reach your full potential. Working alongside the greatest witches of the century, charting stars and researching the full scope of potential power within the moon, you were on track to finally securing a position within the Arcane Court , and earning the respect of your family for once. 

You wish to return to that moment before everything had shattered around you. Work was stolen, lies were told and reputations were ruined. You never thought you'd be forced to defend yourself against people you loved, people you considered your found family. However, you did expect your biological family to believe the worst about you. 

Looking back at Chris, you notice he seems lost in his own thoughts too, gazing at the polished hardwood floors aimlessly. His explanation seems genuine and you really do believe him. He seemed to have the world at his fingertips, on the cusp of achieving all his dreams, before his life ended. 

He suddenly meets your gaze. The angle of his head blends his brown eye into the darkness, the silver one gleaming brightly in contrast. You know you should be scared, and you try to find a reason to feel that way, looking for even the faintest hint of danger. Instead, honesty greets you. If you hadn’t known he was a vampire, you would have assumed he was human from that look alone. 

“I want to help you figure out what happened,” you announce. 

Chris blinks at you. “What?”

“Vampires are made by demons,” you repeat. “If you are a vampire, then you were made. And if you didn’t bind yourself into a contract, someone else must have done so on your behalf. You could be in danger, could even be hexed. I want to help you find out what’s going on.”

His throat bobs, brows knit and he licks his lips before asking, “Why would you help me again?”

“I’m curious,” you shrug. And when his stare does not waver, you add, “And this is the longest I have spoken to someone other than a bird in the last ten years, so I might as well make the most of it before sundown.”

At that, Chris smiles. You notice he has a way of making it look so easy, that gentle, boyish smile. It’s full of intrigue and amusement and even admiration as his mismatched eyes twinkle with delicate notions of mischief. 

“I’m going to look into making another salve for some of your scars,”you say, standing from your seat. “The crows will be back with your clothes soon. You can go up to the bathroom and shower in the meantime, if you’d like I mean.”

Chris stands with you, glancing at the stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs as if he doesn’t trust his voice. 

You ignore the heavy emotion laced in his tone, to save him the embarrassment, and continue, “It’s the third door on the right. The house will lead you.” 

As if on cue, you hear the soft echo of shutting doors and the whispering squeak of a single door opening. 

Chris’s ears twitch at the sound. He swallows thickly and gives you another nod of gratitude before heading up the stairs. You watch his back flex as he rolls his shoulders back. Now that you are going to help him, you really need to stop practically panting after him. The last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable in a tiny house he can’t leave for the next twelve hours. 

Letting out a heavy breath, you make your way to the kitchen and wave all your relevant books on burns, salves and blood-beings towards you. But the distant spray of the shower rattles your focus, plaguing you with images of his naked body caught between water and steam. Shaking your head, you force him out of your thoughts.

You have work to do– a purpose to finally follow.  And you won’t be deterred.

Despite the brightness of your flowy white dress, which cinches at your waist and beautifully accentuates your curves, your little cottage is a sanctuary of moody shades and warm textures. Chris surveys the polished dark wood floors, adorned with a large, red rug that captivates his attention, on his way towards the stairs. A piece of onyx fur casually drapes over the exotic rug, adding an extra layer of softness beneath his cold feet. Leafy green plants cascade from the ceiling and trail their long vines over the edges of the shelves. They bring a subtle sense of  life to the space, even in such dim lighting. The deep violet walls bring out the vivid colours of the flowers—magenta, indigo, and plum. He assumes, based on your determined personality, that each bundle of petals serves some sort of purpose. Between flickering candles, well-worn books, and vials of mysterious substances, you've crafted a harmonious blend of oak table sets and plush, comfortable seating, creating an inviting atmosphere that feels entirely your own– warm and beautiful.

As Chris enters your bathroom, he finds that it is no different. Only, instead of a cosy ambiance of lived-in comfort, you’ve created a refreshing forest oasis. Dark green tiles line the walls, casting the room in deep, earthy hues. The floor is a mosaic of midnight green and jade patterns that seem to shift with the light, an intricate dance of natural tones underfoot. From above, more plants with long, draping vines hang over the obsidian sink, suspended in delicate macrame nets that sway gently with each movement in the room. Chris’s throat dries at the swan faucet poised elegantly above the sink, its neck curved in a graceful arc. In the corner, the shower nestles like a hidden grotto, glossy tiles and rainfall shower head turning it into a misty forest retreat, with aged brass fixtures catching the light. And finally, his gaze drifts to the grand, black bear claw tub—a magnificent centrepiece that seems plucked from a woodland dream.

He swallows thickly, inhaling the subtle scents of eucalyptus and lavender. Upon his exhale, the shower head turns on. He peers around the bathroom again, wondering if the house is watching him. When only the steady spray of the shower echoes against the dimly candlelit walls, Chris rolls his shoulders back and takes a step further into the room. 

The door clicks shut on its own.

Chris shakes off his uneasiness and drops the blanket from his waist. He’s not sure why, but his hands shake as he steps under the shower. A part of him hopes to feel stark cold, just as the ocean was a couple of hours ago. But the water is…water– Chris cannot feel much of a temperature, even with litres of human blood spreading through his body. Still, the strong pressure beating down his head, shoulders and back ease the tension in his once wounded muscles. 

Suddenly, the water stings with the faintest hint of coolness. It gets colder and colder, nearly replicating the frostiness of the morning sea, before Chris realises that the house is adjusting the temperature for him.

“This is good,” he mutters, tipping his head back. 

The house slightly warms the water, silently asking if he’s sure. 

“I like it cold,” Chris reassures. A ghost of a smile hovers over his full lips. He wonders if you put the house up to this or if it is simply trying to make him feel welcome. Either way, he’s grateful for the consideration. 

Consideration . Chris ponders over the word, mulling over every syllable, every decision you’ve made while he was unconscious. You’re a witch with angelic intentions, that much seems to be clear.  But he still cannot help wondering what it was that made you consider saving him? He’s just a stranger, afterall. No, he’s a demon . And yet, you brought him into your home, created salves and offered him jars of blood. 

Why do you have stores of human blood, anyway? Is it part of your practice as a blood-witch? Do you conjure spells that include elements of blood? Or do you merely harvest litres of it like a collector of sorts?

Questions lap round and round his mind as he reaches for your honey-infused shampoo. It smells faintly of your wild, flowery scent. Chris cannot help his smirk at subtle notions of rainfall and sage amidst that lavender. With a playful smile and inquisitive, bold eyes, you are the epitome of life and purity– and you smell like it too. 

He leans into the faint scent as he lathers his seasalt drenched hair with the silky, sweet soap. After rinsing the suds out, he grabs the matching conditioner and finds it is heavily imprinted with your scent. Perhaps you use it more often, or in larger quantities than the shampoo, but Chris is not all that curious why. He continues to lean into it, moaning softly as he combs it through his slightly curled strands. 

You’re incredibly enchanting, and Chris wonders if you’re aware of that. From the sway of your hips to the glint of intrigue in your alluring gaze, you are a vision of beauty. You radiate confidence, even when you’re perplexed and unsure. You stand in your own light, take control of a room and demand answers. Had Chris met you in college, between frat parties or music classes, he is certain he would have pursued you. Bossy, bratty, brazen, you command attention within a few words and a firm tone. And when he tested your limits, correcting your ordering tone with him in the living room, and you yielded to his tug of power, he swears his cock twitched. 

Maybe eight years of solitude has made him desperate, or the near-death experience has renewed his connection to the living, but Chris cannot deny that he wants you. He scrubs his body now and imagines your hands over his chest, along the width of his shoulders and trailing down his arms. He imagines your face inches from his and your warm breath fanning over his lips. He imagines your naked body, smirking when he recalls the way your gaze lingered over his in the kitchen. 

Do you like him too? Is that the real reason why you’re helping him?

A series of gentle taps rap at the door. 

Chris snaps his attention to the black wood. He focuses his enhanced hearing, hoping to pick up your heartbeat in the hall. Instead, a pair of rapid pumps and fluttering wings greet him. He assumes it’s the crows with his clothes and quickly rinses away the soap. 

The water shuts off as he steps back out into the bathroom. A soft, grey towel hovers in front of him. 

Chris smiles at the ceiling. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the towel and wrapping it around his waist. As he makes his way to the door, another smaller towel gently lands on his head. Chris chuckles and ruffles the soft cotton through his clean hair. 

The door opens for him as he approaches it. 

I can get used to this . 

His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, wet and littered with sand. Looking up at the house, Chris asks, “Um, can you do me a quick favour?” 

The candles momentarily shine brighter in reply. 

Chris bites his lip. He glances back at the shower, realising that the house has already done so much for him. He might be pushing his luck with another request. But then the lights shine again, as if reassuring him that it’s okay to ask for more. 

Throat bobbing, Chris asks, “Could you help me clean my clothes?” 

A wicker basket emerges from a door down the hall. It hops over to Chris from side to side, in a manner he can only describe as gleeful. Once in front of him, it shakes as though it is asking him to drop his clothes into the hamper. Chris tentatively bends down and tosses the sandy clothes in. The basket returns to its spot, disappearing behind its door, cheerful and almost giddy. 

Chris smiles to himself. The house must have your personality, or perhaps just aspects of it– playful, helpful, thoughtful. You bleed into every crevice of the warm cottage and Chris, for the first time since turning, is delighted. 

A quiet chirp from the crows pulls his attention back to them. They caw a couple more times before flying over to the edge of the stairs. 

Chris wonders if they are asking him to follow them, looking between them and the cold bathroom behind him. 

They caw again, hopping in place. 

He glances down at his towel and raises a brow. “I’m not really–” he starts, only for the crows to cut him off. 

One of them, Poe perhaps, lets out a long, almost exasperated squawk that leaves no room for refusal.

With a roll of his eyes, Chris follows after the birds. “Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Stop nagging me.”

The crows fly down the stairs and into the kitchen. Chris takes his time, following the scent of wild lavender and sage. He barely makes it to the archway when he sees your dress flowing around you with every step around the kitchen.

You’ve pulled your hair up, neck on full display. Moving around the dark kitchen, you trade your attention between a hovering book and your breakfast on the stove, all while sneaking sips from your steaming cup of tea. Chris detects notes of chai, cinnamon and anise stars amongst hearty eggs, and fresh tomatoes and chives. 

It takes you a minute, but you soon notice his tall figure entering the small space. Your eyes don’t remain on his for too long before trailing down his chest and lingering around his waist. He’s starting to realise that you seem to have a habit of that and it doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he finds himself puffing out his chest and tightening the tension around his stomach under your watchful gaze. 

“They haven’t returned with your clothes?” 

Fuck, that voice– light, airy and sweet. Chris averts his gaze and bites on the inside of his cheek to hold back a groan. 

Clearing his throat, he replies,“No, they did. They’re just dirty. The house is cleaning them for me.”

You flash him a knowing smile and Chris swears his breath would hitch if he would breathe. “Yeah, it likes feeling useful,” you chuckle, taking a sip of your tea. You then nod at one of the indigo stools before your gleaming marble-topped island in the centre of the kitchen. 

Chris takes a seat, ensuring his towel stays put as he adjusts it around his spreading legs. As you turn back to your black iron stove, Chris takes a moment to really take in the kitchen. 

With deep crimson walls that cradle the space in a comforting embrace, the space excludes warmth. The soft candlelights that hover above cast playful shadows on the deep charcoal countertops, almost mirroring the crackle and pop of the hearth in the living room. Hanging between the candles are clusters of copper pots and pans, adding notions of rustic charm. Chris then realises that this might be the first room in the cottage without plants dangling from the ceiling or over surfaces. Instead, the shelves are lined with jars of spices and herbs and… body parts. He catches pickled eyeballs, dusty toes, fingers–some with matted fur–, and about three cases of teeth. 

“They were donated,” you clarify. 

Chris blinks his attention back to you, finding a guilty smile playing on your lips. 

“Well,” you start again, “ Most of it was donated.”

He teasingly raises his brows at you, suppressing his own smile. “I suppose that makes it okay then,” he jokes, subtly testing your boundaries again. 

There is a flicker of surprised intrigue in your gaze. “It seemed okay when it was saving your life,” you shoot back with the same level of teasing wit. 

Chris cannot help the excitement in his chest. Do you know how exhilarating you are? Is that why you keep staring at him with those enchantingly mischievous eyes?

He bites his lip, conceding to your wit. “Learn anything new,” he asks, nodding to the levitating book.  

You plate your breakfast with a sigh. The stove shuts off on its own as you round the island and take a seat next to him. Chris stiffen, adjusting his towel around his crotch. The once floating book rests on the countertop between the both of you. 

“See for yourself,” you reply before eating.

Chris notes the title: Origins of Vampires, Bloodsuckers, and Incubi , then scans the first few paragraphs. Besides accounts for the first sighting of vampires and the fact that they are apparently extremely lustful beings, it does not inform Chris of anything he does not already know from you. A deal needs to be made with the devil, his soul must have had to be traded as payment, and his body begins to reject all things human.

Furrowing his brows and sucking in his cheeks with a little hiss, Chris shifts forward in his seat to get a better look at the book. There is an extremely long passage about consistent erections, and the next page is filled with a list of the best hideouts to escape the sun during the day.  Chris is more concerned with the inconsistency of the author than the fact that he has yet to get an erection since he turned years ago.

“Nothing new,” you finally reply after a few bites of your food. “Nothing useful either.”

“May I?” Chris asks, reaching for the edge of the page. 

He flips the page when you nod. The list of hideouts takes up the next three pages and Chris resists the urge to roll his eyes. Information about vampiric cycles, peak slumber and feasting times, and tips on how to hunt fill the remaining pages on vampires before moving onto bloodsuckers and incubi. Again, the information is not anything Chris is not already aware of from the sheer experience of being undead for nearly a decade. He knows that around noon, his body tends to shut down and he seeks the darkest, coldest part of the basement to lay still and close his eyes. He’s not exactly asleep but he’s also not exactly awake either. The stuff about peak feasting times does not really apply to him. Just like when he was human, Chris is always hungry and ready to consume something. 

With a heavy sigh, he shuts the book. “That was a waste of time,” he mumbles as you finish your breakfast. 

You wave your empty plate and cup off to the sink, then shrug at him. “Well, we now know this book is useless,” you say, voice light with hope. “We can cross it off our list.” 

Chris raises a brow. “How many more books are on this list of yours?”

Your gaze is shifty and Chris starts to get nervous. He murmurs your name carefully, merely trying to get you to be honest, but then he notices the way you tremble at the sound of his low, deep voice. He can’t help the smirk tugging on his lips. 

“Cold?” he teases before he can stop himself.

Your eyes meet his with careful conviction. You lick your lips, as if debating how sharp your response should be. Attention flitting down to his chest momentarily, you finally reply, “Not at all.” 

With that, you wave off the useless book and summon two more. One is for salves and creams, the other is an encyclopaedia of vampiric traits and rituals. It sounds just as useless as the last one but if it’s on your list, Chris is willing to indulge. 

“You can get started on this,” you push the encyclopaedia towards him, “while I look into treating those scars.” 

“I don’t mind the scars,” he shrugs. “They kinda make me feel human.”

When you meet his eyes this time, your gaze is not filled with caution or calculated intrigue, instead they round with empathy. The sincere reaction triggers another pressing question Chris cannot seem to shake.

 “Why are you here?” 

Your face folds in confusion. “What?”

“You’re here on this haunted island all alone. Why? Don’t you have a coven or something?”

You pause for longer than usual and Chris worries if he used the wrong term, or perhaps merely asked a more personal question than you’re willing to answer. 

But then you clear your throat and adjust your posture in your seat. Staring down at the counter, you let out a heavy sigh and say, “I did and now I don’t.” Again, you take a beat lick your lips. “I wasn’t wanted there, so I needed to go.”

Chris scoffs. He doesn’t register the bluntness of his gestures until you glare at him.

“Have something to add?” you question, that usually sweet voice of yours now sharpened. 

It really shouldn’t but the sharpness makes his body buzz with excitement. Chris is fascinated by your darker edges. They contrast so beautifully against your usual lightness, enchanting him with supple seduction. 

“I think that’s bullshit,” he replies. 

“I think the fact that you just so happened to lose track of time is bullshit,” you remark. “But I have the common courtesy to keep my rude opinions to myself.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris can’t help but tease. “But I was referring to the fact that you would ever be unwanted. If you weren’t such a little…” Chris trails off just to watch your nostrils flare and smirks, “ witch , you would have known that.”

A flicker of regret flashes in your gaze, but it doesn’t take long to harden again with a clench of your jaw.

“Maybe you should’ve added that sooner.”

“Maybe you should’ve given me the chance to.”

“How is any of this my fault?” you ask, voice still irritated but a chuckle manages to slip past your sweet lips. 

Chris smiles at the girly sound, suddenly feeling… warm?  

“I never said it was,” he answers. He keeps his voice tempered and gentle, watching as you bite your lip again. 

There is a shift in the air. Chris catches the sudden thickness of your scent, the newfound depth it carries and you shift in your seat again. Furrowing his brows, he leans forward to hold your gaze and asks, “You okay?” 

You nod, yet shoot up from your seat. You push that book towards him again and point to the living room. “The house made you a little nook by the fire. Try reading as much as you can. The sooner we find out about you, the sooner you can return home.” Your voice sounds as sweet as it normally does, but carries a certain weight to it. Chris has trouble placing it as you continue, “If you get thirsty or need anything else, just ask the house. It’s happiest when it can provide.”

Inhaling sharply, Chris collects the book and stands. He holds his towel in place with his other hand, the same way he did with the blanket not too long ago, and starts to make his way to the living room. When he gets to the archway, he pauses to glance over his shoulder.

You’re still watching him, captivated by the broadness of his back. 

“I think the house takes after you,” he says, turning to face you. “You seem content providing as well. So, I really can’t imagine anyone not wanting you around.”

You shift your weight and clench your jaw. With a thick swallow, you shake your head. “You don’t know me,” you mutter, face contorting with shame.

“And you don’t know me,” he shrugs. “But here we are, a vampire and a blood-witch. Is that a common pair amongst the supernatural?”

You shake your head. 

Chris smiles. “And yet you saved me. And you continue to help me. And I might not know you the way the house or crows do,” he chuckles, watching a smile play on your lips, “but I know that I can comfortably go into the next room and not have to worry about you suddenly opening the window and burning me alive. And I think that’s a good sign when you’re getting to know someone, yeah?”

With a roll of your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. Chris does his best to ignore the way they press together and jut out. “Your bar is way too low for strangers, Christopher.”

He tongues his cheek. “ Chris ,” he corrects. 

A mischievous smile spreads across your soft features and Chris wonders if he may have given you some ammunition to tease him later.

“Happy reading, Chris ,” you say. 

The way you emphasise his name almost makes him shiver. 

“Happy conjuring, little witch.”

A renewed sense of pride blooms in his still chest at the way you shyly avert your gaze upon hearing your new nickname. Chris thinks it has a nice ring to it, and you look absolutely adorable when you’re flustered. He allows himself one last once over of your curves, then pulls himself towards the living room.

True to your words, the house has provided a long, wide chaise of midnight blue velvet. It sits before the fireplace with a soft amber blanket draped over the back. Chris settles into the plush cushions, sinking into comfort and props his feet up. He throws the blanket over his waist to replace his towel and asks the house to dim the fire. 

Flipping open the book, Chris starts to learn more about himself, pushing every tempting thought of you out of his mind.

Two weeks go by in a blur and you find that you are no less infatuated by Chris than when you first met him.

 He has such an easy way about him, smiling effortlessly. His eyes are still mismatched as if the sun had burned the vampiric silver of his left iris into his retina. No amount of blood has reversed the damage. However, you don’t mind. In fact, you find yourself feeling relieved when his eyes remain the same pair of brown and grey every time he takes a sip of animal blood. You like the twinkle of mischief that seems to glow so brightly amongst the two colours. Its allure is deliciously dangerous with promises of subtle destruction. You especially enjoy how they squint when he laughs or smiles with his white teeth, still gleaming with joy and lightness. 

You’ve gotten used to his presence, and you think that maybe he has gotten used to yours too. Just two nights ago, he finally told you why he was out so late the night you met. You instantly empathised with him, knowing all too well how powerful the yearning for connection can be. It’s the reason you promised to help again, desperate for a semblance of real, tangible interactions too. 

“And your parents?” you asked, after he told you all about how he hides out in his friends’ basements. “Do they know?”

His jaw set. “They think I died,” he sighs. “Well, they think I’m missing, but it’s been eight years and they bought a headstone so…”

Regret tightened in your chest. “I’m so–”

“My little brother took my old room,” he continued, cutting you off . “I snuck in one night, just to… see, I guess? He still has some of my stuff there, all dusty and untouched. He’s so big now, almost as tall as me,” he chuckled, a small smile settling on his lips. “He plays baseball though. I don’t think I’ve seen any of them go near a swimming pool in years. ”

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You wanted to just swallow your previous words, the regret of mentioning his parents wrapping tighter around your heart. 

“My mum saw me once,” he said, finally meeting your gaze. A muted sadness greets you, but his little smile remains on those pink-stained lips. “She was bringing groceries in one night and caught me staring behind some tree. She dropped the bag and called out to my dad. I ran before either of them could see me again,” he paused to swallow.“ I still can’t get the sound of her sobs out of my head.”

You blink the memory away, pulling your dusky plum coloured comforter up to your chin. A part of you wishes you had asked him why he never went back to his parents or let them believe he’d gone missing. Clearly, the thought of them moving on without him still weighs heavy on his heart. But you couldn’t find your word at the time, blinking back tears as he hung his head and spoke so quietly. Besides, you are sure, based on his caring, selfless personality, he likely thought he was doing them a favour by shielding them from his new reality. He was practically brimming with self hatred when you met. 

And you realised, in that vulnerable moment, it was never about feeling the sun or the cold or even the sensation of swimming again. It has always been about being human . Chris craves his humanity more than he values his life. You both know that he was well aware of when the sun would rise, that he fought through his inherent fear of it for the chance to feel near-human again. He even keeps his remaining sun-scars and winks his mismatched eyes because they are consequences of feeling that pain. And as you read more and more about vampires together, the hindrance of potentially accessing his full abilities does not surprise you. To his core, Chris is human, so he is constantly rejecting his vampiric turn. 

That realisation shifted your focus last night. You moved from books about vampires to those about demons. Flipping through pages and pages of information, you found multiple passages about soul-trading. You discovered that some demons demand pure souls in addition to the ones they have already swindled from their summors. This detail, likely lost in the fine-print of most deals, implements a vampiric gene into the summors’ genetics. The variant remains dormant, passing through the bloodline until it finally finds a pure soul to claim.

Chris still can’t believe that one of his ancestors would stoop so low, but you find that reaction in itself is just another testament of his purity.

Smiling to yourself at the thought of him, you stare at your star-speckled ceiling. You enchanted it to reflect the night sky on your first night at Crow’s Nest . Actually, you had enchanted the ceiling of the living room, having slept down there until you were able to slowly build your little cottage and refine your new sanctuary. You were terrified of being found and snatched back for sentencing by the Arcane Court. You’re well aware that blood-witches don’t simply break blood bonds and live to tell the tale. You remember using whatever magic you had at the time to unshackle yourself from the bounds of your coven, hop on your broom with your life magically crammed into a knapsack, and escape into the same dark night.

And as you lie here now, sinking into your silky sheets, you find that staring at a shimmering night sky can still ease your nerves all the same. You try to identify constellations and search for the moon between the clouds. You curse under your breath when you finally catch a glimpse of its glow– waxing gibbous . 

Tomorrow is the full moon. 

You let out a shaky breath, attempting to get lost in the stars again, but it’s no use. All you can think about is that damned elixir. 

“I found something,” you muttered to Chris.

He laid in his little nook by the dimmed fire, one hand clutching a book and the other folded behind his head. Peering over at you, a little smirk tugs on his lips. “A new blood recipe?” he asked, knowing you have been testing out some new blends of spices in his blood. 

You shake your head and reply, “A solution . ”

You feel your skin grow hot from the memory of having to explain to him what this solution entails.

At its core, it is simply a recipe for vampiric vitality. And after hearing about his parents and how they have tried to move on from losing him, how he had tried to move on, you remember feeling hopeful. Maybe this could be the key to reclaim his life, to possibly see them again without shame.

However, the summary still gives you pause. It reads:

“The Elixir of the Damned is a rare, potent potion crafted to primarily shield vampires, and other sun-sensitive creatures, from the deadly effects of daylight. By harnessing the mystical properties of a blood-witch's full-moon blood, the elixir enables these creatures to walk under the sun without harm, preserving their strength and powers. Beyond sunlight protection, the elixir grants a surge of energy, reduces the need for frequent feeding, shortens sleep cycles, and reverses their natural nocturnal schedule.

The thick, midnight violet elixir is a luminescent liquid concoction of moonlight essence, ground sage, sunroot and the dust of two diamonds: obsidian and sunstone. The mixture must be thoroughly stirred and refrigerated for a minimum of twelve hours before use. Upon a full-moon, the elixir must be mixed with the menstrual blood of a blood-witch and consumed immediately. For best results, pour and harvest the menstrual blood directly from the source.”

You have the stupid thing memorised, having read it countless times, before finally telling Chris. Though he can’t breathe, you’re certain his breath hitched at the explanation. You remember parting your lips to further explain when he suddenly agreed. 

“It’s only weird if we make it weird,” he argued. “I’m willing to keep it strictly professional if you are.”

You swallowed thickly, nodding. “Yeah,” you found yourself replying. “I can do the same.”

And yet you lay here, naked and squirming at the thought of his mouth between your legs because he insisted, and you quote, “If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right.”

Do me right , you wanted to reply. Just bend me over the couch and do me right now . 

Instead, you continuously agree and nod and pretend that your arousal isn’t sticking between your thighs as your clit throbs for attention. 

You cup your crotch now, unable to take it anymore. He’s fucking hot– so fucking hot . You have been trying not to stare but he wears these tight tank tops that showcase his muscular arms all the fucking time. You mentally curse his stupid friends for sending such revealing clothes through the crows. He sent them a letter with Poe a day after you agreed to help them and you wonder if he specifically requested these pieces or if this is his usual style. 

Either way, you cannot stop staring. Every ridge and crevices of his buff chest and toned stomach is outlined, completely captivating your attention. You are constantly trying to maintain eye contact, but even that feels too much sometimes. He is always teasing and joking with you, gazing at you with such consuming warmth, you cannot help but feel hot . 

A little gasp escapes you as you spread your legs and drench your fingers with your arousal. Sticky, wet, you need him. Maybe it’s been too long without a good fuck, or you are simply obsessed, but it really doesn’t matter. You need a release right now or you might not make it through the night. 

You start slow, rubbing circles over your needy clit. It doesn’t take long for you to overheat, however. So you pause your movements to shove your blanket off.  Now fully naked and exposed to your cold room, you return your hand between your legs. 

A wet squelching sounds as you rub and rub your fingers round and round. You test out rhythms, squirming under your desperate touch–slow–fast–slow–fast, and bite back a whimper. 

What would Chris do, you cannot help wondering. 

Administering featherlight touches, you know he’d play with you to start. He’d keep his pressure light and quick, wanting to watch you chase after his hand after every fleeting touch. Then, you push down harshly on your clit and bite into your lip harder to hold back a moan. You just know he’d be rough too, forcefully pressing down until he hears you whine his name. 

“Chris,” you let yourself whisper. “Right there, baby.”

A quiet moan slips out with your words and you’re not completely mad about it. It was silent enough and you’re certain he’s too busy sipping on the warmed seven herb spiced blood you left out for him to pay much attention to you right now. 

As much as you enjoy imagining him playing with you, you cannot stand the anticipation anymore. Your needy hole clenches repeatedly, aching to be filled. You shakily gasp and decide to fully give into your desire. Grabbing your wand, you place the handle against your clit and will it to vibrate. You use your other hand to finger yourself, shoving three ambitious digits in. 

“ Oh!”  

You bite your lip, panic sprouting in your chest at the sudden spike in volume. Glancing at the door, you’re relieved to find it still shut. You lay back against your pillow and pick up your pace. He’d be unforgiving. He’d be rough and reckless.

Your body trembles at the thought. 

“Chris,” you whisper into the room. “Please don’t stop fucking me like that.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you imagine him leering over you, smirking and groaning. You imagine his strong frame ramming into you, his relentless grip keeping you in place. Would he want you to hold his gaze? Or would he bury his face in the crook of your neck to kiss and nibble on?

The pleasure only increases. You tense up. The vibrations rumbling from the hilt of your mahogany wand intensifies. Your fingers eagerly move in and out, tight walls closing in on them. 

“ You’re gonna make me cum,” you mutter, breathless and whiny. 

Cum for me , baby , a whisper of a voice orders. Be a good little witch and cum all over my fingers .

The sound is so deep and husky, but also murmurous and hazy. If you had time to focus on it, you wouldn’t have automatically assumed it was internal and perhaps investigated. But the constant pleasure is all too consuming. Working you closer and closer to your release, you cannot register the source of any sound besides that of your fast fingers and vibrating wand.

That pretty pussy looks so delicious . 

Your orgasm catches you off guard, suddenly rippling through you. You squeal lifting your head from your pillow to almost hunch inwards and cum. 

“Chris, Chris, Chris, Chris,” you whisper between whimpers and you rapidly draw every last surge of arousal out. “Oh my god ,” you heave, tossing your wand aside. The stimulation is nearly agonising when paired with your still moving fingers. 

After a few more thrusts, you lay back into your bed, heaving. Your hand slides out and up towards your clit. A single brush of contact makes your body tremble. You retract your hand all together, swallowing a moan. Your legs come together, eyes droop from exhaustion and fatigue. 

You have no idea how you’re going to remain “professional” tomorrow. The sheer thought of him down there coaxed one of your most powerful orgasms. How will you be able to keep your moans at bay, or your body from rolling into his mouth? 

Click.

You snap your attention to your door. It’s shut. Holding your breath, you try to listen for footsteps. When that proves useless, you squint at the gap between the door and floor for movements of shadow. Still, silent, the hallway is empty. 

With a shake of your head, you rest back into your pillow and wave yourself clean. You then tug your comforter back over your spent body and shut your eyes. You just need to get through tomorrow. Once the elixir and ritual is complete, he can return home and you won’t have to see him until your next cycle. 

Chris stands in your room, arms crossed over his chest. It looks warmer under candlelights than it did last night beneath glimmering stars. Unlike the darkness of the bathroom, or warmth of the living room and kitchen, your room is a collection of cool tones, invoking quiet serenity. The walls are a hazy blue, trimmed with crown moulding around the baseboards and ceiling. One wall of the room is lined with shelves upon shelves of books, plants and a plethora of magical objects, like stones, crystal balls, and the occasional skull. A chestnut vanity, large wardrobe and oval mirror sit on his left side by an open window. Sheer violet curtains dance with the gentle wind. 

Underfoot, a thick, handknitted rug of pewter, amethyst and onyx yarn stretches over polished, dark walnut floors. Chris curls his toes into it, attempting to ground himself, as his eyes follow you towards your four-poster bed. It must be a queen– rather fitting for you– since it takes up a substantial amount of space in the centre of the room. The gauzy mauve curtains surrounding your bed part as you approach it. Your matching greyish-plum comforter pulls back, as if welcoming you to silky starlight silver sheets. You wave it back into place then turn to him.  

“It’s almost time,” you say. 

The slight tremor in your voice draws Chris back to the events he witnessed last night. You keep talking now, gesturing to your bed with one hand, while clutching onto the small vial of a deep, inky violet elixir in the other. He sees your pretty mouth moving, but does not register your words. All he hears are your delicate, fragile moans. 

Chris didn’t mean to linger or leer last night. He doesn’t usually go to the second floor when you go to bed, not wanting to disturb you. But he had just come back from collecting some ingredients for the elixir around the island, heard you calling his name and got curious. Once he realised what you were doing, he just couldn’t tear himself away. He remembers the way you squirmed and begged. He remembers the way you worked your fingers in and out of your perfect, needy pussy. He remembers how you held your wand, the one laying on your nightstand right now, and wonders how often you use it for that purpose. How often do you use it thinking about him ?

“Did you hear me?” you ask.

Chris’s eyes widen. “What?”

You tilt your head and give him a serious look. “Chris, do you still want to do this?” 

“Of course.”

“Listen, if you’re having second thoug–”

Chris quickly cuts you off with an urgent shake of his head. “No, no, I want this,” he quickly reassures. The eagerness of his statement dawns on him the moment the words leave his lips. Chris immediately tries to save himself from further embarrassment, adding,  “I want to feel normal again.”

You nod, inhaling deeply.

Chris’s attention flickers down to your full chest, watching it rise under your silky black robe then fall as you exhale. He meant to meet your gaze again, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking in your frame. From the curves of your waist to the roundness of your stomach and thickness of your thighs, you are a vision of temptation. 

Your fingers trace the ribbon of your robe, drawing his focus back to your face. You bite on your lips, nervous eyes peering at him cautiously. 

“Are you okay with this?” Chris asks. “It’s never too late to change your mind.”

You swallow thickly. “I want you to feel normal too,” you replied, lips slighting relaxing into a soft smile. “It’s not about changing my mind. I just…” you trail off with a sigh. 

Chris remains silent, giving you the space to collect your thoughts. 

Rolling your shoulders back, you hold his gaze and confess,“I just haven’t been naked in front of someone else in a really long time.”

One of the things Chris has come to find so admirable about you is how unapologetically honest you are about yourself. You do not mince words or circle difficult topics. You stand your ground and say what you mean, uttering every syllable like you are reciting a declaration of love, sincere and unwavering. He catches the way you fist your hands to keep them from trembling and he finds that defiance all the more endearing. 

He tries to bite back a smile at how strong and cute you’re being. Fuck, he’s wholeheartly ready to devour you and show you just how wonderful you are. 

Without another word, he tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He can’t help smirking when you gasp at his bare chest. He’s caught you staring enough time to know you like what you see. Unbuttoning his jeans, he pulls them down with his briefs and steps out of them, fully naked in front of you. 

“Now, you’re not alone,” he smiles. 

Eyes widen, mouth slightly agape, you slowly drag your gaze down his frame. You shift your weight and he catches the way your legs press tightly together. The image of them spread and glistening with your arousal flashes between blinks. 

You take another deep breath then untie the knot of your robe. The delicate silk slips off your shoulders, revealing the epitome of supple seduction and plump perfection. 

Chris, already salivating, swallows. Your gaze trails back down to his crotch and he’s certain you are seeing exactly how he truly feels. His cock hardened last night the moment he saw you all needy and whiny. He tried to jerk himself off, hoping to soften again but failed– even after cumming three times.

“Does it bother you?” He gently asks, not moving to hide his erection yet. 

You shake your head. 

“I can put something back on if it does,” he tries again, wanting to be sure you know he is not ashamed of his desire. You’re incredibly hot and you must know it too with the way you constantly tease him with low-cut, form-fitting dresses. It’s partially why he asked Jisung to send him tank-tops and sweatpants when crafting a letter for Poe to send. 

“It’s fine, Chris,” you whisper.

His jaw clenches at the memory of your whiny voice saying his name. 

A little smile plays on your lips as you toss him half a shrug and add, “It was bound to happen at some point tonight. Might as well get over the awkwardness now.”

Chris glares, but the smirk on his face does not hint towards conviction. “Oh, yeah? Get this kinda reaction often, little witch?” 

You bite your lip then teasingly quirk a brow. “Why,” you shoot back. “Jealous?”

He tongues his cheek. “I just wanna know how many members are part of your little fan club.”

You turn towards the bed, displaying your round rear, and reply, “There’s room for one more.”

Chirs suppresses a groan. He tightens his jaw and follows after you. As you lie back into your propped, plush pillows, Chris meets your eyes. All notions of uncertainty have been replaced by carefree mischief. He sits on his knees in front of your legs and offers a small smile. 

“I already recited the spell,” you say, holding out the vial. “All you have to do now is pour it over me and… harvest the blood.”

Chris takes the tiny glass bottle, nodding. “If you ever need me to stop–” he starts, only for you to cut him off with the spread of your legs. 

A richer, more musky aroma of your usual rainwater, sage and wild lavender scent instantly overwhelms his senses. Laced with your menstrual blood, it evokes the earthiness of damp soil and the sweetness of blooming flowers. 

His jaw goes slack, eyes darkening. He can feel his fangs poke out and involuntarily takes a long, slow breath. His lungs do not work, heart still and cold, but he swears he feels them filling from the sheer smell of you. 

Your soft voice cuts through his primal desires, as you whisper,“I trust you.”

With that, Chris uncorks the vial. His free hand settles on your thigh. He smiles to himself at the softness, having only imagined the feeling of it for the last two weeks. He knew you’d feel so delicate, rubbing his hand up and down your warm skin. 

He looks back at you and meets your confident gaze with a little nod, confirming that he’s ready too. Then, he brings the tiny glass bottle to your blood-glistening lips and pours the elixir. It looks a lot like violet-coloured lube and feels that way too as he uses his thumb to rub it around your pussy. 

Your hips stiffen, core clenches at the sudden sensation and Chris darts his attention up to your face again, concerned. However, tentative notions of pleasure greet him. Your brows furrows, and eyes flicker with shy delight. You bite your lip, and that’s when Chris catches the rapid pounding of your heart. 

As he continues to rub the elixir over your clit then drag it down to circle your needy hole, Chris wonders if this is what you imagined him doing to you last night. 

“I think it’s good now,” you say, voice wavering. “We don’t have all night, you know?”

Chris smirks at your little joke. You have a tendency to be rather bossy and he’s been trying to subtly reign in your sassiness with challenging looks and sharper words every now and again. But then you go and test his patience with shit like this– speaking to him like he works for you. It excites and enrages him all at once. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be taking that tone with me, little witch,” he warns, applying pressure with his thumb against your clit. 

Your breath hitches before you clamp a hand to your mouth. 

Chris stifles his laughter. You’re a good girl down to your core. You just need the right person to remind you of that sometimes. 

Now that you are behaving, Chris lowers himself towards your delicious pussy. You smell divine, leaking of blood and drenched in the glow of the elixir. He cannot hold back any longer upon another strong whiff. Tongue flat, he drags it between your lips with a deep, full-chested groan. He repeats the slow action again and again, lowering himself further against the bed until he’s lying down on his stomach. 

He pulls back to loop his arms under your thighs. Pulling the top part of your pussy up, he dives back in. You taste like the ocean breeze on a sweltering summer day, purely refreshing. His tongue circles around your lips and clit, gathering all the leaked blood, which adds a metalicy sweetness to your arousal. A part of him wishes he was able to taste you without the juicy influence of the elixir, wondering how the flavour of your blood would change. 

Chris tongues the entrance of your hole, hoping to ease you into the–what did you call it?– harvest?  

However, upon the first real sip of your menstrual blood, something profoundly primal snaps in the depths of his chest. Unbound by his inhibitions, he growls against your core and shoves his long, wet tongue deep into you. 

A tiny whimper cuts through the loud sound of his slurps, but Chris pays it no mind. He laps and laps tongue-fulls of your blood, swallowing with eager delight. His fingers press into your soft skin, still Chris does not worry about bruising you. Instead, he shakes his head and lets out a series of pleased groans. 

Your hips roll into his mouth and he welcomes the gesture with another slurp of your blood. He can feel the magical substance rush through his body, warming his once cold skin. Every swallow fills another organ and Chris is addicted to that rush of awakening nerves. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, shoving his face further into your sex. Legs wrapping around his head, Chris is only just realising that you’ve been whining and moaning this entire time. He focuses his enhanced hearing on your fragile voice, humming approving groans. 

“Give it to me just like that,” you whimper. “Please, please , Chris.”

Again with those little demands , Chris thinks. At least you remembered to say please this time. 

A mixture of your arousal and blood pools at your entrance, drawing Chris back to his task. His vampiric senses igniting all over again, he does not attempt to hold back. In and out, he shoves his tongue between your tightening walls, gathering as much blood as he can. 

But, it’s not enough. His tongue is only collecting sips. Chris needs gulps . 

He adjusts his grip on your hips, now pressing you firmly into the mattress and latches his lips over your entrance. With a deep breath, Chris begins to suck. He suctions his mouth and siphones your blood out. He swallows mouthfuls of elixir tainted blood and arousal, mismatched eyes rolling back at the satisfaction of such unholy hunger. 

The more he draws, the darker you taste. Chris cannot describe it well, but he thinks it’s the taste of magic, fizzing on his tongue like sparkling water.

“ Oh, fuck ,” you cry, voice breaking as you cum.

A hint of lightness settles on his tongue upon sucking out your orgasm as well. Chris moans in delight, gulping down two more mouthfuls before finally pulling away with a wet pop .

Your legs are hyper-extended, trembling over his shoulders.

Chris glances up at you, curious to see if you’ll own the fact that you just came on his face or if you’ll get all shy and bashful. Your pleased features are laced with exhaustion as you pant. Tired eyes meeting his lustful ones, you quirk a brow. Chris licks his lips, taking the gesture as a silent question of if he is satisfied. 

Physically, Chris is full. He is not sure he can down even the tiniest of sips. Sexually, however, he is just getting started.

“You alright?” he asks, sitting himself up on his knees again. 

You nod, but Chris shakes his head. You know better than to respond like that , he thinks. 

“Talk to me, baby.”

The term of endearment was not intentional, but Chris also does not hate the way it sounds. It slipped out last night too as he talked you through your orgasm. He can tell from the way your lips part and eyes slightly widen that you’re waiting for him to correct himself, but he refuses to. Instead, he holds your eyes without a notion of panic or regret. 

“I’m okay,” you finally mutter between heavy breaths. “I…” you hesitate, attention flickering down to his crotch momentarily. “I need more.”

Chris smirks. “What do you say?”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

Your lips quiver, desperation seeping into your gaze. “Please fuck me, Chris. No– don’t look at me like that. I know you want this too.”

Chris was trying to hide his smug smile, but upon your demand, he lets it take over his features. You’re a fucking brat, and he has extended the last of his generous patience. Before he can think twice, Chris smacks your sensitive pussy. 

“When,” he smacks it again, “are you,” smack , “going to fucking” smack , “learn?”

Your hips jolt up with every hit, moans trembling as they tumble from your beautiful lips. Your face is a crumpled mess of pleasure and pain, desperate eyes boring into his.

Cupping you with one hand and harshly rubbing, Chris places his other by your head and hovers over your shaking body. “Listen to me, little witch,” he whispers, nudging his bloody nose against yours. “If you talk to me like that again, like I’m your little pet , I will fuck you even after the sun comes up, do you understand?”

You nod eagerly. 

Chris tightens his grip on your crotch, baring his teeth with an annoyed growl. “Use your fucking words,” he orders. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply, voice quiet and meek. 

The little whimpers you subsequently let out don’t do much to ease the throb of his cock. In fact, they only intensify it. You sound like wounded prey and he’s tired of fighting against his instincts. He’s been stifling the beast inside for the last eight years, filling himself with self-loathing instead. He’s done hating the power, fully embracing his new supernatural form. 

Releasing his hold on your crotch, Chris immediately aligns and shoves himself between your walls. A loud hiss escapes his blood-dripping lips, fangs on full display, at the tight pressure around him. Fuck, if he hadn’t seen you skillfully fingering yourself last night, he would have believed you were a virgin.

You moan with him, clutching on his shoulders. “Oh, god ,” you groan, enchanting eyes fluttering shut. “ Fuck, fuck– Chris, you’re h-huge. What the actual fuck?”

Chris’s previously irritated resolve wavers upon your squealing voice. He pauses his shallow thrusts to give you time to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat as your nails dig into his warming flesh. “I-I know you need this too.”

Shifting down to his forearms, Chris buries his face in the crook of your neck, and fondly inhales your scent. “Don’t be sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “I waited two weeks for this. Another minute won’t make a difference.”

You let out a breathless giggle, wrapping your arms around his head. A delighted hum sounds from your lips and Chris feels the vibrations of it against his face. He smiles to himself before licking and kissing your delicate skin. 

Your heart is beating so fast. He can feel the thumping pounds against his tongue and can’t help but chuckle. Your skin suddenly grows hot and he realises he has embarrassed you. Yet, instead of pushing him off, you clench tighter around him. 

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you whine. 

Chris smirks at your tone and wording, glad to see you’re finally following his orders. Still, he decides to test it again, wondering if it’s just a fluke. 

“I’m not laughing at you, little witch,” he lies.

Instead of calling him out, you remain silent.

Chris pulls back to gauge your features. Though pouting, you refrain from glaring at him too hard. Filled with pride, Chris kisses your cheek, down to your jaw then up to your chin again. 

“Good girl,” he mutters once his lips are hovering over your mouth. 

Your gaze flits between his eyes and blood-stained lips. Chris makes the conscious choice not to kiss you, unsure if the taste of your menstrual blood will be as delicious to you as it is to him. For a second, he thinks you might kiss him anyway, panting beneath him even when he remains motionless inside you.

But then you simply arch your back, pushing your full breasts against him, and mutter, “I’m ready now.”

Chris dips his head back down to your neck. He kisses and sucks on your hot skin, gently thrusting into you. He takes his time, with his hips and lips, dragging the process out only to forcefully shove it back in. 

You’re already trembling, sweet voice hiccuping moans. Chris scratches his fangs over your collarbone just to hear you whimper his name. 

“Please, Chris,” you cry. 

He kisses the slightly wounded area and quietly chuckles to himself. “Do you need something, little witch?” he teasingly asks.

“F-faster, please?” you quickly ask. “I’m not telling. I’m asking– begging! Please, please , Chris!”

His cock twitches. He groans at the sound of your desperate, whiny voice, physically incapable of torturing you any longer. With supernatural speed, Chris’s hips snap into action. He thrusts harshly, fisting the sheets beneath you. The bed creaks and slams against the walls over and over again, overtaking the slapping sound of his hips meeting yours.

Your body shakes and jiggles under him, and he is obsessed with how amazing your skin feels rubbing against his. Your nails scratch at his back, before finally sinking into his shoulders. You brace yourself against him, the sounds of your broken, sobbing moans encouraging him to continue.

"You have no idea what your voice does to me,” Chris groans, lips smothered under your jaw. “I could listen to you all fucking night.”

Your legs wrap around his waist. Chris groans even louder, addicted to the way you’re clinging onto him. 

“Only you can make me sound like this,” you whimper then warn a thrust later, “I’m gonna cum!”

Chris lets out a low, satisfied growl, relentless with his speed and power. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers in a deep, breathless voice, “ Cum for me, sweet girl. ” 

He can feel the erratic beat of your heart against his chest. Your pussy tightly clenches around him, gripping harshly onto his cock. As you cum, squealing his name like a practised spell, he chokes on his own moans. His hips push deep inside you, tensing as he finally unloads himself. Ropes and ropes of his cum fill you up as he growls in response to your meek moans.

Chris thrusts a few more times, wanting to ensure you’ve exhausted your orgasm. Then, in two swift motions, he lifts, pulls himself out, and rolls off you. He lands on the bed with a little bounce and content sigh. He expects to see the night sky on the ceiling, like it was last night, but instead finds the sea. And there, between the lapping waves, Chris catches your reflection.

Raising a brow, he tongues his cheek and looks at you. “Enjoy the show,” he teases. 

You roll your eyes, heat crawling up your neck to spread across your cheeks. “I did, actually,” you definitely reply as a last ditch effort to save a semblance of your self-respect. “You have a great butt, by the way.”

Chris laughs. He throws his head back and lets out a full-chested roar of a laugh. He can’t remember that last time he did that without you around. The last two weeks have made him feel more human than he probably ever had in his life. You’re absolutely remarkable and he’s lucky to have met you, even if it means he had to lose his soul.

Lifting his arm, Chris nods at you, silently ordering you to lean into him. You shift closer and hug his waist without another word, much to his surprise.

“You’re so pretty when you're doing as you're told,” Chris praises.  

“I’m pretty always,” you retort. 

Chris rolls his eyes. “Just take the compliment,” he chuckles.

“You’re not fucking me,” you practically whine. “You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“You’re impossible,” Chris mutters under his breath. But he still holds you close, tracing soothing circles around your shoulder.

You both bask in the silence while he gives you a second to catch your breath. Once he hears your heart beat normally again, Chris asks, “Does it work right away?”

You hum with uncertainty, waving your hand to summon the book. It flies towards you then hovers over your faces. After flipping through the pages, it lands on the recipe for the elixir.

Chris tilts his eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this the right book?” he asks, as he skims through the paragraphs. 

You flip the page, mumbling, “Yeah.” 

There are only a few books in your personal library that Chris cannot read, having been written in an ancient language he has tried and failed to understand. However, as he stares longer at the page, Chris finds that he can read every word. 

You gasp, sitting up. The book moves with you, hoving in front of you instead of on top of you now. Not that it even matters, since you grab the book from mid-air and pull it into your lap.

Chris sits up beside you. He brushes your hair off your shoulder and asks, “What’s wrong? Did we do it wrong?”

You bring a hand to your mouth as if you cannot believe what you’re reading. “We fucked up,” you whisper. 

A smirk plays on his lips. “Does that mean we get to do this again?” 

Setting the book down, you rub your face and choke back a chuckle. “No, I mean,” you start, turning to face him. “We really fucked up.”

Chris’s smile falters. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently running his hand up and down your bicep. “It’s alright, little witch. Take a breath,” he whispers, making sure to keep his voice light. “What happened?”

Your eyes shut, brows knotting, and lean into him. “There is a disclaimer at the end of every spell, recipe, ritual– Whatever it is, there is always a disclaimer that outlines the side effects or possible consequences to alterations.”

Chris nods, urging you to continue. 

“The magic we were using is called sex magic. It usually uses the sexual energy created between the participating parties to harness power. In our case, we were only meant to use it to make you sun-proof, for lack of a better word.”

“I can think of three better words,” Chris can’t help but tease. 

You fight off a smile, glaring at him. “Keep them to yourself,” you demand. 

Chris pauses, wanting to tell you to behave but he can’t move his lips. His voice has diminished too, like his body is physically incapable of ordering you around. 

Guilt flashes in your eyes. “When we had sex, with the elixir and spell tangled in the initial act of harvesting my blood, the purpose of the ritual shifted,” you continue, shoulders tensing. “It may have bound you to me.”

“What?” Chris asks, trying and failing not to sound annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“Witches often have familiars and demons are often serving creatures. They get summoned and must fulfil the summoner's request to be released. The spell has been documented to intertwine the two when more than the required act was performed,” you explain.

What about the crows , Chris wants to ask. He thought they held the role of a familiar. 

You shake your head. “They’re more like co-inhibitors. It is their island afterall.”

Chris retracts his arm from you, setting his jaw. He knows he did not say that out loud so how the–

Shit, did I just read his mind?  

Your voice is clear in his head. Blinking, Chris swallows thickly. “Is that normal?”

You hesitate. “I’ll look into it.”

“How could you have missed this?”

“I was a little busy trying to find all the ingredients,” you argue. 

Chris deadpans. “ I found the ingredients,” he corrects. 

You bite your lip, face crumbling with remorse. “I’m sorry, I–” you cut yourself off with a sigh then start again. “Honestly, I was too busy thinking about you eating me out. It’s why I made you go out and get those ingredients last night. I wanted the house to myself to just let out some of my–”

“Temptations?”

“ Frustrations ,” you correct with a playful glare. “I did not mean for this to happen.”

Chris sighs. He rubs his face and slumps back against your pillows. 

This may not have been what he wanted, however while he wants to be upset, he cannot find it in him to be disappointed. You’re a great friend, a better lover and he’d be insane to reject you. The only real downside about this newfound connection is his inability to put you in your place. You tend to get a bit too cocky and mouth off when he lets one too many sassy comments slide. 

“I don’t want this going to your head, little witch,” he warns, meeting your gaze again. 

You try to hide that mischievous smile and not being able to correct it is already driving him crazy.

“No promises,” you tease. Leaning over him, you stroke his chest and add, “But you have permission to keep me in check whenever you please.”

Chris tongues his cheek. “You had to have known that I would hate the way you said that.”

Your little smile is enough confirmation. 

Chris shoves you back into the bed with a gentle push of your shoulder. “You clearly haven’t had enough,” he murmurs, stationing himself between your legs again. 

“But the elix–”

“To hell with the fucking elixir,” he growls. “I’ll be damned if I don’t fuck your mouth clean.”

The way you shiver at the sound of his voice arouses him all over again. Shifting off the bed, Chris stands at the edge and gestures for you to adjust yourself so your head is hanging off the mattress. 

And with a simple tug of your chin, he’s determined to stay true to his words.

You eagerly oblige him. 

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[yelenasdiary]

Sppoookkyy season request! I hope this sparks you some inspo or a eureka moment either way I love the way you write!!

Uhm. So Wanda/Natasha/Yelena is secretly vampire and decided to blend in the crowd but hey no worries! They are like not so into human blood and only drinks when necessary (gravely injured). However, it turns out hunters are also out there and they have an encounter, ending in a bloody fight but they manage to barely escape. Reader was on her way home when R saw someone laying on a sidewalk and thought it was over the top holloween gimmick! R then decided to come closer and was startled when she was suddenly on her back, someone on top of her, taking hostage their neck... R ended up nursing the vampire but they wouldn't want to part with R and decided to claim her as theirs.

I hope this is understandable! Hekhek

-👾💜

Eternity

Pairing: Vampire! Natasha Romanoff x GN! Reader

Summary: On your way home, you stumble across somebody injured, begging for help.

Angst

Warnings: Mentions of blood, Brief mentions of R’s depression, | 1.6K

AC: Thank you for sending this! I hope you enjoy! x 

October Special Masterlist 2024

A faint rustle and the crunch of leaves was all Natasha could hear as she hid in a tree above the hunters who had pierced her ice-cold skin. She watched as they checked in shrubs for any sign of her hiding, not once looking up at the tree line. Although tonight the red head was glad the moonlight was hidden by clouds. 

One arm wrapped around the thick trunk of the tree to keep her from falling, her other handheld the opened wound on her abdomen, they got her good. It took everything in her will power not to sink her teeth into the hunters, if she did, it would only give more reason for the people of Westview to fear her kind. 

“Craig, I think we lost it!” One of the hunters said in defeat. 

“Nah, I got it good, real good” Craig who was wearing a trucker’s hat replied. “It’s gotta be hiding somewhere, come on! Let’s keep pushing” he added to Natasha’s relief. She watched as the two hunters walked further away from her. She waited until she could no longer hear their voices before she carefully made her way back to the ground. 

With each step through the woods, the world blurred around her. The moon light guiding her to a quiet and lonely street as she greeted by the sights of streetlights. She felt the warmth of her blood slipping away, she cursed the hunter under her breath. The world blurred around her before her sight was black and her back hit the hard pavement of the sidewalk. 

Wrapped in a coat that matched your dog’s little coat, you turned the corner with her on a leash. A late-night stroll for the two of you after a long, busy day at work. Your home street was quiet, lit up pumpkins sat on neighbors porches followed by their Halloween decorations, it wasn’t unusual to see some of them going all out for the holiday. As you walked closer towards Anges’s house, you noticed something on the sidewalk. At first you chuckled lightly, “yeah, good idea Aggie, scaring the little ones with a fake dead body” you said to yourself, shaking your head.

As you got close you noticed the figures chest ever so slightly rising and falling, sending your unbothered feeling into great concern. You darted towards the figure, seeing a woman living on the ground with blood covering her left hand.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? Hello? Can you hear me?” You asked in a panic as you fell to your knees beside the unknown woman. She groaned lightly, pushing your hand away from touching her, “its okay, I’m here to help” you added before the woman’s complete stillness shattered and before you could move her eyes shot open. Her right hand taking your neck hostage as she pinned you to the ground in an almost supernatural flash. 

“Who are you?!” The woman demanded as fear filled your eyes. As you looked into her green eyes, you saw she was in more fear for her life than you were. “I’m Y/n, I.. I live three houses down; I can help you! Just please, don’t hurt me” you replied. Your poor dog barking over the top of your voice while her leash was still tangled around your wrist. 

With her body growing weaker and the pain becoming unbearable, you felt her grip on your neck begin to loosen. “I won’t hurt you” she rasped, finally letting go of your neck and moving off your waist. 

“You’re hurt, what happened?” You asked in curiosity while the woman tried her best to return to her feet, your dog still barking at the scene only adding to the red heads stress. “Yuki! Enough” you scolded. 

“Thank you” the woman with green eyes said as you got back on your feet. 

“You’re bleeding, please let me call somebody” you looked up at her, but she shook her head, “you said you live three houses down; do you have a first aid kit?” She asked. 

“Follow me” you instructed. 

You help the stranger to your house, allowing her to lay on your sofa while you fetch the first aid kit, a washcloth and a bow of warm water. Yuki now free from her leash sat on the floor besides the sofa, keeping close to the stranger she was unsure of. 

“This looks pretty bad, what happened?” You asked as you began to gently clean the wound from the blood surrounding it. 

“I just fell in the woods and a stick pierced me” she replied, not for a second did you believe her. “Well, it looks like you’ll need stitches” you said as you took a closer look at the wound. 

“I can’t go to the hospital” she informed you, wincing at the pain when you gently wiped a little blood too close to the opened wound. You would never do this for any stranger but something about the woman lying on your sofa told you that if you bandaged her up and sent her on her way, she might be in more danger. 

“You’re lucky I know how to stitch” you said as you ripped open a sterile gauze and applied some antiseptic to her wound. “Thank you” she complimented. 

“You’re welcome….” You paused, hinting for her to tell you her name. 

“Natasha”

“Natasha, it suits you” you smiled softly as you pressed the gauze against her wound. Natasha winced again, but she didn’t pull away.

----

The following days turned into a blur you nursed Natasha back to health. Making sure her wound wasn’t getting infected, you made her food which she would only pick at, you made sure she was warm and comfortable, but she was never warm. Small details about Natasha got you thinking late at night when you were in your own bed, wondering how she even got injured in the first place. 

You weren’t one to believe in witches’ tales but with recent town talk of two hunters claiming they encountered a real vampire only added to your suspicions. She was ice cold, her eyes piercing green, picking at her food, barely drinking anything you would provide her, but it was crazy to think you were nursing a vampire back to health. 

Although you had your concerns, you found yourself enjoying the small talk with her. She told her about her life, and you told her about yours. She saw the sadness in your eyes when you told her about your struggles with living alone and not knowing what more to life there was besides going to work, coming home and only having a small social life. No time for vacation, not enough money flow to build the dream house you have always dreamt about since a young child, you wish for a bigger life. 

As Natasha started to recover, you were hit with the thought of her leaving and how your house would soon become quiet once more, her green eyes never to be seen again, her laugh never to be heard. You thought you were crazy for feeling this form of attachment to the woman who still was somewhat a stranger in your home.

“Can I ask you something that maybe very invasive?” You asked. Natasha chuckled lightly, “depends on how invasive your question is” she replied. 

“Do you have somewhere to go? I mean, when you’re well…. do you have to go?” You asked, your eyes dropping to the glass of water on the coffee table in front of you. 

Natasha took a deep breath in, “you don’t want me around, trust me” she said. You looked up at her once more, “what if I do?” You replied. Nat shook her head, “I don’t think it would be wise for me to stay” 

“Why? Because you’re a vampire?” You asked, the words rushing out of your mouth without a second thought. Natasha’s eyes widened, “how d-did you know?” She questioned.

“You didn’t fall in the woods and get a stab wound like that from a stick, besides, I heard from talk in the town the other day. Some hunters boosting about encountering a vampire…at first I didn’t believe but you barely eat the food I make, you’re never warm and I’ve never seen anybody with eyes like yours” you explained. 

“You’re not scared?” Natasha wondered. 

“I think if you were to kill me…you would’ve already done that” 

Natasha smiled softly, “I wish I met you in pass life, not everybody is so calm and collected as you” 

You couldn’t help but chuckle, “I am not collected, look at my life…I’m like robot”

Natasha sat up slowly before she looked over at you once more, “I can give you eternity” she said softly. 

“W-what?”

“It’ll come at a cost but if you’re serious about what you’re thinking about, I can give you eternity. I can take you away from all this, you can do anything you wish, you’ll never have to feel like robot again” 

Her words took you by surprise, you looked over at Yuki who was peacefully sleeping in her bed on the floor. You were so tired of this stereotypical lifestyle, your parents no longer around, the friends you’ve made in Westview would surely miss you, but would it be so bad to finally break free and life a different life? Is it selfish to place your life into the hands of a woman you only met a couple of weeks ago? 

“This crazy but I really, really don’t want you to leave” you said, breaking the silence. 

“And I don’t want to go” Natasha said softly, gently taking your hand in hers. You ignored the coldness of her touch, feeling nothing but warmth just being around her. “I’ve claimed many things in my life, but this…if you choose to do this, know that I will protect you with everything I have” she adds. 

“Then I am yours” you said, feeling the unknown future rush through you. Natasha smiled softly, “this will only hurt for a moment” she whispered before gently pulling you closer.

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