#that's also the next fanfic

[fazcinatingblog]

I think I had a dream that Mason Cox had a girlfriend and I don't know why my subconscious would send me something like that and

[fictionadventurer]

Personally, it's always a bit wild to me to see commentators interact with the Hunger Games franchise as if Collins were writing science fiction stories instead of essays with faces. She's just not that interested in fleshing out side characters or digging into the details of the worldbuilding. These characters are concepts and symbols before they're people. There's an almost mathematical precision to who and what she explores and how deeply she does it. This is a step or two away from pure allegory. If she were writing a couple of centuries ago, she'd have named her characters things like Innocence and Anger and Watch-Carefully-Your-Soul-Lest-Ye-Be-Damned, but since she's writing for modern audiences, she has to settle for puns and allusions. If she has another essay to write, she'll assign some faces to it; she's not going to look into backstories or other eras just for the sake of storytelling, and it's not a failing as a writer that she doesn't.

[turtleblogatlast]

AU where Leo is trapped in the Prison Dimension for months instead of minutes and the only way he gets by with his sanity intact is through recording himself talking to his wrist comm.

When they finally manage to get Leo back and make him rest up to heal, Donnie can’t help but listen to the recordings left behind.

He’s not sure what exactly he’s expecting, only that his subconscious is screaming at him that it has to be heartbreaking, that it has to be torturous.

Instead, what Donnie is subject to is a full thousand hours’ worth of Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu crossover fanfiction. More than one part in the series. Spanning well over a million words.

(The worst part is that it’s actually good.)

[nadvs]

cam girl (part ten)

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

summary you work two jobs. by day, you’re a maid for the cameron household, where rafe degrades you any chance he can get. by night, you’re a cam girl, hiding your face so nobody can recognize you. when you discover your new subscriber, the filthy-mouthed man obsessively paying you to do everything he can think of, is rafe, you’re not sure what to do next.

» masterlist

*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

Rafe is on your mind constantly. At this point, you’ve accepted it. There was something about the way he looked at you in his car last night. Possibly. Hopefully.

You stand in a quiet aisle, eyeing merchandise while you hold the charm on the necklace he gave you, the metal warm under your fingertips.

You’d never been in a sex shop before. The guys you hooked up with before Rafe were nowhere near as kinky as him and you bought all the stuff you needed to be a cam girl online.

But seeing all the possibilities makes your stomach twist with excitement. You want to try absolutely everything with Rafe.

You’ve been thinking about coming here throughout all your classes today with one thing in mind. Rafe loves to use toys on you, but you’ve never used anything on him.

With Rafe’s need for control, you assume he won’t be all that open to using a cock ring, but you want to do something special for him. Maybe you can introduce him to something for a change.

You find a vibrating ring that you know will fit him, then decide to send him a photo of the toys in the aisle behind you and text him: this is a great place to meet guys.

Before you’re even at the register, your phone buzzes.

Rafe: dont joke like that

Rafe: buying something for yourself princess?

He sends you $100.

You reply: something like that :)

You check out at the register and head home, already looking forward to tonight. Your phone buzzes again.

Rafe: when can i come over?

You smile at your phone.

You: what about our cam session?

You get a notification that he sent $1000. The alert makes you wonder if he thinks you’re just doing all this solely for the money and gifts.

You’d do it all for free.

Rafe: i won’t wait that long

Not just can’t. He won’t.

You reply: like 8ish?

Rafe: ok

It starts to rain close to 8 and when Rafe arrives at your place, his hair is wet and his face and jacket are peppered with raindrops.

“Is the valet not working today?” you joke, knowing full well he had to find street parking on your busy road.

He breathes a chuckle, stepping into your apartment with his usual ease. You’ve noticed that he walks into every room like he owns it.

Rafe shakes off his jacket and places it on the back of one of your kitchen table chairs while you grab a clean hand towel out of your hamper.

“Sorry this towel’s not a million thread count,” you tease, meeting him to dab the towel over his face.

His blue eyes search your face with a hint of something new. Confusion?

You realize you didn’t even think about it; you thoughtlessly started to dry him off. It was such a mechanical response. Your impulse is to take care of him, make him comfortable.

It’s official. This man is not just a fuck buddy to you anymore.

“What?” you ask, knowing you need to crack a joke to break the tension. “I’m just drying off my seat.”

“Oh, my God,” Rafe groans, trying to act annoyed, but you know he’s not. You laugh and lower the towel, squeezing the cotton in your hands.

“What’d you buy?” he asks, clearly eager.

“I’ll show you later. I wanna hear what you have planned,” you say. “You always have something planned.”

“You first,” he says.

“Rafe,” you whine, dropping the towel to rest your hands on his firm shoulders. “Can’t I surprise you for once? What do you want to do to me tonight?”

“I wanna see what you bought,” Rafe solidifies.

You suck your teeth in frustration, looking up at him with doe eyes.

“Please?” you breathe. “I’m always the one waiting. Why don’t you wait for once?”

Rafe’s jaw tightens and he shakes his head in disbelief like he can’t believe he’s giving in, but he gives in.

“You ever been tied up?” he finally asks, his voice so deep that it reverberates through you. The air is suddenly thick and any impression of humor that was floating between you has been dismissed by his words.

“Like… bondage?” you say in a short breath, mulling it over as blood rushes to your cheeks. “No. I haven’t.”

He closes the already minuscule distance between you, cradling your jaw in his cool hand.

“I want your hands tied up while I fuck you,” he says. Your mouth goes dry. Just when you think he can’t get any fucking hotter.

Rafe’s hand drops and you hear his belt unbuckling while his hot breath spreads across your cheek.

“Why the fuck are you still dressed?” he rasps. You’re reeling as you strip down to nothing but the necklace he gave you. You hear the clang of his belt buckle falling onto your kitchen table beside you.

Rafe’s hands drag over your hips, pinching down when he turns you to face the other way. He’s still in his boxers, his cock jabbing against your ass. His warm chest is pressed on your back, rising and falling.

“You’re always the one waiting?” he mutters. The belt buckle drags off the table top, and when you feel him roughly grab both your wrists and wrap the thick leather around them, the familiar need for him between your legs aches.

“You’re always waiting,” he repeats with a scoff. “I’m the one who’s always fucking waiting.”

You want to know what he means, but the belt is suddenly tight around your wrists, your chest jutting out. Rafe pushes you by the back of your neck so that your front is down on your table, your cheek flush against the hard plastic.

“Spread your legs,” he orders.

The muscles in your thighs are strained and your hips burn against the hard table from the way he has you bent over. He couldn’t even spare the few seconds to go to your bedroom.

You feel his tip press against you, making you wonder which hole he wants to fuck.

“Beg for it,” he orders. His fingers tighten around the back of your neck. Your arms are already burning from being bound like this.

“Please fuck me,” you moan, lips flanged from how hard your cheek is being pushed against the table.

“Say my fucking name,” he tells you.

“Please, Rafe,” you obey. He groans in response, hands settling on your hips.

He stretches your cunt out so fucking slowly that you want to scream. You push back against him, and you swear, he laughs at your desperation.

Rafe finally bottoms out in you, his hips against your ass. He puts his hand over your bound wrists, starting to drag out again.

“This pussy is fucking mine,” he says. As if you need the reminder. He owns you completely.

When he picks up the pace, driving into you, your breath hitches. With every thrust, your hips grind against the hard table, making you ache in pain.

“Ow,” you snip before you can stop yourself.

Rafe immediately pulls out of you, making you writhe in frustration.

“What hurts?”

“Nothing,” you lie, wanting him more than you want the pain to stop. “Keep going.”

“What hurts?” he repeats sternly.

“My hips,” you admit. “I’m fine, it’s just ‘cause of the table. Please just-”

“I’m not making you cry again,” he snaps. He cups a hand on your shoulder. “Go to your bed.”

“Rafe, it’s fine.” You feel oddly ashamed, like you’re not doing your job pleasing him how he wants you to.

“Go,” he mutters. His hand pulls you up and you have no choice but to let him push you into your bedroom.

Your wrists are still bound at your lower back when he bends you over your bed. You sink onto your stomach, feeling Rafe’s fingers spread you open before driving his cock into you again.

You squeeze your eyes shut as he relentlessly pounds in and out of you. Your arms strain against the constrictions of his belt, the sensations so fucking perfect.

“Shit, I’m…” he groans, and you know he’s close, so you try to tilt up your hips so he can get as deep as possible.

Rafe shakes through his orgasm and you think how you could never tire of this feeling, of being the one he finishes inside of and reaches this feeling with.

He’s panting when he pulls out of you. Your wrists burn against the belt as he loosens it. His hand smooths over your ass before he spanks you and collapses beside you.

“Show me what you bought,” he says. “It better make you cum.” You tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“Have an open mind, okay?”

“Damn, what the fuck is it?” Rafe asks with a curious laugh.

You’re sore as you get up on your knees and shift to grab the white ring you already took out of the packaging and placed in your nightstand.

When you settle back on the bed and hold it out in front of him, his brows furrow.

“Is that…?” He can’t finish the sentence, his tone apprehensive.

“It might feel really good,” you say with a small smile. “I got a vibrating one.”

Rafe sits up, glancing down at your purchase before looking up at you again.

“Come on,” you laugh. “You surprise me all the time. I can’t surprise you?”

He clears his throat.

“I don’t know,” he says simply, blinking fast. It sounds like a hard no.

“Oh,” you say. You’re shocked he’s not at least a little open to it, considering how kinky he is. “Okay. Sorry.”

You turn to put the toy away, but his next words stop you.

“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Fine.”

“Really?” you ask, meeting his eyes again.

“You just look so fucking sad,” he groans.

“You don’t have to do it.”

“Let’s just try it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “After everything I do to you…” You smile in response.

Rafe sits up against the head of your bed frame and you straddle him, dipping your head to kiss him. It’s strange how with him, making out feels more intimate than sex does. As good as the sex is, nothing gets your heart fluttering quite like when his lips are on yours.

Your hands settle on his shoulders and you tug at the ends of hair as you kiss him passionately.

Rafe smiles under the kiss, your lips molding together, his tongue tumbling with yours. You feel him getting hard again.

You pull back to slide the ring down his cock and he sighs in a way that tells you he can’t believe he’s actually doing this before he takes you in to kiss you again.

Rafe’s hands roll over your ass, squeezing and kneading as you sit on his naked lap. This is the longest you’ve ever kissed. It feels crazy to realize that, considering everything you’ve done together.

“Shit,” he shifts beneath you. His cock is growing, the ring starting to squeeze around him.

“How’s it feel?” you ask.

“Good,” he breathes, eyes low. It makes your heart swell with pride. “Ride me.”

You sink down on him slowly, feeling the ring against you once you’re fully seated. You find the button at the top of it to turn on the vibration.

You both exhale in pleasure at the same time. He skims his hands up to your waist, looking at you while you grind on top of him.

In the dim light of your quiet bedroom, the toy buzzing against your clit, how deep he is inside you, the way his eyes are locked on yours… it’s all so perfect. Everything with him is so fucking perfect that it can’t be true.

The fact that you ended up here all because of a part-time cleaning job and a cam website feels insane.

Your palm is against his hot chest. He looks down at it and his dimples dip into his cheeks as he smiles smugly.

“Your hands are so fucking cute,” he teases. The non-sexual compliment sends you into a tizzy.

“Yours are huge,” you retort, trying to keep cool.

“What else is huge?” he asks.

“Your ego.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs.

“Okay,” you tease, starting to sit up so he’ll slip out of you. He roughly pulls you back down by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Rafe mutters. You laugh and start to fuck him faster, your hips rolling in circles.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tilting back. “I… Fuck, I need to get on top.”

You shift to let him settle over you, your head resting on your pillow. Rafe’s hand runs up the side of your bent leg and he grabs your calf to pull it towards him, silently inviting you to wrap your legs around him.

You hook your ankles together, your entire body hugging him.

You fuck for at least twenty straight minutes, both of you sweating and panting and shaking. You knew he’d last extra long with the cock ring tight around him, but this is unbelievable.

You cum twice underneath him in the span of the session, earning a string of “good girl”s from him. By your third orgasm, he starts to tremble, too.

When Rafe cums inside you, his name tumbles out in his groan. Not princess, not baby, not good girl, but your name, and it gives you a knotted feeling in your stomach that you haven’t had with him yet.

Maybe it’s because he’s elated over coming down from a new level. Or maybe it’s more.

He pulls out, still dripping.

“So… you like my present?” you ask when he falls in your bed next to you.

“Fuck,” Rafe groans. “That was…” He doesn’t seem to have the words, but neither do you. How do you even begin to describe something this unreal?

“I need water,” you say, unsure of how you’re going to even stand up. “Want some?”

He shakes his head in response.

You stand at your kitchen sink, leaning against the counter and swallowing down cold water. On your way back to the bedroom, you notice a lit up screen on your kitchen table.

Rafe must have left his phone here before you moved to the bed. Through pure instinct, you look at the screen. By the time you realize you’re accidentally snooping, it’s too late.

You don’t see the contact name in time, but you do see the message.

bro where are you? too many bitches here for just me lol

A chill rushes through your body. It must be one of his buddies waiting for him at a party.

Of course. It’s a Friday night and you’re pretty sure all the rich people on the island have to do is party.

You feel like an idiot. Expecting exclusivity from Rafe in the arrangement you’re in was ridiculous. Of course he’s fucking around on the side. Someone like him, with his sex drive, can’t be satisfied by one girl.

At this point, you just want him to leave, so you collect his clothes off the kitchen floor.

Thankfully, Rafe’s already sitting up in your bed when you reenter your bedroom. Surely eager to go.

“Here,” you say coldly, handing him his jeans and t-shirt. You don’t look at him when he takes his clothes from you. “Are you gonna head out?”

You realize when you ask the question, it’s like a secret test you’re putting him through. If he stays, he gives a shit about you. If he leaves, he doesn’t.

“Yeah, I should,” he says. He should. Yeah, he really should go look at and flirt with and fuck other girls.

“‘Kay.” You start to collect some clean clothes from your dresser, covering your body with them, feeling strangely insecure around him now.

“You pissed off or something?” he asks behind you as he gets dressed.

You clench your jaw. Honestly, you’re more hurt than anything. But are you even allowed to be? Just because he acts like your boyfriend sometimes doesn’t mean he is.

“No,” you reply. You swallow down the painful feelings and turn to look at him. “Just tired.” You think back to your texts yesterday about how often you’ve hooked up. “Lost count, right? I might need a break.”

You don’t mean it. At this point, you’re just defensive. Wanting to hurt him like he hurt you.

Rafe’s face flashes in displeasure.

“What - why? What the fuck happened in the last fucking minute?” he asks.

“I’m not allowed to be tired?” you respond.

He dips his head, nodding as he buttons his jeans. He seems silenced by his own anger. Your eyes sweep down his muscled body, wishing he’d just hug you and ask you what’s wrong one more time and reassure you that you’re more than just sex to him.

You can tell he’s pissed off and you know you’re not being fair, but you let him leave without any more words exchanged between you.

After a long shower, you lie in bed and wish Rafe didn’t leave his smell on your pillow. You browse your phone, trying to distract yourself.

You tell yourself you’ll go to sleep in five minutes over and over again. You’re working at the estate tomorrow. You need to get up early. But you know the moment you close your eyes, you’ll be trapped in your thoughts. You don’t want to think about him.

It’s nearing midnight when a text comes in.

Rafe: princessssssdsssss

You look at your screen in confusion. Is this a drunk text?

Rafe: ur mean

Rafe: but ypur pussy is sooo niiice lol

Yeah. He’s plastered.

Rafe: ans you have cutehands

Rafe: you akwyas smell good how the fuck is fhat possibke

You hate that your heart warms at the fact that he’s clearly fucked up but his instinct is to text you.

You reply: i think someone’s drunk…

Rafe: yes iam

Rafe: idk what i’m gona do with yiu loool

You: what do you want to do with me?

You get an alert that he sent you $69.

Rafe: that

Rafe: looool

Sex. Of course.

You: are you going to make me do every position?

Rafe: you’r efreaky as fuck. i know youd like it

You: true…

Rafe: lowkey ur all i think about

Goddamn it. Your heart is pounding at this point. You try to play it off.

You: oh only lowkey. cool

Rafe: don’t be maddd

You: i’m pissed

Rafe: we should fuck aboutt it :)

You know the answer to your next question, that he sees you as a booty call and that’s all, but you know the confirmation.

You: is that all you want to do rafe? fuck?

Rafe: YES

Rafe: what if i come over again tonigjt lol

You: i work tomorrow. i need to sleep

Rafe: you need this dick

You: omg

Rafe: do you likw this skng

Rafe: song

You: ??? what song

You can’t stifle your laugh at how shit-faced he is.

Rafe: irs good

Rafe: u should giveme a lap dance

You: you’re drunk as hell. i’ll see you tomorrow, ok? goodnight

You think back to the way he looked when you snapped at him earlier and decide to send one more message.

You: sorry i was mean

He doesn’t reply. Maybe it’s better that way.

Your body is heavy the next morning. You barely make it to the Camerons’ estate. You don’t see Rafe at all in the morning. You’re guessing he crashed at whoever’s party he went to.

You wonder how many bitches, as he and his friends say, he talked to last night.

When it’s time to turn over his bedsheets, you take a moment to take in the familiarity of his bedroom. When you pull over a new fitted sheet, you realize just how exhausted you are.

There’s no reason for another maid to come into this room. It’s on your list only. And Rafe is gone.

So, what’s the harm in lying down to rest, just for a little bit? You’ll do a better job when you’re not exhausted.

You won’t close your eyes.

You lie on his pillow. Okay, maybe you can close your eyes for a minute. You’ll count to sixty then stand back up.

The numbers quickly melt away and you slip into a slumber.

When you wake up, nuzzling your face into the pillow, Rafe is in bed with you, his back to you.

It takes a moment to remember where you are. You sit up and he notices the movement, turning to look at you over his shoulder.

{ read part eleven here }

author’s note: shoutout to my readers for being so creative. thank you to this anon and this anon and to another reader (you know who you are) for your contributions to this chapter! ILY!

[prahacat]

when the horrors catch up and you take an evening off to batch-process

[dramatorgiasticsstuff]

Would you believe me if I said I actually didn't like him–

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #61 Part 4

Danny woke up to a stream of sunlight on his face. The room was just as rich as he remembered, he stood up and stretched a bit before he heard a knock at the door.

It was Alfred bringing him a change of clothes, “Breakfast is ready, Master Danny. You can find the dining room down the hall to the left.” the old butler smiled at him. 

“You don’t have to call me Master, Alfred, I’m not your Damian.” Danny said, turning around to address him.

“Ah, yes, however you are still Master Bruce’s son, even from another world.” The butler gave him a cheeky smile.

Danny shrugged and headed to the bathroom to get changed. Once he was decent again, he headed down to the dining room. 

The room was just as fancy as the rest of the house with a chandelier and ornate vases. 

Danny noticed Damian and a few others already seated at the table. Damian wore what Danny could only assume was his rich kid school uniform. He sat across from Damian who made a small ‘Tt’ and turned away from him. 

Next to Damian was Tim who put away his laptop once Danny sat down. Tim was wearing a business suit, a dark red colored one. “Ah, you sleep much longer than Damian does, you must have been tired.” Tim smiled at him.

Also seated at the table and wearing a navy blue suit, was Bruce himself. He was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.

“Stop comparing me to him, Drake, I’m nothing like this imposter.” Looks like Damian still thought he was a clone. 

Whatever, he shrugged it off and filled his plate. 

“I don’t really have a lot of free time,” was all Danny said before he started eating.

Tim kind of watched him for a minute, he looked kind of shocked for a second, “You’re eating meat??” 

Ah so that was another difference between them, “again, I’m Danny, I’m not Damian.”

Damian scoffed, “So that’s what you call yourself, imposter.”

Danny gave Damian a tired sigh, looks like the him of this universe was a lot more prideful than he was. Danny went through way too much to carry the same, dying and being crown prince of the infinite realms wasn’t exactly something he was born into. Danny was a bit jealous if he was being honest with himself. 

“Damian, please at least attempt to be friendly. Danny is our guest for the meantime.” Bruce said, putting his newspaper down. He then turned his attention to Danny, “I know it isn’t ideal but I think it’ll be best for you to stay here until we can get you to your own world. I’m planning a trip to the Watchtower tomorrow so I can speak with some of my colleagues about the situation.” 

Danny sighed but nodded his head, “I get it, you can’t have two of us running around.”

“Quite, you’re more than welcome to go around the mansion and the grounds, I’d also like to invite you along to the Watchtower but we’d need to come up with a disguise for you, secret identity and everything.” Bruce continued after taking another sip from his mug, “Alfred will still take you out today to get some basic necessities for you. We’ll get you a proper disguise so you're able to go with him.”

Danny nodded again and continued eating. He thought things over as he ate, he technically had a disguise they could use for the Watchtower but Danny was still on the fence on what exactly he’d tell everyone here.

It wasn’t exactly an easy conversation to have, thankfully some more people arrived for breakfast.

Master Post:

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[bumnyv]

'And it was an odd thing, resting his hand over Nico di Angelo's. In a sense, it was as if he were formally resting with the boy in the darkness of a coffin.'

Do yourself a favor and go read Leo Valdez & The Olympians: The Ceaseless Eve by @rosesradio

Ok? Ok.

Please, it's so good.

[helixcraft]

the fish that keeps appearing all over my recommended only that he's out of jail and happy

[vivika-ka]

fixated on the fact that Luffy’s heartbeat is referred to as “drums of liberation,” which means Law not only held the divine instrument of freedom in his hands, he also healed it.

[frownyalfred]

do you ever just open an ao3 email and —

[coldarena]

mota uniform studies + a very good boy

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here we go honeys. when me and aly (<3!) tossed this idea around months ago, this was the big question; how to do the reveal and what comes after. naturally it was as angsty as possible tehe <3 cw: canon typical violence

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: Azriel mourns a mistake that will haunt him for eternity as he races back to you. You play the leading role in one of your nightmares, but you can't seem to wake up.

CHAPTER SEVEN :: MATES

It's too loud and he can't think— that's the only coherent thing that Azriel can seem to grasp as he stumbles forward in the snow.

His shadows burst into a wild frenzy as he staggers towards the cabin door. It's not snowing here but the wind current is fast and wicked, tunnelling over the hilltop. His breath locks in his chest and even as he gasps, he can't seem to catch it.

It's too loud, too much— every single thought and feeling within him is just climbing over one another, overlapping, melding into each other so he can't tell where one ends and another begins.

Sadness, misery, torment, upset, anger. His emotions are thrown together with yours, a thousand afflictions all battling for his attention and he can't fucking think.

He shoves the cabin door open, falls through it, and it slams shut behind him.

Like a puppet getting its strings cut, all at once the noise... stops.

As though the very action of closing the door had managed to silence the bond between you and Azriel.

A different, very real fear suddenly burrows deep in his heart.

Still gasping for air, he shoves a hand against his chest and searches within himself desperately for that tether, his eyes crushing shut. For a moment, his heart hangs in the balance, teetering on the edge of agony.

And then— there.

Golden and rooted in his very soul, the bond that connects him to you. Only once he's found it does he release the breath captured in his lungs. He breathes an audible sigh of relief and shudders lightly, his knees giving out slightly.

He lets himself slump back against the cabin door as his scarred hand slips from his chest, his wings curling forward around himself. His head swims with the overload of new information, the first dregs of it only just sinking in.

You... were not the person you said you were.

...Was that such a bad thing?

Still breathing hard, Azriel's gaze turns to stare hard at his hands, their delicate scarring paining him nearly as much as the memory does. He thinks back to their origin.

Thinks back to a space too small for a growing boy, thinks of the darkness. He thinks of the never-ending misery that seemed to torment his life in a way he feared he would never escape.

It had taken a very long time for that fear to diminish in size; or perhaps, Azriel had just learned to grow around it.

But the cruelty of those mountains and the Fae that resided there was something he was intimately familiar with. The world up there, between the pines, was kill or be killed. Rise to the top of the food chain or spend every waking moment trying to figure out how to survive.

Isn't that what you had done? Learnt how to endure the conditions, to withstand the brute force of the winter and the merciless Illyrian way?

And wasn't that what he had done, all those years ago? Perhaps, the two of you weren't so different.

But his mind keeps snagging: liar, liar, liar.

Some vicious, prideful voice in his head makes a different point— he did it the right way. He didn't deceive anyone.

He fought for all he had, trained harder than any of his camp-mates to overcome every wretched obstacle in his way, earned his place at the top of the Blood Rite by being better, by working harder and winning.

Even with his... set back with learning to fly, he had still conquered it. He'd earned his place.

But… no, that wasn't right, was it?

He'd earned it, yes, but only because there was no other choice.

He had been kicked down at every possible chance, stalked for being born from a father who detested him and none of it was his fault. He'd earned his title as warrior but he had done nothing to reap every extra hurdle to get there.

Azriel had endured a great many terrible things in his life—and it took effort to recall that it wasn't fair. That it was an injustice he shouldn't have had to bear.

Sometimes, he hated how deeply ingrained the Illyrian way was within him. How it had changed him in the most unsavoury of ways, giving him an Illyrian pride that overtook his rationale at the worst of times.

It echoed out in the most unfamiliar of ways, like a hidden piece of himself he'd forgotten about— forgotten the person he'd needed to become to survive those camps.

So when Azriel thinks of the lie you've been hiding it, protecting yourself, the forgiveness is already there. It always was there. He could never had truly held it against you.

You had lied, yes, but as if there was any other way to survive. As if he could fault you for picking the option that let you fight, let you grow strong, let you keep your wings.

He remembers your words suddenly.

Please, I- I just wanted to keep my wings.

A sinister horror creeps up his throat and Azriel lurches forward, his forearms slamming against the cabin floor as his body forcibly retches. His stomach clenches tightly and bile floods his mouth but nothing comes out but his ragged breath.

How young had you been?

He knows to make your lie feasible it had to have been too young. Nine years old? Eight? He tries to recall the age that Lord Mylind said you started turning up trouble but it only succeeds in fueling the harrowing feeling that was running through his veins.

Azriel sags forward, his eyes drawing closed as he presses his forehead to the cool wood of the ground, trying to contain his growing dread. Still curled around himself, his wings quiver in the wake of his revelation. His shadows try soothe him, whirling down the planes of his neck.

You were pleading with him.

And... he had left you.

His stomach heaves once more, his breath a mixture of raspy pants.

It's impossible not to recount every single interaction you've had over the months, turning over every memory and seeing the other side of it with startling clarity.

The lone cabin, the outlier to the group. The tenseness in your shoulders when asked about the Blood Rite or your absences from training that Lord Mylind had spoken so crudely about.

Your drive to train and learn; the utter disappointment at the inadequacy of your tonics.

You had so much on the line, so much more than he ever could have imagined.

Azriel bites his cheek meanly as he recalls the conversation in which he asked why you hadn't completed in the Blood Rite. It makes perfect sense now; the exposure of the challenge was far too big of a risk and as a bastard, you would automatically be a target.

Even if you managed to succeed, which he had no doubt you could, the tattoos... removing your shirt...

All dead giveaways.

Your voice echoes in his mind.

Azriel, please, you have to understand—

You had begged him and he left you, he left you.

His body gives another awful retch, the horror of what he had done beginning to truly settle in. Gods, in a thousand ways you had been more trusting and vulnerable that he had ever known. Allowing him into your shelter, into your life...

Letting him get close to you, knowing that the closer he got, the more your secret threatened to reveal. And you let him anyway.

Azriel lurches to his feet, swaying for only a moment, his head reaching a clarity he so desperately lacked earlier.

He needs to go back. He should have fucking never left.

Somewhere between his ribs, there's an wallowing ache on the bond. A jolt of sharp pain.

Hand flying to his chest, Azriel stares at it and desperately prays to every god he can think of that he isn't too late to fix this. His eyes flick over to the Siphon on the back of hand, dim and lifeless. Drained.

Fuck. He snarls in his frustration. He can't even winnow back to you.

Turning and pressing back out the door, his boots smash through the snow outside for only a few steps— til he beats his mighty wings and takes to the skies.

Whether the bond had snapped for you or not, it didn't stop him from gripping that thread tightly and pouring every sincere intention down it. I'm sorry. I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I never should have left. I'm so fucking sorry.

He could only hope that you somewhere on the other side, connected to the same red string of fate, you could feel him coming back to you.

—

He's taking too long.

It's the thought that's stuck on loop, like a record that keeps skipping, repeating the same part over and over again. He's going as fast as he can and still, he knows he's taking too damn long.

As his wings strain from the long journey, the endless labyrinth of trees whirring past beneath him too fast to see, Azriel glimpses down at the siphons atop his hands.

They're still gleaming in that lacklustre way but there's more of a shine to them now. He can feel it too, the well refilling with a slow drip, the build up of his power.

His keen eyes scour the landscape, narrowed as he analyses the distance between here and Exordor. It's still far— it will stretch the reserve of magic that's barely begun to replenish but Azriel doesn't care. He'll do anything to reach you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowing, and folds the fabric once more. The world spins as he pushes through the fabric of it, feeling the strain in his bones. The snowy entrance to your shelter comes into view.

He lands with a sickening crack, his knees bending to catch himself as he touches down, one heavy motion into the snow which spins up in a flurry. It's raining heavily, the drops coming down with a vehemence, creating a thunderous applause against the frozen ground.

Around him, the trees groan and shudder as they bow to the powerful energy. Birds take flight, cawing as they do. In the distance, there's a loud snap, carried with the wind.

Azriel stares right into the cabin.

His stomach threatens to lurch again at the sight. The door to your shelter is wide open.

His mate, where is his mate?

Stretching out the doorway, there are obvious signs of a struggle. The muddy snow has been kicked around, the boards nailed to the inside of the door are fresh with splinters, and... and...

The blood. Crimson, scarlet, fucking red blood coats the floorboards, a ghoulish splatter of it leading from your bed out the door, turning the slurry of melted snow a soft pink. He knows from the pull in his chest that you're not here.

This isn't just some attack. They haven't just ambushed you, they've... found out.

Where before he had felt terribly ill, bile rising, there is only icy and raging fury. In the distance, another snap sounds and his shadows beg him to pay attention to it, their whispers kissing at his cheeks. Water soaks his dark hair, stray raindrops rolling down his face.

Azriel ignores them and stumbles forward one, two steps and stops, his heart soaking in the reality of what had happened.

He had left you and they had taken you.

They found out and they hadn't killed you, they had— they had—

The snap in the distance. This time when it sounds, it yanks Azriel's attention, his head whipping towards where it's coming from. It's towards camp. Dread curdles up in his gut, latching onto each notch in his spine and burrowing deep.

Every instinct in his body roars into overdrive as he realises what it is he can hear in the distance — the crack of a whip against skin.

—

One of your nightmares has come to life, dragging from the murkiest parts of your mind and taking the treacherous form of Brudam.

You keep begging yourself to wake the fuck up.

It can’t be real— this can’t actually be happening, you think desperately, none of this was ever supposed to happen- you had- it was- you secret was something you guarded with your life.

"Wake up," You plead to yourself deliriously. Your wrists are already feeling chafed from where they're bound against the wooden pole, the steel that binds them cold as ice. The rain has soaked you to the bone.

"Wake up," You all but sob, trying futilely to pull against the restraints on your wrists.

It only succeeds in tugging on the stakes driven through your wings, a searing, fiery type of pain the ripples along every nerve in them. A sob scrapes up your throat, answering the pain's call. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts in a way you haven't known before — everything, every cell in your body, is being tortured.

A shredding deep in your gut as though you've taken a fistful of claws to the stomach makes you seize, your vision flashing wildly. Even now, your cycle continues its bloody rampage. You can't stop crying, can't stop your body from convulsing in pure agony.

Somewhere behind you, your ear pick up the shifting in the mud, Brudam preparing to strike again.

Even sobbing, you tense up, unable to stop yourself—instinct drives you to hastily try tuck your wings, trying to pull them from their spread position. They catch on the stakes pinned through them meanly, the delicate flesh tearing with a sickening squelch and sending rivers of pain up into your body.

You cry out a strangled gasp, your head bowing further forward, trying to escape what's to come.

The blow rains down onto your unprotected wings all the same.

It's pure fire. Like they've doused the membranous skin of your wings with oil and set them ablaze, fiery hot pain licking at the tendons, tracing all the way up to your bare back. Your teeth grit to contain your scream. Tears streak down your face, lost in the thrum of the rain.

"Wake. Up." You demand to yourself again, panting heavily now.

You can't take much more pain or you'll be unconscious soon and some awful part of you knows, that's when they'll take your wings. You'll wake up midway to the worst nightmare of them all; the splintering sound of them cutting them off your body.

There's a boot pressed suddenly to your lower back, pressing meanly.

"Oh no, this isn't a dream," Brudam taunts as he leans down, all too happily. His tone shifts to something harder with his next words, nearly spitting the words. "I knew there was something off about you, you mutt."

His voice climbs to a shout, addressing the crowd gathered around you. "I always knew you were a FUCKING TRAITOR!"

There's a roar from the crowd, lead by the antsy group of warriors you've grown up and trained beside. All of them are eager to see justice delivered for your lies. None of them are pleased to have been duped, much less by a female.

They know, everyone knows. There's no coming back from this. Even if it weren't from the scent of blood from your cycle, your bound chest—revealed through your cut away armor— is proof enough.

Another convulsion rocks your body, the pain from your cycle making itself known. You're burning hot from every laceration on your skin and freezing cold from being bare in the icy rain. Your defence gets swallowed up in your pitiful whimper.

The mud behind you shifts again, Brudam no doubt winding up for his next hit.

You hold your breath, capturing the next sob in your throat. Your wings tug inwards, despite how you beg them not to, and your wrists ache as you try to wrench them free fruitlessly.

A sense of finality sinks in. You're going to die here.

A part of you feels like maybe you'd always known it would end like this, one way or the other. It's tired. So fucking tired of living in your intricate lie and spending each and every moment of your miserable existence on alert. On defence. Waiting for a break that never seems to come.

It's that part that can't, in any capacity, be truly upset at Azriel.

You can't resent him for leaving when you're the one who lied.

You can't regret him finding out, without regretting ever meeting him—and that means... regretting all the happiness you've truly felt.

But there's also an anger swirling within you, a rage that is as icy as it is hungry for vengeance.

Inexplicably, it feels unknown. Not your own. It starts somewhere in your chest and it only feels like it's getting bigger, growing in size, glowing hotter.

In the drone of the rain, blackness swims before your tired eyes as they begin to slip shut— only, no, they haven't closed.

The darkness is real and in front of you. It's surrounding you, curling up from under your captured arms. Despite the loud protests from your anguished body, you lift your head shakily. You're still quivering, quiet hiccups pushing out your lips.

"What are you doing, witch?" Brudam snarls from behind you, his boot on your back digging in harder. You wince, the motion dragging your wings against the splinters of the stakes. You shake your head, unable to form words.

It isn't me, you want to say.

But you're not entirely sure that's true either. The black plume is only around you, rising as though it is coming from you. Protecting you.

"Brudam!" A loud voice cuts across the rustling, nervous crowd, cutting through the din of the rain clear as night and sounding as deadly as venom. The courtyard falls into silence.

Your heart lurches up your throat. You know that voice.

Something within you cleaves in half, torn by opposite forces. On one side, there the mountainous evidence of your miserable life, of every thing that's worked against you time and time again. Of the fact that things don't work out for you, they never have. You're a fool to believe that would change now.

The other side... is a terrible, feeble hope.

Because he came back.

"Shadowsinger," Brudam greets with a sneer. The boot on your back shifts and then retreats, the warrior turning away from you. Agony tears through your body again and you hold your breath, shuddering through the silent pain with gritted teeth. A dangerous hope starts to cling to your heart.

"One chance," Azriel growls. The hair on the back of your neck rises at the promise of violence in his voice.

"Let her go."

Brudam snorts unattractively, forcing a bitter sounding laugh out. You focus on trying not to throw up as the pain fogs your brain, bile filling your mouth.

"Not fucking likely."

"Walk away." Azriel snarls his demand, sounding angrier than you've ever heard him.

"Over my dead body, bastard," Brudam spits back, the mud shifting as he digs his feet in, preparing to fight. His hand tightens around the whip in his hand.

There's a moment of silence, the wind carrying a whistle, the trees swaying as if leaning closer to listen in, two warriors sizing each other up in the pouring rain. Your ears strain for Azriel's response.

"Gladly."

And then the courtyard is doused in pure shadow.

—

Azriel moves without hesitation.

Illyrian warriors are fiercely trained to fight through every type of conditions, battling in the harshest of all seasons. Snow, sleet, rain, shine. They're disciplined to go days without sleep, to fight and win, even with one arm pinned behind their back.

But what defence is there against losing your sight?

Azriel hadn't even known his shadows were capable of such a thing. Their usual whirling expands in a blink of an eye, spreading out into a storm-cloud of blackness that drapes itself across the landscape. People murmur and bleat in fright as it creeps out deathly fast, snuffing senses and blinding everyone in the courtyard except him.

Like Rhys' own cloak of darkness, of midnight — but no, it's not night, it's shadow.

Azriel doesn't dwell on it, doesn't hesitate. Not when there's still territory, still enemies, in the space between him and you.

There's a ripple of unease from the warriors but Azriel's already advancing, the shadows beneath his boots silencing the shift of his feet. Through the darkness, Brudam gives himself away with an animalistic snarl and leads Azriel exactly to his his target.

He swings powerfully and Heartstriker does what it does best—aims true.

The bones in Brudam's shoulder makes a horrible sinking crack as the blade pierces it through, the brute giving a fiendish cry of pain.

Azriel drives it all the way through, his anger aiding his strength as he swipes out Brudam's feet. Heartstriker buries itself deep into the mud, driven by the weight of Brudam's body as it hits the ground.

All Azriel can think is that he should fucking gut him, should skin him alive. He should pull that blade and drag it forward, force it through all the muscle and shatter every bone on the way, until it pierces his awful heart.

The mating bond within him roars at him to do so, every inch of his body, of his soul, enraged at the state he'd found you in, the agonising hurt bestowed on you by this male—but it's not his kill. Azriel knows that.

So instead, he draws the Truth Teller with deft, deadly accuracy and then sinks it in deep into Brudam's groin, til the tip reaches mud on the other side.

Brudam howls, his whole body twitching as it tries to curl up against either blade unsuccessfully. Between the rain and the shadows, he's too incapacitated to do anything except wail.

Azriel doesn't waste a second, already moving. There's a warrior approaching on every side but between the gift of sight and silence in the shadow, he's devastatingly lethal.

One goes down with a slice across his throat, crimson soaking his front. The next crumbles after too many jabs of Azriel's dagger land in his torso, too slow to block them when he can't see them coming. The next, his head cut from his shoulders in one mighty swing.

Their cries join the thunder of the storm but somehow, through it all, all he can hear is the softness of your weak breath. Wounded. Fading.

Azriel's vision goes red. He moves expertly, his kills efficient until the burning rage in him gets too much and then he's slashing with pure malice, teeth gritted in hate, as he cuts down any warrior who stood by and watched. All he can feel is the thread between you and him, nearly torn from how much they've hurt you.

When the clashing of steel stops, the last foe dead, only the din of the rain remains.

Like a vacuum has opened somewhere in the sky, the inky cover of his shadow is sucked away, leaving only his sluggish moving shadows and exposing the bleak day. Carnage lies all around him. Bodies upon bodies of warriors.

Azriel can only see you.

You're still strapped to that torturous pole, your beautiful wings forcibly spread out and pinned, like you're being laid out for dissection. Across the flesh of your wings is a sickening number of thin, scarlet lines, gently bleeding.

Beneath you, in the mud, is the remains of your armor and Azriel can trace the scar that'll be left on your back from where it was cut off. The binding on your chest remains, now stained with blood.

You aren't moving.

He sprints without thought, without reason, following the bond. He finds the thread within his chest, grasps it tight, and tugs desperately. You don't even flinch.

A fear mounts inside him, more heart-wrenching than he's ever felt before. A glance down at his siphons reveals their still dull appearance—fucking useless to him.

Azriel staggers to his knees as he reaches you, his scarred hands reaching up to pry off the steel that binds your wrist to the wooden pole—ripping out chunks of the wood at the same time with his rapid, panicked motion. Your hands fall limply to your sides. He feels sick again.

"Y/n?"

He's scared to touch you, scared to do more damage that he's already caused, so so frightened that he just found you and you might already be gone.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you die. He can't—the thought is suffocating in itself, like a black hole that opens and starts pulling in his entire world— you can't die or he'll— he'll- nothing will matter anymore.

RHYS. He throws the plea out desperately, nearly delirious at the sight of your unmoving body. The words sound like a sob, even in his own mind. You have to help me.

Where are you? Rhys' voice fills his mind in an instant.

Then... a haggard breath sounds, like drawing through a mouthful of blood. You cough lightly, barely audible, and murmur, "...Azriel...?"

Something explodes inside Azriel, a burst of pure energy that fills him with relief so overwhelmingly he could cry.

Exordor. He barely manages to think properly, to even respond, beyond the staggering emotion. Come immediately. Please. I need you to- she needs—you have to help her. Please.

I'm on my way.

[NEXT PART: STRANGERS (AGAIN)]

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs @letmejustreadthanks @problemfinder @sevikas-whore @doodlebugg16-blog

@meandmysillywriting @justingnoreme @krowiathemythologynerd @hanatsuki-hime @sunny747

@coffeebeforewater @kalulakunundrum @marina468 @moonbirde (i'm so sorry! u asked me to tag u right at the beginning and i've forgotten this whole time! forgive me pls <3)

[crows-home]

a basic summary of the latest chapter of my fic. infinite has a captive audience! based on this part of a comment i got that absolutely killed me:

Sonic: *held captive in an isolation cell with little to no stimulation for like two months while knowing his friends are out there risking their lives, handles it impressively well*

Infinite: Anyway here’s my Sonadow PowerPoint presentation

Sonic: M E N T A L B R E A K D O W N

[ohsunnyboy]

living wine | song eunseok ˚₊‧⁺˖

song eunseok is good at maths, a vampire or an extreme lightweight. one of those is false, and it's not the one you think it is!

TAGS: college!au, vampire!eunseok, human!reader, gn!reader, vivid descriptions of blood, veins and feeding, kissing and caressing, gets suggestive by the end!!

A/N: eunseok has such vampire-esque visuals i couldn't help myself hehe self indulgent as per usual (idk why this turned out so long i just wanted to write some hot bloodsucking)

WORDS: ~2400

"How on earth did you get all of this wrong?" You stare at the question sheet and back at his laptop. The fang about, find out! sticker on it fraying and stained with takeout. "I thought communication studies was meant to be easy?"

"It's not wrong. There's no wrong in comm studies," he groans, still rolling about the floor of your dorm like a toddler. “I swore to Sungchan this would be the last time I change my major and he's going to tear me apart if I can't ace this."

"Oh boohoo, your mysterious campus vampire aura will be ruined. What will everyone do?" you intone, rolling your eyes.

Said mysterious vampire, Song Eunseok, buries his face into your plush cushions and groans some more. Imagine communications being the biggest of your worries in the world.

As a political science major, with a minor in vampire relations, it seemed natural when you stumbled into Eunseok's friend group at a You Can Fang event at the college. A vamp and human mixer to encourage integration due to well... reasons.

Because the thing is, vamps have only been about for 30 years.

Which is a lie. Or rather, a condensation of the fact that they've been generally acceptable for 30 years. It's only now do you find tick boxes for vampires on questionnaires, 24/7 blood banks and raw blood on the a la cartes to cater to the perpetually living.

Apart from that, it's been since the dawn of time they've been kicking about, seamlessly blending into society by acting like the rest of you. As evidenced by the one stretched out like flattened dough on your plush carpet. Eunseok physically exists at 18, has the vainness of a 15-year-old but has been kicking around for 22 whole years.

Which somehow doesn't qualify him from doing college level anything even half well.

"You still there?" Eunseok’s voice is muffled from where he's face down on the carpet, that or it's his fangs digging into his lip. He’s been limp and lethargic like this for far too long.

"Yeah, yeah just baffled at what you've written," you hum.

You shift the laptop from your lap to the floor next to you, choosing to study the moping princess. Eunseok’s brown hair is almost black in the dim of your room while also sticking up everywhere from running his hand through it constantly. Even his clothes look out of it, which is a feat for someone who always aims for college campus chic. Further, while it’s traditionally vampiric to be ghastly pale – Eunseok’s always had a tan from when he was bitten at 18 that just stuck around – his skin somehow looks even worse in the lamp light.

"What's wrong, Eunseok? You've been like this all week," you sigh.

Thump-thump. The clock ticks three times; it’s nearly midnight and the full moonlight peeks through the blinds. Thump— he shifts. “It’s nothing..." Curling further up into a ball. Like you believe that, he’s a professional whiner.

"Real convincing. How about you sit up and look me in the eyes when you say that,” you quip back. With some more prodding at his head with your foot, Eunseok sits up petulant.

You take your time to look at him properly now: Eunseok’s sunken eyes and dry mouth. It makes your own lips purse in concern. It’s a far cry to what your Eunseok usually looks like however it’s all signs of what you’ve been suspecting all this time. Idiot.

"I am completely fine,” he says it with the utmost uncertainty of any college student lying through their teeth about already having started a paper that is due the next day.

"Seok... you're paler than a sheet." When you say it, his face nearly brightens up. "That’s not a compliment!" And only then does he huff out a small laugh, eyes casting to the side.

“I’m fine, promise. Just…long night?” Eunseok mutters but it comes out like a question. You know he sleeps poor in general but that’s no excuse. You pay way too much attention to him, is what some voice says at the back of your mind, but never mind that.

Maybe it’s a reassurance when he snakes a hand around your ankle, but his cold embrace only reminds you of what he is. Maybe it’ll make whatever you plan to do just a bit easier. The question’s been dancing on the tip of your tongue since the start after all.

"...When's the last time you fed?" your eyes search for his as you ask, but he seems hellbent on avoiding your gaze.

"Why? are you offering?" Eunseok snorts and you can taste the sarcasm in his tone. He shakes his head again, before finally raising his gaze to yours apologetically. "...Look this week's been so bad. All the blood banks are low, my new TA is Satan incarnate and Sungchan chipped my tooth last time I tried feeding from him so I couldn't even feed properly then.” His finger’s drum across the skin of your ankle: pinching and smoothing.

"...and then everybody's also been busy with the new semester,” you conclude.

"Exactly.”

The silence consumes the room. You’d liken it to someone taking a fluffy blanket and smothering you in it. Dying in comfort and screaming in silence.

The sensation of Eunseok’s fingers on your skin is what grounds you. Pinch and soothe, thump-thump, pinch and smooth, thump-thump. Goosebumps have started to rise up your leg as you watch his movement. Thump-thump, pinch and smooth. You’ve grown used to his cold whenever you press against each other, even when he tries to stay away. Despite it, your heart races all the same.

Thump-thump, pinch and smooth.

The carpet bites when you crawl to him.

"Woah, woah hold on. You’re not doing what I think you’re doing.” Eunseok holds out his hand like that’s going to stop you. “You've never been fed on before,” he says it with such a painful sincerity that you think it’s meant to hurt, but right now, waiting in silence is hurting you more than he ever could.

"You need it, idiot. Besides, I trust you enough.”

"I've been a vamp for like 4 years! I don't trust me enough!"

"What happened to feeding from Sungchan a minute ago? You literally led the safe feeding talk at that You Can Fang thing last year!" You kneel back, saving yourself from your tone.  

Eunseok’s pinching and smoothing down the skin of his own hand. Nerves line him but you know he can hear your heart much better than you can your own. Thump-thump-thump—

"It was from his wrist, and it wasn’t term yet. I’ve – well, I’ve looked at yours, your veins are way too faint,” Eunseok mumbles. His beady eyes dipping towards your throat, while your own eyes track his tongue as he wets his lip. “You know I’d have to feed from your neck.” His voice trembles under the suggestion. Under this light, it should be impossible to tell if he’s blushing, but you swear he’s buzzing with heat.

You’re not stupid: you pay attention to your vampire education and etiquette classes. Enough people walked out of that feeding talk red faced and a little shifty eyed at anyone that had bite marks at the neck. The blush that sears across your face now probably mirrors theirs.

The thing is, you’ve made up your mind a long time ago.

“I’m offering, Eunseok. Don’t be more of an idiot than I think you already are.”

Thump-thump-thump—

Eunseok’s pupils swallow up the whites of his eyes, and in the next instant, you’re being lifted, straddling his thigh, his arms a crushing force wrapped around your back and cradling your head. Burying his face into the skin of your throat, he makes a high sigh of relief. Fire licks up across where you touch, eating you alive before he’s even sank a fang.

Even if he’s stone cold under your touch, the room feels like it’s been plunged into a broil, losing yourself in a steamy haze. He noses at your pulse, the tell-tale thump-thump-thump— of your own must be as loud as the fucking heavens crashing down on him. Amber and roses, the scent that’s haunted you everywhere since you got it for him, reminds you of all that he is.

(Yours.)

A breath, another, another, before Eunseok’s head tilts up from where you’ve locked your arms around him, and you come to stare at his impossibly dark eyes paired with his pearly peeking fangs. “…Are you sure?"

You close your eyes, seeking patience. “Take as much as you need, idiot.” And Eunseok exhales so hard his whole-body shakes. Your hand tightening itself at the mess of his hair. Come on, take it.

His eyes flutter, stupidly long eyelashes ticklish against your skin, his head ducks and you get a second before he presses his lips to your neck, drops his fangs and bites.

The pain is a pinch.

A sensation that will root itself into your guts and sear itself into your muscle memory. It crawls up your jaw and shatters across your head; it splits from your skull, and it streaks down your back; and then it sets aflame everything you thought was burning already. Distantly, he groans into your skin with the same neediness as before.

Where there is fire, his lips come to sooth. Eunseok lets out a soft, needful sound as he presses his lips over your skin – and maybe you do too. Every inch of you breaks into shivers. Thump-thump-thump-thump— an anthem backed by chorus. You can feel yourself losing grip in his hair, but Eunseok just pulls you impossibly closer into him, propped up in his arms as you give more onto him. Drinking you in and eating you whole.

“Thank you,” he starts mumbling into your skin, over and over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Eunseok slurs it out like prayer. Blood drunk is the word you can find floating in the haze of your mind. You turn the thought of it over and over in your head with fascination. You have to bite back a whine.

Even without the blood, you could lose yourself to the feeling of his roaming hands. Always so close to edging under your sweatshirt but catching himself every time. His hands clench at your hips, taut in a way he’s never been before.   

"Please, Eunseok..." Amid your daze, you find the strength to nod, finding his hands and slipping them under and then up, and up. You reward him, pressing a kiss to his hair. He answers with a groan that shudders down your body. Tracing the line of your spine, ribs and collar. Leaving you gasping into your quiet dorm room. You’re half aware of your agape mouth, eyes rolling to the back of your head, every part of you singing as Eunseok takes.

Propped up in each other’s arms, you don't know which one of you has given more to the sensation. Far away, you think you could sit like this for hours. Wrapped up in everything Eunseok. Subject to a degree of sheer want that you’d never want him sharing with anyone. Yours, yours, yours. It’s the anthem of your heart when you’re pressed against each other in one hot line.

…It could be another age when you feel his fangs detract. 

All you hear is your heaving breaths against the tick of the clock. The hum of your blood has plastered itself to the walls of your mind, another fixture that you’ve somehow adjusted to. Just like the cold that meets your neck again, and again. A break in the ice after drowning for hours.

Eunseok laps at the puncture wounds at your neck with enthusiasm. His hands planted firmly on your hips, holding you in place. You want to squirm as he leaves a trail of kisses to chase after the blood that drips from the wounds. Savouring every drop of you.

You bring a hand up, to cradle his working jaw, marvelling at the flush on his skin, the utter mess of his hair, how he holds you so gently.

“You… you taste like living wine. You know that, right?” Eunseok croaks out, eyes closed, head down. Something in you is struck with awe, you’ve never seen him like this. “Taste so fucking good.” He punctuates it with a kiss at the base of your throat, searing with want, humming from satisfaction.

He continues to trail them up all the way to the corner of your mouth. Teasing at your lips with his red stained ones. “You’ve ruined this for me. Don’t want anyone else feeding from you,” he purrs.

Instead of sitting there limp, you capture his face and plant a quick kiss to his lips. “Don’t want you feeding from anyone else either.” You can taste your blood on your lips as you smile and look him dead in the eye. “You’re mine too.”

Thump-thump. Eyes wide open, he stares back at you with the same craze. Partnered with Eunseok’s own brand of a self-satisfied smirk that’s driven you insane since you met him – it's mix made for devastation.

“Feel better now?” you croak out.

“All thanks to you,” he hums.

Moonlight pierces into the room and you can see him clearer now. There’s some more colour to his skin, flush from exertion, with your blood a lip-stain. Even his dazed eyes are somehow more alert than before – in spite of being a notorious lightweight.

“Let me take care you.” Eunseok preens under your hands and moves.

You nearly go dizzy from the rush as Eunseok manhandles you. Lifting you from under the knees, plastering you to his front, legs bracketing his waist, before depositing you onto your bed. A laugh escapes you from the rush of Eunseok caging you in, while landing a glancing peck on your lips

“Oh?” And you quirk your brow. A cheeky grin on your face at his own amused look. "A round two?"

However, Eunseok just rolls his eyes and collapses beside you. “We both have class in the morning and it’s like 1am.” The cheeky bugger buries into your side and slings an obnoxious leg around your hip. “I’ll get you like a Gatorade in the morning for your electrolytes when we wake up, yah?”

To be honest with yourself, there’s not enough strength in you to protest or even roll your eyes back at him. Your heart’s too busy guiding you to sleep while a hand finds yours in the night.

Thump-thump… pinch and soothe.

(Needless to say, you had to wear a turtleneck to class tomorrow morning.)

pls lmk how this turned out bc this one was a learning experience for me! a like or reblog would be lovely if you enjoyed ty <3 ⭒ masterlist

[gentil-minou]

Wei Wuxian licks his lips and leans forward slightly, walking his fingers across the countertop aimlessly toward Lan Zhan. “You know, Lan Zhan,” he drawls, “A-Yuan says we’re both in the book.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan responds, tracking the path of his fingers intently, “I am apparently Hanguang-jun, the moral upstanding hero.”

“And I’m the devious Yiling Loazu, who led you astray,” he smirks, peering at Lan Zhan through his lashes.

Lan Zhan meets his stare, head-on, lit from within like molten sunshine. “No,” he corrects, “not astray, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, waiting for him to continue. His fingers stop their dancing, resting just inches away from Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan shifts his own hand, bringing them even closer, their fingertips almost brushing.  

“The Yiling Loazu did not lead Hanguang-jun astray,” he says, eyes piercing as they flicker between Wei Wuxian’s. “They were partners, and…”

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian breathes, “the decent romance?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, watching him closely. The pupils of his eyes have grown so large there’s only the tiniest ring of gold around the edge. He can see himself reflected in the black. He thinks he likes the version of himself that lives in Lan Zhan’s eyes.

They’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the other to take a step forward, bracing for a fall.

It should be terrifying, this sudden drop into something completely new, something entirely unknown yet so familiar. But Wei Wuxian is filled with conviction that no matter what, Lan Zhan will catch him.

It's as electrifying as it is calming, this certainty that here, with Lan Zhan, he is safe.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side in a way he knows sets the unmarked skin of his neck on display. “I’m sure it was more than just decent, with a handsome hero like Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Zhan quirks an eyebrow, his gaze resting on the curve of Wei Wuxian’s neck, just as he’d hoped. "Handsome?"

“Well,” Wei Wuxian responds, tapping his index finger so it brushes against Lan Zhan’s fingertips. His skin is soft and perfect, just like the rest of him. “He isn’t wrong. You’re very handsome, Lan Zhan.”

“Really, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, voice quiet and deep.

“Yep, definitely worthy of being compared to the beautiful Second Jade of Lan.”

“Is that so?” Lan Zhan shifts closer, the smell of him filling up Wei Wuxian. He smells so familiar, like something he knows intimately. Sandalwood, Wei Wuxian realizes, with sudden clarity.

Lan Zhan continues, “I would love to hear more about your opinion on my beauty and prestige, Wei Ying.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Lan Zhan. Why would you care what I think?”

Lan Zhan tilts his head, only just. “Do I need to? To want to know how your brain works?”

I commissioned this lovely artwork by the wonderful @lotuslate of a scene from my fic, once upon a time, 很久很久以前 where the entire cultivation world is cursed to live in the modern world without their memories and abilities, but of course wangxian find a way to fall in love all over again.