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strawberrypoundtown · 1 year ago

Note

Alright, hear me out I am thinking... Werebear. I just can't get my mind off of the idea of a werebear with his little round ears and fuzzy tail who gets disturbed while trying to hibernate (Which he's admittedly not very good at)

That's it, take it and run girly~

(OH it's just a quick one shot- sike, this was a lot longer than I planned and I had to cut some of it for another time lol I should have made it two parts, but whatevs

Enjoy the show - Strawberry 🍓)

Dummies Guide To Hibernation

Clayton Briggs x Fem!Reader

You move into a new apartment complex and notice your next-door neighbor being a lot more secluded and withdrawn lately as the winter creeps in. One late night, as you're walking through the hall to your door, you notice the door to his apartment is wide open...

Contains: unprotected sex, breeding kink, size kink, light free use kink (?)

You had moved into this apartment complex just shy of 3 months ago. You were still getting your bearings, having not lived completely alone before. You always had roommates or family living with you, so finally being completely alone was strange. Your apartment complex wasn't very big. There were only two other apartments on your side of the hall, yours sandwiched between the two.

The older werewolf woman that lived on your right seemed to be pretty calm and quiet, albeit a bit paranoid. She looked to be about 40-50 years old, but could have been older. You hadn't seen her leave the complex property before, so you just chalked it up to her being a bit of a recluse. You occasionally grab her mail for her when she asks, and she's always grateful, giving you a handful of candy before sending you on your way.

The man that lived on your left was a very different story. You two had met late at night when he offered to help you move a very large chair that you had bought a few days after you moved in. You were struggling to get it into the elevator after regretting that you had ordered the orc size for the chair and not werewolf of something. Damn you and your enjoyment of large furniture.

A large, burly man with a bushy brown beard had appeared behind you during your struggle. His curly golden brown hair was short and messy. He seemed to be around a staggering 7'3" tall, easily towering over you. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, steel-toe workboots, and a reflective vest that people used on construction sites. Of course, you assumed that he just got off of work and was getting impatient with you hogging the only elevator. You were about to apologize for being in his way and try to get the chair out of the way when he put his massive hand on your forehead, gently moving you out of the way. With a faint grunt, he easily moves the chair into the elevator. He stands in the elevator with the chair next to him and enough space for you to stand next to him. He holds the elevator door open for you as he stares at you. He notices you hesitating and looks away from you, his dirt covered cheeks turning a bit red as he looked away from you. He was still waiting for you.

"O-oh. Thank you." You said softly with a smile as you looked up at him and stepped into the elevator. You clicked the button for your floor, and he nodded in response as he moved his arm, letting the door close. "You must be one of my neighbors. I just moved in about a week ago. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He let out another grunt as he nodded once again, only glancing at your occasionally as he avoided touching you in the cramped elevator. Saying he was a large man as an understatement. You had to strain your neck to look up at him, but looking at eye level or lower was even worse. He was built like a truck with a nice layer of chubbiness. He seemed so soft, so nice to hug. You just wanted him to pick you up and hold you. It was hard to focus on anything but him as his chest was only inches away from your face. You could tell that he had a very strong build, and you love a large dad bod. He was covered in dirt and sweat, but his scent was still a bit too nice for your comfort.

As the elevator doors opened, you found yourself trying to scramble out the door and out of the way as quickly as possible. You had let out a sigh of relief, trying to calm your racing heart as he lifted the chair out of the elevator with ease. He immediately started walking towards your door.

You quickly got out your keys and jogged down the hall to open your door. He moved quickly, so he was already at your door by the time you got there. Once your door was open, you led him inside your cozy apartment and towards your livingroom. As he stepped inside, he was surprised at the decore you already had up. Pictures and posters and a few fake plants with fairy lights pinned to the ceiling.

After he put down the chair where you told him to, he noticed the rest of your furniture. It was all fairly large, at least the size for most werewolves, but all covered in pillows and blankets to make it cozy. He felt like just looking at your apartment would make him fall asleep. He needed to leave. Your heart sank a bit, following him as he immediately turned to walk towards the front door.

"Thank you for your help! I don't know what I would have done if you didn't help me. I'm sorry I bothered you on your way home-" You say, but he cuts you off by holding out his hand to you to shake. You take it gently, and he begins to speak.

"Don't worry about it. If you ever need help with anything, I live next door on your left. Apartment 400. I'm pretty handy." He says softly as he looks down at you with a blank expression. His voice was deep and intimidating, but it made you feel safe and warm. His hand was big and rough, but he held your soft hand so gently, like he was worried about hurting you.

"Oh, thank you. I really appreciate that. Um... could I get your name? My name is (Y/n)." You say with a smile, staring up at him as your other hand comes up to rest on top of his. His cheeks turn a bit red once again as he stares at your hands for a moment before looking back into your eyes.

"I-I'm Clayton..." He says shyly before pulling his hand away and taking a step back. "It was nice to meet you (Y/n). I need to go." He said bluntly, his eyes avoiding yours as he rushed off to his apartment door. For such a large man, he sure was quick. You didn't even have a chance to say anything before you heard his door slam shut. You worried you angered him, but based on his pink cheeks, you assumed that he was just shy.

Over the next month, you would start conversations with him whenever you would see him. He would always stand and listen until you were done talking. Occasionally, you would mention that you were trying to do something in your apartment and would ask what kind of tools you would need. He would tell you, seemingly happy that he could give you advice. However, he never seemed to let you take his advice, because before you could even get the tools you needed, he would be over with his toolbox ready to go.

Need a shelf put up? He did it. Need your sink unclogged? No problem. He got it cleared. Need your lock replaced because your ex found out where you lived? He replaced your entire door and got you a doorbell camera.

He never accepted any money from you, always saying he just wanted to be a good neighbor and make sure you were safe. He did, however, accept food. You always made him a big plate of whatever you were eating that night. He always seemed to enjoy it after he got home, the plates returning to your front door completely clean the next morning.

However, as the fall passed and the winter started, you saw Clayton less and less. Whenever you would see him, he'd look absolutely exhausted, and you had noticed him getting thinner. He also started to occasionally walk around with his cute stubby tail and round ears out due to how little energy he had. You had found out from your other neighbor that Clayton was a werebear, so the winter season made him exhausted all the time. You felt bad for asking for so much of his time while he should have been preparing for hibernation, so you took it upon yourself to make sure he was eating enough.

Every day, you brought a container of food over to his door and left it in front of his door. You would leave a note on the container before knocking and running off so you didn't bother him further. The clean, empty containers would show up in front of your door the next day with a note that just said 'thank you'.

What you didn't know was how much it actually meant to him that you had been helping him in return. He had always struggled with his hibernation, having been raised by a pack of werewolves after his parents adopted him. They did their best, but he was never really taught how to hibernate properly. It didn't help that he had insomnia, which was very inconvenient for the big guy when it came to his hibernation time. Thankfully, during the winter, his construction jobs slowed down a bit, but it still took a lot out of him. Cooking himself dinner at the end of a long day was out of the question, so he usually got take out or nothing at all.

Imagine his surprise when he started getting food dropped off at his door every night. He loved your food. Everything you made was delicious, and he always licked his plate clean. You were so sweet with how you helped take care of him. The smell of the fantastic food you cooked flooding the hallway was amazing, but your scent had him even more entranced.

Ever since you had moved next door, just your scent from the hallway was enough to comfort him. He had already thought you were cute when you moved in, but as time went on, he fell for you even harder. Your more domestic side showing lately had been the killer for him, though. You would check in on him and give him food, a reassuring touch, like the angel you were. He wanted to help take care of you like you took care of him. He wanted you. He needed you. He always had such a hard time leaving your apartment because of how cozy it was. The moment he would walk in, he would feel like he could pass out on the floor and still be comfortable. He wished he could sleep in your orc sized bed with you and show you how much he cares about you.

He would listen unintentionally as you would take a shower or get ready for bed. The walls were so thin, and with his hearing as good as it was, it was impossible for him to ignore your whimpers from the other side of the wall whenever you'd be masturbating. Whenever he had gone in to help you put up a shelf in your bedroom, he could smell the arousal in the air from when you had given yourself an orgasm shortly before he arrived. He struggled to hide his erection the whole time. Just imagining what you did to yourself when you were alone made his dick throb in his jeans. Being able to smell that you were ovulating didn't help.

He knew what everything meant. You were his mate. He just had no idea how to tell you without sounding completely insane. You were just a human. A very soft, sweet human that surely only had the best intentions whenever they would interact. If only he knew how further he was from the truth. You had wanted him just as badly, if not more, but didn't want to make him uncomfortable. He just seemed shy to you, and you didn't want to scare him off. For such a big guy like him, you had hoped food would win him over. Every time you had him over to help fix something you didn't understand, you would fantasize about him driving his cock into you and letting out all his pent-up frustrations. And cum.

Once you found out he was a werebear, you did some serious research. You learned about how he needed a cozy environment he could use as a 'den' and how much he needed to eat. Werebears didn't sleep 24 hours a day, but they needed at least 10-14 hours of sleep every night to function somewhat normally during the day. They tend to need to eat a lot to keep up a healthy layer of fat. They can also get very, very backed up if they don't have a mate to hibernate with as they typically don't socialize during this time. You didn't know what his apartment looked like, as he had never invited you over, but you wanted to make your home as inviting to him as possible for when he came over. Especially your bedroom.

You were happy you rented in a monster-friendly apartment building due to the fact that you had an orc sized bed from the last place you lived in. It was at least 9' long, and you were always swimming in it, so you always had it loaded with pillows and stuffed animals and soft blankets. You figured that if you got some extra large blankets for him to use, he would be more inclined to come over.

But lately, he was so tired he had let his ears and tail show, his arms and chest extra hairy as it peaked out of his clothing. He was trying to conserve energy, and you noticed him not snoring much at night when he should have been sleeping, but still going to work in the morning with dark circles under his eyes. You also noticed that as the next full moon approached, he was struggling more and more to hold it together. He was nearly falling asleep standing up and more shuffled than walked to his apartment. You started making more and more food for him to leave by his door for when he got home.

Tonight was a full moon, so you knew you had to make him a lot of food because he was going to fully tranform tonight. The containers had started coming back broken with apology notes and money attached, so tonight you had gotten some disposable containers. You made him a huge spread of various roasted vegetables and fish and put all the containers in front of his door, saying that if he needed to, he could crash at your place.

That leads you to this moment, you standing outside Clayton's door. You heard him stumble home about 20 minutes ago and growling for about 15 minutes until a loud thud hit the floor. It shook your apartment, and you instantly rushed over to see if he was okay. You noticed the door was cracked open and hesitantly pushed the door open. Your jaw dropped as you saw his living conditions. It was clean, but barely had any furniture to keep clean in the first place. All he had was a large futon in the livingroom and a TV with a gaming set up.

You hear groaning coming from what you assume to be the bedroom as you carefully creep in. You peer down the hallway to see a large furry mass in the dark. A mess of ripped apart food containers were scattered down the hallway to in front of the bed. You gingerly made your way down the hallway as you tried to get a better look at him. You could tell he was already fully transformed, and it almost sounded like he was... whining? As you got closer, you noticed that he was so big half his giant furry body was hanging off the bed. He was facing away from you, but you could hear him panting and whining as his nubby tail wiggled. He was a giant ball of fur and you slowly walked up to his face. His head was huge when he was transformed. He looked like an adorable grizzlybear, minus the giant sharp claws.

"C-clayton?" His eyes snap open at the sound of your voice. Your sweet, beautiful voice. "Are you okay?... I heard a loud thud, and your door was open..." You were so kind. He couldn't believe you actually walked in here to check on him. He didn't know what to do. He was embarrassed at how his place looked. He had been so tired lately he hadn't wanted to do anything special for his hibernation, but he was regretting it now.

He bashfully looks away from you and scoots his head closer to you. You crouch down and gently run your fingers through his fur. His fur was so soft you gently rest you head on top of his as she scratched the fur around his neck. He lets out an odd growl that almost sounds like a purr as he nuzzles into your chest. He inhales your comforting scent deeply. You smell so sweet... He had to carefully pull his face away from your chest before he tried to rip your tank top off. He had noticed you weren't wearing a bra and wanted to know what your breast looked like so badly. He caught himself staring at your chest before looking up at you with his beautiful golden eyes.

"C-can I crash with you? Please?... this is bad..." His voice was hoarse as he groaned. He regret pushing his body so much and ignoring his need for a proper den. He knew your place would be perfect based on what he had seen so far. Not only that, but he would be able to convince you to share your large bed with him. It had been so long since he could cuddle anyone during hibernation...

"Of course you can. I just need you to follow me." You said softly, and you went to stand up. He stood up with you, and you couldn't help but freeze for a moment as you took in his large form. He was nearly 9' tall, staring down at you as he breathed heavily. All he had on were some boxers that were way too small once he was transformed. You could see the outline of his thick cock through the fabric. He put one of his giant hands on your shoulder and sleepily followed you next door to your apartment, being sure to at least close his door before he leaves.

Upon stepping into your apartment, he has to use his hands on your wall to stabilize himself. Walking through the threshold of your home and being hit with a wall of your scent was overwhelming. He stumbled through your apartment as carefully as possible, trying not to knock anything over. You had to guide him to your bedroom, him ducking a bit through the doorways. As he saw your bed, he let out a sigh of relief. The mass of pillows and giant blankets looked so welcoming.

"I-I hope it'll be okay. At least better than your place..." You let out a soft giggle as you opened up the bed more for him to crawl in. He didn't waste another moment before carefully crawling onto your bed. The bed dipped under his immense weight. You thanked yourself for getting a reinforced bedframe when you got your giant bed.

"Oh fuck." He groaned out as he fully laid down, his body going limp as he finally felt his body fully relax for the first time in ages. Fully stretched out, he's just as tall as the bed, but all the pillows and blankets with the softness of the mattress are perfect. He feels like he's in heaven as he turns onto his side and closes his eyes. His breathing began to get heavier, and you assume he's already starting to fall asleep. You grab the biggest blanket you have from your couch and as you lay it over him, his eyes slowly open. He stares at you for a moment as your body is illuminated in the moonlight peering in from your window. He hadn't really gotten a good look at you yet, and it was a good thing that he didn't. He wouldn't have been able to make it over to your apartment if he noticed you were only wearing a tanktop and tight boxer shorts. He could already feel himself getting hard under the covers, your scent overwhelming as he let out a soft groan.

"Clayton? Are you okay?" You ask with a worried tone. Your caring eyes are so beautiful in the moonlight. In a flash, you were pulled under him while letting out a loud yelp. He was proped up on his elbow on his side next to you, his other hand on your hip as he leaned over you. He held your body so close to his, trying his best not to rip your clothes off of you immediately. He leans down and nuzzles his face into your neck so all he can smell is you. He was annoyed at how your scent was so comforting but wouldn't let him sleep. He was pent-up, and you were his mate that made a den just for him... he needed to do something or he felt like he was gonna explode.

He moved one of his knees in between yours as he stared into your eyes, running his hand from your hip to your thigh to guide it to hook over his leg. Goosebumps appear all over your body as you feel his sharp claws drag across your skin. As you were held there on your back, you could feel his hard cock against your thigh. Fuck you were turned on. You didn't know what to do but stare back into his glowing eyes and follow his lead. He leaned in close to your face, bearing his sharp teeth as he struggles to find his words.

"I really need your help tonight (Y/n)..." He mumbles as he moves from smelling your hair to burying his nose in your collarbone.

"Look, I'm flattered... v-very flattered, but I'm not really a fan of one night stands." You say nervously, knowing that you'd want way more than just one night with him. His large, rough tongue rakes up the side of your neck, making you let out an involuntary moan.

"Who said I wanted a one night stand?" His hot breath brushes against your neck, causing goosebumps to go down your body. "I want you.. All of you... Always." His teeth ran across the skin in the crook of your neck as he inhaled your scent deeply. "If you want me, I'll stay... please..." He pleads with a deep growl. He sounds so desperate for you. You wouldn't have thought the stoic man next door would be reduced to a horny, cuddly mess, but here you are. "My mate..." He growls as he palms one of your breasts through your thin tank top, careful not to scratch you with his claws. The pressure of his body against yours is overwhelming in the best way, every touch lighting you on fire as you couldn't help but let out soft moans.

"P-please stay Clayton..." You begged as your self-control went out the window, grinding your hot mound against his leg. Your words and actions made him suck in a breath, pausing as he stared at you. He suddenly turned onto his back, pulling you on top of him to straddle his waist. He used his claws to rip a huge hole in your shorts, exposing your dripping wet pussy. You pulled your tanktop off quickly before he ripped that off while he ripped away his boxers. His massive cock sprang to life, smacking against your wet pussy lips softly. He pulled himself up to bring you in for a kiss, groaning as he

You bit your lip before grinding your cunt down along his dick. It was too dark for you to see properly, but his dick felt similar to a werewolf's dick, but much bigger. You hadn't taken someone that big before, so you were secretly happy that you were in the middle of masturbating when you heard him come home...

"Oh fuck." He strained his head back against the bed as he moaned. His hands reached up to hold your hips in place, rolling his hips back against you to get more friction against his sensitive cock. His hands were massive, both of them nearly completely encircling your waist as he held you in place. He fought against the urge to use you like a living fleshlight immediately. He felt like he was getting high off the scent of your arousal.

You brace your hands on his soft forearms as you find your footing by his sides. His waist is too big for you to straddle normally, but you don't care. You're gonna do your best. You were getting impatient, as he could feel from how his cock was completely drenched from your juices. He raises his head up to look at you, letting out soft whimpers as you pull your heat away from his needy dick. You earn a low growl from him as you decided to grab his cock and line his dripping tip up with your aching hole. His grip on your hips tightens, and you feel his claws threaten to break your soft skin. He applauded his self control in his crazed state, although every fiber of his being was telling him to just bury his cock deep inside you now. He needed you so badly.

You press yourself down on his dick, your arousal and his precum acting as lube. His cock slides into your pussy easier than he expected, but you're still struggling to take his size. His cock was so thick it stretched your pussy to the absolute limit and you were loving every second. You had only taken him about halfway, and yiu didn'tknow how much more you could take. You were trying to hold your moans as much as possible, but the attempt was futile. You groaned out in pleasure as the shape of his cock rubbed against your g-spot with every movement.

Clayton stared at you hungrily, growl in his throat that resonated through his whole body. You could swear you felt his dick vibrate, but then again, it might have been your walls fluttering to accommodate his size.

He suddenly snaps his hips up into yours, his hands on your hips keeping you in place as he buries his cock into you up to his knot. The drastic shock to your body made you scream out in pleasure. Your pussy stung as you felt the bulge at the base of his cock press against your pussy. You feel him shudder under you as you clenched your pussy around his length. You're given very little time to adjust before he starts moving your hips for you.

"F-fuck, I'm sorry... I can't control myself right now... you drive me fucking crazy... you're so fucking tight..." He growls as he watches your boobs bounce in front of him. He may have you on top, but he's the one in control. He holds your hips so firmly it may leave bruises, using your body as his personal sex toy. He is so desperate to cum, wanting nothing more than to fill you up and get you pregnant.

He wanted you to be the mom to his cubs. You were so sweet and kind. You could teach them how to make a den much better than he could. You felt so amazing stretched out on his dick. You were just so addicting.

Every movement he made you do made you feel just as crazy as him. His cock hit all the right places, your pussy quivering around him as you felt yourself getting close to cumming. Every slight curve and bend of his dick felt like heaven as he bounced you faster to chase his own release.

"I'm so close. I'm not pulling out. I want you to take my knot and have my cub..." He grunts, whimpering as you feel his dick twitch inside you. He's close, and so are you.

"Y-yes please! I want your cum in me, please! Make me cum!" You beg him, completely giving into the pleasure. You couldn't take it anymore. You were so close it almost hurt.

"Rub your clit for me, honey." He orders and you don't think twice before one of your hands finds your clit, your fingers working your sensitive clit while he works you. It only takes a few more seconds before you throw your head back, moaning like a bitch in heat as your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami. As you begin to cum, he snaps his hips up to meet yours, thrusting his huge knot into your already strained pussy. The rough action causes you to scream, squirting all over his crotch as your quivering pussy milked his cock. His dick throbbed inside you as he let out a roar, his claws scratching your hips while he came deeper than anyone had before. He filled your plugged up pussy so much your belly bulged slightly. You both struggle to catch your breath as his grip on you slowly relaxed. He couldn't help but stare at you and your beautiful body, your sweat shining in the moonlight through the window.

"I hope you're okay... I didn't hurt you, did I?" He groans out, a bit worried that in his haze he went too far. Your exhausted giggle eases him slightly.

"I'm more than okay..." You admit with a grin. Clayton chuckles in response as he feels his knot start to go down, letting him slip his cock out of you. You whimper and whine as he pulls his cock out, suddenly feeling every empty as his cum pours out of your used hole. He lets out a relieved sigh as he turns onto his side and pulls you close to him.

"I'm glad you're okay..." He whispers to you as he stares into your eyes with adoration mixed with exhaustion. You can't help but smile as his large body and thick fur make you feel like you have a living weighted blanket. His presence was just so comforting to you.

"I hope you don't mind hibernating with me." You say. He pulls you in close as he arranges the pillows and blankets around the two of you, using his arm as a pillow for you. He finally pulls the blanket over the two of you and wraps his other arm around you.

"Honey, I don't think I could have hibernated without you..." He says softly, ending in a yawn as you both settled in to get some sleep. As you two embraced each other, sweaty and satisfied, you couldn't stop thinking about how Clayton would be a really good dad. You secretly hope his seed already got you pregnant as you fell asleep cuddled into his chest. He took another good look at your gorgeous face before drifting off to sleep himself. Both of you were soon dreaming of your belly swollen with his cub and little kids running around.

He could get used to this.

#monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster x reader #monster imagine #monster smut #werebear #werebear bf

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reasonsforhope · 7 months ago

Text

"California has approved a bill to help address the dark side effects of the externally glitzy fast-fashion sector, putting the onus on manufacturers to implement repair and recycling programs.

According to CalMatters' Digital Democracy project, California Gov. Gavin Newsom signed the Responsible Textile Recovery Act of 2024 on Sept. 28, more than a year after the bill began making its way through the state legislature.

The act seeks to address the growing problem of waste from the fashion industry. CalMatters notes in its analysis that the Golden State tossed more than 1.3 million tons of textiles in 2018.

As it stands, the state ships 45% of the items that are donated overseas, which contributes to environmental pollution, and once there, much of it still ends up in landfills, where it produces potent heat-trapping gases such as methane.

In Ghana, for example, which has seen its beaches polluted by fast-fashion waste, 40% of the 15 million garments received each week are discarded. All in all, despite the fact that 95% of California's materials are recyclable, only 15% of clothing and textiles are reused.

Democratic state senator Josh Newman, the bill's sponsor, told the Guardian that these concerning figures inspired him to take action.

"We worked really hard to consult with and eventually to align all of the stakeholders in the life cycle of textiles so that at the end there was no opposition," he explained. "That's an immensely hard thing to do when you consider the magnitude of the problem and all of the very different interests."

According to the Guardian, the program is expected to go into effect in 2028, with its numerous backers anticipating it could create as many as 1,000 jobs in the Golden State.

Details are still being hammered out. However, garment manufacturers who aren't already participating in eco-friendly programs will have incentives to adopt greener practices, with recycling collection sites and mail-back programs among the possibilities.

And while some have worried that small businesses and mid-sized brands could be disproportionately impacted by the legislation and end up passing on the prices to consumers, Newman estimates that the cost should be less than 10 cents per garment or textile."

-via The Cool Down, October 3, 2024

#california #united states #us politics #north america #fashion #fast fashion #waste #sustainability #sustainable fashion #hope this ends up actually having some teeth

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sqgeism · 2 months ago

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Touchstarved! Reader? I’m thinking established relationship with Dan Heng.

Imagine him sitting down, trying to type something in, then Reader just came right behind him gave him the snuggle. Head resting on shoulders, arms encasing around his waist. You could totally do other characters too!

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞 | various hsr men x gender neutral reader

love mail — BACK TO MY ROOTS. if theres something you should never trust me to do, it's to have a consistent layout. thank you and goodnight. love u all ^_^ <3 let it b known i don't acc know mydei's nd anaxa's personalities like dat.. pls spare me eueueyh i honestly js wanted to write for them ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡ is that a crime ?! characters in order: dan heng, mydei, anaxa

dan heng's known for kind of cooping himself up in his room, even if he's got nothing but a sad mattress on the floor and an even sadder, thin blanket— he likes it. the books keep him busy, and he's able to work with no disturbances.

well. at least, that's what he thinks, up until he hears his door creak open and someone walks in while he's reading a book. his back is turned away from the mysterious intruder, taking a sip as he's engrossed with the novel in his hands.

he's trying to make guesses of who it is before he turns around, perhaps welt needed an update on a case. or march with some silly, rather insolent question.

he gets his answer when a head suddenly leans itself against his shoulders, arms around his waist and a familiar weight is pressed behind his back. "hm?" his tone significantly softens, unable to stop the fondness that came to his lover, you. his darling, sweet lover. "you've been in here all day." feeling lonely, you had taken it upon yourself to go see dan heng after a whole day of not seeing him. he hadn't come out for any meal or conversation, far too invested in the book you got him.

"you've grown lonely then?" he laughs, but you squeeze him tighter. "not funny."

you listen to pages rustling and a book closing shut, dan heng turns to face you and you don't fight it, loosening your arms just enough for him to shift positions and you're in his arms, as you should be.

"does this suffice as an apology?" he wonders, running his hand through your hair as he presses gentle kisses atop your head. before you can answer, he slowly dips you down to his bed, keeping you distracted with kisses until you feel the mattress on your back and dan heng ontop of you.

you think he'll further his advances, but he kind of just falls limp on your chest, beginning to slip into a peaceful slumber.

oh.. how you loved this boy.

mydei had a long day. aeons forbid the guy catches a break, but he's been left to lay in bed and finally rest for a day. bless the stars, a day.

and lucky you, (after relentless begging towards welt) you also had a free day! (while caelus, dan heng, and himiko go explore another planet) what a coincidence that your schedules totally align.

your relationship with mydei was simple. he spent thousands of lifetimes waiting to meet the reincarnation of his lover (you), and he did, and now you're dating him. he doesn't care that you have to go on missions with the astral express, or that you're gone for periods of time, as long as he has you. as long as you come home, and he sees you really be there.. he's happy.

and you are. a rare moment of undisturbed time of just the two of you, which was becoming rare recently. with.. everything happening.

he feels you slip into the covers behind him, and he doesn't even wait for you to adjust before he abruptly turns around and buries himself in the crook of your neck— manouvering your body with ease as you now lay on his chest and his golden eyes look down at you.

"i've missed you greatly." he says like it's a confession, taking your hands and guiding them where they want to be, one wrapped around him and the other.. on his chest, right where his heart is. "every moment away is a dagger at my heart, and i must fight my way through a war of grief in my mind." mydei murmurs, squeezing your hand in a way that is firm, but not unkind. "i hope there is a world that is kinder for us, where i may love you in a way that doesn't make me feel guilty."

he knows you're lonely at times. that you're left to lay to rest in an empty bed, instead of with the one you call your love, and it makes him guilty. in a way that consumes him whole as if someone plunged a blade right in his fatal spot. he would never want that, at least for you. to leave you alone for eternity or for even a moment.

you let him continue his murmurs for a better life, tracing scars and markings on his body while he holds you. and although time with him is rare, in the chances that you do meet—he reminds you exactly why he's spent years yearning for you.

anaxa isn't.. the same sweet case. he doesn't know how to feel about physical touch yet, but he's trying. like now, you're seated on his left while he writes notes on his recent research, poking at his hand while he works.

he thinks it's a little silly, however he doesn't mind. the way you prod at his knuckles with your fingertips, or lock your pinky with his. sometimes you'll even do your own thing. you know he can't go all the way when it comes to romance or affection, so you're willing to meet him halfway. co-existing in his world and yours, not necessarily always needing them to merge.

todays different, though. he can notice the slight frown on your lips, and he's overheard that the world was unkind to you today. he wants to make you feel better, but he's painfully awkward about it. not sure how to approach. so he listens to what his brain tells him to.

anaxa moves his hand away from your grasp, and uses that arm to wrap around you, bringing you closer and resting your head against his shoulder. it isn't a grand gesture, in all honesty. but he's made the first move, which he never usually makes. "tell me about your troubles." you want to laugh at how he almost makes it sound like a demand, but you opt to smile at him sweetly, and you can see how his gaze softens for even a fraction of a moment.

"i'm alright, anaxago—"

"anaxa." he corrects you, his grip tightening for a moment. "i told you. i prefer if you'd call me that."

he listens to you chuckle for a little bit, his own head leaning against yours. "thought you didn't like that nickname."

"i don't like nicknames. but.. if it's you, i'd rather you'd have something special. something only you can call me."

#♡ — 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #dan heng hsr x reader #dan heng x reader #dan heng #il dan heng x reader #mydei #mydei x reader #mydeimos #mydeimos x reader #hsr anaxa #anaxa x reader #anaxagoras x reader #anaxagoras #mydei x you

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womanofwords · 3 months ago

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Silver Swan (Part 1)

Neglected!fem!reader x yandere!Batfam

Headless chickens. Bruce Wayne and his children were running around like headless chickens over the gala. So annoying.

"Steph, you'd better not have taken my good corsage!" Barbara yelled. You sighed and retreated to your workspace. Just a little more of this racket and you could work on your new cloak in peace. It was a wonderful silvery colour, and all it needed was the interior fabric for comfort and warmth and the matching exterior feathers for aesthetic. You felt so fun and so mysterious just looking at it.

What should the inner lining be, though? Velvet? Cotton? Silk? Absent-mindedly, you grabbed some silver thread and wandered around with it, weighing up your options.

"Watch where you're going, idiot!" Damian scolded, knocking into you. It hurt, but you couldn't tell whether or not it was on purpose or not. "Why are you even here? You aren't preparing for anything."

He was right; you weren't. No gala invitations came in the mail for you, after all. You were always left out, for some reason.

"I wanted to stretch my legs," you said, cheerily.

"Well, you'll have to wait until we're gone. You won't get in the way like that, and we see you less." His lip curled up into a smirk.

"OK. I'll just wait until you're all gone. I'll go back to my room until then." You rushed back to your bedroom, eyes burning with tears.

Why was it never you?

You'd never been invited to a charity dinner once since joining the Wayne family. Was it because of your parentage? You had been the result of a hookup between your mother, a high-end tailor, and the prince of Gotham, Bruce Wayne himself. Maybe your origin was considered embarrassing for Gotham high society. You were nothing like Damian, who boasted of Al Ghul and Wayne ancestry, or Tim Drake, teenage CEO. You were ordinary.

And for a Wayne, ordinary was embarrassing.

You listened to Alfred drive off with them the same way you always did. Alfred would be back soon, but the rest of the family would be gone until morning.

All the better to work on your cloak.

You got out your sewing machine and worked away, opting to go with the velvet. Your dress would be a matching silver colour, and down to the ankles. Shoes would have to have thick soles so that the hems of your cloak and dress wouldn't touch the floor.

"There have to be some books about fashion around here," you mutter, as you pull books out of the shelves by the spine, dislodging them and putting them back when you had determined that this tome would be of no use to you. As you went for a book about a timeline of high fashion, sheafs of paper fell out and landed next to your feet.

You debated whether or not to look at them. Nobody was in the house, so nobody would know that you had done it so long as you put them back where you had found them. Curiously, you picked one up at random and read it.

It had your name on it. You picked up another. That one had your name on it, too. They all did, actually. What really differed were the events highlighted.

Winter Gala. Charity Ball. Annual Dinner.

Your innards twisted. You really had been invited to these events, same as everyone else. Someone in the house had repeatedly and systematically hidden your letter of invitation so you wouldn't accompany them. It was your family's doing that had left you weeping bitter tears in a home that hated you.

Those heartless bitches would pay.

Part 1 <- You are here

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Taglist: @tinybrie

#creative writing #my writing #writing inspiration #writers #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #yandere #platonic yandere #yandere batfam #batfam #silver swan

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visenyaism · 8 months ago

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Stuff about American election night that you should know:

We’re one week out! Crazy. So I know too much about US politics because I explain this for money, so I figured it might be helpful to talk a bit about what we should expect from election night. If you're not American, are new to our insane election system, or are anxious about what's happening next week, here's the deal with next Tuesday:

1. Most important thing: Do NOT expect to know the winner on election night. Different states have different laws about when they can start counting early/mail-in votes, which often slows down reporting time.

2020 took until the Saturday after to call because of the high mail-in vote count due to Covid, and while that isn't happening this time, it'll take longer than 2016, 2012, or 2008 because the polls are predicting that this one's going to be a lot closer than those. Consider just going to bed instead of staying up for the results.

2. Because of the Electoral College, popular vote doesn't matter as much as who wins each individual state does. Every state has a certain amount of electoral votes based on population, whoever wins a state gets all their votes, whoever gets to 270/538 wins. We know how most states are going to vote. The Electoral College puts the election in the hands of 7 "swing" states that could go either way. This time, that's Pennsylvania, Georgia, North Carolina, Michigan, Wisconsin, Arizona, and Nevada. These are the states to watch. Here's the map:

3. No one will know anything until polls close and states start reporting results. Doomscrolling is kind of pointless anyways, but it's especially pointless before 7pm. here's a map of closure times:

4. Data will shift throughout the night. Rural counties report results first because fewer people live there. This means the earlier you check, the more conservative the state maps might look. Do not look at the election results for any state with less than 90% reporting and freak out, especially if the state hasn't been called (deemed mathematically impossible for the other candidate to win) by multiple news outlets.

5. Voter fraud happens way less than you think it does. Pretty much never, actually. One study claims you're more likely to get struck by lightning than you are to witness actual, impersonation-based voter fraud in a modern US election. Be extremely skeptical of any voter fraud claims you might see.

6. Avoid getting news from social media accounts that aren't news outlets. There's a lot of disinformation out there, especially as AI/Deepfake tech is getting worse. Fact-check everything you might see. Anyone can make a destiel meme about the election. make sure it's true before you reblog it.

7. The electoral college sucks shit and does allow for a 269-269 vote tie. In this case, it goes to the House of Representatives, who are majority-Republican and will pick Trump. Some states might be within 1% (like 49.3%-49.7%) and candidates can demand recounts, which might delay official results by weeks or months. It HAS to be over by mid- December when the Electoral College officially votes.

8. take care of yourselves. if we're not going to know on election night, you may as well power down your phone and go to bed at a reasonable hour.

#Linked a bunch of articles throughout if you want more info.#us politics #election 2024 #i am not looking forward to it. but the only way out is through.

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zerocoded · 13 days ago

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summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: chapter two is here and i couldn’t be more grateful for all the support i’m getting for this story, i hope we can all enjoy our time here <3 for this one i’d like to clarify that i’m still trying to improve my writing and pacing so pls bear with my anxious ass until i can properly proofread it. anyways, let’s cut the bs and thirst over our confused funny reader and her hot vampire neighbour. PLS, READ THE WARNINGS FOR A SAFE AND COMFORTABLE READING.

warnings and tags: mommy issues • explanation of a cancer treatment (not detailed) • reader was forced to become an adult at thirteen (matilda's vibes) • her dad has cancer • mentions of lab reports, chemotherapy, prescriptions, hospitals • detailed descriptions of fever and sickness symptoms • reader is sick and passes out • THIS IS ANGST, I'M WARNING YOU • but we also got sarcasm and hot neighbors if that makes you feel better • this is so introspective i'm sick • jungwon is fully tatted in this story, i think i should add this • soulmates!au • vampire!au.

word count: 16k.

previous chapters: series masterlist.

the seonghyeon jaega building was known for its picturesque internal design, even the elevators had decorations.

today, it was pastel ribbons — thin, barely tied things, looped lazily along the edges of the brass railing like an afterthought.

you didn’t notice them when you were ascending to the rooftop last night. not when your embarrassment was so loud you could hardly breathe. not when you practically fled to the greenhouse after niki barged into your apartment. not when you came back down much later, heart racing, pupils blown, mouth dry.

not when your concern for your hot neighbor — because that’s all he was supposed to be — soured into something heavier. something quieter. something that curled low in your stomach and refused to leave.

sunghoon was a complex character. that much you'd noticed the very first time you saw him — standing in front of your door, black coat, mail in hand, giving you the kind of silent nod that felt like it had punctuation. he didn’t bother with small talk. didn’t seem interested in charming anyone. he was cute. quiet. mysterious in that brooding, emotionally unavailable way you hated admitting you were into.

but after last night... he became something else entirely.

not just a guy with good cheekbones and strange eyes. not just your weird, hot neighbor with an allergy to speaking.

something had shifted. and not in a fun “i think we had a moment” kind of way. more like a “maybe i was one minute away from being a missing person” kind of way.

and you weren’t saying he was dangerous. you were just saying… if this were a movie, and you disappeared mysteriously next week, he would be the first suspect. and the internet would agree.

at first, you thought maybe sunghoon was just allergic to something — you didn’t know, maybe air. maybe there was a weird flower up there in the greenhouse and he was reacting to it. you genuinely wondered, for one disoriented second, if he needed an epipen.

then you realized he wasn’t having an allergic reaction to the environment. he was having one to you.

and that’s when the alarms started going off.

because it wasn’t just weird. it was canonically weird. the kind of weird that didn’t fit into real-world logic. not just him — the whole thing. this building. his roommates. the greenhouse that felt like it shouldn’t exist on a rooftop, but somehow did.

the moment you saw his eyes — blown wide, pupils dilated like he’d just been drugged or bitten or both — you knew something was happening. and it was serious.

he couldn’t breathe right. he kept making these awful, strangled movements — like he was trying to swallow something back and failing. and then came the gulping. the salivating.

so much saliva.

you weren’t a doctor — hell, you hadn’t even passed your college entrance exams yet — but you knew what a medical emergency looked like. and that? that wasn’t that.

that wasn’t a panic attack. that wasn’t low blood sugar. that was something that didn’t belong to a normal person. and he had looked right at you while it happened.

so your thoughts, as you waited for the elevator door to open — so you could escape and hide in your apartment for the rest of the night because he begged you to leave him alone — were something like:

did i fuck up by moving here?

are they criminals?

omg, what if they’re human traffickers?

what if this is actually a cult and they’re looking for their next victim?

you weren’t being dramatic. you were being logical. or at least that’s what you told yourself as you stared at your blurry reflection in the elevator panel, trying not to have a full-blown breakdown while descending back to your floor.

you chalked it up to adrenaline. or hormones. or the silent, creeping onset of a stress-induced stroke. because how else were you supposed to explain the fact that your limbs were shaky, your stomach twisted in knots, and your mouth — for some reason — kept watering like you were watching someone eat cake on tv?

as you were inside that elevator, your head was spinning, your legs felt like someone had unplugged them mid-walk, and your skin was so oversensitive that even the elevator air felt too loud. it wasn’t fear. not exactly. it was something stranger. heavier. like your entire body was reacting to something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

the worst part was that, when the elevator finally opened and you stepped onto your floor, niki was there. again.

of course, again.

just standing in the hallway like a casually summoned demon. hands in his pockets, party attire perfectly unbothered, like he’d walked straight out of a hongdae fashion editorial titled ‘trouble but make it cute.’

you blinked at him. or — at least, you thought you did. hard to tell. it felt less like a voluntary movement and more like your body was running on lag, processing commands with a half-second delay. even your eyelids weren’t cooperating anymore.

he blinked back, completely unfazed. like finding you half-frozen in front of the elevator, breathing like a hunted animal, was just another tuesday night.

but this wasn’t a tuesday night — this was a friday night where you were supposed to have finished your college entrance essay four hours ago and kept things lowkey inside your pastel-colored apartment, eating dry cereal and pretending to be emotionally stable.

instead, you looked like you’d just seen a ghost. or worse — a really hot hallucination in a greenhouse that almost gave you a cardiac event. your hoodie was slightly damp from stress-sweat, your slippers were mismatched, and your mouth was still parted in that half-shocked, half-“please don’t let me die in a designer building” kind of way.

niki tilted his head, one brow barely lifting, like he was trying to place a scent or decode your entire existence using only his nostrils. the hallway lighting buzzed faintly above you, casting him in soft gold and you in fluorescent anxiety.

“you good?” he asked, nose twitching — subtle, but just enough to make you feel like he’d caught something in the air. something off. something you.

his small reaction made your stomach tighten, though you couldn’t explain why. embarrassment bloomed in your chest — sharp, involuntary — and you weren’t even sure what you were embarrassed about. the greenhouse? sunghoon? your face? the fact that your body still felt hijacked by a panic you didn’t understand?

you smoothed your face into what you hoped was neutral indifference. why? because you did not want to become a part of whatever cult these boys were running. you didn’t want to incriminate sunghoon in front of his possible accomplice before even knowing if they were a team or not. “yeah. totally. why?”

“just asking,” he said, tone too light — like a cat batting at a dying bug. “you look weird. smell off”

“oh, wow, thanks.” you did feel weird. but you weren’t about to unpack your almost-panic attack with your stupidly dressed neighbor while standing in a haunted hallway.

at midnight, mind you.

“you’re welcome.”

you sighed, already unlocking your door, ready to bolt inside in case sunghoon showed up with a knife. or a sword. at this point, you weren’t ruling anything out.

“what do you want, niki? it’s late as fuck.”

he shrugged. “i was asking if you wanted to come to this party with me.”

you turned to him. stared.

“niki, i’m not going to a party with you at midnight.”

he raised an eyebrow. “why not?”

“because we’re not that close, okay? and it’s fucking midnight, i need to finish this stupid essay and i need to sleep and walk my frog, whatever suits you.”

niki blinked. “you have a frog?”

“no, niki. i do not have a frog.”

he nodded slowly, like you’d just confirmed a suspicion.

“so you’re not coming to the party,” he said flatly — like your face wasn’t still flushed with nerves, like you hadn’t just come down from a near the vampire diaries death episode.

“no, niki. i’m not.”

“shame.” he didn’t pout. didn’t try to convince you. just accepted your answer like it was weather. like you were a passing cloud.

then he turned. walked off.

you watched him disappear down the corridor, steps light, hands still buried in his pockets. you kept staring until his figure was swallowed by the metal of the elevator. the doors closed with a soft ding.

and then you frowned. cursed under your breath.

what a fucking weird set of neighbors you’d managed to pull.

because what kind of approach was that? what kind of person — someone who had the audacity to call himself your friend — invited you to a party and then just... gave up. no convincing. no teasing. like the second he saw your clothes, your freezing cheeks, your wide eyes, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. like he already knew your answer.

or worse — like you weren’t the one deciding at all.

you let your thoughts about niki slip away the second you glanced into your apartment.

inside your apartment, the first thing you did was lock everything. the front door, the balcony latch, the windows — even the sliding one in the bathroom that barely opened. then you cleaned, because what else could you do? it was either that or scream into a pillow, and your neighbors already thought you were weird.

so you tossed the half-bitten cookies niki had tasted earlier, like his saliva could infect your air or something. you washed the coffee machine you still hadn’t figured out how to use without flooding the counter. you folded your laundry into uneven stacks and told yourself you’d wash them properly in the morning. everything was done with a kind of desperate, mechanical precision — as if moving fast enough might stop your thoughts from catching up.

you were trying to return to normal. to do human things. to signal to your own body that there was no threat. but even after hours had passed — after the rooftop, after the greenhouse, after sunghoon’s eyes and niki’s nose twitch and whatever the hell had happened up there — your chest still felt tight. your blood pressure was high enough to make your ears ring. your fingers twitched when you paused too long. your heart, traitorous as ever, kept hammering like it knew something you didn’t.

eventually, your body gave out before your brain could. you laid down without brushing your teeth, without washing your face, without checking your phone. just collapsed into bed fully clothed, limbs aching like you’d run a marathon, mind buzzing like a dying lightbulb.

——

living in seoul city for five weeks now had been less like a teenage dream and more like a young adult nightmare. it’d only been a little more than a month, and you were already regretting changing your emergency contact to someone who once got lost inside a daiso for four hours and blamed capitalism (niki).

the whole move was supposed to be a fresh start — a quiet little apartment, a somewhat normal routine, a chance to reinvent yourself as someone who didn’t spiral every time a stranger looked at you too long. but after the greenhouse incident, you hadn’t reinvented anything except your ability to dissociate on command.

you hadn’t seen sunghoon since that night. not even once. not in the elevator, not in the hallway, not in the weirdly lavish mailroom with gold-trimmed cubbies. even niki had stopped popping up uninvited like a cursed genie in high-top sneakers. radio silence. total blackout.

at first, you assumed it was guilt. or maybe they'd gone out of town for one of those mysterious rich-people getaways where everyone pretends to hike and secretly joins a cult. then, after a few days, you started wondering if you'd hallucinated the whole thing. the greenhouse, the pupils, the gulping. maybe it was just a panic attack — one of those real dramatic ones your body pulls when your serotonin hits zero and your caffeine intake is at god-tier levels.

you almost convinced yourself. almost.

until the acceptance email came.

at first, you thought it was spam. the subject line was too cheerful. too optimistic. too full of polite korean university jargon. but then you opened it, and there it was — bold and clean and terrifying:

congratulations on your admission to the department of psychology at hanil women’s university.

you stared at it for a solid minute, unsure whether to cry, scream, or throw up. maybe all three. you read it again. and then again. and then once more just to make sure it wasn’t a prank from your father, who once photoshopped your middle school report card and printed it on the fridge “for motivation.”

and then you called him.

“you got in?” he said, picking up after one ring, as if he’d been waiting next to the phone like a k-drama dad.

“i got in.”

“to psych?”

“yes.”

“so you’ll finally be able to explain what’s wrong with you.”

“that’s the plan.”

he laughed like it was the best news he’d heard since kim yuna’s olympic gold. you could hear the pride tucked behind his teasing, even if he still refused to say anything too sappy. this was how you and your father celebrated: sarcastic banter, cheap delivery chicken, and maybe — if you really pressed — a heart emoji in a text message two days later.

you saved the acceptance email in three separate folders, took screenshots, emailed it to yourself again just in case the system crashed and erased all evidence that you were now, officially, a psychology student. march semester. hanil women’s university. you made it.

it didn’t fix everything. your head still hurt more days than not, and your stomach kept doing this fluttery thing like it was waiting for the other shoe to drop. but it helped. it grounded you. your dad even sent a voice message where he tried to pronounce “clinical psychology” and accidentally said “clitoris” instead. you cried laughing. saved that too.

and then, just as you were finally starting to convince yourself that life was back on track — that the sunghoon incident was just a weird blip, that niki wasn’t ever coming back to sniff your hallway anxiety again, that your body would stop rebelling against you any day now — your phone buzzed.

just one notification. just one line.

save my number. how’s city life? 🌼

you read it like it might explode. because of course it was her. of course it was now. right when you were managing to piece together something resembling peace — there she was, barging in with lowercase friendliness and a fucking flower emoji. no warning. no apology. no context. just a digital ghost pressing its face to the glass of your almost-healed life.

you stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the screen like it might bite. she hadn’t contacted you in months — not since she sent you those cold, bullet-pointed instructions on how to legally transfer the lease of your grandmother’s penthouse to your name. not a call. not a birthday emoji. just radio silence. and now… this. polite. breezy. like she was reintroducing herself.

you and your mom never had a real relationship. not after she left your father — not even two months after he started chemo — because her own mother couldn’t stand the idea of her daughter being married to a countryside fisherman.

there was no explosive fight. no door slamming or screaming match. just a quiet kind of abandonment, like someone slowly stepping backward out of the frame. you didn’t beg her to stay. you didn’t cry at her feet. you were thirteen, already too familiar with watching people leave and too tired to stage a dramatic protest.

you never had that teenage rebellion backbone — not the kind that slammed doors and yelled “you don’t understand me” through tears and acne. mostly because you didn’t have the time. you were too busy trying to hold the house together.

your mornings started before sunrise, heating up leftover rice and folding the blankets your father left on the couch when he was too nauseous to sleep in his bed. you’d take the bus to school, headphones in but nothing playing, brain looping through test dates and pharmacy receipts. in the evenings, you’d come home, drop your bag, and start cleaning again. washing dishes, checking the water filter, cooking something he could actually stomach.

your grades hovered somewhere between “survival” and “bare minimum,” not because you weren’t smart, but because you were exhausted. every hour of algebra felt like a theft — time stolen from the real emergencies. and when your classmates complained about their parents being annoying, you stayed quiet. you didn’t know how to explain that your mom had vanished into a new apartment across seoul, and your dad was losing his hair in clumps in the bathtub.

you learned how to read lab reports before you could even understand half of them. you taught yourself how to refill prescriptions without crying at the pharmacy counter. and at some point, you stopped wondering whether your mom was going to call. because she didn’t.

for years, han seo-jeon vanished. and you were too busy to care about that.

and now, here she was — texting like she was trying out for mother of the year. asking how city life was like she hadn’t helped drop you into the middle of a building that felt cursed. you didn’t know what pissed you off more: that she reached out, or that some small, bitter part of you was still hoping she meant it.

you did save the number. not out of sentiment, but logistics. she was, unfortunately, still your mother. and if she was going to start texting again, you at least needed to know when to emotionally flinch.

life in the city had not been the neon-lit montage the commercials promised. no rooftop parties. no cute cafés where you accidentally met your soulmate while reaching for the same scone. instead, you got: weird neighbors. a haunted greenhouse. and an apartment that echoed too much when you were overthinking — which was, statistically speaking, most of the time.

for the past two weeks — since your hot neighbor had an allergic reaction to you — your days were a blur of mild headaches and to-do lists you never fully finished. you woke up late, ate bland convenience store meals, and tried not to notice how heavy your limbs felt lately. it was like your body was trying to warn you about something but refused to be specific. even your skin felt wrong — itchy but not irritated, like your cells were in a group chat and everyone had started subtweeting you.

it’s been two weeks since the greenhouse incident and you haven’t seen this building as empty as it’s been. not a single glimpse of sunghoon — not in the elevator, not in the halls, not even in the mailroom where you used to hear his shoes before you saw him.

and niki, who once acted like the hallway was his personal runway, had vanished too. no impromptu visits. no weird comments through the door. not even a single “you good?” text with the passive-aggressive concern of a guy pretending not to care.

you stopped hearing late-night music thumping through the walls. the gym — which was always suspiciously clean for a place that niki once described as “his meditation zone” — stayed dark every time you passed it. the whole building felt like it was holding its breath. like it knew something you didn’t.

and maybe the scariest part wasn’t that they were gone. it was that no one else seemed to notice. no neighbors asking questions. no complaints about noise or missing faces. just… silence. echoing down perfect, pastel-colored halls. like the seonghyeon building was designed to swallow noise. and people.

you told yourself the silence was a good thing. that it meant peace. that it meant maybe things were finally settling into something normal — something liveable.

but when nighttime came, when your apartment dimmed into shades of grey and soft buzzing fridge hums, when you hadn’t more essays to finish because you finally had been approved, the quiet got loud.

it crawled up the walls and pressed against your windows. it sat with you on the couch, next to your half-eaten dinner, and watched you scroll through your phone like it was waiting for you to break first.

you weren’t sleeping much. the insomnia wasn’t new, but it was different now. not the usual overthinking or anxiety kind — not the kind you could talk your way out of with youtube playlists and peppermint tea. this was… physical. your body didn’t want to sleep. it felt like it was bracing for something. like your heart refused to settle into a rhythm unless it knew you were alone, and safe, and not being watched.

at first, you chalked it up to the winter weather. maybe you’d caught a cold walking home with wet hair. maybe the convenience store ramen diet was finally taking its revenge, one sodium-packed headache at a time. your body ached like it had been through a minor car crash — but you were a student again now, technically. a little exhaustion came with the territory.

but when the symptoms hit the two-week marker, you started to get restless. it wasn’t just fatigue anymore. it was this bone-deep tired that sleep didn’t touch. your limbs felt heavy. your skin pulsed under certain lights. your migraines weren’t even announcing themselves like normal — they just showed up, sharp and unapologetic, like a knife pressed between your eyes.

some days you couldn’t even look at your own reflection without feeling like your face was one second away from morphing into someone else’s.

you tried to brush it off, blame it on stress, or hormone shifts, or anything that wasn’t weird supernatural fallout from a rooftop garden horror show. but your dreams said otherwise. and the worst part? you were starting to believe them.

sleep had never been your strong suit — not since you moved into the seonghyeon building, not since that night. some nights you fell asleep without realizing it, slipping into unconsciousness between one thought and the next. other nights you’d lie awake for hours, heart pacing like it was running laps without your permission.

but lately, it wasn’t the lack of sleep that bothered you. it was what came after.

you were never one to actually remember dreams in the morning. you’d wake up blank, maybe with a flicker of color or the echo of a word on your tongue, but nothing concrete. now, though — now they clung to you. heavy and wet.

they didn’t always make sense. sometimes you couldn’t recognize the places or the faces. sometimes there wasn’t even language, just this overwhelming pull — like your subconscious was trying to lead you somewhere you weren’t ready to go.

and the worst one came midweek, on a tuesday or maybe a wednesday — you’d stopped keeping track. you’d been up until 4 a.m. trying to finish your entrance essay, blinking at the screen like it might write itself if you stared hard enough.

eventually, your body gave up before your brain did. you passed out right there on the couch, lights on, laptop humming warm against your leg.

in the dream, you were back in the greenhouse. only it wasn’t beautiful anymore. the air was wet and sour, like rotting soil and mold. the plants were shriveled, leaves curling in on themselves like dying hands.

the glass walls were fogged over, and the lights buzzed low, flickering. you couldn’t tell how long you’d been standing there — just that your feet were bare and your skin was cold.

and then you saw him. sunghoon. standing still in the center of it all, surrounded by the decay. same black clothes. same unbothered posture. but his eyes… they glowed this awful, pale gold, like old moonlight trapped behind water. he didn’t speak. didn’t move. just watched you. watched you like he knew something. like he was waiting for you to admit it out loud. whatever it was.

you woke up gasping. drenched. fingers clenched in the fabric of the couch cushion so hard your nails left dents. your skin was damp with sweat, and the back of your neck felt like it had been kissed by frost. your heartbeat didn’t calm down for ten full minutes.

you didn’t go back to sleep after that, or the night after that. and now, without even noticing when it started, you hadn’t properly slept in four days. not real sleep. not healing sleep.

you were running on half-hour naps and caffeine shakes, staring at your ceiling like it might blink first. your body was forgetting how to rest — how to switch off — and your brain? well, your brain had entered that fun little stage of exhaustion where everything started feeling like a hallucination.

you kept misplacing things. your keys. your charger. your sentences. your skin felt too tight, your ears kept ringing, and your eyes burned every time you blinked.

you tried to blame it on the season, the new routine, the stress of college. because you had gotten in — that was real. the email had arrived last tuesday, and you’d cried over it in the bathroom like a girl in a coming-of-age movie. but even that joy felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else.

and now it was monday night again. fourteen days since the last time you saw any of your neighbors — not sunghoon, not niki, not even the middle-aged man with the dog that barked at its own reflection in the lobby mirror.

the building had gone eerily silent. the kind of silence that didn’t feel like peace, but like someone was holding their breath.

you were lying on your back, staring at the ceiling like it owed you answers. your phone rested on your chest, heavy and useless, buzzing every now and then with reminders you’d already missed and ads you’d never clicked. one missed call. one weather notification. zero messages from the people you told yourself you didn’t care about hearing from.

your brain was cotton. your limbs were bricks. your spine felt like it had been politely removed and mailed to another country. nothing helped — not water, not caffeine, not your fifteen-minute attempt at yoga that ended with you lying flat on the mat wondering if this was how people in cult documentaries started.

and the dreams weren’t letting up. they came every fifiteen-minutes nap now, and each one ended in that same suffocating greenhouse, with those same rotting plants and those same pale gold eyes watching you like a question you didn’t want to answer. you were starting to feel haunted by someone who hadn’t even spoken to you in two weeks.

so you called your dad. not for answers, not even for comfort — just because monday nights were the kind of nights where calling him felt like survival.

“kid,” he answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and instant worry, “you sick?”

you scoffed, immediately offended. “wow. no hello, no i missed you, just straight to the diagnosis.”

“your breathing’s weird. you’ve got the voice of a medieval orphan. you eating real food or just surviving off noodles again?”

the thing about your father is that he became your friend sometime between your fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays — sometime between hospital visits and pharmacy receipts, between learning how to drain an IV and helping him shower when the chemo made him too weak to lift his arms.

that kind of routine broke people, sometimes. made them distant. awkward. in your case, it did the opposite. it turned him into your favorite person. the only person who really knew you.

and by “knew you,” you didn’t mean in that fake, sentimental way people threw around when they wanted to be close. no. he knew you.

he could read your breath like punctuation. he heard your sighs like subtext. he could tell when you were lying just by how you said the word “fine.” he always knew when your laugh meant happy and when it meant not right now, please.

so when he picked up the phone and didn’t even say hello — just launched into a casual, “okay, how long have you been pretending you’re fine?” — you weren’t surprised. you just let your head fall to the side and sighed into the speaker.

“jesus, dad. give a girl some mystery.”

“mystery’s for strangers. and you don’t call me this late unless something’s up. so. what’s wrong? food poisoning? heartbreak? crime?”

“crime?” you snorted. “what kind of crime?”

“you tell me.” he yawned. “you’re the one whispering like someone’s watching.”

“i’m not whispering.”

“yet.”

you pulled your blanket higher up your chest. the warmth didn’t help much, but the sarcasm did.

“it’s not a big deal. just haven’t been sleeping.”

“for how long?”

“…i plead the fifth.”

“that’s an american law, kid.”

“then i plead being very korean and very tired.”

he chuckled on the other end — that low, warm sound that always made you feel like a person again. “okay. insomnia. check. what else?”

“you want the list alphabetically or emotionally?”

“surprise me.”

you paused. the line stayed quiet. and then: “you ever feel like your body knows something you don’t?”

that made him go silent for real. then, in the most casual tone imaginable: “are you finally becoming a vampire?”

you groaned. “dad.”

“what? you always had the teeth for it.”

another thing about your dad was that he was, in fact, obsessed with vampires since his teenage years. how did you discover that?

oh, he never kept it hidden.

the man had tastes, and they were proudly undead. your childhood home had shelves dedicated to vampire literature, half of them worn out from rereads, the other half banned from your school’s book list.

it wasn’t just books either. halloween — a day that barely made a ripple in your korean school life — was his super bowl. even if there was no party to go to, no one to impress, he’d still show up on october 31st dressed like an eighteenth-century romanian warlord, sipping blood-red juice from a goblet he bought off some sketchy forum in 2009.

once, he wore a victorian frock coat and a prosthetic bite wound to your school’s parent–teacher meeting because he forgot to change. you’d never lived that down.

he was harmless about it, though. just enthusiastic. you used to think it was a dad thing — like model trains or grilling. but as you got older, you realized he didn’t just find vampires cool. he respected them. like they were a dying species whose stories deserved to be preserved.

he claimed it started as a joke. some middle school phase, back when vampires were still making headlines. but it stuck. and now, years later, he still made the same awful jokes and kept the same bookshelf and watched the same bootleg documentaries that used actual vampire interviews from the early days, back when coexistence was something society still tried to publicly understand.

he used to say, “one day they’ll come back around. real ones. they never disappeared, they just got quieter. like wolves when the forest burns.”

“you’ve been waiting your whole life to say that, haven’t you?” you mutter through clenched teeth, voice scratchy with exhaustion as another migraine slices across your skull like a dull knife.

“literally. your mother hated when i made those jokes. said it would scare you.”

“it didn’t scare me. it made me judgmental.”

“same thing at your age.” he paused, then added more gently, “what’s your symptoms?”

“i think i’m dying. pretty sure. either i’m dying or i’m the chosen one. probably both.” you grimace alone in your bedroom.

he chuckled. “you always wanted to be special. now look at you. main character syndrome.”

“dad, i’m serious. something’s off. i’ve been having migraines and dreams and…” you trailed off. rubbed your temple. “weird stuff. i can’t explain it. it’s probably stress, right?”

“or,” he said, entirely too cheerful, “you’ve been marked by a vampire.”

you groaned. “not this again.”

“hey, you brought up chosen one energy. don’t act surprised when the lore gets involved.”

you stared at the ceiling, lips twitching despite yourself. “lore? have you been sneaking onto aeri’s tiktok again? you’re obsessed.”

“obsessed is a strong word. passionately informed, maybe. listen—back in the eighties, they were everywhere. on the news. in magazines. talk shows. you’re too young to remember, but vamps were the real deal. civil rights protests, televised feedings, designer blood banks—hell, they had perfume lines.”

“dad.”

“and the soulmate stuff? wild. freaked people out. imagine waking up one day and realizing some pale bastard with three centuries of unresolved trauma has you bookmarked in his little undead brain. bam. linked for life.”

you snorted. “you say that like it actually happened.”

“it did happen. i had a friend in middle school—joon-seok—swore up and down his aunt bonded with a vamp in the seventies. met him at a blood drive or something. said she had dreams about him for weeks before they even locked eyes.”

“uh-huh.”

“i’m serious! back then it was like—vampires weren’t some secret club. people knew about them. they had ID cards, worked night shifts, bought supplements, did press tours. hell, there was this old drama your grandma used to watch where a vampire opened a pharmacy. they were around, okay?”

you raised an eyebrow. “then where are they now?”

“vanished,” he said, a little too dramatically. “right after the second blood regulation act in '93. that’s when everything got strict. no more voluntary donors, only licensed feeding centers, stuff like that. vamps started leaving the cities. some went underground. some just… stopped showing up.”

“so now they’re like urban legends with tax records.”

“basically. but back in the fifties, when the law passed that made them part of school curriculum, people freaked. there were protests. some parents didn’t want their kids learning about blood bonds or mortality rights. said it was corrupting the youth. but most people didn’t care. not really. they figured the vamps were gone anyway, so what was the harm in reading a textbook about them?”

you were quiet for a second. your fingers traced the hem of your blanket. “but they’re still around.”

he sighed, softer now. “probably. just hiding better. or maybe they figured out humans aren’t worth the hassle.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you didn’t even know if you believed half of what he’d said — and yet… you wanted to.

maybe because lately, your dreams were starting to feel less like stress and more like memories that didn’t belong to you.

“you’re quiet,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“just thinking,” you replied, which was technically true, but your voice came out thinner than expected. you shifted on the bed, pushing the blanket down to your waist, your skin suddenly too hot.

you’d been feeling like that all day — warm in your joints, flushed in your chest, like your blood was dragging itself uphill. it wasn’t a fever, exactly, but it wasn’t nothing.

on the other end, your dad went silent for a beat. “how long has this been going on?”

“what?”

“the weird dreams. the migraines. the fact that you just said three words without a single joke in them.”

you rubbed your forehead. “don’t start.”

“i’m serious, kid.”

“so am i. i think it’s just... the city. or the stress. or hormones. or caffeine withdrawal. or,” you inhaled, voice flattening, “i’m dying and it’s a really slow, poetic demise.”

“you’ve always been dramatic,” he said, but he didn’t sound amused anymore. “have you seen a doctor?”

“no insurance yet.”

“baby—”

“dad,” you cut in, then sighed. “i’m okay. just a little off.”

he didn’t answer immediately. and when he did, it was softer. older. “you sound like how your mom used to get.”

you blinked. “what do you mean?”

“back before... everything. she’d go quiet like that. said her skin itched from the inside out. said her dreams smelled like soil and smoke.”

that made your stomach twist. “you never told me that.”

“you never asked.”

and there it was again. that quiet, pulsing unease. like something was being handed to you in pieces — but the full picture still refused to come together.

“you know,” your dad added, offhand, like it wasn’t about to lodge itself under your skin for the next several years, “your mom used to get these weird spells too. back in the day.”

you blinked. “what kind of spells?”

“feverish, bone-deep fatigue. said it felt like her whole body was… not hers. she’d get these migraines that knocked her out for days. always happened around seasonal shifts or when she got really stressed. i took her to the hospital once and they ran every test imaginable. nothing ever came back.”

your heart gave a slow, reluctant thud — like it was unsure whether to beat faster or stop altogether.

“i thought it was just anxiety,” you said.

“it might be,” he replied quickly, too quickly. “probably is. you’re under pressure, adjusting to a new city, new apartment, starting college — it’s a lot.”

but he didn’t say it like he believed it.

and you didn’t hear it like you believed it either.

he seemed to sense the silence hardening between you, because he cleared his throat. “okay, let’s just make a list, yeah? go full nurse mode.”

you exhaled, quietly grateful for the deflection. “sure.”

“fever?”

“not exactly.”

“headache?”

“migraine.”

“appetite?”

“dead.”

“joint pain?”

“like old creaky stairs.”

“chills?”

“yes. but only sometimes. like… internal shivering.”

he hummed. “hm. sounds like what your mom said, too.”

you didn’t answer. not really because you didn’t want to. more because you couldn’t — because the words sat heavy on your chest, like something that had been waiting to be remembered.

he kept talking, light again, half-joking like always. “could be an autoimmune flare. could be your iron. could be a ghost. could be—”

“a vampire?” you deadpanned, waiting to see his reaction.

“finally! thank you for saying it first. you brought up ‘chosen one’ energy. don’t act surprised when the lore gets involved,” he repeated with far too much glee.

you scoffed, shifting the phone to your other ear as you curled deeper into your blanket cocoon. “you need a new hobby.”

“i do. how’s city life treating you aside dying from fever dreams and vampire encounters? made any friends yet?”

you hesitated. just enough for him to catch it.

“...no,” you said eventually. “not really. just weird neighbors.”

“hmm.” a beat. “any of them look suspicious to you?”

you scoffed again — but it came out closer to a laugh this time. not because it was funny, but because it was accurate. “dad. this building is suspicious. the floor tiles look suspicious. i’m pretty sure the elevator music changes based on your blood type.”

he snorted. “so that’s a yes.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

you rolled your eyes, but a small part of you was glad he asked. even if you weren’t about to admit that the weirdest one of all had glowing eyes in your dreams and possibly an allergic reaction to your existence.

“look, kid,” he said, suddenly serious in that half-joking, half-dad way of his. “if any of them turns out to be a vampire, you call me first, okay? i want to meet one before i die.”

you snorted. “right. i’ll schedule a coffee date between your blood pressure pills and my hallucinations.”

“i’m serious. call me. and then you run, alright? don’t be cute. don’t do that heroine nonsense where you try to understand him or fix him or whatever. just—bolt. fangs equals exit.”

you rolled your eyes, even as your chest squeezed a little. “yeah, yeah. wooden stake, garlic, sprint in the opposite direction. got it.”

he paused. “...you still carrying that pepper spray i gave you?”

you didn’t answer immediately.

“do not tell me you lost it.”

“technically,” you said, drawing the word out, “it’s not lost if i know it’s somewhere in my kitchen junk drawer.”

“god help you.”

“god’s not the one with bloodlust in my building, dad.”

“exactly why i’m saying this.” his voice softened. “you’re a smart girl. just… trust your gut, okay?”

you didn’t have the heart to tell him that your gut hadn’t been reliable since sunghoon looked at you like you were something to be devoured and saved all at once.

“okay,” you whispered instead.

“good. now go drink water or something. you sound like you’re dying.”

“thanks for the emotional support.”

“anytime. love you.”

“love you too.”

you hung up. and for the first time all week, your apartment didn’t feel entirely empty. just a little haunted.

monday night came in like a ghost—silent, heavy, and cold. for the first time in a while, you weren’t sure if you were awake or dreaming. after you hang up the call with your father, your body floated through your night routine of existing while your mind kept slipping out of your grip. everything tasted like metal. your skin was clammy, your head hot, but your fingers ice-cold.

you fell asleep that night without meaning to, face buried into your pillow, phone buzzing somewhere under the blanket. and for the first time, the dream didn’t take place in the greenhouse.

this time, you were at a bar.

warm lights buzzed overhead, golden and slow, like honey. niki sat across from you in a booth too plush to be real, his hands wrapped around a glass filled with something electric blue. you were laughing—no clue why—but the kind of laughing that made your ribs ache, cheeks flushed. he was grinning, head tilted, like this was a game he knew how to play.

and then it changed.

like someone had ripped the film reel and taped another piece of movie over it.

the lights dimmed. the music stopped. everything blurred. your breath came out visible, like fog. and niki looked at you without smiling this time. not cruelly. not kindly. just looking.

"he didn’t mean to scare you, you know." his voice was so thick it made your insides tremble.

you blinked. "what?"

"you’re not supposed to feel it this strong."

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. the booth dissolved around you. the lights disappeared. and then you were falling, stomach-lurching, skin searing.

you woke up with your hand clenched in your sheets and the inside of your mouth tasting like copper. your body was soaked in sweat. the window was fogged over. your throat felt raw. every muscle in your body ached like you had been sprinting in your sleep.

by the time you sat up, your phone said it was 6:02 a.m.

you didn’t think. didn’t even wash your face. you just threw on your thickest hoodie, dragged yourself into your boots, and called a cab.

you needed a hospital.

something was wrong. your body had been telling you for weeks. you were just finally ready to listen.

you grabbed your keys off the kitchen counter with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. not dramatically — just this quiet, persistent tremor, like your body was trying to ring some kind of alarm your brain still hadn’t heard.

your hoodie felt too hot and not warm enough at the same time, clinging to the sweat still clinging to your skin. your breath fogged the front door glass. you ignored the mirror by the entrance completely. you already knew you looked like shit.

stepping out into the hallway was like stepping underwater. the building was so quiet it felt wrong — not peaceful, but hollow, like it had been emptied out moments before you arrived.

your boots were too loud against the marble, each step echoing in a way that made your stomach twist. and then you pressed the button for the elevator.

you pressed the button. the elevator arrived.

and that’s when you saw him.

a someone you have never seen properly.

red hair. tall. face like someone who didn’t try to look good, just was. hands in his pockets. bored expression. headphones around his neck, not on. you blinked, confused for half a second — and then your brain clicked into place. heeseung. that’s what niki had said. the quiet one. the scary one. the one that belonged to your hot set of neighbors that had disappeared for two whole weeks.

you’d never actually spoken to him. hell, you’d never even seen him this close before. just glimpses inside their apartment once, whispers in passing. but now, at 6:13 a.m., in your half-dead state, he was standing in the elevator like some glitch in your morning programming.

heeseung didn’t look at you at first. just shifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting company. and then — his nose twitched.

subtle. sharp.

just like niki had done that night after the incident.

and then he turned. slowly. deliberately. his eyes scanned your face, dropped to your hands, then back up again — like he was taking inventory. like you were… something.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t smile. but he definitely noticed you.

you stepped inside anyway. because you had to. because your chest felt too tight and your throat burned and if you didn’t sit down in a sterile waiting room within the hour you were pretty sure your organs would give out.

heeseung moved slightly to the side, still watching you out of the corner of his eye. the doors closed. the elevator began to descend.

you focused on the panel, the numbers lighting up one by one. he didn’t speak. didn’t clear his throat. didn’t reach for his headphones. he just… stood there. completely still.

you were too exhausted to care. too sick to feel awkward. too scared to ask why, when his nose twitched again, his throat visibly tightened — like he was resisting the same instinct you’d seen flood sunghoon’s eyes on that rooftop.

the elevator dinged softly as it reached the lobby, the sound barely registering through the static in your skull. your limbs moved before your mind could catch up — muscle memory, maybe. or sheer desperation. you stepped out, blinking under the fluorescent lights, the air colder here, sharper, like it hadn’t been used all night.

heeseung didn’t follow immediately. you paused, slow, turning your head slightly, just enough to see him still inside the elevator, standing exactly where he’d been the entire ride down. his gaze flicked toward you. brief. unreadable.

and then he turned — not toward the glass exit like you had, but deeper into the building. no words. no goodbye. just a quiet pivot on his heel and footsteps swallowed by the corridor tiles. gone. like he hadn’t just stared at you like you were something he almost recognized.

you stood there for a moment, dazed. the outside world waited on the other side of the sliding doors, all grey sky and early winter air, your breath already fogging against the glass. you were still half-drenched in cold sweat, your hoodie clinging to your spine, fingers twitching with leftover dream static.

then, as if on cue, headlights flashed against the curb. your cab.

you pushed through the doors. the cold hit you instantly — fresh and cutting, but grounding. you stumbled more than stepped toward the car, collapsing into the backseat with all the grace of a wet noodle.

you didn’t look back. not at the building. not at the glass doors. not at the place where heeseung had disappeared.

you just pulled the door closed, gave the driver the hospital name, and leaned your head against the window.

whatever was happening to your body — whatever strange, slow collapse you were crawling through — you were done ignoring it.

——

the ride to the hospital was slow. slower than it should’ve been for a six a.m. trip with no traffic, but maybe that was just your body dragging time behind it.

every turn of the cab made your stomach lurch, your pulse throb at the base of your skull like a broken metronome. you curled tighter into your hoodie, eyes half-shut, watching the city yawn awake through the fogged window.

streetlights flickered out. bakeries opened metal shutters. someone walked their tiny dog in a matching jacket. the world was still spinning, business as usual — but your body hadn’t gotten the memo.

hospitals were never your favorite place. you’d spent too many late afternoons in one, slumped beside your dad while he slept through chemo, trying to balance a school textbook on your knees and pretend you weren’t thirteen and terrified.

back then, hospitals smelled like antiseptic and fear. now, they smelled like routine and something sour rising in your throat.

the emergency wing was mostly empty when you stumbled in, barely able to speak past the burn in your chest.

they made you sit. take a number. the nurse who called you in was young, her ponytail too tight and her smile too professional to be comforting. she took your temperature, your blood pressure, asked how long you’d been feeling this way — and your answers were all a blur of shrugs and mumbles.

she furrowed her brow. called in someone else. another nurse. a maybe-doctor. you were poked, prodded, and ultimately left with a note scrawled on hospital paper and a prescription for the most generic painkillers known to man.

nothing definitive. no test results. no dramatic diagnoses. just vague nods and “it’s probably viral” and “get some rest.”

you’d nearly laughed in their faces. but your lungs hurt too much.

you’d barely made it down the hallway before your phone slipped out of your fingers twice while trying to open the ride app. the nurse at reception gave you a pamphlet about hydration and a smile like she thought you were dramatic, and maybe you were — you were twenty-three, chronically underslept and iron-deficient.

of course you were dramatic. but you were also right. something was wrong. they just didn’t have the equipment to name it.

the cab smelled like mint gum and cigarettes, and the driver didn’t ask questions, which was kind of perfect. you stared out the window the whole ride back, watching the city flicker past in washed-out gray. your throat burned, and your stomach rolled, and there was only one place your body wanted to collapse.

and then, finally, the seonghyeon jaega building came into view — dark, looming, stupidly expensive. familiar. you tipped the driver more than you should’ve and slid out without a word.

you stumbled into the lobby like a cartoon ghost, hoodie strings dangling, hospital paper crumpled in one hand. this time, the doorman was there — the one with the dead fish eyes and the ridiculous thermos with a cartoon shark on it, hyunwoo, you think.

he looked up from his crossword and smiled politely.

“good morning, miss.”

you nodded, tried for a smile, something automatic. it barely stretched across your face. “morning.”

he didn’t press. just nodded back, went back to his puzzle like you weren’t the walking dead in fuzzy socks.

your chest was still tight by the time the elevator closed behind you. your fingers fumbled the painkillers into your mouth like muscle memory. water, swallow, sigh.

the elevator doors closed with that same slow, deliberate finality they always had, like the building itself was chewing you up and giving you a moment to realize it. you leaned your back against the mirrored wall, the cold glass seeping through the cheap fabric of your oversized hoodie. underneath, you were still wearing the thermal pajamas you’d left the house in — flannel with little blue bears on them. cute, in theory. tragic, in the fluorescence of an elevator that smelled like metal and lemon cleaner.

the temperature was impossible to pin down. too warm around your neck, but your fingers felt icy. your breathing grew shallow — not panicked, exactly, just... off. like your lungs were trying to inflate through a coffee straw. your legs ached, your spine was stiff, and your vision flickered at the edges like a dying film reel.

and then there was the music.

soft, aimless, infuriatingly cheerful — some instrumental jazz cover of a pop song you couldn’t name. it filled the silence like a joke you weren’t in on.

your head tilted back. your eyes slipped closed just for a second.

your knees wobbled.

you didn’t even notice the bell ding — didn’t realize the elevator had reached your floor until the doors sighed open, cool air brushing against your clammy face. you blinked once. twice. the hallway felt darker than usual. not unlit — just dim in that way that made shadows stretch longer.

and that’s when you heard it.

music. faint, pulsing through the air — not elevator music, but actual music. bass, low and smooth, like a party was happening behind closed doors.

your neighbors. their apartment. the one that had been silent for two full weeks. you hadn’t seen any of them. not even a sliver of a shadow beneath their door. but now, someone was definitely inside.

you stood frozen, one hand halfway inside your hoodie pocket, searching for your keys. the motion felt foreign now, like your limbs belonged to someone else. you looked down — or tried to — but the world tilted slightly, just enough to make your breath catch.

your fingers felt too thick, your palms too sweaty. and your vision… it was wrong. blurry in the center, like someone had smeared vaseline over your pupils.

it hit you, then — the vertigo, sudden and sharp. like your body had lost the plot entirely, like it was trying to reject gravity itself.

your knees buckled, and you had to lock them to stay upright. the hallway stretched before you, distorted and too quiet. like it was holding its breath.

you tried to laugh. just a small, sarcastic breath. but it came out wrong.

if this was how it ended, death in fuzzy socks and blue bear pajamas, you hoped the morgue at least had the decency to change your clothes.

your hand was still braced against the wall when your vision gave out for real.

it started at the edges — a gray blur creeping inward, slow and soft like fog rolling off the ocean. and then came the ringing. a high, steady whine that drowned out everything else.

you blinked hard, tried to shake it off, maybe whisper a curse to yourself just to prove you were still awake, still standing, still you. but your tongue felt too heavy in your mouth. your body didn’t move. it just paused — like a system crash in real time.

you took one step.

the floor shifted beneath you, or maybe it was the hallway that leaned — you couldn’t tell. all you knew was that the walls started breathing. that was the only way you could explain it.

the plaster pulsed like lungs. the light above you buzzed louder. the key in your hand slipped again, bounced once on the tile with a sound that echoed way too loud for something so small.

you tried to grab it.

you didn’t make it.

your knees folded first — no drama, no warning. just gone. the weight of your body hit the floor with a dull thud. your cheek pressed against the cold tile.

it felt good, almost. like sinking into something solid after floating too long. your ribs ached from the fall, or maybe they’d been aching for days and this was just the last straw.

you saw the elevator doors closing in your peripheral. heard the soft whirr of them sealing shut. somewhere behind your eyes, the pressure built. like something ancient and wrong was trying to crawl out.

and then darkness. not unconsciousness, not yet — just a deepening shade. like the hallway was dimming just for you.

then came the black. final and quiet.

you didn’t hear the door open across the hall. you didn’t see the figure step into the light. you didn’t know someone had been watching.

——

you came to like a body surfacing from black water — slowly, painfully, limbs cold and heavy, breath dragging itself in ragged pieces through your nose. your eyelids were leaden. every blink took effort.

the world behind them was gray, not quite dark, not quite light, just there, suspended and quiet like someone had pressed pause on the air itself.

your head ached. not the sharp pain of migraines, but the dull, submerged throb of something deeper, more systemic. like your blood was moving wrong inside you. like your insides had been shuffled, then stitched back together under anesthesia.

but you weren’t numb. no — there was sensation. your skin felt… balsamic. cooled over. like someone had run ice across your arms hours ago and it still hadn’t melted.

the air in your lungs was stale, metallic. your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

you didn’t open your eyes at first. couldn’t. the weight of your body was too much. even the pulse behind your knees hurt. even your fingertips tingled with the kind of exhaustion that belonged to the sick — not the tired. the sick.

you didn’t remember falling asleep.

you didn’t remember making it back to your apartment.

hell, you didn’t remember getting off the elevator.

eventually, after a few minutes — maybe longer — you managed to open your eyes halfway. the ceiling was the first thing you noticed: tall, shadowed, vaguely ornate in the dark, like you were looking at it underwater. not your ceiling. not your room.

your pulse spiked. something primal stirred in your ribs. you shifted, just slightly, and the sheets under your skin told you everything — they were too soft. too expensive. too not-yours. you registered the faint smell of something woodsy and warm — bergamot, maybe. something layered, complicated. familiar.

but the rest of the room came in pieces. the walls, dark and blurred. curtains, still drawn. a dresser with gold accents, a lamp too dim to see the switch. shadows shifted in the corner.

and that’s when it hit you.

you weren’t at home. not yours, at least.

you swallowed, throat raw. you tried to shift your head, to look, but even turning your neck felt like moving through water.

the room swam as you turned, your eyes dragging across the edges of expensive shadow — velvet curtains pulled halfway closed, light bleeding through in soft golds and sickly grays.

the bed beneath you was too soft, the sheets too smooth, like they belonged in a hotel room or a catalog, not your life. you weren’t used to this kind of comfort. and now, it felt wrong.

you blinked hard, vision blurring again, and finally the rest of the room began to settle into focus. a dresser — vintage. gold-framed mirror with a crack near the corner. a collection of books lined up too neatly. and coats. coats you didn’t recognize, thrown carelessly on a chair too clean to be real.

and then — the unmistakable curve of a shoulder. the long shadow of someone standing still.

you froze. someone was there.

no.

not someone.

multiple someones.

you couldn’t move your neck fast enough to catch all of them at once, but you didn’t need to. the room felt occupied. the atmosphere itself buzzed with quiet attention, like your awakening had flipped a switch you couldn’t see.

your vision tilted sideways and that’s when you caught it: a tall figure near the corner. motionless. arms crossed. sharp silhouette, too familiar.

niki.

your chest pulled tight. not with relief — not exactly. something in your body recoiled before your brain could make sense of it, like it hadn’t decided yet if his presence meant safety or danger.

you blinked once. twice. tried to clear your sight, tried to will away the syrupy haze still coating your lashes. but the outline remained. long limbs. black clothes. the way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, lazy, like standing upright was an inconvenience.

you should’ve felt comforted. he was the only face you recognized here. but instead, your muscles locked into something colder.

slowly, pieces started dropping into place, memories unrolling in the back of your skull like loose film: the elevator buttons glowing too slow. the air going stale. your ears ringing. fumbling for your keys. the elevator music mocking you with that stupid, upbeat jazz. your knees giving out. music from a nearby apartment — one you hadn’t heard life from in two full weeks — and then nothing. darkness.

and now — this.

you shifted your eyes again, dragging your vision past the edge of the dresser, and there it was. someone else. younger, maybe. shorter than niki but not smaller — no, the space around him shrunk. like he was pulling it into himself.

he stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, hair parted too neatly, posture too perfect. he wasn’t looking at you. but your chest still caved a little the moment your gaze landed on him.

you didn’t know his name. hadn’t seen him around. but you had seen him once — blurred through the peephole on your first day here, flanked by the same crowd of sharp-dressed men. mafia, your brain had offered. or something worse.

he looked like he could kill someone with a sentence. and that if he did, he’d do it with impeccable grammar.

and then — the final one.

your eyes caught movement near the door. not coming in, not leaving — just standing there. someone with their back to you, broad shoulders squared, head tilted like they were listening to something you couldn’t hear.

his coat was expensive. dark. layered like he’d been pulled from a noir film and dropped straight into your fever dream. even from behind, you recognized him.

you didn’t know how. maybe the shape of him was burned into your brain now, maybe your blood had started mapping itself around the sound of his voice. but it was sunghoon. you knew it as sure as you knew your own name.

and despite every reason your brain tried to throw at you — the rooftop, the eyes, the way he looked at you like he was starving — your body… relaxed.

just a little.

and that scared you the most.

the realization landed with a thud — no drama, no crescendo. just a slow, icy spread of fuck.

your body recoiled, bones stiffening like it was trying to protect something inside of you that had already been exposed. because this was real. he was real. sunghoon. standing right there.

and that fact alone made everything else around you sharpen into clarity.

you had passed out. not inside your apartment, not in bed, not even in the privacy of your own little rented anonymity. no. you had passed out in the hallway. on a tuesday morning. in winter. wearing your dumbest socks and your oldest hoodie and whatever pride you had left.

and now you were here — not in a hospital, not even with a nurse — but in their apartment. his apartment. the place you’d only ever imagined from the other side of your thin wall. and you were being watched. by too many people. too many eyes.

but the worst part?

you still felt sick.

not flu sick. not tired or hungover or “i skipped breakfast” sick.

this was something else.

this was nausea curled around your spine like a snake. this was your blood running too fast, then too slow, like it couldn’t decide who it belonged to. your skin didn’t fit right. your limbs felt like borrowed furniture. and deep inside — somewhere between your lungs and your stomach — something was pulsing. thrumming.

you didn’t know what was happening to you.

but you knew it wasn’t natural. and it sure as hell wasn’t over.

your fingers twitched first.

just barely. just enough to make the blanket shift near your hip — a slow, traitorous movement that betrayed your consciousness before your eyes could.

you tried to stay still. to keep your breath shallow, chest frozen mid-rise. but your body had other plans. and the moment you shifted your hand again — not on purpose, just from the static ache of your joints — the air in the room changed.

you didn’t see them react at first. you felt it.

like the drop in pressure before a thunderstorm.

then a rustle. fabric brushing against leather. the creak of wood beneath shifting weight. soft, purposeful movements, like they were trying not to scare you. or maybe trying not to startle each other.

“she’s awake,” someone said, voice low. careful. male.

you didn’t know who it was — not yet — but it pulled your eyes open like a string had been yanked from behind them.

the blur cleared slowly, and then you saw it: niki had moved closer. crouched near the bed now, his usual smirk absent, replaced by something you didn’t recognize — not quite concern. not quite guilt. just… watching.

behind him stood the other man — shorter, more compact, but no less imposing. he looked at you like you were a puzzle he didn’t mind breaking apart to solve.

niki’s eyes didn’t leave your face, and for a moment, you could almost pretend this was a dream again. that none of this was real.

but the ache in your limbs, the heat still trapped under your skin, the taste of metal on your tongue — it all said otherwise.

niki looked at you with something that hovered between pity and worry — unfamiliar emotions when filtered through his usually unreadable face.

for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

“you’re stabilizing faster than i thought.” it’s the first thing he says, slicing clean through the quiet and making your ears ring. the words hit you wrong — not just because of what they meant, but how they sounded. too casual. too clinical. like this was normal. like you were normal.

your face twisted on instinct, some pained reaction caught between confusion and disgust. your lips curled back, eyebrows pinched. it wasn’t even what he said — it was how he said it.

“jesus,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your temple, “did you always sound this annoying or is that a new post-trauma tone?”

niki didn’t laugh. just tilted his head slightly, like your bite had confirmed something for him. like he’d expected the fight. like he preferred it.

your voice sounded terrible — like gravel soaked in fire, your vocal cords rasping out their protest with the elegance of a dying cat.

the boy behind niki — the terrifying one with that calm, unreadable face — took a step back as soon as you spoke. not dramatically. not even with alarm. just a slow, calculated shift in weight, like the sound of your voice had confirmed something for him. like he hadn’t been expecting you to sound that wrecked.

your eyes cut to him instinctively, and for a second, all you could register was that air around him felt different — sharp, quiet, waiting.

what really made you feel awful — worse than the nausea, the fever dreams, the throat that burned like you’d swallowed sandpaper — was that sunghoon still hadn’t turned around.

he was right there. you knew that it was him, your brain was certain of it.

tall, straight-backed, motionless. staring at the door like it was going to solve all his problems if he just glared hard enough. you didn’t know what exactly you expected from him — maybe an apology, a grimace, a nod of acknowledgment — but definitely not this. not silence. not cold shoulders when your blood was still boiling in your veins like it was trying to cook you from the inside out.

how dare he not stare at you like his other two friends were doing right now. how dare he not even glance at you now that you were awake.

you hated that you were hyper-aware of his silhouette. that you recognized the slope of his shoulders already. that, even without looking at his face, you could tell he was tense. worse than that, you hated that the tension didn’t feel rooted in indifference. it felt rooted in guilt.

or shame.

was he fucking embarrassed?

good. he should be. he should be mortified, actually. you blamed all of this on him. every fever spike. every migraine. every dream that left your sheets soaked (not in a good way) and your body aching in ways no human sickness had ever managed.

you blamed it on the way he had looked at you that night. like he was starving. like you weren’t real. like you were his.

you shifted slightly under the covers, the motion sending another wave of heat curling behind your eyes. your voice was wrecked, your body was failing, and your patience was hanging by a thread made of spite and caffeine withdrawal.

and then, through cracked lips and clenched teeth, you rasped:

“do you plan on facing me anytime soon, or should i just keel over again while you brood in a corner?”

niki and the shorter mafia leader glanced at you, then back to sunghoon — the silence dragging, thick and charged. they weren’t saying anything, but the exchange between the three of them was unmistakable.

it felt like waiting for a bomb to go off. or a verdict to drop. you didn’t like it. didn’t like being the center of some unspoken tension you didn’t understand, didn’t cause, didn’t even want to be a part of.

you felt the tension, too. but not the romantic kind, not the kind that sizzled in books or made girls blush in school hallways. no, this was the kind that crawled under your skin and nested there. this was physical. literal.

your body had latched onto sunghoon like a tuning fork the second your eyes opened in this weird room, and his silence was making it worse — like your cells were offended.

like something primal inside you was throwing a tantrum, demanding acknowledgment. and the longer he stood with his back to you, the more your nerves twisted.

you were sick. god, you were sick. not just flu-sick or stress-sick — something else. something worse. it was spreading now, minute by minute, like acknowledging sunghoon in the same room was gasoline thrown on a fire you’d been trying to smother.

your head pounded, your stomach twisted, your limbs buzzed like your blood had turned carbonated. this wasn’t anxiety. it wasn’t psychosomatic. it felt like your entire body was trying to make you get his attention — or punish you until you did.

and honestly? this was embarrassing. not just uncomfortable or inconvenient — embarrassing. your brain was offended by the sheer audacity of your own body, reacting like this on a tuesday morning, no less.

like what, did your bloodstream forget the concept of normalcy? you were sweating through your clothes, your eyes were stinging, your limbs were shaking, and sunghoon — the root of all this insanity — hadn’t even looked at you.

what the fuck was your problem?

you didn’t know. you couldn’t name it. you just felt it — wrong, off, tilted. like the world had taken a sharp left and forgot to tell you.

you shifted again, groaning under your breath. you hated that you were still wearing your ridiculous blue bears pajamas under your outer clothes, soaked through with sweat despite the sub-zero weather. your skin felt clammy, your hands trembling against the silky throw blanket that wasn’t yours.

you hated that your mind was starting to spiral — that part of you was honestly considering the possibility that you were going insane.

or maybe… maybe not insane.

maybe they were exactly what they looked like.

sunghoon. niki. the terrifying man with the unreadable stare. even the one with the red hair and sharp profile you saw earlier in the elevator. they didn’t move like regular people. didn’t talk like regular people. and you’d read enough books — watched enough late-night documentaries with your dad — to know that this wasn’t just exhaustion anymore.

it felt like you were part of something unnatural.

and god, the thought of even entertaining this? it was ridiculous. not in the cute, ironic way where you half-believe your horoscope and laugh about mercury being in retrograde — no. this was full-blown absurdity. the kind of absurdity that scraped the edges of delusion.

believing in vampires wasn’t the problem. of course they existed. humanity had shared space with another species for centuries. that wasn’t up for debate. they were in the history books, the legal records, the school curriculum.

you had taken a literal midterm in middle school about post-war vampire rights. designer blood banks. the civil coexistence acts of the 1950s. it wasn’t a mystery. it just wasn’t relevant anymore — at least not to you. not in your life.

but this? the idea that they were here — your neighbors? that one of them — maybe more than one — had looked at you and decided something behind those sharp eyes? that one of them could’ve… claimed your attention? affected your body in a way you didn’t even understand?

no. absolutely not. you weren’t that girl. you refused to be that important.

you didn’t realize you were breathing hard until the unnamed one — the quiet one with the suffocating presence — finally spoke.

“she’s peaking again.”

the fuck was peaking? you didn't even realized your heartbeat had accelarated until he pointed it out.

his voice wasn’t loud. but it was clear. measured. like he was stating a fact about the weather, or about war.

you blinked. tried to sit up again — a stupid, impulsive act, born not of logic but of panic. the kind that crawled up your spine when the world felt too heavy, too strange, too wrong. you wanted to ask what he meant by that, what was his name, but you felt panic instead.

the blanket covering you was soft, maybe even expensive, but it felt like lead pressing your bones into the mattress. too thick, too warm, too intentional.

you clawed at it, fingers shaking, limbs weak and disobedient. your shoulder burned with the effort of moving half an inch, and the moment you tried to raise your head, the blood in your skull surged like a wave crashing against a too-small shore.

and then, finally, he moved.

not much — not dramatically — but enough for every cell in your body to register the shift. a shoulder rolled back, barely. a hand unclenched at his side. his head tilted, slowly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

and then, almost reluctantly, like it cost him something, sunghoon turned.

his body twisted first, then his face, the shadows catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck.

his hair looked darker in here, like ink had soaked through the strands, and it framed his face in a way that made your stomach twist. but it wasn’t the usual twist. not awe. not that stupid crush-thrill that had haunted your bloodstream weeks ago.

this was something else.

his eyes found yours — and stayed there.

and god, he looked tired.

not in the human way. not sleep-deprived or hungover. but hollowed-out. like someone had reached into his chest and scooped something vital out and left him barely functioning.

his cheekbones were sharper, his skin too pale under the warm light. he wasn’t perfect anymore. not in the haunting, statuesque way you remembered from the rooftop. now he looked… worn. real. something tugged at the corner of his mouth, not quite a frown. not quite anything.

and then it happened. the second his eyes fully met yours — that aching, gnawing illness that had been feasting on your nerves for two weeks cracked. like glass under heat.

your breath hitched. your ears popped. you blinked, and suddenly you could breathe.

the pain that had curled up beneath your ribs for days loosened, just like that. the weight behind your eyes lifted. your limbs still ached, yes, but something shifted — unmistakably — in your bloodstream. like your cells remembered how to work again. like they’d been waiting for him.

you stared, open-mouthed. because what the fuck.

you tried moving your toes — and felt all of them. you blinked once. twice. your vision wasn’t swimming anymore. the walls stopped melting at the edges. when you sat up, the room didn’t tilt sideways. your head didn’t lurch. your chest didn’t pull tight. nothing throbbed. nothing screamed.

you stared at your hands like you’d never seen them before, like they belonged to someone else. you flexed your fingers. no tremble. no twitch.

what the actual hell.

you ran a quick mental diagnostic, the kind your body had trained you into these past two weeks.

legs? check.

feet? check.

shoulders? solid.

ears? blessedly unclogged.

your stomach growled, sharp and dramatic, like it was protesting the way you’d ignored it for days. you touched your forehead, your neck. no fever. no chills. just warm. human. whole.

you were sitting up. fully. like a normal person. and it was terrifying.

because, what in the vampire diaries was this? you weren’t stupid. people didn’t just collapse in a hallway at 7 a.m. and wake up completely cured in a stranger’s guest bed with three unsettlingly hot men watching from the corners of the room like this was twilight fanfiction on crack.

you were hungry. you were confused. and you were so fucking exhausted. because even if your body had stopped screaming, your brain hadn’t caught up. and the worst part? sunghoon was still staring.

and your heart was still doing that thing — that pulling thing — like it wanted to beat in time with his.

he didn’t say anything at first — none of them did. they just stood there, still and watching, like they were marveling at something sacred. like your ability to sit up without grimacing was some impossible phenomenon they hadn’t planned for.

and yes, you felt like a miracle too. a tiny one. a quiet one, sitting in borrowed sweatpants and last night’s hoodie, in a room that didn’t belong to you. but now wasn’t the time to feel flattered.

not when three strangers — supernatural or not — were staring like you’d just pulled a sword out of stone.

you cleared your throat. it was the only sound in the room. your stomach growled again, louder this time, and you winced. no one laughed.

finally — finally — sunghoon moved.

his shoulders rose with a quiet inhale, and then dropped again like it physically cost him something. he didn’t step forward. didn’t close the gap between you. he just turned his head slightly, enough to look at you fully now, no barriers.

his eyes were darker than you remembered — not just in color, but in weight. like he hadn’t slept since the last time you saw him. like whatever edge had once made him look untouchable had dulled into something heavier. human, almost. except not. never.

his voice, when it came, was low. steady. practiced. but you could hear it — that thread of something cracked beneath the surface. not regret. not guilt. something older.

“you weren’t supposed to feel it this strongly.” and just like that, your pulse dropped into your stomach.

because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

you blinked. once. twice. your body had just gone from full-system meltdown to sudden clarity in the span of — what? ten seconds? the math didn’t add up. the science didn’t add up.

and now you had a boy — no, a man, a something — standing in front of you, speaking like this was all part of a manual. a protocol.

“excuse me?” you rasped, voice still barely more than sandpaper dragged across metal. your chest felt tight again, but this time from sheer indignation. “what do you mean feel it? feel what?”

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. behind him, niki let out a breath — not a sigh, more like a slow exhale that made you want to throw a pillow at someone.

the other one — terrifying, well-dressed, probably-did-taxes-at-5-a.m. mafia looking guy — finally stepped forward like he was about to explain something official, something devastating.

but all you could focus on was the way sunghoon’s jaw clenched. how he didn’t look away. how he looked like he hated that you were asking.

and suddenly, you were fuming. not the dramatic, cinematic kind of anger that makes you throw vases and scream into the rain. no. this was worse. it was the kind of white-hot rage that made your hands go cold and your thoughts get sharp. the kind that brewed in the back of your skull like static.

because what the actual kind of fucking sorcery was this?

you had just woken up in a stranger’s — correction, a vampire’s — bedroom, after two weeks of progressively dying in slow motion, only to be cured by a pair of stupidly symmetrical cheekbones and a statement that sounded like a deleted scene from twilight: the bureaucratic cut.

you flung the covers off with all the rage of a disney villain in her final act. “okay,” you started, voice still wrecked but gaining steam, “somebody’s going to tell me what the hell is going on. and i swear, if the word stabilizing gets thrown around again, i’m going to stab someone with your vintage coat hanger.”

niki winced. the mafia guy blinked like he wasn’t used to being threatened before breakfast. and sunghoon — oh, sunghoon — had the audacity to look guilty.

“no one thought to leave a note?” you spat, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “a sticky note? a voice memo? a ‘hey, just for your information, you’re about to experience soul-level cardiac arrest, but don’t worry, it’s a normal thing?’”

“we didn’t think you’d feel it this strong,” niki tried again, cautiously.

you narrowed your eyes. “you already said that. say something new or i swear i’ll start singing gospel.”

sunghoon finally looked like he might actually say something, but you were already on a roll.

“do you people just hang out in designer clothes waiting for humans to drop dead in your hallways? is that your little fun pastime? is that why the gym’s always empty now, niki? were you all just sitting up here like, ‘oh, don’t worry, she’s just experiencing a little metaphysical collapse, she’ll be fine?’”

they all looked at you, quiet. not surprised — no, you weren’t lucky enough to have shocked them — but almost… contemplative.

you stood up, or tried to. your knees buckled slightly, but you powered through, fueled by indignation and a decade’s worth of unresolved parental issues. “i want answers,” you snapped. “and water. probably water first. but then answers.”

sunghoon finally, finally, moved toward you. slow. cautious. like you were a scared animal. or a bomb. (which, okay, fair.)

his voice was robotic, weird when he spoke. “you weren’t supposed to react like this.”

you tilted your head, deadpan. “oh, wow, thank you so much for that astounding medical diagnosis. i’ll be sure to write that down in my death journal.”

sunghoon’s jaw ticked, he seemed in pain. “it means we need to explain. all of it.”

sunghoon sat down.

that, in itself, felt like a betrayal. for a full minute, none of them had moved — like you were something volatile, like one wrong breath might set you off again. but then he finally took a breath and lowered himself into the chair across from you.

it was the way he moved that made your throat clench — careful, controlled, like sitting too fast might shake the ground beneath you.

his expression was unreadable, jaw tight, shoulders squared like this was an interrogation and not a conversation. and then he spoke.

“you’re not dying,” he said first. like he needed that part on record.

you raised an eyebrow. “thanks, doctor. next diagnosis?”

niki let out a quiet snort from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded, one boot tapping lightly against the floor. sunghoon ignored you both.

again, he seemed... weird. robotic.

“what’s happening to you,” he continued, voice low, measured, almost too calm, “is rare. it’s not supposed to happen anymore.”

you blinked. slowly. your brain took the words in like they were pieces from different puzzles. “you mean… like a sickness?”

“not a sickness,” sunghoon said. “more like… a reaction.”

he paused then. visibly debated what to say next. that’s when the third one — the one you now associated with do-not-fuck-around energy — stepped forward. the shorter guy. black coat, buzzed undercut, broad shoulders.

there was a tattoo creeping out from his collarbone, just a sliver of black ink crawling up his neck. when he finally spoke, it was without inflection.

“she doesn’t need the full story yet.”

sunghoon didn’t even look at him. “she deserves to know what’s happening to her.”

niki raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t speak. instead, you locked eyes with sunghoon again and asked, “what kind of reaction?”

he exhaled. “a soulmate reaction.”

you laughed. out loud. an ugly, sputtering noise. “are you fucking serious?”

niki grinned. “oh no, she’s reacting like a normal person. i like her.”

sunghoon’s mouth twitched. not a smile. maybe pain. maybe something else.

“it’s not common,” he said, softer now. “not anymore. vampires used to… imprint. or whatever you want to call it. we’d form bonds. it was mutual. chemical. metaphysical. the human would feel it. the vampire would feel it. but it hasn’t happened in decades. not since the accords. not since—”

“humans stopped mingling with your kind?” you asked.

“not since both sides decided it was too dangerous.”

that made you pause. your throat was still dry. your hands clenched the blanket around your waist like it might anchor you back into reality. “dangerous how?”

“for you,” the shorter dude said this time. his voice was razor clean. “not for us.”

niki sighed. “it’s like a hormone overdose. a body-wide meltdown. like your system’s trying to recalibrate to match something it doesn’t understand.”

you scoffed. “and the something is you?”

sunghoon didn’t answer. but his silence did.

and that’s when something inside you shifted. clicked. because even if this sounded like delusional bullshit, your body was nodding along. it made too much sense. the fever. the dreams. the sudden gravitational pull toward a man you’d barely spoken to. the way your pain had vanished the second he’d looked at you.

“so let me guess,” you said slowly, “i’m your little imprint? your cosmic girlfriend? lucky me.”

sunghoon flinched. just slightly. “it doesn’t work like that.”

“doesn’t it?” you asked, voice rising.

and then — the twist.

“you’re not the only one who got sick,” the scary dude said. calm. final.

the room stilled. niki looked up. sunghoon closed his eyes. your breath caught.

“…what?”

“sunghoon’s been sick too,” niki offered, quieter than usual. “not the same way. but bad enough we had to cancel everything. bad enough he couldn’t feed. bad enough he barely stood up until yesterday.”

your mouth went dry. “what does that mean?” you asked, but your voice sounded distant even to yourself — like it had been dragged through water, then filtered through static.

was it too much to know? absolutely not. not for your overactive brain that consumed conspiracy podcasts like candy. but feeling it — sitting here, blanket bunched around your waist like armor, stomach churning, heartbeat crawling under your skin like something foreign — that was the hard part.

this didn’t feel like a reveal. it felt like a slow, rotting realization you hadn’t asked for.

you swallowed, throat raw. maybe it would be better if you passed out again. at least then, you wouldn’t have to process the idea that one of your neighbors — a hot, emotionally unavailable, glacial-faced vampire, apparently — had also been in a near-comatose state because of you.

great. incredible. what a legacy.

soulmate? imprint? some long-lost paranormal bond that now had you sharing symptoms like some twisted long-distance couple flu? no, thank you. return to sender.

you opened your mouth to say something clever — something biting and cruel and devastating — but nothing came. your lips parted and then closed again, your body betraying you in the worst of ways.

your eyes flicked back to sunghoon.

his hands were clenched in his lap. his cheekbones were sharper than usual, like he’d lost weight. there was a vein visible beneath his jaw. and when he finally raised his head to meet your eyes again, the exhaustion behind them wasn’t just physical. it was soul-deep.

“you were the first human i’ve spoken to in years,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

that made your stomach turn.

niki shifted, almost like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

the mafia looking guy just crossed his arms tighter and stared, waiting — like this wasn’t new to him.

you blinked once. then again. your body still wasn’t reacting the way it should — no more pain, no more fever, no more frost behind your eyes. but your mind? your mind was racing.

“this is insane,” you muttered, because someone had to say it.

“agreed,” niki chirped. “but hey, at least you didn’t throw up. the last one did.”

“niki.”

“what? i’m comforting her.”

you didn’t laugh. couldn’t. your body was still deciding whether to fight or flee.

niki broke the silence first again after minutes of no one breathing. of course he did.

“well, the good news is you’re probably not gonna die,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels where he’d crouched again beside your bed. “probably.”

you blinked at him slowly. deadpan. your expression alone could’ve been used to file a restraining order.

he raised both hands. “hey. optimism. it’s a dying art.”

from behind him, the man in the coat shifted for the first time. he didn’t look at you. didn’t even acknowledge niki’s running mouth. just turned his head toward sunghoon with an unreadable expression and said, voice like a closing door:

“she needs rest.”

sunghoon didn’t argue. maybe he couldn’t. there was something off about him now that you were fully awake, fully conscious — something glassy in the way he held himself, like his body wasn’t all the way his.

the man placed a hand on his shoulder, and sunghoon moved. slow. obedient. not like himself.

you watched them go. watched their silhouettes shift through the doorway. neither of them looked back.

the moment the door shut, niki let out a long breath through his nose and flopped — not gracefully — into the armchair near the window. it creaked under his weight. he didn’t seem to care.

“so. fun fact,” he started, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “your new boyfriend? yeah, he’s been high for the past seven days.”

you stared. “what?”

niki gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “inhibitors. cocktail of them. pretty top-shelf stuff. he’s, like, five thousand newtons of vampire strength wrapped in a sculpted jawline, so—” he clicked his tongue, “—we kinda had to knock him out the hard way.”

you blinked. again. “we?”

niki looked pleased with himself. leaned in like he was about to share a bedtime secret.

“took all six of us. and i mean all of us. it was like trying to sedate a tank. even then, he almost won. but we found the right combo. he’s on it now. dulled his receptors, numbed his instincts.”

your stomach curled slightly. “why?”

niki’s smile dimmed. not gone — just quieter.

“because,” he said, “he would’ve come for you.”

you didn’t respond.

he leaned back again, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. his voice, when he spoke again, had that same dry humor, but underneath it — something else. something brittle.

“we had to leave,” he said, almost like a confession. “jungwon-hyung’s family has a camp house. middle of nowhere, no cell service, no risk of you running into him if he… broke through. that’s why the building was dead. we took him far. like, drive-five-hours-and-still-hear-his-teeth-clench far.”

you stared, unmoving. your hands were still clammy against the covers. your chest still felt like someone had scraped it hollow and filled it with something cold.

niki scratched his jaw. “it was either that or lock him in the basement. which, by the way, sunghoon would never let happen. pride and all. so, road trip it was.”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“don’t look at me like that,” niki added, side-eyeing you. “it’s not like we knew this would happen. we don’t do this soulmate thing. not anymore. not since—” he paused, teeth clicking together. “never mind. point is: it’s rare. it’s old. and you? you weren’t supposed to feel it this strong.”

your breath hitched. that phrase again.

“but i did,” you muttered. “feel it.”

niki looked at you. quiet. unreadable for once.

then, almost gently: “yeah. you did and he did too.”

“i honestly thought this was bullshit,” niki went on, scratching behind his ear like he wasn’t casually upending your entire understanding of reality. “jake-hyung was the only one we knew who got tangled up with a human like that. we all thought it was a one-time glitch. but sunghoon? he was even worse. and i think it’s the age, you know? the older they are, the stronger the… pull.”

you didn’t move.

niki shrugged. “sunghoon-hyung is the most powerful among us. has been for a while. not that he brags about it or anything,” he added, eye-roll implied. “but this?” he gestured vaguely toward your body, the bed, the air. “this nearly broke him. we didn’t think—i mean. imprinting is beautiful, yeah, sure. sacred, whatever. but it’s a lot of fucking work. especially when it hits this hard.”

you still didn’t respond. your gaze had unfocused, lips parted slightly, shoulders slumped. and eventually, niki caught on.

“you okay?” he asked, voice gentler now, less performative.

you didn’t answer him. not right away.

because your thoughts had gone quiet. not blank — not numb — just… quiet. like the cold hush of a library, a cemetery, a paused dream.

you were confused. obviously. angry, too — because what the fuck was imprinting and why the hell did it choose you, of all people? you were a mess. you were a scholarship kid with ramen-induced ulcers and mommy issues. not a mystical blood-linked soul beacon.

but still. somewhere beneath all that static, you felt it: a pinprick of something else. something smaller. softer.

sunghoon had been sick. sick because of you.

and not just sick, but fighting it. drugged. dragged across the country just to keep him from getting to you. you’d blamed him, cursed him in your head, built this whole miserable theory of him being cold and detached and cruel — but he’d been hurting, too. maybe even more than you.

niki watched you for a moment longer, like he was trying to figure out what version of you he was leaving behind. but he didn’t press. didn’t tease. didn’t smile.

“yeah,” he said, brushing invisible lint off his pants as he stood. “you should rest. the worst’s over. probably.”

you weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort you or just be vague on purpose, but you didn’t have the energy to dissect it.

he crossed the room with that same unhurried gait — loose-limbed, strangely quiet — and paused at the doorway. “someone’ll be around if you need anything,” he added, voice already softer, like he was already halfway out. “and if you wake up starving… don’t freak out. we left you snacks. normal ones.”

your lips twitched, almost a smile. “thanks.”

“don’t mention it,” he said, then looked at you over his shoulder, eyes gleaming under the low lighting. “really. don’t.”

the door clicked shut behind him with a softness you didn’t expect.

you lay there, for a long minute, staring at the ceiling. the silence in the room was different now — not heavy, not buzzing. just there. a presence instead of a pressure. you shifted under the covers, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, your limbs didn’t ache. your lungs didn’t pull tight. your stomach didn’t twist.

you closed your eyes, and your body let you.

this time, you didn’t dream of anything.

author's note: clap if you find respectful but feral sunghoon hot. yes, i will die on this hill. yes, our couple mught hate each other now but i swear they'll be all cute soon. thank you for reading! send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @ikeugirly @vixialuvs @hoonprksung @kyunlov @verialuv @sagegreenhairclip @gal821 @nekkodiaries @httpenhoon @questionsdearreader @mynameis-rosie1 @ninistranaut @staygenesblog @stercul1a

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wttcsms · 10 months ago

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if you feel like falling (catch me on the way down) | ONE

ᝰ.ᐟ after getting your heart broken by professional soccer player, rin itoshi, all because he loved the game more than you, you officially swear off all men — especially athletes. your publicist doesn't get that memo, though, and you find yourself roped into a fake relationship with yoichi isagi, who isn't just a pro soccer player, but also your ex's rival. things could get messy. ( fem!reader )

pairing yoichi isagi x reader (endgame), past! rin itoshi x reader word count 2.9k chapter synopsis there are certain perks to having a relationship that operates on a "private not secret" basis. for example, you're allowed at least two weeks before the batshit crazy people online figure out that little miss it girl just got her ass dumped. chapter contains partying to cope, social drinking, diet culture, this fic is so chronically online LOL author's notes so normally, i would organize the fic's different arcs or acts by explicitly saying "act 1" or whatever. like i said, we're gonna be chronically online, so the arcs are described as different "eras" and when it's a new arc, we'll get a new era 🤭 each era has special graphics for it: what the media sees vs what's actually going on. think of the era intro as a moodboard for the chapters that'll follow <3

⋆˚࿔ CURRENT ERA: PARTY GIRL 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ from the outside, it's giving irl serena van der woodsen but even better, no one can possibly have the same 24 hours as you, someone needs to convince you to drop the skincare routine STAT, matter of fact - we just need your whole game card

— guest starred on the hottest pop culture podcast where it was basically just a glaze session for you (besides the last 10 minutes where the host started asking about rin), articles that want to help readers live your (unattainable if you're not rich!) lifestyle, and a devoted fanpage that updates your every move... every move.

on the inside, it's actually giving listening and actually relating to sad music, asking an 8 ball if you're the problem, being desperate enough to believe those tiktoks that say if you claim this sound and interact 3x he'll text you back, wondering when you should mail him back his stuff, keeping busy in the public eye so no one suspects how miserable you are right now

— even spotify clocked you and it's auto-generated, customized playlist perfectly depicts what you're going through (talk about the saddest soundtrack to your life), got desperate and consulted quora (this is how you know you're at rockbottom). not shown: your credit card statement (retail therapy works, right? right?!)

“Promise you’ll be on your best behavior?” Yukimiya peers over his sunglasses so he can give you a very pointed look. You tilt your head innocently.

“When am I ever not?”

Yukimiya lets out a very loud, very drawn out, very exasperated sigh. When have you not been on your best behavior? Well, just last month, you got drunk, stumbled out to your garage, hopped in your custom-wrapped pink Porsche, and somehow ended up falling asleep on top of the hood. (In your defense, at least even in a drunken stupor, you weren’t stupid enough to drive.) Last week, you collected the numbers of about eight different athletes and models, sufficiently led every single one of them on, and are now actively ghosting all of them because they committed the cardinal sin of not sounding like, feeling like, or being anything like Rin. And speaking of the devil, Rin’s the reason why just last night, you ended up blocking not just him from your social media, but his whole entire team, too. You felt vindicated when you did this at 2 AM. Yeah, because that’ll sure show him! He hasn’t looked at your story once since the breakup (not that you’ve been keeping track or anything), but in case he tries to play it cool and gets one of his teammates to view it on his behalf, you’ll have put a stop to that plan.

(Even when you’re spiraling, you’re still painfully aware of the fact that Rin’s most likely doing okay, if not still performing at his best. He is most certainly not doing something as childish as getting his teammates to relay info on you to him. Meanwhile, you are apparently a social liability for your closest friends. Spectacular.)

“Don’t answer that.” You tell him. “I don’t want to know what my life looks like through your eyes.” It’s bad enough that every little thing you do gets documented, photographed, and then sensationalized on the Internet, but it’s one thing for strangers to commentate on your behavior when they don’t even have the full story. It’s another thing entirely when it’s your best friend criticizing your current lifestyle.

“I’m just saying, it’s going to be a very casual lunch with my favorite people. Not a party.” Yukimiya clarifies.

“Kenyu, you do realize that inviting me to a birthday party, and then saying ‘it’s not a party’ is kind of giving mixed signals right now.” Now it’s your turn to give him a pointed look, but just like his, there’s no true venom behind it. It’s Kenyu’s birthday celebration, anyway. You’re not about to corrupt Mr. Catholic Private School and tell him to throw a fucking rager.

“If my team gets their way, there probably will be an actual party. If there is, you’ll be the first one I give the details to.” There’s a distant shout in the back; the photographer is done with his lunch, and he’s ready to wrap this shoot up. Kenyu examines his hair in the vanity mirror before getting out of his chair and giving you a quick hug. Your photos have already been taken, and there’s really no point for you to be on set still.

However, Kenyu’s on set. Your only other viable option is to just go home and hide under your covers, rewatching Someone Great on Netflix and Doordashing Ben & Jerry’s. Juliette is home in France and won’t be coming back until the end of the month, and you’re not really in the mood to see any of your other friends. It’s tiring being around people who can’t separate front-cover-of-Vogue you from the real you. If you’re going to have to fake a smile, it might as well be on set rather than grabbing brunch with people who would kill to be able to leak something as headline-inducing as your breakup.

“Pinky promise?” You look up at Yukimiya. “You promise to tell me about the party even if I’ll make a fool of myself because apparently I don’t act on my best behavior?”

He rolls his eyes at your comment. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, and you know that. Besides, you could never make a fool of yourself. Anything you do is declared iconic, anyway.”

Having a famous movie director as a father and a certified Hollywood starlet as a mother, life wasn’t just set at easy mode for you. You practically were given an unlimited money hack and started off with like, five times the XP compared to any other beginner. At thirteen, you told your parents that for your birthday, you wanted to become a model. Two phone calls and a private jet flight later, and you had signed with the best modeling agency in the country and had your first ever photoshoot booked.

Fate gave you parents with connections, and you’d be a fool to not use it to your advantage. Fate also gave you the same photoshoot as another young model, and you’d be a fool to not befriend Kenyu Yukimiya immediately. Out of all the friends you’ve ever made, fate only gives you good luck twice: first with Yuki, then with Juliette. You used to think you got lucky three times — meeting Rin for the first time was like experiencing something cosmic. Now you know better. Even rich people can have shit luck, too.

Today’s unlucky situation is the way Yukimiya’s “favorite people” all happen to be athletes. There’s not a single person here who isn’t his teammate or somehow related to Bastard Munchen, except for you. If you didn’t love Yukimiya so much, you would have hauled ass. It’s normally easy enough for you to avoid soccer players at parties because they don’t normally get invited to the same social events you do, but now you’re the odd one out.

At least the food is good. You don’t have a photoshoot scheduled until next week, and that’s exactly why you’re comfortable with choking down half a bagel sandwich rather than socialize with the guys seated by you. Yukimiya’s real big on intimacy and the power of friendship or whatever, which is probably easier to achieve when you play a team sport versus the modeling industry, where good jobs are few and far between, and the reason why some models are so skinny is because they can’t afford to eat — literally and figuratively. If they’re not booking jobs, there’s no way they can buy groceries in this economy.

He has everyone assembled at one long table in the massive backyard of his mansion. It’s honestly kind of Last Supper-core, but it fits him. Little Yuki’s finally old enough to have a seat at the big kid’s table. He’s sitting across from you, and you’re sandwiched between Kunigami and Hiori. Next to Yukimiya is Isagi. Out of everyone at this party, soccer player or not, Isagi is the person you want to avoid the most. So far, you think you’ve managed to skirt under his radar. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be able to leave this lunch with your belly full and not having to interact with anybody. It’s looking like you won’t even have to drink in order to get through this.

“Hey, out of all of us at this table, who d’ya think would have the best shot at being a model?” Hiori is clearly speaking to you. The blue-haired player is looking directly at you, for God’s sake. You wonder if it’ll be mean to blatantly ignore him, but considering how this little question seems to have captured the attention of the surrounding players, it looks like pretending you’re hard of hearing is out of the question.

Inside, you’re dying. The last thing you wanted to do was socialize, but it’d be selfish and bratty to request that Yukimiya find more time in his busy schedule to have a one-on-one celebration with you. You’re here to support your friend. You can stomach being friendly with boys who have probably seen Rin more recently than you’ve last seen him. Fuck — why are you thinking about Rin? Do not think about Rin!

You grab one of the premade mimosas from the tray in the center of the table. You down the glass in one swift gulp. On the outside, you flash Hiori a bright smile and give an airy giggle. “Why? You trying to get a foot into the industry?”

Hiori’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink. “W-well, no. Just wanted to make conversation.”

“No worries! I’ve been trying to keep up with whatever you guys are talking about, but even after all this time being friends with Kenyu, I still don’t really get soccer.” Your smile is still intact. You reach for another mimosa.

“Rin didn’t teach you anything?”

Ever since you entered the industry, you knew that you had to get comfortable with standing out. No — you needed to thrive on standing out. You needed to crave, to rely on, people’s undying attention in order to survive. In the eyes of the media, you’re the center of attention. You got what every girl your age wants. At this table, everyone’s eyes are focused on you. What you want is to be back in your room, away from their prying gazes and curious stares.

But you’re a trained professional. Your smile never slides off, never turns into a grimace. You give a casual shrug, directing your answer to the person who mentioned Rin in the first place.

“I make it a rule to not discuss work when we’re together.” You look at Isagi, asking him with your eyes if that’s a good enough explanation for him. He holds your gaze, looking at you like he sees right through you.

You drink another mimosa.

After loosening up because of the drinks, you find casual conversation with the Munchen players to be easy. The boys honestly never shut up, and you don’t know what they’re talking about half the time, but you’re cracking genuine smiles every so often, and by the time Yukimiya is going around and saying his thanks for everyone showing up, you are…

Not drunk, per se. You’ve built up quite the tolerance these past few weeks, and it’s hard to get wasted off of drinks that are basically three-fourths orange juice. (Seriously, was Yukimiya getting stingy with the champagne? Sober You might be able to acknowledge the fact that Yukimiya might have just been preparing for the Worst Case Scenario, which would be you hogging all the drinks to yourself. Which sort of happened. Fuck. Sometimes it sucks to be known so well.) You’re definitely tipsy, though. Maybe half a tier above tipsy? Whatever the case, you are definitely in no shape to drive.

“Kenny,” you whine out his nickname, trying your best to pull out your puppy-dog eyes. “Please take me home.”

“Ah, damnnit, [Name].” He runs his fingers through his dark curls. “Did you seriously get drunk off of orange juice?”

“Champagne drunk is the best drunk. I’m pretty sure People Magazine quoted me on that like, last year, so it’s basically fact.” Yukimiya doesn’t seem overly impressed. “And I’m not drunk, but my alcohol levels right now are definitely above the legal limit. Sorry, but I don’t plan on making headlines for a DUI. Hard to spin that into something iconic.”

This gets Yukimiya to crack a smile. “I thought you were leaning into the party girl look?”

“Yeah, but after Justin Timberlake got caught for intoxicated driving, he made it look totally lame. He ruined it for us!”

“I wish I could drive you back, but I have to retake some photos for this sneaker ad I’m doing, and with traffic, I’m really cutting it close already. Do you want to just come with, or hang out at my place until I get back? You should’ve said something sooner; I could’ve asked one of the guys to drop you off.”

You crinkle your nose. “No, thanks. I’m not a fan of strangers knowing where I live.” Becoming a model at such a young age thrust you into the spotlight. With media attention comes total pervs who lurk in Reddit threads and 4Chan, and stumbling upon some of the things said about you, reading the things they would do to you if they found you, all laid out in disgusting, graphic detail, left you kind of paranoid. Getting doxxed might be one of your worst fears. No Ubers. No car ride homes with strangers. “I’ll wait here. It’s been a while since I went through your things, so I’m sure there’ll be enough of your dirty secrets to uncover to keep me occupied.”

“Did you need a ride?”

Shitty luck, indeed.

The teammate who decided to stay behind to help clean up (because he’s just that outstanding of a guy) is the sole reason for why you went buckwild on the mimosas. You can see why Rin was always frustrated with him.

“Nope—” You say, at the same exact time as Yukimiya nods enthusiastically.

“Would you mind? [Name] actually lives pretty close by, so it might not be out of the way.”

You shoot Yukimiya a scathing glare. He ignores it completely, smiling at Isagi.

“I don’t mind. That is, if you don’t mind.” Isagi is looking at you expectantly. Yukimiya trusts him. And you trust Yukimiya. By some sort of logic, you should reasonably be able to trust Isagi. It’s clear that Kenyu wants you to carpool with him, anyway, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so happy to dump you onto him.

“Sure. I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

What would happen if you jumped out of a moving vehicle?

At best, you’d get your pretty skin all scraped up, meaning your photoshoots would either have to be delayed, or you would have to endure all the clear distaste for your “unprofessionalism” in the workplace from the people who actually had to work to get to where they’re at. At worst, you end up hospitalized. Somehow, it seems easier to photoshop out a few cuts and scrapes than working with someone in a full-body cast.

As you weigh the pros and cons of jumping out of Yoichi Isagi’s vehicle — a sleek, black sedan that’s top of the line, sure, but understated luxury; it’s not flashy like the sports cars you see most athletes sporting — he smoothly reverses out of Yukimiya’s driveway. Isagi does that boyish thing where he ignores his backup camera completely and opts to rest one hand on the back of the passenger headrest, the other hand on the steering wheel. Fuck. Maybe it’s not a boyish thing. Maybe it’s manly. Isagi leans a bit into your space; not enough to bother you, but enough to where you can smell the scent of his cologne. He smells clean and fresh. Maybe it’s not cologne, but laundry detergent and fabric softener. Somehow, you find this very fitting of him.

He glances out the window to check for traffic and eases you two onto the open road.

He’s not playing any music, and you’re sure as hell not about to ask for the aux. You look out the window instead, watching the world pass you by through tinted glass. It makes everything around you appear darker. Somehow, you find this to be very fitting for you.

“You live around this area, yeah?” Isagi asks you, and you’re reminded that if you want to go home, you actually have to let the driver know where home is.

“Yeah, sorry. Keep heading straight, and I’ll let you know when there’s a turn coming up.” Talking to Isagi shouldn’t feel so awkward. After all, you managed to talk (and actually enjoy talking) to all of Yukimiya’s teammates. You even got along well with Kaiser. But it just feels weird — you’ve never met him directly, but you’ve heard so much about him, that it’s hard to not see Rin’s rants every time you look at Isagi.

So you don’t — look at Isagi, that is. You look at everything else. His car is clean. There are air fresheners in the AC vents. The floor of the passenger seat is oddly clean, like no one ever sits here. If that’s the case, you hope your heels didn’t track in any grass blades or dirt.

“Um,” Isagi awkwardly clears his throat at a red light. “When I mentioned Rin earlier at the party…”

“What about it?” Fuck, this is so embarrassing. Since the car is stationary, you’re in the clear, right? If you just unlock the door, you can escape on foot. Your house is now close enough that it’ll just count as today’s exercise.

“Sorry for bringing him up. I didn’t know—”

“—didn’t know what?” You turn to face him. His jaw is surprisingly sharp, and you watch the way he swallows before he answers you.

“I didn’t know that you two broke up.”

No one knows that you two broke up. You’re still in the process of making sense of it all, and because you’re so messed up over it, naturally you had to confide in Yukimiya and Juliette. Neither of them would ever share that secret, though.

So why the hell does Yoichi Isagi know?

“The light’s green.” You tell him, shifting your body in the seat, avoiding him by positioning yourself even closer to the door.

Neither of you say anything else during the drive.

#yoichi isagi x reader #isagi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #smau #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #series: if you feel like falling #fluff

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a-b-riddle · 9 months ago

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Continuing this idea.

You should be scared. Very scared. Instead you were just stupid in thinking that this person who had repeatedly broke into your home, admitting to watching you, and completely invading your privacy didn’t mean you any harm.

Your logic that if he wanted to, he would have. You just hoped to god that your intuition about him was right. You had met monsters before. They didn’t make themselves known until it was too late.

But he was different. The small things he did to make your life easier weren’t things men intent on hurting you did. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have the opportunity to.

You had gotten a dog and a cat. A bonded pair that had been left when their family moved away, leaving the partners stranded.

When you came home with the adorable mutt you sent your shadow a cheeky text.

Don’t worry. I made sure he was good with men. Just not sure if he cares for masked ones.

More worried about the cat.

This little guy? Cheese is harmless. You attached a picture of your new orange cat sleeping peacefully on your couch.

You named the fucking thing Cheese?

Dog’s name is Mac.

That only earned you a thumbs down emoji.

It had been three weeks and you were certain he hadn’t been back into your apartment. You had to do mundane tasks again. Take out the trash. Get your mail from the box. You weren’t sure how he was managing that one.

It wasn’t until you got held up at work that you sent him a text. You felt like you were asking too much, but thankfully he had crossed the line from breaking into your place.

Could I ask a favor?

Almost instantly he sent back a reply.

You could

Can you take Mac out? I’m not gonna be out of here for another 3 hours. Another waitress quit last minute and I’m stuck here. 😭

You added the crying face for effect.

Could test out that biting theory.

He won’t bite you.

Wasn’t talking about the dog, Love.

Forty minutes later you got a picture of Mac looking up. His pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, looking up in excitement.

Be careful if you pass by the guy who hangs out back by the play area. Mac dislocated my arm this weekend being a little asshole and lunging after him.

Thought you said he wouldn’t bite.

Wouldn’t bite YOU. He’s a good judge of character.

He’s a good boy.

The following shifts, your shadow would send you photos. All of Mac. All outside. None giving you the slightest idea of what he looked like.

You gave him a heads up that you’d be able to take him out yourself. You don’t know how you’d react to finally meeting him. You could have easily stalked him as he had done you, but there wasn’t any fun in that. And he had made this fun.

You didn’t however count on Mac scratching at the door at 10 pm that night.

Or the next.

His entire schedule was thrown off. The vet said it was a UTI and your only options were keep letting him out as needed or he will try and hold it in and risk his bladder getting inflected. Or even his kidneys.

You were standing in the flood light at the edge of your apartment building when your phone buzzed.

You need to stop going out this late. Not safe.

Why? You text back, grinning. You’re out here too. Not anything to be afraid of.

Careful. Sounds like you like having me around.

Who says I don’t?

He didn’t respond. You try again.

Am I ever gonna be able to meet you?

Three dots appeared after moments of silence

Don’t think so pet.

What’s the point then? Isn’t a hunter’s goal is to get close to their prey?

Is that what you think you are to me? My prey?

You couldn’t tell if he was actually offended. Fuck. How do you make this better?

Is it bad if I want to be?

What the fuck? Your reaction was to turn things sexual? But you weren’t lying. You often found yourself imagining him, a masked stranger coming into your room while you slept. Looming over your defenseless body until the exact moment he decided to strike.

In an instant he would have your hands restrained and a palm covering your mouth. He’d tell you to hush. The fantasy hard to imagine in that moment when you wondered what he would sound like.

I’m not actually afraid of you, you know?

Oh really? Someone is feeling brave tonight. Going out into the dark. Taunting their stalker.

You swear your could feel your heart trying to beat out of your chest. He was into it. Just as much as you were. You thought maybe given the initial cute acts of service it was more of a guardian angel kind of thing.

It wasn’t until you noticed underwear missing did you know he was just as filthy as you hoped him to be. Even though you never brought it up. Too afraid to get in too deep with someone who could be a sociopath.

You could come and see how brave I am.

He didn’t respond immediately and Mac was done dribbling out the last hit of pee. You were in the stairway when your phone chiroed.

Fine. See you soon.

A picture followed. It was dark. So dark you had to turn up your brightness. When your eyes focused, your stomach dropped.

It was you.

A stilled image of you walking into the building your back turned. The image too clear to be taken from a distance. If you had to guess it was no more than ten feet away.

Ten feet away and you didn’t hear a fucking thing. Completely oblivious to the danger close by.

That night you had came so hard you had half a mind to text him a thank you for being the inspiration behind your bliss.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #stalker ghost #stalker bf

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dollwhite · 5 months ago

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Face of another

Aunt reader, chapter 2

“She’s not lying, she is my mother’s twin” Damian finally spoke up, it’s like the words were caught in his throat. It’s been years since he’s seen you.

It’s been years since he heard your voice.

“Nephew” you said, nodding your head to show acknowledge. One thing you were not expecting was for him to run up and hug you, yeah it’s been years since you’ve seen him. But even when he was younger he was never one for physical contact. Especially, in front of other people.

“I’ve missed you.” He said, his breath ragged and uneven.Damian had seen a lot of bad things in his life that a normal 15 year old should never see. All those years age, when he was 10. Wishing his auntie would come and swoop him up, and take him to those ‘ fancy vacations’ you talked about nonstop.

All those late nights after patrol, crying him self to sleep. Trying to stop thinking if the worst.

All those times he tried stoping himself from thinking you were died, because no why his loving aunt would not talk to him for five years.

Not a letter.

Not a message..

Not even a voice mail…!

Not one visit, in five years…

But now? Here you were all your glory.

Damian was thought since a young age to never show weekness, but all of that was thrown out the window when you showed yourself.

No words could elaborate how he felt in that very moment, his aunt who he hasn’t seen since coming to live with his father. Is staring at him, his second mother.

The second mother that showed him what love was.

Something Duke was not expecting to see was Damian’s mom, sitting comfortably. And drinking tea with Alfred, and the worst part? Mostly all of the family was jsut sitting there??

“Oh hey duke” Dick said flashing that price winning smile. Acting like he wasn’t staring down reader,even though Damian confirmed reader was not in fact he’s mother. Something about her was off, like a daughter of Ra’s just showing up?

And being friendly? Yeah something was off, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.

“Who’s, that?” Duke asked his curiosity taking the better of him. He’s only seen Talia a hand full of times, and that was mostly when she would come to pick Damian up.

But something about her this time seems different, not just her hair but also her personality ? It’s like she did a 360, but the last time he saw her was just a little over week age.

Who can change their personalities that quick? Unless… she was up to something!

Shit he had to tell somebody, and quickly. Bruce’s looks like he already thinking of having another kid with her! And no offense to Damien but Duke did not wanna see that happen.

“Oh um come on Duke I’ll tell you.” Tim muttered avoiding eye contact.

Um I js needed som to post really quickly, cuz I’m going to be busy making my friends bday gifts 😭 I Hope y’all understand<3 also js cuz ima be busy don’t mean my asks/requests are closed… and I’m trying to get more comfortable writing

for Duke and the other less popular batfam members!!

I forgot about my taglist…

Taglist; @lazyemmy @ninihrtss @tsuniio @jsprien213

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mashtatosworld · 2 months ago

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eyes on me (3)

summary: after the scandal shattered your world, Daesung is there to pick up the pieces. until the truth is revealed.

You lost everything.

Your career, your reputation, the love of your life - all gone in a slow, public collapse that made front-page news.

Every morning, you woke up waiting for the next headline. For the next article or tweet to twist your name into something even uglier.

GDragon’s Ex Leaks Tour Footage Producer Turned Traitor Insider Betrayal Ruins Big Bang Legacy

You’d long since been let go from your job. The word “liability” now echoed in every rejection email. Even when they didn’t say it outright, you could feel it hanging there.

A shadow on your shoulders. A stain you couldn’t scrub off.

The apartment was suffocating in its silence. Iye was gone. The shelves were dusty. The bed too cold. You moved through your days like a ghost, wrapped in oversized hoodies, waiting for a cease-and-desist letter to arrive at your door.

And it never came.

Until he did.

A soft knock on your door. You hesitated, unsure if it was someone from the press - until you peeked through the peephole and saw him.

Daesung.

A quiet smile and a Lego set tucked under his arm.

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the pieces scattered between you like a puzzle of the person you used to be.

Neither of you spoke for a long time. The clinking of plastic bricks filled the silence. And then:

"How are you, really?" he asked gently.

You didn’t look up.

“I’m waiting for his team to sue me,” you said, trying to make it sound like a joke. It wasn’t. “Every time I check the mail I think, ‘This is it. They’re finally going to destroy me completely.’”

Daesung sighed, his hands stilling. “They tried.”

You froze.

“But Jiyong stopped it,” he continued. “He refused to let it go forward.”

Your throat tightened.

“He still cares,” Daesung added quietly.

“Not enough,” you whispered, your voice cracking at the edges.

Your hands trembled as you tried to snap a tiny blue brick into place. You blinked fast, but it was no use. The tears came before you could stop them.

“I’m so alone,” you said, barely a whisper.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You sobbed quietly against him. And he didn’t let go. Not once.

“I miss everything,” you mumbled. “The job. The apartment. Him.”

“I know.”

You pulled back slightly, your cheeks damp, your eyes swollen.

And then… there was a moment.

A long, still breath between you both. His hands still rested gently on your arms. Your face inches from his. And for a second, you thought he might -

But Daesung withdrew. Slowly. Carefully.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “You're still hurting. And in love with Jiyong."

You laughed bitterly, blinking back fresh tears. “Yeah, pathetic, isn't it? God, I need to move on already. I'm sure he's already onto the next."

“Don't say that.” Daesung said. "You're Jiyong and y/n... I don't think anyone could imagine you two with someone else. Even Jiyong."

You looked down, pulling at the cuff of your sock.

“Well, before you became a couple at least,” he mumbled quietly, turning over a Lego piece in his hand.

You looked up, staring at him.

“I liked you,” he admitted. “When we first met. I wanted to ask you out. But then…” he trailed off.

“Timing,” you muttered.

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. Timing.”

You leant back, letting the silence return. You stared down at the half-finished Lego structure. It was messy, crooked. Like you.

“I’m going to get better,” you said suddenly. “I have to. I’m tired of feeling like this. I need to… move on. From him. From everything.”

Daesung nodded. “What do you need? Whatever it is, I’ll help you.”

You hesitated. "I just want to feel something other than this. Something other than sad, angry, tired... disappointed.”

He was silent for a moment. “Well... I have an idea. It always works for me.”

You blinked at him, suspicious. “Should I be worried?

He just smiled. “Get your shoes.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The heater in Daesung’s car was a little too warm, and the air smelled faintly of the watermelon gum he always kept in the cupholder.

You were curled in the passenger seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, staring at the streetlights flicking by.

“Dae,” you groaned, eyeing the dashboard clock. “I really don’t want to do karaoke right now.”

“We’re not going to karaoke,” he said, as he rolled the windows down. All the way down.

The wind hit you instantly, cold and sharp and shocking, and then he cranked the radio up, volume climbing until the speakers buzzed.

The intro of Since U Been Gone came on, that familiar guitar riff slipping into your chest like it had been waiting for you.

“This is not better,” you laughed, voice barely cutting over the music. “What are we doing?!”

Daesung didn’t answer. He just turned the wheel, merging onto an open stretch of road, city lights melting into streaks around you. He grinned like a man with a secret.

“This,” he shouted, “isn’t karaoke.”

You stared at him.

“Now sing.”

“No.”

“SING.”

“Dae - ”

“COME ON,” he yelled, already launching into the chorus with so much conviction you were startled. “And all you'd ever hear me say - !”

You stared at him, torn between horror and hysterics.

“Is how I pictured me with you!” he continued, dramatically pointing at you. “That's all you'd ever hear me say - ”

You broke.

You cracked right open.

And then you screamed the lyrics with him - loud, raw, desperate.

"BUT SINCE YOU BEEN GONE!”

The wind whipped through your hair. Your voice tore out of your throat, carried with the cold air like a release.

You stuck your head halfway out the window, breath catching, eyes burning, the cold wind like a shot of adrenaline.

You couldn’t stop.

Every line of the song felt like it had lived in your ribs for years, waiting for this exact night.

You and Daesung were practically screaming, gasping from laughing between lyrics, your voices ragged but real.

The car flew through the quiet city, past midnight streets and blinking lights, with you two as the only chaos left awake.

When the song ended, he didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

The gentle quiet that followed was calm and not suffocating.

He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and saw your cheeks flushed from wind, lips curled into something like a real smile - not the practiced, hollow one.

The real thing.

“Better?” he asked, quieter now.

You looked at him, chest rising and falling fast.

For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you weren’t numb. You felt the burn in your lungs, the sting in your eyes, the ache in your jaw from smiling too hard.

You felt everything.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Better.”

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt like that - not good, not healed - but free.

Alive.

You turned back to look at Daesung and he was watching the road, eyes glassy with the wind and something else - that soft warmth that always came with him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

And maybe nothing had changed. But something in you had.

The slump you’d been trapped in felt a little looser. The grief, a little lighter.

You looked over at him again, heart thudding a little steadier.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He reached over blindly and took your hand, squeezing it.

“Anytime.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your life looked different now.

There was no camera crew chasing you, no curated social feeds, no extravagant tour buses or flashing lights. Just a tiny café near your new apartment and a simple routine you’d grown to love.

You poured flower-shaped foam into cappuccinos and listened to the hum of radio music under soft morning light. You still missed the old world. But it was a memory now - faded, fragile, and far away.

Now it was just you, Y/n from the café.

And Daesung.

He still came by often. Always with a crooked smile and something ridiculous to say. He’d sit by the window, sipping the coffee you made for him - always with a little heart drawn in the foam - and wait for your shift to end so he could walk you home.

On Thursdays, he made you dinner. It started casually, when he realised you barely remembered to eat. Now it was a ritual.

It was the best part of your week.

No talk of the past. No talk of him.

Until today.

Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing - five, six, seven calls in a row.

Your manager gave you a raised brow from the register. “Either answer it or switch it off, hon.”

You chuckled under your breath and pulled the device from your apron pocket.

And froze.

Ji 🖤

The name blazed across the screen like a ghost risen from the dead. You hadn't even changed his contact name since he blocked you. A photo of him holding a tiny, fuzzy Iye haunting you.

Your fingers trembled. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

The ringtone kept playing like a slow taunt. Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stared at it until the call ended - only for it to start again a second later.

Eventually, you powered it off.

“Didn’t want to answer?” your manager asked, concerned.

You shook your head slowly. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t.

A chill followed you the rest of the shift, even as the café filled with the comfort of clinking cups and low chatter. You were wiping down tables when the bell above the door chimed again.

Daesung.

But he didn’t smile this time. He didn’t order a drink or tease you about your latte art.

He just sat by the window, biting his nail, leg bouncing anxiously.

You knew something was wrong.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Your shift ended.

He carefully helped you into your coat, and the two of you walked together in silence.

The sky was a deep grey, the air crisp with the promise of winter. You tried talking - anything to break the tension.

“So what do you want to cook tonight? I bought those mushrooms you like - ”

“I need to tell you something,” he cut in gently.

You stopped walking, pausing in front of your apartment.

“There’s been a development in the case. Your name’s been cleared.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They found out it was someone at your old company. They impersonated you, hacked your credentials to access the footage. It’s all confirmed.”

You turned away, pulling your keys from your pocket and unlocking the door. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Y/n - ”

“It doesn’t,” you said sharply, stepping inside and heading straight to the kitchen. “At least now I won’t end up in court. That’s something.”

He followed, watching as you set out the cutting board and knives.

“Maybe you should go to court and sue whoever it was,” he said quietly. “Make them pay.”

“Let Jiyong sue them. He’s already having his legal team handle it, right?”

You began unpacking ingredients from your fridge. Daesung hesitated.

“He is,” he admitted.

You let out a soft, humourless laugh. “He couldn’t believe me until he had cold, hard evidence. Not a phone call. Not a conversation. Not even a question. Just silence.”

Daesung started chopping in your place, the kitchen filling with quiet sounds of preparation. A kind of peace.

Dinner was simple and warm - a spicy stir fry and soda, your new usual.

Then his phone buzzed on the table.

Jiyong.

He looked at you. “Should I answer?”

You scoffed. “Sure. Let him know you’re having dinner with me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “He knows, y/n. I told him I’ve stayed in touch with you. We fought about it. For a couple weeks. Then he stopped bringing it up.”

“Too tired to fight anymore?” you murmured.

“Too scared to lose anyone else.”

You didn’t reply. Just stood and fetched the bottle of wine. You poured two glasses and handed him one.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” he said gently.

“I did.”

He raised a brow.

“This is a celebration,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’m no longer the world’s favourite backstabbing bitch.”

He accepted the glass, and you clinked yours gently against his. The wine tasted sharp. Almost sweet.

The two of you curled up on the couch and started a movie, horrors were your favourite.

And he never said a word in protest, but you were starting to suspect that maybe, despite his assurance he was happy to watch too, he was less of a fan. You'd occasionally catch his eyes squeezed shut or feel him jolt at the jump scares.

When it got late, you glanced over at him, voice soft. “Will you stay?”

He looked at you for a moment and nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

You turned off the lights and pulled the blanket over both of you. His arms found you naturally, curling around your waist, anchoring you in the moment.

And to him.

Just before sleep stole you, you felt his lips brush against your hairline.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

When morning came, the sun peeked softly through the curtains. The room was still. Warm.

And Daesung was gone.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

i fear i would have picked up...

also dae singing kelly clarkson? let's not question it and live in fantasy land together ok? great 🤣

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon , @imminsugasgf

#mashtatosworld #bigbang #kpop #gdragon #kwon jiyong #mashrecs #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #daesung x reader #daesung

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kamaluhkhan · 10 months ago

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LONG HOT SUMMER NIGHT

pairing: luke castellan x fem!poseidon!reader word count: 8.4k chapter summary: it's the summer solstice and olympus is throwing a party! thalia notices the tension between you and luke, poseidon gives you some relationship advice and you punch the god of desire in the face. warnings: angst! jealous reader. lots of drinking. complicated relationships. reader dealing with ptsd + survivor's guilt (post-titan war). mention of injuries + blood. creepy guy pushing reader to hook up. ending is a bit steamy but no actual smut. spoilers for the entire pjo (book) series. no betrayal (au where chris was the one who sided w kronos and led the titan army) so slightly ooc luke <3 also reader is in a band called the midnight sirens and is born on the summer solstice! author's note: thank you so much for all the love for part 1!! summer is almost over and this is very much a summer series BUT summer's not over yet !!! hope y'all enjoy this one too and thanks 4 reading 💙

part 1 | series masterlist

♪: long hot summer night by jimi hendrix

mail to:

Luke Castellan Camp Half-Blood, Half-Blood Hill 3.141 Farm Road Long Island, New York 11954

LUKE!

I’m sitting in my kitchen right now, watching Percy make us blue blueberry pancakes and hoping he doesn’t burn down my kitchen while doing so. I caved and agreed to take him to Disneyland while he’s here and breakfast was part of the deal, but I think I might regret it later.

We went surfing yesterday. It was Percy’s first time, but he was (unsurprisingly) amazing at it. I still can’t get over how beautiful the beaches are and the waves — gods, the waves are unreal. You’d seriously love it here. It’s like every day is summer. You have to come visit. PLEASE come visit!!!!

- [your initial]

P.S. The band and I are working on some new music, which means I won’t make it to camp again this summer. I’m sorry ;( Fingers crossed I’ll make it next year.

P.P.S. hi luke! happy to report that i did not burn down my sister’s kitchen. anyways, can’t wait to kick your ass in sword-fighting this summer. xoxo, percy

THREE YEARS LATER

the first time you visited olympus, you had been sent on a quest to retrieve zeus’ stolen lightning bolt, bringing luke and charles beckendorf along with you. you had missed the summer solstice deadline, but still tried to reason with the king of the gods when presenting the symbol of power, maybe calling him out once or twice along the way. before zeus could strike you down for your boldness, poseidon stepped in. the war between them was averted in fear of a much larger, looming threat; an ominous introduction for what was to come in the next chapter of your life.

another time, the gods debated whether or not they should kill you, some seeing you as a threat to their future. that was the day you accepted your destiny, not wanting your brother percy or your cousin nico to deal with the weight of the great prophecy.

your last visit to olympus was on your 18th birthday, after helping to defeat kronos and his army. you made the gods swear to stop neglecting their kids and to allow all demigods, regardless of whether their parent was an olympian or not, to have a home at camp half-blood; to treat their children as children rather than heroes as pawns in their twisted games.

needless to say, it’s quite strange, being back here under very, very different circumstances, where the gods invited camp half-blood’s senior counsellors and staff to join in their summer solstice festivities.

it’s not every day you’ll be invited to a party on olympus; you’re determined to have a good time, to have fun. there’s already an abundance of music, dancing, food, or alcohol, and the night is just getting started.

you’re happy to be there with new and old friends, but you’re ecstatic when you see that thalia grace is there, too.

“immortality looks good on you, t!” you compliment, raising your voice slightly over the music.

thalia preens, and you bask in her silver glow.

“bet you wish you took the gods up on their offer, huh,” she teases. then, her eyes widen. “oh - shit! it’s your birthday! happy birthday!”

thalia tackles you with another hug; even after all these years, she still smells like pine trees. she grabs two goblets of honeyed wine and hands one to you as you catch up. you eagerly gulp the sweet drink, until you’re reaching for another while listening to her stories about adventures she’d been on with the hunters of artemis.

about halfway through her story about fighting off a manticore during a snow storm, a nymph appears with a platter of the ripest of fruit – sweet plums and fresh figs, tantalising pomegranates, succulent grapes and crisp apples.

“oh my gods, this is the best apple i’ve had in my entire life!” thalia exclaims after indulging in a taste, herself giddy from a few goblets of wine. “where’s luke? he’s gotta try this — he’s always reminding us to eat more fruit. luke!”

you hadn’t kept track of luke, at least not on purpose. you assumed he’d been off partying with van or his siblings, and, probably, avoiding you. wherever he was, thalia calls his name twice more and, like a ghost, luke appears.

“i’m here, t.” luke’s voice is a deep, steady rumble floating above the music. his cheeks are slightly flushed, either from the heat or the drinks. likely both. “what’s up?”

“you need to try this.” thalia shoves the apple in his mouth before luke can respond.

luke takes a bite, and some juice drips down his chin. you, in a honey-soaked haze, think about running your tongue over to catch it, but he beats you to it, wiping it away with the back of his hand.

probably for the best.

“holy shit. yeah, it’s good.”

thalia, a sparkle in her eyes, urges you to try it as well. from across the makeshift triangle the three of you had formed, luke tosses the apple your way. you catch it effortlessly, and sink your teeth into it.

you’ve almost overwhelmed by the burst of flavor. the fruit is just the right amount of tart to balance out the sweetness, and it’s damn near the best crunch you’ve ever experienced.

“good is an understatement,” you say after another bite. a distant memory crosses your mind. “i wonder if these are the same ones we almost got killed by a hellhound for.”

thalia shakes her head, laughing in disbelief. “all because luke said we needed more vitamin c.”

“i was just looking out for us!” luke guffaws. “how was i supposed to know that persephone owned an apple orchard in connecticut?”

you pat his shoulder, the three of you smiling at the memory. “let’s call it an honest mistake.”

“well if annabeth had been with us by then, i’m sure that she wouldn’t have made that same honest mistake.”

“okay, but she’s the daughter of athena —”

you let luke and thalia slip back into their playful bickering as if no time has passed. you listen and continue eating that glorious apple, enjoying how the golden glow of your shared past fills whatever distance might have grown between the three of you.

somewhere down memory lane, luke’s amber eyes flick towards you.

“hey, you’ve got some….” without another word, luke suddenly reaches over to brush away a trail of juice with his thumb before sticking the finger in his mouth to savour the taste. he holds your gaze as he does so, and you feel a familiar kind of heat rush through your body — not from alcohol or summer sun, but from luke.

it’s such an intimate gesture that you almost forget that you’re at some extravagant party on mount olympus, where gods and half-bloods and a whole bunch of other mythological creatures are celebrating the start of summer by essentially getting drunk together, until thalia clears her throat.

“okay, well, seems like the two of you might want some alone time.”

luke’s cheeks grow more flushed than before, and his eyes widen as if realizing what he’d done.

“oh, we don’t need —”

“we’re not —”

you and luke both stumble over your words; thalia just smiles knowingly.

“i’m gonna go flirt with that nymph,” she announces, pointing across the grand marble pavilion.

“i thought — doesn’t artemis sort of frown upon that sort of thing?” you ask.

“she makes exceptions on holidays. besides, i’m her favourite. you guys have fun.” thalia winks at you and walks away.

you glance at luke and, gods, there’s so much history between you.

the time you jumped into an ocean full of sirens to save luke from drowning? you have a scar running down your forearm where one of them scratched you as you struggled to get luke towards the surface.

or when you took turns holding up the sky while on a quest to save lady artemis and defeat the titan atlas? it’s evident in the matching streaks of grey that you each have running through your hair. whenever you see your reflection in the mirror, you remember how you couldn’t save your cousin bianca di angelo earlier that day, and how nico has had to grow up without a sister because of a promise you broke.

how about when you, luke, and one of your best friends were sent on a mission to destroy the princess andromeda, the headquarters of kronos’ army? only the two of you survived, and sometimes you can still feel luke squeezing your hand pike he did during charles beckendorf’s burial shroud ceremony while you both cried.

or when luke took a sword between the ribs for you because he, somehow, knew the one spot the curse of achilles left you vulnerable? he can only slouch for so long before the bones there start to ache.

so, yeah. there’s way too much history, and so many tangled threads, and now really isn’t an ideal time to unravel it all.

“i’m gonna go find my dad,” you blurt out and disappear into the crowd with no real intention of finding your father.

the once sweet apple now tastes rotten on your tongue; you rid yourself of it in exchange for some more wine. you’re determined to have fun — no pain or heartache or grief.

you’ve all had enough of that for three lifetimes.

summer — age 14

“sorry your birthday was ruined.”

luke exhaled sharply when you pressed a disinfectant-soaked cloth to the wound on his leg.

“hold still,” was all you mumbled in response, brows knitted together as you wrapped the cut in gauze.

once you were done with his leg, you moved on to luke’s hands, burned by poisonous acid. the four of you had run into a hydra earlier that night. you managed to wound it enough so you could all get away, but not before a few injuries were sustained.

you were uncharacteristically quiet as you worked. you only met luke’s gaze to warn him before pouring some nectar on his wounds. you let luke hold your hand, tightly, as the liquid dripped through his fingers and down to yours, first right, then left. the pain was instant, seering almost as much as the hydra acid, but it was over quickly. the last thing you did was bandage each hand before getting up.

“i’m…i’m gonna check on thalia and annabeth. i’ll take first watch.”

luke caught your hand before you got away.

“wait. you’re bleeding.” he pointed to the cut on your brow. you had been so preoccupied in making sure everyone else was safe that you let crimson liquid drip down your face. it probably stung, too, based on your grimace.

luke wiped away the blood with his sleeve, used nectar to disinfect the wound, and dressed it with a fresh bandage, working silently as you did.

“it’s still your birthday,” luke finally said once he was done. “you get some rest; i’ll take first watch.”

you gave him a small, strained smile before checking on the others.

later that night, you stayed up with luke anyways.

seemingly out of nowhere, you handed him your portable cassette player. luke stared at it for a moment, unwilling to comprehend just what you were offering and, more importantly, why.

you and luke had grown accustomed to sharing things: flannels, socks, makeshift beds and scavenged food. but this —

it was your aunt’s.

you never met your mother, who’d left you as a baby, and of course, poseidon was too busy tending to his underwater kingdom to step in as a parent. your aunt raised you as her own. and then you lost her, too.

you kept her cassette player buried deep in your bag with some mixtapes she had made and ones you’d stolen throughout the years. when it wasn’t your turn to keep watch, luke would sometimes catch you with headphones on, looking up at the stars.

luke liked to think he knew you well; all those subtle elements that made you — the crack of your knuckles, the cadence of your voice, the slope of your nose, the dreams of your childhood. engraved in his own personhood. bones and all.

and, still: he didn’t know you, not entirely.

you’d only allowed luke to listen with you once, maybe twice. he’d never forget what it was like: knees pressed together and heads just as close to keep the wires from stretching too far; you gushing about the magic of jimi hendrix, recounting memories that echoed through gentle guitar riffs; luke yearning for one more song to play, for another a wistful smile of yours to appear. luke, wishing to linger in your private oasis a beat longer before you pushed him out again and closed the door behind him.

the one lock luke couldn’t crack: your grief, and how you carried on so buoyantly despite its weight.

well, there you were, presenting the key to luke as an offering. a sacrifice for something luke would never ask of you.

“this….” luke swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to look at you. he turned the device over in his bandaged hands, the metal smooth, though well-worn. “you can’t just —”

leave. you can’t just leave. you can’t just —

“hey.”

your hand over his, forcing him to stop spiralling and look at you.

right away, luke regretted it. a small sliver of him, however delusional, had hoped that you were joking.

you weren’t. behind you, there was an empty space where you had previously wedged your sleeping bag. your backpack was already strapped around your shoulders, fully packed.

“i need to leave, luke. we can’t stay together. it’s too dangerous.”

“you don’t need to —”

“there’s more of us, now,” you interrupted, pulling your hand away to rest on your thigh. “four demigods together isn’t ideal. we’ve been attracting more monsters. more deadly monsters.”

“that would happen, anyways. it always has whether it’s the four of us, the two of us, or….”

luke stopped his sentence short, not even wanting to give you the idea to go out on your own, even though you’d probably been thinking about leaving for some time.

you made reckless decisions sometimes, but this didn’t seem to be one of them.

“well, it’s happening more.” your voice was steady, too steady. luke imagined you rehearsing just what to say to counter the inevitable backlash.

luke shook his head. “i’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“you almost died because of me,” you clipped. you lifted a hand to touch the bruise on luke’s jaw, but let it drop just as quickly. “you know that children of the big three cause more trouble. maybe we managed it when it was the two of us, but now, there’s more to consider. a child of poseidon and a child of zeus, travelling together. it’s like we’re asking to be killed. it’s too dangerous.”

“that’s our life,” luke snapped. “you can’t just run from it.” from us.

you faltered, looking back to where annabeth and thalia were sleeping peacefully.

oh. he must have said that last part out loud, too.

“you know i’m right,” is all you said.

luke could only shake his head again. because, fine, you weren’t entirely wrong. it was more dangerous — but it was danger luke hoped you’d all face, together.

“i’ve made up my mind,” you added, an anchor in the sand.

“don’t leave.” luke’s words came out as a prayer. if he offered something, maybe you’d stay.

you paused to take a shaky breath. “this isn’t goodbye, luke. i swear to poseidon…fuck, i swear to all the gods that this isn’t goodbye.”

luke couldn’t speak. there were tears bubbling in his throat, threatening to spill.

“so, keep this for me,” you whispered, once again placing your hand on top of luke’s. his fingers gripped your cassette player tightly, like it was the only piece of driftwood leftover from a shipwreck, keeping him from sinking into the cold, dark nothing. “you’ll give it back when we see each other again.”

a promise.

“fine,” luke conceded, though he wanted to scream at you. he wanted to argue like little kids — petty, loud, meaningless, back and forth until tears streamed down cheeks and throats were raw.

but, you were leaving, one way or another. luke didn’t want this shared memory to be tainted if it might be your last.

“you have to take this, then. give it back when we see each other again.”

luke removed the chain from around his neck, the one that held the key to his childhood home. he placed it around yours, instead.

he didn’t need the key now, but his mother had given it to him when he was six. before he knew what it meant to be the son of hermes, god of thieves.

call him sentimental, but luke had kept it. just in case he ever got lost.

“if you’re ever back in connecticut, you have a home.”

“yeah, okay.” you smiled softly.

it fell just as quickly.

“take care of them,” you told him. “of yourself, too. i’ll see you again when it’s safe.”

luke didn’t ask when it would be safe, because the truth is that it might never be.

“because you want your cassette player back?” luke joked, instead trying to lighten the mood, to capture one last moment of brightness.

you laughed softly to not wake the others.

“yeah. that too.”

you pressed your forehead to his, something you hadn’t done since you were kids.

“i’ll see you again,” you repeated.

without another word, you got up and jogged away. luke shut his eyes, refusing to see you become nothing but a shadow.

(you looked back several times, but he couldn’t see through the darkness.)

now

call the gods out on their bullshit (you encourage it), but if they have one thing going for them, it’s that the olympians know how to throw a party.

the night grows darker, yet somehow becomes more lively. demeter and persephone had supplied a generous amount of fresh, decadent fruit, and dionysus an even more generous amount of wine. apollo starts a karaoke corner and you’re just tipsy enough to agree to sing a duet with him in order to break the ice. apparently, he’s a big midnight sirens fan and had seen your band when you headlined at glastonbury festival. you smile to yourself, imagining your bandmates’ faces if you told them that the god of music had watched you perform.

as you hand the microphone to a giggling dryad, the sound of your name washes over like gentle waves on a shore.

“if it isn’t my sweet, summer child!” your father brings you in for a hug and an ocean breeze engulfs you — salt and sand and sun.

“hi dad,” you exhale as you pull away.

you hadn’t seen each other in a while, but poseidon looks the same. he’s dressed in a turquoise hawaiian shirt and birkenstocks with a crown of seashells on his head. there’s a cocktail umbrella in his glass, a slice of pineapple wedged onto the rim. you’re about to ask him how he managed to secure a pina colada and where you might find one, too.

“that was quite the performance!” poseidon takes an eager sip of his drink, green eyes sparkling like sea glass in the sun. “i must tell you: your newest album is all the rage in atlantis. the nereids and merpeople can’t seem to get enough of it and, truthfully, i find myself playing it on repeat as well. you’re quite talented.”

you try not to let your shock slip through, instead smiling and asking how things are in his underwater kingdom, but you’re….touched at your father’s unexpected praise.

the gods aren’t perfect, and your father is no exception. they’re divine beings who have time to conceive children, but not to raise them. there’s a long history of them abandoning, mistreating, and manipulating their own offspring. of course, being the prophecy child, it became practically impossible for your father to ignore you; you’re sure that being dubbed the saviour of olympus gives him bragging rights with his immortal family. even with their sworn promise to change, it’s impossible not to resent the gods in some ways.

still, you feel comforted by your father's presence at times — when you catch the perfect wave on your surfboard, for example, or when you sit on your fire escape during a storm after a bad day. it’s been like that pretty much all your life: poseidon there in spirit, not in practice. despite everything, he’s watched over you, and percy, throughout the years.

and here poseidon is now, grinning at you like you’re his pride and joy.

“enough about aquatic politics.” he pats your shoulder enthusiastically after telling you about the struggles of keeping humans from overfishing. “i came over to wish you a happy birthday. and to give you this.”

poseidon reaches into the pocket of his shirt and hands you something you’d long thought gone: a leather cord with several clay beads and a silver key.

“i found it off the california coast,” he explains. “i kept meaning to get it to you, but i suppose time has a way of getting away from us, immortal or not.”

a warmth grows in your chest as you run your thumb over your old camp necklace, bright and full. it had fallen off one day when you’d gone surfing, and you assumed it was lost to the ocean. you'd been given a fresh leather cord when you arrived at camp earlier this summer, but it felt empty. hollow.

“thanks, dad.”

you smile at him as you put on the necklace; it feels like coming home. your father then asks you about your summer so far.

you tell him all about your life as of late, until you catch a glimpse of luke with van on a marble bench at the other end of the pavilion. van is sitting in luke’s lap, and they lean over to whisper something in his ear before kissing his cheek.

you freeze mid-way through your sentence.

sensing the shift in mood, poseidon frowns. he turns his head to follow your gaze.

“ah.” poseidon turns back to you and clears his throat. “now, i don’t mean to pry, but i saw you earlier with the castellan boy.”

you flush at the fact that your moment with luke was witnessed by your own father. “dad —”

“did you know in ancient greece, throwing someone an apple and having them catch it is considered a marriage proposal?”

“i’m pretty sure that was disproven,” you scoff.

poseidon raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused. “which one of us was actually there, hm?” and though you roll your eyes, you can’t argue with that. “i just wanted to know if there was a wedding happening in the near future.”

you almost choke on the last remnants of your wine. “dad.”

“i’m kidding. i’m kidding! mr. castellan seems otherwise occupied.”

“yeah, it does seem that way,” you grumble.

poseidon puts a hand on your shoulder, firm but reassuring. “regardless: if you find someone who would go to tartarus and back with you, someone who would fight alongside you every step of the way, you hold on to them. there’s only so much time you mortals have on this earth.”

you sigh — easier said than done — but your father is trying, so you manage a nod.

“i’ll keep that in mind.”

“now, i better go — ” poseidon looks over your shoulder, where the air behind you starts to feel staticky. “it seems a disagreement is brewing between zeus and hades. they always get into it whenever dionysus makes the wine a bit too strong. brother, put away the lightning bolt —” and he rushes away to prevent another divine conflict from arising.

left to your own devices, you venture over to the food table, finding an array of fresh and dried fruit, breads, cured meat, fresh oysters and, of course, more wine. you grab a goblet and a few dried figs.

“careful, i heard dionysus made the wine extra strong tonight,” someone warns, creeping up beside you. the voice is soft and alluring, and you feel something tug at your heart.

you do a double take when you turn to them; the person is devilishly handsome, a golden aura paired with a golden smile.

(you will soon find out that the god flirting with you is the son of ares and aphrodite, the latter of which takes the appearance of whoever the onlooker loves. as it turns out, her son appears in the same way.

all this to say: it doesn’t mean anything that this god looks like luke castellan to you.

it doesn’t mean anything at all.)

“i’m eros.”

“hey. i’m —”

“i know who you are, savior of olympus.” eros winks at you. “i just never realized you were so beautiful.”

your cheeks heat up as you take a sip of your drink.

oh, shit.

okay. the literal god of desire and pleasure is flirting with you.

you’re flattered, really, and maybe the wine has gotten to your head, but you’re not eager to turn him away.

“well, i’ve definitely heard about you, and the rumors do not do you justice,” you quip, painting on a flirtatious smile.

eros puffs out his chest, clearly pleased.

over the next few minutes, you decide that eros can hold a decent conversation, asking you the classic first date questions about your likes and dislikes, and he’s cute enough that you wouldn’t mind things going further.

(he might be a god, but he’s no luke. you push that thought away, and force yourself to flirt with helios. eros. right, eros.)

eros leans in close, pretends to listen to you, lets his gaze drop every so often to the deep v-neck of your shirt.

“no way! 13 going on 30 is a classic,” you argue. you nudge your shoulder into eros’s playfully, and let the contact between you linger. eros, the inspiration for cupid himself, has angel wings, and you feel them brush softly against your burning skin.

“it’s totally overrated!” eros exclaims. “also, the childhood friends to lovers trope gives people false hope.”

“it’s not false hope. it’s about the buildup to their happily ever after,” you reason, swallowing some wine to dislodge the lump in your throat.

eros shakes his head. “trust me, baby, it’s all about the instant attraction. that’s where the excitement is.”

he’s so close now, you can smell the sharp alcohol on his breath. not wine, but something stronger.

“oh? what do you mean by that?” you lean impossibly closer, trailing a finger down his chest.

eros smirks, placing a hand on your thigh. “want me to demonstrate?”

not even a second after you whisper a yes, eros crashes his lips onto yours, and you will yourself to kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, runs his hands over your body.

you’re making out with the god of desire and passion, so, objectively, it’s a good first kiss: soft around the edges and firm where it needs to be.

sure — you feel nothing, no real spark, but it’s almost enough to fill the hole in your heart in the shape of a certain son of hermes.

the son of hermes who has moved on and is in a loving relationship with a perfect emotionally available partner.

so, it’s fine.

this, this thing with eros, is fine.

you’re fine.

eros pulls away first, but keeps a hand on your cheek.

“let's get out of here.”

he grabs your wrist before you have a chance to answer. you stand up, let him weave you through the crowd towards the stairs of the pavilion. apparently, his room is just through the garden.

as he tugs you along, he looks back at you, smiling. under the glow of the stars, eros looks just like luke, except it’s becoming harder to ignore that he isn’t luke and that makes you feel all sorts of nauseous. your camp necklace weighs on your chest and, in particular, the silver key that you’d kept for all those years burns through your skin.

lightheaded, you pull away from eros’ grip just as you reach the top of the stairs and place a hand on the column next to you to steady yourself.

eros turns around sharply. “what is it?”

“i changed my mind, actually. let’s just…keep talking here.”

eros grabs your wrist again, his grip tighter than before. “don’t be a tease.” his tone is ever-so-gentle, but there’s an edge behind his words.

this time, your voice comes out more assertive. “i just changed my mind. that doesn’t make me a tease.”

“come on, baby, don’t you wanna experience what real passion is? this is a once in a lifetime opportunity that a million girls would kill for. you’d be an idiot to pass it up.” he brags, and you’re this close to breaking this guy’s nose, god or not.

“i don’t care,” you snap, struggling to break free from his grip. “and i’m not your baby.”

“okay, whatever,” eros rolls his eyes, but quickly plasters on an arrogant grin. “we’ll go somewhere private and i’ll call you whatever you want.”

he manages to drag you down two steps as you strain against his iron grip, now almost cutting off your circulation. your heartbeat quickens and you feel dizzy. finally, you grab onto the railing for leverage and use your strength to rip out of his grip, forcing eros to stop in his tracks.

“what is it now?” he snaps, whipping his head around once more.

he looks nothing like luke, now.

“just stop, eros.”

“listen,” he starts, speaking to you almost mockingly, like you’re a naive little kid. so much for being the savior of olympus. “trust me, i know what people want, so you don’t have to be shy. i promise to be the best you’ve ever had —”

“eros, is it?” the rest of the party is in full motion, but here’s percy, giving eros one of the most intense death stares you’ve ever seen. percy, your little brother who talks to lonely fish at the aquarium; who, if you cut open, would bleed blue m&m’s; who would never let anyone, god or otherwise, hurt someone he loves. “i’m gonna have to ask you to let go of my sister.”

“mind your own business, kid,” eros hisses. “we’re kinda in the middle of something.” he tries to move you down another step, but you stand your ground.

annabeth, no longer the scared little seven year old you, luke, and thalia found behind a dumpster, is also glaring at liam from the top of the stairs. one of her hands rests firmly on her belt, where she keeps her dagger.

“i’d back off, if i were you,” she warns. “wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“just mind your own business,” eros snarls.

“they said leave her alone,” thalia asserts, walking over once she sees what’s happening. “and you don’t wanna mess with us, trust me.” she clenches her hand into a fist.

“who the fuck are you? her bodyguards?”

“just let her go,” percy orders. “my sister can do a lot better than a minor god with a major god complex.”

eros growls, baring his teeth at percy. “you impertinent little shit.”

as soon as eros lunges for your brother, you tug one of his wings towards you, hard. he whips around and you take the opportunity to punch him in the face. he doubles over, golden ichor gushing from his nose.

“i’d be careful if i were you, baby,” you seethe. “you wouldn’t want to go up against the demigods who led an army against kronos and won. unless, of course, humiliation is a kink of yours.” you laugh humorlessly at the way eros scowls at your words. “to each their own,” you continue. “but i’m not in the mood to fuck an entitled creep with angel wings to compensate for his tiny dick. you better fucking respect that, and leave us alone while you’re at it.”

eros’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only entitled, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a few blows to their ego.

call it stupidity or arrogance, but his only response is a punch delivered right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but percy manages to reach out and catch you before you fall down the stairs. he holds you as thalia and annabeth create a barrier between you and eros. you hear them shouting at eros over the music, but their exact words don’t register.

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is suddenly all fuzzy. percy tries his best, but you slump your body weight into his and he almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” luke’s calm and measured voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. “from what i remember, you were too much of a coward to even step foot on the battlefield, so i’d listen to her if you know what’s good for you.” in a haze, you guess that luke is directing his sharp words towards eros, before turning to the others and instructing: “you guys take care of this — find clarisse if you need back up.”

somehow, you find yourself over in a small secluded temple, sitting on a window bench overlooking the clouds as luke sits next to you.

like most of olympus, the building is made of marble with gold accents; this one has roses engraved on the walls, and the space smells like flowery perfume. it’s much quieter than the pavilion, though you can hear laughter and music in the distance. it’s cooler, too, but not by much; even without all the body heat, you're left with sticky summer air, and luke’s breath on yours, sweet with wine and ripe fruit, as he carefully examines your injury.

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while — probably a dangerous mix of all three.

you know (from trying not to but ultimately not being able to pull your attention away from him after all) that he’s had a few drinks as well; it seems like the two of you ignore each other best when you’re sober.

“thought the curse of achilles would protect you from nosebleeds.”

“guess it doesn’t protect against —” what did percy call eros? “ — minor gods who have major god complexes,” you recite.

luke looks slightly amused. “that’s a shame,” he hums. “would have been nice to get one birthday without being injured.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the dull ache from your nose.

“you remembered.”

“of course i remember,” luke almost scoffs like the mere suggestion of forgetting what day you were born is an insult to his very character. he meets your gaze, and you could melt when he offers you that lopsided smile of his, painfully familiar. “happy birthday, aquagirl,” and it’s the softest he’s spoken to you in a while. just like old times.

he remembers.

somewhere within him, luke holds on to fragments of you.

he wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of his silk white button-down now stained crimson. “how’s your hand?” he asks.

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

“i guess all those years away didn’t change anything. still willing to put a god in their place, huh?”

all those years away.

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart, and you’re worried that it might burst the comfortable bubble you and luke had drunkenly stumbled into.

thankfully, luke continues:

“the kids really take after you.”

he says as a joke, mostly, but there’s a sincerity in those deep brown eyes of his, too. something you also hadn’t seen from him in a while.

the kids, who you’d in some ways raised together when monsters were trying to kill you and the gods didn’t care enough to stop it.

the family you and luke had built together despite being born into the world of greek tragedies.

“as if annabeth wasn’t threatening to pull the dagger you gave her, skywalker,” the nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “besides, they’re not kids anymore.”

“yeah.” he pauses. “neither are we.”

luke’s fingers trace your camp necklace, brush against your collarbone. the breath hitches in your throat.

here you are again, at the edge of something real and very scary, and you fear luke is going to push the two of you over.

but he doesn’t. instead, luke suggests, jokingly: “maybe we should start a fight club at camp.”

you take that as a good sign: like you, he’s hoping to preserve the playfulness between you before everything else seeps in and ruins it. before you’re brought back to the present, where you’re practically ignoring each other.

where you’re fine, but really.

you snort. “chiron and mr. d would love that.”

“like they’d ever find out!” luke explains. “you know the first rule of fight club —”

“don’t talk about fight club,” you finish together.

luke laughs, even though it’s not that funny. you laugh, too.

and that’s the thing that really, truly gets you.

try as you might to ignore it, some days it’s hard to forget the pain and heartache and grief.

you still feel like your life is a battlefield; you still see the ghosts of everyone you couldn’t save even though people call you a savior; you still have those scars, inside and out, that seemed healed but ache every once and a while.

but that isn’t all.

sometimes it hurts more thinking back to the good times and knowing, deep down, you can never go back.

summer — age 13

“ugh — you think with all their power, the gods could help stop global warming,” you groaned, swatting away a mosquito that tried to land on you. “do you think they have air conditioning on olympus?”

“oh, for sure,” luke quipped. he gave you a lopsided smile, his curls sticking to his forehead, drenched in sweat.

it was the summer solstice, the longest and the hottest day of the year so far. the two of you had found a perfectly good hideout, but luke insisted that this place would be worth the move.

he’d been leading you down side streets for what felt like forever. the sun had already set, and you were very close to passing out from the heat, until luke finally stopped at a door behind an alley, with a sign reading CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.

luke knelt down to do whatever son-of-hermes lock magic he had to do to get the door open. he flipped a switch, and you winced at the sudden overwhelming brightness.

the destination was different than the hideouts you usually sprung for: those small, hole-in-the-wall type places. instead, this space was big and bright, filled with arcade games and fun posters and neon colours. the type of place a kid might have a party or where a group of normal teenagers might spend their friday night.

“what…what is this?”

“you thought i forgot, didn’t you?” luke smirked at you. he sat down on the colourful carpet, taking out some snacks, a small plastic bag with coins, a wrapped box, and a plastic blue crown, and gestured for you to join.

you did, in fact, think that luke had forgotten your birthday.

birthdays were bittersweet for children of gods, who were constantly reminded that any year could be their last, their youth cut short by monsters or prophecies or a fatal flaw. all the two of you usually did on either birthday was split any sweet treat you could get your hands on.

it wasn’t a big deal, really, to skip that tradition of yours. there were much more urgent things to worry about, like finding food and water and shelter, and not being devoured by monsters.

you did think it was strange that luke hadn’t so much as said happy birthday to you all day, but you knew that he loved you.

(like a friend loves a friend. nothing else, no matter how much your stomach fluttered at the thought of him.)

“i wanted to surprise you,” luke explained once you claimed your spot next to him. he reached over to place the crown on your head. “i found this place a few days ago during a food run. it reminds me of where we had your —”

“eighth birthday party, yeah.” you smiled at the memory of running around and feeding quarters to every machine and trying every game, of your classmates singing happy birthday to you off-key before you all stuffed your faces with sickly sweet confetti cake.

truthfully, you never thought about having another celebration like that again.

but, it was five years from that faded childhood memory, and luke was presenting you with something you didn’t even realize you had needed: the chance to be a kid again.

“so,” luke got up, a wide smile on his face. he held the plastic bag in one hand, extending the other to you. “which do you wanna play first?”

you started with space invaders, then moved on to dragon’s lair and pac-man. you took a break before street fighter ii so that luke could ceremoniously light a candle and present a cupcake that had been tossed around in his bag (but you were still very, very grateful for), along with fresh batteries for your portable cassette player. he had made you a mixtape too, though you couldn’t figure out how.

your last stop was a photobooth. you vowed to keep those pictures — a collection of you and luke together, smiling bright and colourful, goofing off and laughing — for the rest of your life.

now

those moments from past summers are like popsicles melting in the sun: tangible for a limited time before leaving you with a sickly sweet mess of what once was.

you think about what happened earlier, how percy, annabeth, and thalia stepped in to protect you, still the brave kids you had once known so well. how luke is here with you now, taking care of you so tenderly even after you’ve silently agreed to give each other the cold shoulder.

maybe luke is right. maybe all those years away didn’t change anything.

except — once you leave this temple and the alcohol leaves your system, it won’t be the same.

none of you are kids anymore, if you ever even were.

“why’d you go for eros, anyway?” luke asks, breaking you away from your thoughts. he removes his sleeve from your nose since the bleeding seems to have finally stopped.

“you really wanna know?”

“yeah. most gods are assholes. and you’re…” luke places a hand close to your leg, pinky finger brushing your thigh. “you.”

“i went for eros because….well, honestly, i don’t think i cared who it was, as long as they made me forget you,” you admit, because what did you have to lose. you probably have a broken nose, you definitely have blood on your shirt, and your time with luke is running out.

luke’s eyes darken. his fingers start to play with the hem of your shorts.

“did it work?” his voice is a whisper, but he’s close enough that he’s crystal clear.

“no.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on luke’s — messy and urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. he cradles your face in his hands, and you move to straddle his waist. you taste wine on his tongue, and maybe a hint of sweet pears, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the alcohol or adrenaline, but dizzy from him. luke’s gaze is heavy on yours as he traces your top lip with his thumb.

“luke,” you whimper, itching to kiss him again.

“you’re still bleeding.”

luke wipes away the blood with his thumb. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s an echo of footsteps on the marble floor. a flower nymph, there to leave an offering and let you know that, while aphrodite encourages acts of love, she prefers it doesn’t happen in her place of worship.

you realize that aphrodite also might not look so fondly at you kissing someone else in her place of worship after publicly rebuking her own son.

luke untangles himself from you, and you know that he’s been jolted back to reality, too.

and, just like that, another moment has melted away.

your father was right. time has a way of slipping away for us, immortal or not.

summer — age 18

“hey, you awake?”

“yeah,” you replied softly. sleep hadn’t been easy, in the days and weeks and months leading up to that final battle with kronos and his army.

and once it was all over?

you rested your head on luke’s shoulder, sword discarded at your feet and armour half-removed, as argus, the hundred-eyed security guard of olympus, drove a school bus with a dozen or so demigods back to camp.

“why’d you turn down their offer?” luke whispered.

oh.

"why...why do you ask?"

"i don't know." luke paused. "just curious, i guess."

you closed your eyes and replayed that moment on olympus when you refused the gift of immortality. the look of shock written on the gods’ faces. and on luke’s.

“i don’t care about living forever,” you told him bluntly.

forever seemed too long, especially for someone who was prophesied to die at 18.

you tilted your head up to meet luke’s gaze, and his messy curls brushed against your forehead. evidence of the battle was clear on his face: caked-on dirt and blossoming bruises and dried blood.

behind him, outside the bus window, the world was flying by. a child who had fallen off their bike being comforted by a friend. two people sharing an mp3 player and a pair of earbuds. an elderly couple walking their dog.

“you once told me that this was our life,” you continued, gesturing towards the weapons and battle-worn kids, some quiet, others crying, many injured. “what if it didn’t have to be?”

luke furrowed his brow. “do you mean….are you talking about leaving?”

you shrugged. running from monsters for your entire childhood then being the child of the great prophecy was a lot.

a break might be nice.

there was so much about the world, the one you’d fought and bled to protect, that you wanted to experience.

maybe something closer to a normal life.

“would you ever leave camp?” you wondered, not really answering luke's question.

“no,” luke replied instantly. his fingers started fiddling with the beads on his necklace. “i can’t just walk away, not after everything.”

“yeah, i get that.” and you did; you really, truly, did. the guilt of wanting to leave camp curled in your stomach like a venomous snake. you took a shaky breath. “let’s talk about this later, yeah? i’m tired, and we have the rest of — ”

the rest of the summer slipped away in the blink of an eye. gone, before you even had a real chance to say goodbye.

you closed your eyes and held on to luke, as if gripping his arm would anchor you to something you weren't ready to let go of, but in some ways needed to move on from.

it was no use, though.

by the end of august, you’d be gone too.

now

you learned early on that the curse of achilles doesn’t protect you from hangovers.

you wake up the morning after the celebration on olympus with a deep, throbbing pain lodged in your temple and an uncomfortable swirling in your gut. parties and late nights at bars are common on tour, which means migraines are, too, so you have a routine to make sure you’re not out of commission for too long.

except this time, the aspirin and blue gatorade and dry toast don’t work. the sting in your brain and uneasiness in your stomach doesn’t go away, even after a few days. you haven’t been able to sleep, either.

desperate for a cure, you consult lou ellen, head counsellor of the hecate cabin, who you’d unexpectedly grown close to in the past few weeks. she mixes something for you, while asking if there’s something that’s been weighing on you.

you couldn't keep it in anymore; you tell her about the summer solstice and luke.

later, with nothing but your thoughts and percy’s snoring occupying your time post-curfew, you grab your phone and flip it open, deciding to finally reach out to luke, when you get a text from him.

luke is already on the beach when you arrive, looking out onto the water.

“hey,” you greet as you sit next to him on the sand, but not too close. “i was actually about to text you —”

“did you tell anyone that we kissed?” he interrupts. you can’t quite read his expression as he waits for you to answer.

“no, i didn’t,” you lie. “would it matter if i did?”

“well, i mean, word travels fast around camp, and i don’t want van finding out. it’s not like it meant anything.”

the throbbing in your brain becomes a sharper sting, the uneasiness in your stomach a tidal wave of nausea.

“it didn’t?” you hate how fragile your voice sounds, compared to luke’s stoic demeanor.

luke shrugs. “i mean, we were both drunk and the thing with eros happened…we just got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

“you’re saying there’s nothing between us, then? nothing?” the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

luke turns away before he answers. “no. nothing.”

“then what about last summer?” you demand. you force yourself to keep it together, your tone firmer than before. “i guess that didn’t mean anything, either.”

“y/n…” he sighs. “i don’t know what you want me to say. we’re barely even friends anymore. you come back here, after all this time, after so much shit happened, and expect us all to drop everything to fit you back into our lives. but, you don't. whatever you came here for, it's not here for you. there's nothing to go back to. we moved on. i moved on, and i can’t deal with you —"

“got it,” you snap, already turning to walk away. “loud and fucking clear, luke.”

it’s not like it meant anything. we’re barely even friends anymore.

you replay luke’s words as you crawl into bed, holding back tears so as to not disturb percy. finally, you swallow a generous amount of whatever concoction lou ellen had brewed up for you.

drifting off into your own sleep, you decide that you don’t love luke anymore. not as a friend, not as a.....

nope.

according to luke, there's not even anything to go back to.

nothing.

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