#visit portland maine
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muttball · 2 years ago
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Lobsters love Guinness
"Bull Feeney's is an authentic Irish pub and restaurant serving scratch-made pub fare complemented by 14 local craft and 7 premium imported drafts as well as Maine’s most extensive whiskey selection with 105 single malt Scotch, 9 blended Scotch, 43 Irish, 41 Bourbon, 5 Rye, 6 American, 3 Canadian, 1 French and 4 Japanese whiskies." However, Bull Feeney's, named after film director John Ford who played football for Portland High, nicknamed the 'Bull, has closed its doors after 21 years serving the Portland, Maine Irish.
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cozylittleartblog · 7 months ago
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here comes the boy ~ hello boy ✨
cleaned up a couple of the vash doodles i did while learning to draw him :)
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Visit the official website to learn more about Outcasts of the Rift, sign up for the newsletter, follow the Kickstarter preview page and wishlist Outcasts of the Rift on Steam!
On Sunday ONLY, from 9:30 AM-11:30 AM, I will be hosting a live demo of Outcasts of the Rift in the game room at Furcationland! I may be able to keep my game set up for longer like I did last year, but I can’t guarantee that.
I won’t be hosting a raffle at Furcationland, but I may display my folder of concept art if I have the space.
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aropride · 2 years ago
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guy baffled by the concept of big cities bc he grew up in a rural area and can name the Big Cities hes been in on one hand
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chimcess · 1 month ago
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Nachash || jhs
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Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Med Student!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count: 21.4k+ Summary: After the loss of both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell their home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place that she has little memories of despite 10 years of living in Harlem. Her world begins to shift, and she starts to lose sight of dreams and reality, and at the center of it all is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her a strange sense of deja vu, but she can’t help but wonder if he is who he says he is and why a strange bar keeps popping up in her nightmares. Warnings: Strong language, bad medical terminology (I tried), Hoseok has a demon side (like physically different), main character (somewhat) death (graphic), graphic violence, reader slowly losing her mind, heavy religious themes in a large chunk of this, explicit sexual content, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, manhandling, hard dom Hoseok, so much blood, low-key a yandere but not really, blood play, blood drinking, begging for life, extreme emotional manipulation, growling, over stimulation, unprotected sex (wrap it up), DARK ENDING, dubious consent (mind control/mood control/literally cannot leave Hoseok's presence), reader is severely mentally ill by the end of this, demonic possession, Stockholm syndrome, this is not a cute demon romance, read at your own risk, stopping here since there’s a lot just let me know if I missed anything A/N: After posting a teaser for this fic two years ago, I finally got around to finishing it! I’m still working on my smut skills, so I apologize in advance, but I hope you can get down with my favorite (and extremely evil) demon man. Happy Halloween (or, to my fellow Pagans, Happy Samhain)!
Prologue || Listen to the Playlist || Cross posted on AO3: here
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Nachash (noun) "snake; serpent". Derived from the Hebrew root n-ch-sh.
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July 1997
"How are you feeling?"
I sighed, pulling open another box. Unpacking was always the worst part of moving, like some cosmic joke designed to break you down piece by piece. Plates stared back at me from the box, and I clenched my jaw. The one on top was chipped—another thing on my growing list of replacements. I pulled it out and set it aside, determined to deal with it later. The rest of the plates went away in the cabinet. The broken one would be tossed.
"I don't know," I confessed. "Mom died. I'm everywhere."
My brother's hum of acknowledgment was all I heard. Miles had always been a quiet, distant sort, barely speaking to our parents. Their deaths hit him hard, but more so with Dad than Mom. Dad had been the stable one, while Mom was a relentless storm—never satisfied, constantly pushing, always demanding. To her, a doctor and a lawyer weren't enough. Miles had always seen her as aggressive, unyielding, and ever discontented. And Dad? Well, his complacency had its own way of grating.
Miles had moved to Oregon right after graduating from FSU, never looking back. We'd made the trek to see him a few times, but he'd never returned the favor. My stint in New York had mended our relationship somewhat. He visited frequently and spent his summers with me, and after Dad passed, he made a point to see Mom at least once a year. I didn't mind the trips to Portland; my Jacksonville home had become his family's vacation spot.
"So am I," he said, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue.
They'd been at each other's throats, arguing constantly, with his wife loathing Mom. Yet, I knew Miles held some affection for her despite their tumultuous relationship. He'd never truly made her proud, and that haunted him. I understood, but when I moved back home, the dynamics shifted. Mom used me as a weapon against Miles, making me the favored child, the one who came back. Miles was the ungrateful one who'd married the wrong woman.
Mom always blamed Trinity for Miles' "bad attitude." Dad knew better. I knew better.
"So," Miles shifted gears, "when can we come and visit?"
I smiled, "I'll be out there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So maybe next summer?"
"That's a long wait."
I chuckled, "Well, Rory starts school this year and Trinity's pregnant. You're just as busy as I am."
I'd been the one with the most on my plate for years. Mom, a real estate agent, rarely left home, while Dad ran a plumbing company. When Miles went to college, I was knee-deep in medical school applications. During my residency, Miles was grinding through law school. When I moved back to Florida, I was buried in ICU shifts while he graduated and started his own practice. He met Trinity, and the two became inseparable. Mom despised her, but I saw how they brought out the best in each other. My career-driven life had left me disconnected, and while Mom reveled in it, I resented it.
Kids changed everything for them. Aurora was their miracle baby. Trinity had struggled with fertility for years, and when they finally had a child, it was as if their world had transformed. My brother was spent, and Mom's resentment boiled over. She was always bitter that they hadn't uprooted their lives back to Florida for the grandchild. By then, Miles didn't care. He'd made the trips for Dad but after Mom's cruel comments about Trinity's weight and their daughter being "too pretty" to be her granddaughter, Aurora never set foot in the family home again.
"Aurora is driving me crazy," Miles groaned. "She won't stop talking about the baby."
"As a big sister, I can tell you she's just being a normal kid."
"I know that," I could almost hear his eye roll. "I'm just worried. It's still early, and I don't want her hopes to get too high. Trinity's scared of another miscarriage."
It would be her sixth.
"Try to stay positive, bub," I bit my lip, surveying the cluttered room. I'd never finish today. "If it happens, it happens. But don't go into it expecting the worst."
"Between Mom and this…" He trailed off.
I understood his fear. Trinity was a few years older than me, and her anxiety was palpable. At 38, any pregnancy brought its own set of worries. Last I heard, Trinity was considering getting her tubes tied if this one didn't make it. The heartache was becoming unbearable.
"Hey," I kept my tone gentle, knowing that riling him up wouldn't help. "Keep your head up. Her next appointment is soon. Ensure she's sticking to bedrest, and you'll be fine."
"What if it happens again?"
My heart broke for him. Miles had always been the rock, the one who seemed unshakeable. Seeing him this vulnerable starkly contrasted with the angry kid he'd been in high school. Mom had pushed his buttons mercilessly, and I had vague memories of our squabbles, but they paled compared to the constant battles he faced with her.
I wondered if he ever grasped how I felt. He always thought Mom liked me more, but it was more about her being able to overlook me. While he fought for her attention, nothing I did ever really mattered. It was like a fog followed me, obscuring me from their view. Sometimes, it would lift, and Mom would acknowledge me, but then it would return, and I was forgotten.
"You'll get through it," I assured him.
We chatted a bit more. Aurora was excited about kindergarten and had picked out new uniforms. She was obsessed with Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and her new backpack reflected that. She'd even given her Prince Wednesday stuffed animal to the baby. It was everyday family life, but the emptiness in my chest grew. I longed for laughter and the innocent joy of children in my home.
"Trinity's calling me," Miles said, his voice muffled by distance.
"I'll talk to you later. Love you."
"Love you too, sissy."
I smiled faintly, "Later."
He hung up before I could say anything else. I glanced around the room, eyes narrowing at the boxes that seemed to taunt me with their mere existence. All of them were my own—mainly books, a few other odds and ends. The sadness that gripped me was relentless. I'd always had the most demanding job, the tightest schedule, and the deepest insecurities. Miles was angry, and I was desperate to be seen, so much so that I followed every command without question. Now, here I was, alone, surrounded by regret.
Dating felt like a cruel joke. My time in New York had alienated me more than anything else. That fog of invisibility from my childhood had returned with a vengeance. Coworkers would barely look at me for over a second; people on the street seemed oblivious to my presence and dates. They always ended badly. They weren't evil men but would forget my name within seconds. It felt like I wasn't real, like I existed on some other plane.
The only person who seemed to remember I existed anymore was my brother and his family. Dad's Alzheimer's had robbed him of any memory of us before he passed. Mom, too incoherent at Hospice, never stayed awake long enough to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes, it felt like Miles would momentarily forget me, only for my name to pop into his mind at predictable intervals—like clockwork, only calling on specific days and times, usually if he was planning a trip. It upset me more than I could recall, but now I wondered why.
"This place won't unpack itself," I muttered aloud.
I'd talked to myself so much it felt almost normal. I knew I needed to make friends, that without connections, I'd end up as lonely as my father, but the idea seemed futile. No one saw me clearly. No one ever had. When I searched my memories for anyone who had seen me, I came up empty. No one had ever really seen me. No one ever would. Instinctively, I knew this despite the facade of normalcy I tried to maintain. I had a job, a family, a house. I wasn't haunted. Or… maybe I was just being childish. I was simply forgettable, unremarkable. This I knew.
"I exist," I whispered, the words reverberating loudly in the stillness of my apartment.
The silence that pervaded my life mocked me with its omnipresence.
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"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?"
"It's a lounge, sha," came a voice behind me.
What a peculiar dream. I took a bite of my sandwich, returning to the rude awakening that morning. I rarely remembered my dreams, if I had them at all. But last night had been different. I'd found myself in a dimly lit room with a man I couldn't recall clearly, dressed in white and speaking with an accent I couldn't place. I woke up before anything significant happened. The dream had been woefully uneventful.
The floor was almost eerily quiet tonight. Aside from the constant beeps and monitors scattered around and George Gilmore in room 11 watching football, no one spoke. The nurses here seemed less lively than I was accustomed to, their faces vacant, their words few. I kept to my small office most of the night, avoiding their station.
We'd had one death so far—a patient with a DNR who suffered a stroke shortly after midnight. Another woman had been pronounced brain-dead an hour ago. We'd wait until tomorrow to pull the plug, so her daughter could say goodbye. I didn't count her in my tally. The night crew had a way of seeing me even less than the others, and I didn't like them much.
"Hello, Doctor."
I jumped, startled. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. My irritation took me by surprise. I wasn't typically agitated; my feelings were either muted or overwhelming. He pushed his hair back, revealing messy chocolate brown locks, and held a clipboard stained with dubious marks.
"Sorry," he mumbled, shifting awkwardly under my gaze. I was already weary of his presence. "I was told you were new and thought I should introduce myself before leaving for the night. I'm Damon Glass, one of the anesthesiologists."
"Y/N Y/L/N," I replied, my voice flat and uninviting. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," he smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth that reminded me of my father's. It was a rare sight among people my age. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to come to me. Dr. Whitlock is on the floor, and I believe Morgan Fletcher is on call."
I nodded, appreciating the information but ready for him to leave. My distaste had faded, but I preferred brevity in conversations, especially with outsiders. I disliked the feeling of interacting with them. It was why I preferred dealing with the nearly dead; they rarely spoke, and when they did, I knew they'd be too medicated to remember much. The families were more accessible to handle than the ones back in Florida.
It was odd how my thoughts could veer into such morbid territories. Almost as morbid as my enjoyment of overseeing dying patients. It was not as macabre as my unbidden glee at my mother's death alongside my brother, but it ranked high on my list of flaws.
"Have a good night," I said, returning to my computer to refresh my emails.
Dr. Glass seemed to take the hint, leaving with an awkward smile and wave.
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August 1997
I stood outside the door, the muffled sounds of grief seeping through the walls like a relentless, jagged current. The family's sorrow was palpable, a heavy fog that followed me down the hallway. I hoped to catch them in a better moment, but the cruel truth of this place was that better moments were rare. With a resigned breath, I raised my hand and knocked. The room fell silent, and a strained voice called out, allowing me to enter.
Elizabeth Fraiser had lived a life filled with grace and elegance. Once a dancer whose feet had carried her across Europe's stages, she met her husband in Paris and married him there. They had settled in New York, where her days of ballet had given way to a quieter role as a ballet instructor in Jersey. She had raised a family, and her pride in her children was as evident as her passion for dance. She spoke of them with a joy that contrasted sharply with the emptiness of my own mother's words.
Now, Elizabeth was in the late stages of lung cancer. Her family had clung to the hope of letting her pass away at home, but the relentless pneumonia and ceaseless pain had pushed them to make the difficult decision to admit her here. Her condition had worsened sharply today, and her family was struggling to cope with the harsh reality.
"Good afternoon," I said softly, a gentle murmur in the oppressive silence.
"Nice to see you," Elizabeth's oldest son, Elijah, managed a weak smile. We both knew he wasn't fond of doctors, but he tolerated me because I didn't overstay my welcome. "Mom's been sleeping for a while."
I stifled a sigh. Her body was crumbling, and delivering bad news was never easy. The small comfort was knowing she would soon feel nothing at all. We planned to increase her morphine dosage and withdraw all other medications. Her family would need to agree, but I wasn't too concerned. Mary, her daughter, had debated extending her mother's life with her brothers.
"We're really at the end, aren't we?" Mary's voice was strained, her husband's arm around her for support. Among them, she was the calmest, but the edges of her composure were frayed. Her eyes were red, testimony to her unrelenting tears. "Will she be in pain?"
I explained our focus on alleviating her suffering. She would be less coherent in the coming days but occasionally rouse enough to interact with them between doses. We aimed to ensure she had the utmost comfort and relief in her final days. The youngest Percy took the news hardest and had to excuse himself. I held Mary's hand, appreciating the warmth of human connection. I prided myself on my bedside manner.
"I know home care wasn't ideal for you," I broached delicately, aware of their crowded lives and young children. "But I'm offering it as an option. Respite care is also available, though I understand it was stressful before. It's worth discussing."
Elijah shook his head firmly. Mary hesitated, but her husband's reminder to care for herself and their baby swayed her. Percy's wife raised concerns about her own health, cementing the decision. Elizabeth would remain with us in her final days. It was probably for the best—she was too frail and in too much agony without constant medication.
"Let me know if you need anything," I said, glancing at the family. The nurses are always available, and I'm on call until six. Is there anything I can get you before I leave?"
"Mom needs a bath," Percy reentered the room. A nurse had come by earlier, asking if we were ready to step out. Let them know they could come in."
The rest of my shift dragged on. Other families were terse and uncommunicative, and their responses were minimal. I understood their grief, but it did little to ease my weary spirit. The nurses seemed as disinterested in me as ever. I had long since given up trying to connect with them.
The air outside was crisp, almost biting. I walked to the subway, the city traffic too maddening to endure. I'd trade bumper-to-bumper frustration for the quirks of the subway any day. Last week, a man in a bunny costume rapped at six in the morning. The week before, a man argued with his reflection in the window. Last night, an elderly woman beside me commented on my disheveled appearance, lamenting that men didn't like that and worrying I'd die alone. I barely remember if I responded. I hated talking on the subway; her parting insult had stung me.
Tonight promised to be different. I left the hospital later than usual, after two code blues and an injury report for a nurse. Overdue paperwork and an insurance squabble later, it was past eight when I left. My walk was short, and the wait at the terminal was OK, but the train didn't arrive until 9:30. When I finally boarded, the car was almost empty.
Then a group of men entered. They were rowdy, pushing each other, their drunkenness a stifling cloud. I almost moved when they sat too close, but I didn't want to draw attention. I could feel their eyes on me. I clutched my bag tightly, fingers brushing the can of pepper spray hooked to its strap. I was almost home. Just three more stops.
"Hey," one of the men called out. I ignored him. "Hey, you."
I hated the subway.
"Leave her alone."
That voice caught my attention. I knew it—or thought I did. When I looked up, I was met with a stranger, yet his presence felt oddly familiar. He was striking, with tanned skin and sharp features that made his brown eyes stand out under the harsh fluorescent lights. He took the seat beside mine, and I didn't stop him. The men were back to their raucous laughter, and I was forgotten. I relaxed slightly, hoping to remain unnoticed.
"Sorry about them," he said, his warm and soothing voice a gentle tenor that evoked a sense of nostalgia. "Are you OK?"
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Something about him tugged at the edges of my memory, yet he wasn't a celebrity, and I was sure I'd never met him before. Perhaps we'd crossed paths on the subway? My brain was playing tricks on me.
"Yes," I said softly. "Thank you."
Despite myself, I stole glances at him. I had to remind myself to breathe when I ventured past his neck. He was slender, but there was a subtle strength beneath his clothes. If he noticed my scrutiny, he said nothing. He returned to his book, but I was convinced that his eyes were still on me when I finally looked away.
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I jolted awake, my body wracked with shivers despite the suffocating warmth of the blanket. The room was deathly silent, save for the moonlight streaming through the window like a spotlight on a stage set for a performance I never auditioned for. I rolled over, trying to bury myself deeper into the cocoon of my blanket, but then I heard it—a voice, soft and faint, yet carrying an unsettling authority.
“Oh, Y/N,” the voice crooned, dripping with a sinister allure. “It’s time. Come to me.”
Confusion and dread clawed at my insides as I stumbled out of bed. The room was a far cry from my own—stone walls, thick and oppressive, casting shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent glee. The floor beneath my feet was icy, a stark contrast to the comfort of my bed. My nightgown, white and delicate, felt like a mockery in this alien environment.
This wasn’t my room.
The voice came again, seductive and commanding. “Y/N, come out, come out, now. I’m waiting for you.”
Compelled, I moved to the window. Below, in the moonlit expanse of the lawn, stood the man from the subway. His face was eerily illuminated, his head tilted back as if inviting me to join him in the darkness below. His eyes—glowing a brilliant gold—seemed to reach out to me, promising unspeakable things if only I would take the leap.
I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He raised a hand, crooking a finger in a silent invitation. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling me toward him. Entranced, my feet moved on their own accord. Barefoot, the cold stone beneath me was a cruel contrast to the warmth I’d just left behind. I wandered through hallways and passages that felt simultaneously foreign and intimately known, descending into the shadows where he waited.
As I emerged onto the lawn, his smile made me shiver. He approached, his fingers brushing the side of my face—teasing, tantalizing, yet never quite touching.
“I’ve waited for you for so long,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “So very long. And now, now you’re mine.”
A fragment of my mind screamed in protest, shouting that I didn’t belong to him, that I didn’t even know who he was or why I was here. But a deeper, more primal force tugged at me, pulling me closer until I was nearly touching him. His presence was unsettlingly soothing, and I took a breath, feeling the heat of his gaze.
“That’s right, my lamb, come closer,” he coaxed.
An overwhelming longing surged through me—irrational, illogical, yet so profound that I couldn’t resist. I needed him to touch me, to make the connection complete. I tilted my head to the side, exposing my neck to the moonlight.
He responded immediately, his fingers trailing along my throat, their cool touch sending shivers through me. I gasped, my body lighting up with each delicate brush.
“More,” I heard myself plead, pressing closer.
“Say it,” he demanded, his arms enveloping me in a possessive embrace. “Who do you belong to?”
“You. I’m yours.”
He cradled my head in his hand, leaning in. His lips were smooth against my skin, but his teeth were sharp as they pierced through flesh. I screamed as he drank deeply.
I awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, my hands clutching at my throat, searching for any sign of injury. The skin was intact, unbroken. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my racing heart that felt as though it might burst from my chest.
The lamp flickered on with a click, casting a harsh, unwelcome light that made me squint and shield my eyes. Grabbing my robe and a cup, I shuffled out of the room, the chill of the hallway hitting me like a slap. I closed the door quietly behind me, trying not to disturb the oppressive silence that hung heavy in the air. The bathroom, bathed in the sickly fluorescent glow, was as deserted as I’d hoped.
I filled my cup halfway with water from one of the sinks, then leaned against the cold, sterile tiles, watching my reflection in the mirror as I took slow, deliberate sips. The dream—the one that had shaken me awake—felt so unnervingly real.
I traced the line of my neck with trembling fingers, the blue vein just beneath the surface. What kind of twisted message was my mind trying to send me with that nightmare? It had been a full-on gothic horror—a relic of some crumbling English manor, not the kind of place I ever imagined myself visiting, unless I was buried in a pile of classic literature.
And him. The monster. Even now, as I closed my eyes, I could still see his face—a blend of dark allure and cruel beauty. His eyes, oh, those eyes. They’d held me in thrall, made me willing to surrender to any demand he made. I could almost feel his cold touch, see his smile that promised both ecstasy and agony.
Wasn’t the whole vampire-mother-stuff supposed to be a metaphor for sex? Maybe that’s what my subconscious was trying to shove in my face—sex, or the glaring void where it should have been in my life.
I studied my flushed reflection, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I shook my head, trying to shake off the nightmare’s grip.
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The man sat next to me again. It had been a week since I last saw him, and my body still reacted to his presence. Today, I admired his chiseled jawline and elongated face. He was an exquisite oval with a strong profile. This time, he caught me looking and smiled shyly.
"I'm Hoseok."
The name sent a shiver, stirring something familiar and unsettling. I quickly brushed off the uneasy feeling. It was probably my own insecurity.
"Y/N," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from him.
He resumed reading, and I focused on crocheting a stuffed rabbit for my nephew. Miles had called that morning to update me on Trinity's appointment. The toy wasn't perfect—far from it—but I wanted to give it a try.
"How would you feel about dinner?" Hoseok's voice broke through my thoughts.
I paused my knitting. "I enjoy dinner. Who doesn't?"
He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that made me blush. "Cheeky."
I bit my lip, unsure if it was a compliment. I felt a pang of embarrassment, struggling to maintain my composure. The first date I'd been asked on since undergrad, and I was fumbling. Miles would have a field day.
"Would you like dinner with me?"
I hesitated. "Yes."
Hoseok's laughter resonated deeply within me, and I felt a jolt of warmth as he slid closer, his knee brushing against mine. He was impossibly warm. Instinctively, I shifted away, uncomfortable with his proximity. There was something off about him, an unsettling vibe that I couldn't quite place.
But then he smiled, and that soft, disarming grin evaporated all my doubts. He was dazzling. My eyes fluttered shut as his cologne enveloped me, weakening my knees. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was captivating.
"Do you like Italian?" he asked, his voice deeper now.
I nodded, struggling to steady my breath. Panic and embarrassment churned within me, but I couldn't ignore the physical response. My mind was flooded with inappropriate thoughts of Hoseok, vivid and intrusive. I gasped, feeling a flush of heat I hadn't experienced in a long time. 
"Does two weeks work?"
Snapping out of my daze, I looked at Hoseok and nodded. 
"I'm off on the 27th."
He smiled, and I stared at his teeth longer than necessary. They seemed different—sharper, perhaps, with redder gums. I blinked, reassured that they were just as I remembered. My sleep deprivation must be getting to me.
"Meet you here?"
We agreed to meet at six. I'd catch the 5:30 train to ensure I arrived before him. As the subway pulled into my stop, I waved goodbye and stepped out, only to realize I hadn't asked him where we were going. The thought lingered until the following day.
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The voice is louder now, sharper, as if it’s cutting through the fog of my half-sleep. “Y/N? I’m waiting for you. Come to me now.”
I hear it, feel the tug of it dragging me towards him, but fear clamps down on me like a vice. My bare feet are numb on the cold, wet grass as I stumble through the twisting maze of hedges, trying to escape the invisible force that pulls me like iron to a magnet.
My breath hitches, coming fast and uneven, as I sprint around corners, the long white gown tangling around my legs and tripping me up. I’m not sure anymore if I’m searching for a way out or if I’m trying to find him.
I turn another corner, my ankle twists and pain shoots through my leg as I crash into an open space—a small, white fountain sits in the middle, surrounded by benches.
Through the flickering light of the moon dancing on the water, I see him. Not a figment of my imagination, but there he is, standing as he promised, waiting.
Hoseok walks towards me with a slow, deliberate grace. He bends, lifting me effortlessly from the mess of my tangled gown and into his arms. I feel a peculiar sense of completeness as he sits on a bench, cradling me like a precious artifact.
“Were you bringing me your gift? Or were you trying to run from me?” His voice is soft, almost tender, and yet it cuts through me. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes. I’m lost, adrift in confusion.
I’m mesmerized by his flawless beauty. My fingers move of their own accord, reaching towards his face. That smile returns, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes.
“You may touch me.” His lips part slightly, and I press my fingers against them. His tongue flicks out, wrapping around my fingertip and drawing it into his mouth. Before I can react, I feel a sharp bite.
I gasp as he licks the blood that wells up from the small wound. “A small treat,” he murmurs. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
I find myself nodding, helpless under his gaze.
He licks my finger one last time, savoring the taste before swallowing. “They told me you’d be extraordinary, worth every moment of waiting. Yet, your taste is beyond anything I ever dreamed.”
My body reacts to his words and his touch—still innocent but making my skin feel like it’s stretched too tight, like I might explode. I let my head fall back, exposing my neck to him as his tongue traces a path up the sensitive skin.
And then he bites.
I bolt awake, heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. I fumble in the dark, reaching for the light switch, feeling profoundly alone with Rose away for the weekend.
I throw off the covers and stagger to the mirror, desperately checking my neck. There’s nothing there, no sign of the bite.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I grab a blanket and a book, and huddle in the hall lounge, surrounded by the harsh light of every lamp and the incessant flicker of the television, trying to drive away the lingering shadows of the nightmare.
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September 1997
I eased into my seat, the familiar weight of my bag pressed to my left side and draped an arm over it as if to claim it for my own. It was the first night off from the relentless grind of being on-call since mid-August and the first real night out in years. I’d never been much for the party scene, and medical school had only sharpened that aversion. The last time I went out for drinks was nearly six years ago, a fleeting memory of bar hopping that I’d abandoned early, too exhausted to keep pace with my friends.
Tonight, however, felt different. There was a nagging sense that I was misremembering that long-ago night, like a foggy half-remembered dream where something vital was missing. My life in New York had become a blur of medical texts and sleepless shifts, the grueling 24-hour days erasing the finer details of my existence. My final year had been a carousel of discomfort, but the specifics eluded me, lost in exhaustion. Perhaps a creep of some sort, some misguided doctor with a name I couldn’t quite grasp—maybe that’s what had soured my memory. 
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find Hoseok’s contact. The old SeaTAC was still a relic of the past, but I clung to it out of stubborn habit. Despite its age, it was a lifeline to the outside world, a way to escape the pager’s relentless beeping. I longed for the day when I could toss the landline, but the cost of cell phone minutes constantly reminded me of its importance. With his endless chatter, Miles made sure I burned through those minutes with alarming frequency.
“Hello?” Hoseok’s voice was silky, a comforting balm after a long stretch of clinical detachment.
“Hey,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just got on.”
“See you soon,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. I could almost picture the smile on his face, and it made me smile in return. His words seemed more benign over the phone, starkly contrasting the intensity of our recent encounters. “Save my spot.”
The car was beginning to fill up, Friday night revelers claiming their space, making it nearly impossible to save a seat. I promised I’d try, even as I felt the crushing inevitability of the crowd. His chuckle was soft, almost intimate. 
“Thank you, sweet girl.”
I bit my lip, the endearment both flattering and unsettling. A tiny voice in my head cautioned me, even though Hoseok had never used his terms of affection demeaningly. The voice grew louder when he wasn’t around, whispering warnings I couldn’t entirely dismiss. It was strange, this constant inner debate.
“I’m going to hang up,” Hoseok said, his voice a sensual murmur. I moved the phone away from my ear, puzzled by the seductive undertone. Was he implying something more?
Was I expecting more from tonight?
“I’m running up my minutes,” he laughed, breaking the spell of my thoughts.
“Oh,” I blinked, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”
The recurring dreams of him were becoming a distraction. My nights were plagued with vivid, unsettling fantasies, leaving me restless and frazzled. I wiggled in my seat, pressing my thighs together to quell the unsettling arousal. Reality would surely disappoint, no matter how compelling he seemed in my dreams. I resolved to hold off on sex for now. I didn’t want to tarnish his allure with premature intimacy.
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“Why did you want to be a doctor?” Hoseok asked, his fingers entwining with mine.
The wine started hitting, and the night air was crisp against my skin. Hoseok was the perfect gentleman; the evening was a beautiful respite from my routine. I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, and sighed.
“I wish I could say it was for noble reasons,” I said, my voice tinged with melancholy. “In truth, I just wanted my family to notice me. I thought graduating medical school would make them see me, but it never quite worked out that way.”
Hoseok hummed thoughtfully beside me. I turned my gaze away, feeling a strange mix of comfort and sadness.
“None of us are perfect,” he said after a pause, his voice low and contemplative. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, and my choices haven’t always been noble.”
I leaned closer, savoring his warmth and intoxicating scent. Despite my fatigue, the night felt lighter, almost magical. He was mesmerizing, and I was drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected. 
“I have a hard time believing that,” I said with a soft grin, snuggling closer.
“Well,” he said, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You haven’t had me all to yourself yet.”
A shiver ran down my spine, a curious blend of fear and delight. The night had been a rollercoaster of emotions—enchantment and apprehension intertwined. Hoseok’s smile was disarming, melting away my unease, but I made a mental note to reflect on my feelings once I was alone. He seemed almost too perfect, and that nagging pit in my stomach grew again before vanishing. 
“I don’t want the night to end,” Hoseok whispered, his breath warm against my ear as we waited for the train. “I’m having such a good time.”
I smiled, “What kind of girl do you take me for?”
“When can I see you again?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine longing.
“Soon,” I promised. “I’m getting the next few weekends off now that the other fellowship student is starting. My supervisor is trying to get me off every Saturday.”
“It’s a good thing my boss is flexible,” Hoseok purred, causing my heart to race. “Otherwise, I’d never get to spend time with you.”
I wanted to be annoyed by his clinginess, to remind him I wasn’t his girlfriend, but instead, I found myself grinning. His words made me feel seen and appreciated. Despite the anxiety he sometimes stirred in me, I was eager to be close to him. He looked at me so intently that I was willing to overlook my reservations. Maybe it was just butterflies?
“Where do you work?” I asked, trying to divert my thoughts.
Hoseok was a bartender at a speakeasy in Manhattan, where he’d worked since it opened. He had hinted at it throughout the evening, teasing me with its obscurity. 
“It’s a smaller place,” he said amusedly. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“Try me,” I challenged, my heart pounding strangely.
“Dauphine.”
The name hit me like a jolt. Images of dimly lit corridors and crimson hues flashed in my mind. I was sure I’d never been there, but the name stirred a disquieting sense of déjà vu. The dream from July, the man from my dreams—there was a connection, but it eluded me. 
As we stood in the bustling, well-lit area, I edged away slightly, unsettled. Hoseok was a charming gentleman, but the name “Dauphine” had ignited an inexplicable dread. Despite his humor and warmth, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something—or maybe I was just afraid of what I might find.
I stole a furtive glance at him, and it felt as though I’d known him far longer than the scant time we’d spent together. His face was oddly familiar, like a recurring image in a dream half-remembered. I had met him before, somewhere.
“No, you haven’t,” his voice cut through the night like ice. It was cold, detached, far from the warmth he’d shown me all evening. A shiver snaked down my spine, and I forgot to breathe. His grip on me tightened as though sensing my legs would buckle beneath me. “You’ve never known me before.”
The fierce scowl on his face startled me. His eyes, glowing with an eerie golden light, seemed to burn through me. Everything about him felt otherworldly like he was something less than human. A fragmented memory of a man sitting alone at a bar surged up, only to dissolve into nothingness.
“I am Hoseok,” he whispered, his voice weaving a heavy spell over my senses. “I am your boyfriend. We’ve been together a long time, and we’re in love. You just tripped and hit your head.”
A sudden jolt of pain made me wince and try to pull away from him. 
“Does it hurt?” His voice was deceptively tender, and I sighed through the pain.
“Yes,” I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “Does it look bad?”
Hoseok’s grin was unsettling, a blend of fake sympathy and amusement. 
“You were lucky this time. Just a barely noticeable red mark.”
I chuckled at my own clumsiness. I wasn’t usually this awkward, but my heel caught on a pavement crack. I gingerly rubbed my ankle and was relieved to find it unscathed. Even my heel had survived.
“Jeez,” I said, looping my arm through his. “I completely forgot what we were talking about.”
Hoseok’s smile broadened, clearly enjoying my disoriented state. I rolled my eyes and reached over to gently tap his chest. He responded by sticking out his tongue, which only made me scoff at his childishness.
“We were talking about work,” I said.
I nodded as if on autopilot. “How’s the bar?”
Hoseok worked at a swanky speakeasy in Manhattan, though I was trying to remember its name. Despite being together for what felt like ages, I had never been there. I was never one for bars, while Hoseok reveled in the place’s gothic charm. The name eluded me again as I tried to recall it.
“Tae’s excited,” he chuckled. “With Halloween around the corner, business will pick up.”
I hummed, my thoughts still lingering on the name. I had thought his boss was Tristan, but I must have misremembered. I shrugged off the nagging thought.
“You should stop by the bar,” I heard myself say, sounding oddly mechanical.
“Sounds fun,” he replied, his tone laced with a predatory edge.
Looking back on that night, it’s almost laughable how easily he swayed me. The way he possessed me was undeniable; soon, he would own every inch of me. Those dreams of him were his twisted way of showing love—how much he craved to touch me, to keep me bound to him. It’s sick and vile, and the thought of what we’d become makes me nauseous, yet to him, it’s love. 
“Let’s get you home,” he said, his arm wrapping possessively around my shoulders.
I remember leaning into his side, kissing his cheek as if I was floating. His presence was intoxicating. Even now, I can feel the ghost of his touch and his body's heat. It’s a twisted sort of longing I have for him. This place is cold and dark without him, without his reminders of how much he cares and wants me to scream for him. Here, time stands still, and life continues in a strange loop. I can’t say whether I’m alive or dead, but I know it no longer matters. Once I entered this world, my life ended and began anew. Hoseok made me feel both alive and dead simultaneously.
And as I write this, my heart aches for him. My fingers tremble at the thought of him returning to claim me again. The pain he inflicts makes my heart pound and my stomach clench. I miss him.
It both sickens and excites me.
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October 19, 1997
My bones groaned and cracked like ancient floorboards beneath my weight as I fought to catch my breath. Sweat slicked my skin, and I began patting myself down, half-expecting to find something tangible to anchor me to reality. My surroundings slowly came into focus. The harsh fluorescent lights above stung my eyes, but their sterile brightness offered an odd comfort. I was at home, cocooned in thick blankets that had twisted themselves around my legs. The bed beneath me creaked with the effort of supporting my restless form. I sighed, flopping back down, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that still clung to me like a shadow.
The dreams had become relentless, evolving from vague echoes of past terrors into something far more insidious. These weren't fueled by mere fear but by an overwhelming, consuming desire that felt dangerously close to swallowing me whole. The weekends were the worst, and after seeing Hoseok, they had turned almost infernal. He was always there in my dreams, his skin smooth and flawless, his deep brown eyes burning into mine with an intensity that left me gasping for air.
Every time I closed my eyes, his image flickered behind my eyelids like a dark, seductive film. The scenes always ended the same way: I would climax, my body convulsing in a fevered rhythm, while I looked up to see his face contorted in ecstasy. His deep, guttural groans would reverberate through me as his grip tightened on my skin. He would finish inside me, and my spent body would collapse beneath him. He would drape himself over me, showering my chest with tender, lingering kisses. The setting varied—my bed, a chilling, unfamiliar void, or a dimly lit lounge—but the conclusion was always the same.
With a sigh, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers brushing the cool surface. An email from Hoseok awaited me, and a smile crept across my face despite the haze of exhaustion. He was the epitome of a perfect gentleman—never pushing beyond my boundaries, never demanding more than I was willing to give, always accommodating his schedule to mine. Even in matters of intimacy, something many men would aggressively pursue, he always respected my pace. In the hectic blur of the past month, we hadn’t had a moment alone. He hadn’t even broached the topic. As I thought about it, I couldn't recall the last time we'd been intimate outside of these dreams.
From: Hoseok Jung Subject: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 03:05   To: Y/N Y/L/N Good morning, love, I'm sorry for the early message, especially since this is one of your rare mornings off. I hope I didn't wake you. I'm heading home from work and couldn't stop thinking about you. Taehyung is throwing a simple Halloween party this year, and luckily, it falls on a Friday. Would you like to join me? I think it could be a lot of fun. I love you. Hobi
I grinned and began typing my reply.
From: Y/N Y/L/N Subject: RE: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 04:15  To: Hoseok Jung Hobi, Don't worry, you didn't wake me. I was tangled up in strange dreams and was deep asleep when your email arrived. Sadly, I doubt I'll fall back asleep anytime soon, so I plan on catching up on Buffy or Beyond Belief—whichever's on. Hopefully, I won't get stuck with reruns of Seinfeld, not really my thing. Lucky for me, I'm working mornings this week. I'd love to come to your party. Call me when you wake up. Love you, too. Y/N Y/L/N, M.D.   Palliative Care Physician, New York-Presbyterian Hospital
It barely registered that, to my knowledge, I had never said "I love you" to him before. I had never really pondered the oddity of our relationship. My memories of our time together were a disorienting blur, but I never questioned it. It wasn't entirely my fault—he had ensnared me, body and soul, and any unresolved threads might make it harder for him to maintain control. Regardless of our tangled history or how elusive it seemed; I was simply glad he wanted to see me at that moment.
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I lay huddled in my bed, my body a coiled spring of anticipation, each nerve ending tingling with the foreboding that had stalked me all day. His voice had been a persistent whisper, a sultry hum that turned my name into a haunting lullaby. It was a melody wrapped in an insatiable longing, a caress of words that promised more than I dared to imagine.
Tonight, I wanted to resist. I tried to muster the strength to ignore the insidious pull, that relentless tug drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. The very idea of defying him churned my stomach with a nauseous dread. But the threads of his influence were woven so tightly around me, it felt like trying to escape from silken chains.
Then it came, cutting through the murkiness of my thoughts like a scythe. His voice, now sharper, more insistent, shattered the fragile veneer of my resistance.
“Y/N. Come to me now.”
With a sudden jolt, the pretense of defiance evaporated. I threw off the blankets as if they were chains, leaping out of bed and flying through the darkened hallway. My feet barely touched the ground as I hurtled down the stairs, each step propelled by an unrelenting force, dragging me inexorably toward him.
He waited for me in the foyer, bathed in an eerie glow that made him look like an apparition from a fevered dream—or perhaps a nightmare. His smile was both welcoming and chilling, a promise wrapped in malice. When he took my hand, his lips brushed against my fingers with a cool, electric touch that set my entire body aflame.
The intensity of my reaction embarrassed me, but he tilted my face up to meet his gaze, shaking his head with a look of almost pity.
“Your blood knows what it wants, my lamb. You must let your mind follow.”
My face burned with fierce heat, but the compulsion pulling me to him was too overpowering to resist. He guided me through the meticulously manicured gardens to a secluded alcove framed by dense, sculpted hedges. He seated himself on a bench, drawing me onto his lap with a practiced grace that made me feel both cherished and helpless. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, never left mine, promising secrets I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“Are you ready, my lamb?”
Without a second thought, I bared my neck to him. The desperate craving for the bliss and torment of his bite had consumed me completely; waiting was no longer an option.
He lingered, his tongue tracing a tantalizing path along the delicate skin of my throat. The sensation was almost unbearable, and I found myself begging with a voice that sounded alien, strained.
“Please.”
And then he bit.
I shot awake, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. I had fallen asleep hunched over my desk at the hospital, my neck stiff from the awkward angle. Rubbing away the ache, I cursed the book that had plagued me with such vivid nightmares. I needed to talk to my brother again; this couldn’t be anything but a cruel trick of the mind.
The glowing digits on my alarm clock mocked me with their late hour. I stood up, stretching and feeling my heartbeat slowly return to normal. I changed into a t-shirt and shuffled toward the bed, determined to banish the lingering unease.
As I passed the window, something froze me in place. I looked down into the parking lot and saw him standing under a flickering lamppost, his gaze locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.
It was Hoseok—or at least, it looked like him. But the resemblance was grotesquely twisted. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, a sickly luminescence that cut through the night like a malevolent beacon. His skin was peeling away in ragged strips, as if he were shedding himself like a decaying husk. This was no longer my Hoseok. He was a creature of nightmares, a monster forged from my darkest fears.
My fingers clung to the windowsill as I stared, my body paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to run to him, to give in to the magnetic pull of his presence. I watched as his lips moved, shaping a single word that seemed to echo through the chill of the night.
“Soon.”
I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the vision to vanish. When I opened them again, the parking lot was empty, the lamppost casting its pallid light over a sea of unmoving cars. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, snatched my blanket and pillow, and stumbled back to the on-call room, desperate to escape the sinister call that still haunted the dark corners of my mind.
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October 28, 1997
"What should I do?" the nurse asked, her name slipping from my mind like a shadow lost in the night.
"Give them some space," I replied, my gaze fixed resolutely away from the room across the hall. Elizabeth had just passed away, her DNR a cold, ironclad barrier that left no room for last-ditch efforts. Her family needed their final moments with her while we waited for the body to be transported. Mary was still wailing into her husband's chest, and Elijah looked like he'd been dragged through a storm, barely able to stand. Percy stood like a marble statue, his eyes glazed over while his wife clung to him. The sight of Percy’s frozen, unseeing expression twisted my gut in a way I couldn’t ignore. It reminded me too much of what I feared—and I needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of grief.
"Should we get them out of the room?" another nurse asked, her thick southern drawl hinting at Memphis. "Seeing her like that can’t be good for their mental well-being."
I shook my head. "Let them have their last moments in peace. Offer condolences and check on them regularly."
I fiddled nervously with my ID card, the familiar unease gnawing at me. My wounds from the day seemed too fresh. Miles surfaced in my thoughts again, and I resolved to call my brother on my way home tonight. Hoseok wasn’t working tonight, so he wouldn’t join me on the subway.
"I'm going to check in with 211," I murmured, watching Percy leave the room, clutching his phone like a lifeline. "I’ll be back in 5-10 minutes to see if the family needs anything. Just make them as comfortable as you can."
"You got it, doc."
The subway ride home was a silent affair. My headache throbbed like a relentless drum, and my stomach churned uneasily. The day had been heavy with more deaths than usual. Elizabeth’s family had eventually calmed down, but their kindness on their way out hadn’t eased the knot in my chest. I knew their pain intimately.
I called my brother as I made my way to the subway. Despite his complicated feelings about our mother, he was always supportive. The conversation ended abruptly when Aurora entered the room, demanding his attention. Miles had never truly understood my emotions; I doubted he ever tried.
The short walk home from the subway was a blessing, though the cold night air bit at my skin. I was grateful for the proximity of my apartment, but the streets were alive with noise—tourists laughing, gang members shouting outside their apartment complexes. I was relieved to escape the chaos, though my street wasn’t entirely free of foot traffic. My old apartment in East Harlem had been more of a hustle, with late-night carpooling with a coworker whose name eluded me. I knew it started with an 'A,' but the memory only worsened my headache. I set the thought aside for another time.
After selling the family home in Florida and vacation properties scattered across the country, I’d managed to buy a house on Astro Row at 100th and 30th Street. It was an old building—too expensive for its size, and initially, it seemed far from beautiful. But over time, it grew on me. I loved the brownstones, the front porches, the grand trees, and the quiet streets. I couldn’t imagine leaving. Even the renovations I’d planned were postponed. The charm of the old place had won me over, and I’d made peace with its quirks. I even got along with my neighbor, a small but welcome relief.
Tonight was quieter than usual, and none of my neighbors seemed awake. I missed the old man at the end of the street who used to sit on his porch, sipping coffee and waiting for dawn. It was nearly 4:30 AM. I shrugged and continued; my mind focused on the comfort of my bed.
Fumbling for my keys, I cursed quietly when my pockets were empty. My purse, a cavernous mess of clutter, swallowed everything. As I dug through it, a sudden burst of laughter behind me made me freeze. Two women strolled down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing off the walls. They were both stunning, their pale skin glowing under the moonlight. One of them locked eyes with me, her gaze piercing through the darkness. She looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew me.
"Hello," she said, her voice as light and tinkling as a bell.
"Hi," I replied, feeling strangely off-balance.
The other woman seemed perplexed. Her beauty was almost ethereal, with blonde hair as pale as her skin and eyes as dark as night. Her gaze swept over me with an unmistakable disdain, her teeth bared in a slight sneer. Yet, despite her apparent coldness, she was undeniably beautiful.
"How are you?" the first woman asked, her voice soothing.
"Fine," I responded, my throat dry. "And you?"
The nagging headache intensified as I tried to make sense of the encounter, a sense of déjà vu wrapping around me like a tightening noose. The women moved on, their laughter fading into the night, leaving me with a lingering unease that clung to me like the shadows of my dreams.
She studied me, her face a shifting canvas of emotions before settling into a look of genuine confusion. I tried to place her but struggled. There was something crucial I needed to remember, something just out of reach, but my mind remained stubbornly blank. A frantic urge to call Hoseok seized me.
The realization hit me like a cold slap. Why did I think I needed him? I tried to convince myself I could handle this alone. But deep down, I knew I needed him here. He could make this headache vanish, soothe the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in my chest. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…
“What's your name?” she asked, her smile both disarming and unsettling, making my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.
“Y/N,” I replied, feeling dazed and disconnected.
“Cold night, Y/N,” she purred, her gaze never wavering. “You should get inside.”
I nodded absently, my words failing me as I fumbled with my keys. The blonde woman's giggle, filled with an eerie excitement, made me shiver. I wanted to retreat, to escape this strange encounter. I shoved the key into the lock, eager to shut out the unsettling night.
“Y/N,” the first woman’s voice halted me, her tone chillingly smooth. Neither of them had moved since they stopped. The blonde’s smile remained fixed, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet the other woman’s eyes. “Be careful out here. You never know who’s wandering around.”
I nodded, turning the doorknob, but her voice stopped me again.
“I work at a bar in Midtown,” she said, her words snagging my attention like a hook. I had always known she worked at a bar, but why was it important? “It’s called Dauphine. Ever heard of it?”
Yes, I wanted to say. That place haunted my nightmares, a dark shadow that clung to the edges of my memory. But I couldn’t piece together why. Hoseok would know. He’d make everything better. No, my mind screamed—he’d only make it worse. I couldn’t say how I knew this, but I wanted to listen to the little voice inside me tonight. Something was very wrong.
“You should come by sometime,” she offered. “We’re on 1st and East 54th in the far corner of the Diamond District. If you need anything, just ask for ‘Bootsy.’”
Bootsy…
“Are you okay with cherry liquor?” she asked.
I let go of the doorknob and turned to face them fully. I couldn’t meet either of their eyes. The sensation was all too familiar. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the answer I didn’t want to hear.
“Do you know Hoseok? He’s my boyfriend.”
The blonde hissed sharply. Bootsy gasped, her face a mask of surprise and something darker, more shadowy. It was clear that Hoseok was connected to these people, tangled up with my memories of New York, the root of all my confusion. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…
No, I shook my head. Was that what he wanted me to believe? I wasn’t sure anymore.
“Yes,” Bootsy finally replied. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”
Before I could second-guess myself, I slammed the door shut and locked it. The blonde finally moved, stepping away from Bootsy and muttering something I couldn’t catch. She disappeared down the street, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.
“What’s wrong with me?” I muttered through the door, my voice tinged with desperation.
Bootsy’s response came through with a sorrowful edge. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, my headache pounding with such intensity that I could barely keep my eyes open. “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s like I remember things but not really, and everything goes blank every time he’s around.”
Bootsy’s eyes, a deep crimson, darted around nervously. They seemed to glow faintly, like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly, glossy and sleek. Bootsy wasn’t human. What she was, I couldn’t say. But she was somehow tied to the nightmares that plagued me, and Hoseok’s shadow loomed larger than ever.
“He’s a demon,” she whispered hurriedly, her words laced with a fear that seemed almost tangible. “I can’t tell you exactly what he’s done. I’ve never known him to keep someone around for this long, but whatever you’ve done to make him want you seems to have spared your life. You should have died back in ’92 with your friend.”
A friend? Someone else had been involved? Hoseok was a demon? The fragments Bootsy offered were like pieces of a shattered mirror, reflecting a reality I could barely grasp. I believed her, though. I had no reason not to. My memories felt like they were being twisted, distorted by Hoseok’s manipulations.
Then I thought of the creature outside of the hospital and felt my knees go numb. I hadn't hallucinated anything. It was real. It was him. Oh my God.
“We can’t talk for long,” she said, a look of pained urgency on her face. “He won’t sleep for much longer.”
“What can I do?” I begged, clutching my head as if I could squeeze out the pain. It was unbearable. “God, it hurts.”
“Nothing,” Bootsy’s voice trembled. “Hoseok wants you, and he’s never lost a game. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do; he will win. Whatever you’ve been doing has kept you alive this long, but I don’t know how much time you have left.”
Her words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing over me and dragging me under. I had been a pawn in Hoseok’s twisted game, my life manipulated by his cruel whims. What did he want from me? My body? My soul? The realization was suffocating.
“Go to Dauphine and find Taehyung,” Bootsy instructed, her voice carrying a chilling finality despite its almost maternal tone. “He had a soft spot for you back then. If you’re lucky, he might be able to change you, make you like us. That might be enough to satisfy Hoseok.”
Taehyung. The name cut through the fog in my mind like a beacon, easing the throbbing in my head, if only for a moment. He had haunted my dreams, his image vivid: a white button-up shirt, his gentle hands, his voice firm yet tender, saying he didn’t want to share me. He had left me in that bar, but the details were fuzzy—how or why I had ended up there was a blur. All I knew was that I was lost, and he had once been my guide.
She paused, her eyes darkening with a weighty empathy. “You’d be luckier if Taehyung agrees to end your life before the demon does. I wouldn’t wish this half-life on anyone, nor would I be glad to see you die, but those are your choices. I can’t guarantee you’ll make it through this.”
“What happened in ’92?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, thick with desperation.
Bootsy shook her head, her expression darkening with sorrow. “He killed your friend and tried to lure you away. That's all I know, and I don't have time to explain the rest. The sun’s about to rise, and your demon will be waiting for you to fall asleep. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. If he knows you’re aware of him, he might decide to kill you.”
It felt wrong to just let it happen. What would this mean for me in the end? Would knowing about his influence change anything? I couldn’t be sure, but if I wanted to buy myself time, I had no choice but to take the risk. I needed answers, a plan, anything to regain control.
“Y/N,” Bootsy’s urgent voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Your memories won't come back unless he wants them to. Let it go. Either way you'll be dead.”
With those final, haunting words, Bootsy vanished as quickly as she had appeared. The weight of my predicament pressed heavily on my shoulders, my impending doom looming like a dark cloud. I stumbled back to the porch, unlocked the front door, and sought refuge in the sanctuary of my bed. Bootsy’s grim mantra echoed in my mind as I tried to push aside my troubling thoughts about Hoseok, grappling with the uncertainty that lay ahead.
He appeared to me then, in a vision that was both intoxicating and horrifying. His eyes sparkled with a predatory thrill, his touch setting my skin ablaze, igniting waves of pleasure that crashed over me with ruthless intensity. His worship was ceaseless, his lips warm and insistent, as if trying to devour every shred of my resistance. I was swallowed by him, lost in a whirlwind of passion that twisted the love I once felt (at least, I believed I felt) into something darker, more insidious. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…
Bootsy’s words had struck me like a death knell, sealing my fate in an irreversible descent. She had unwittingly set my downfall into motion, transforming innocent affection into a ravenous lust that consumed every corner of my mind. When I awoke late in the evening, the decision to call off work for the rest of the week came with a grim resignation. The struggle to stay awake was in vain; it was becoming starkly clear how deeply Hoseok’s control had embedded itself within me. The inevitable was no longer a distant threat—it had already begun to unfold, dragging me into its dark embrace.
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October 31, 1997
I tugged nervously at my skirt, my fingers trembling despite the cool night air that should have been a relief. The address that had arrived this morning was burned into my mind, glaring at me from the top of the paper—Dauphine, the bar Bootsy had mentioned. My plans were clear: find Bootsy, get directions, speak with this Taehyung, and figure out my options. But the gnawing truth was unavoidable—no matter what I did, it felt like my life was already slipping through my fingers.
Sleep deprivation had become my relentless tormentor. My eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by leaden exhaustion, and my attempts to feign illness to dodge work had morphed into a grim reality. It was a battle to stay awake each day, and I feared that simply making it to this bar would be a Herculean task.
I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust the wig perched precariously on my head. I’d opted for a lazy Halloween costume—a half-hearted Cher from *Clueless*. The yellow plaid blazer was a thrift store find, the skirt a serendipitous discovery. But the wig made me look more like a grotesque caricature than a character. Frustrated, I yanked it off and tossed it onto the floor. I’d have to go without it.
Yawning, I fought the overwhelming urge to collapse back into bed. My cab was on its way, and I had to be ready. I gathered my essentials—purse, house keys, phone, and a spare outfit—preparing for a night that could very well be my last. I steeled myself for the confrontation, even if it felt like a hopeless, losing battle.
My daily struggle with myself had turned into a monotonous grind. My feigned illness had kept Hoseok at a distance, but it had only given me more time to spiral into despair over his influence. My mind was a battleground, where fragments of my past life clashed with the twisted desires he’d implanted in me. Every morning, I awoke to a gnawing need, a desperate craving for him that left me feeling sullied and repulsed.
I stepped outside and drew a shaky breath of the crisp night air. Calling my brother was both a comfort and a torment. There was a chance this could be the last time I spoke to him, and the thought tightened my chest like a vise. I fought back tears as I dialed his number.
“Hello?” Miles answered, his voice warm and familiar.
“Hey,” I forced a cheerful tone, though it felt hollow. “Still out Trick-or-Treating?”
“We just got back,” he said. “Rory wants to talk to you.”
My heart ached at the sound of my niece’s voice. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, her voice sweet as ever. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too, baby,” I sniffled, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah!” Aurora’s excitement was a bright spot in my darkness. “I was Katerina, mommy was Miss Elaina, and daddy was Daniel Tiger.”
“That sounds amazing,” I wiped away my tears. “What about your baby brother?”
Aurora’s voice took on a scolding tone. “His name is Corbin, Auntie,” she said as though I should have known better. “He’s still in mommy’s belly, so he wasn’t anything. Mommy’s giving him candy.”
I laughed, though it was tinged with sadness. “How’s your mommy?”
“She says ‘Hi,’” Aurora replied. “We got the best candy! A lady was giving out big Starbursts. Daddy’s letting me have all the pink ones because I’m special.”
“You are special, sweet girl.”
A painful thought intruded—would Hoseok make them forget me if I asked him? The idea was almost too agonizing to bear. He’d kept me alive for five years, a perverse form of flattery that I struggled to appreciate. My self-loathing deepened as I thought about the life I was about to leave behind.
“Daddy says I have to go,” Aurora pouted. “Bye, Auntie.”
“Bye, Rory girl,” I choked out, my voice cracking as the tears welled up. “I love you.”
“Love you more,” Aurora’s sweet voice drifted through the line, a beacon of innocence in my storm of dread.
I gasped, the floodgates opening as I fought to keep my composure. “Impossible,” I managed to whisper, my throat tight with sorrow.
“Why?” she giggled, her innocent curiosity slicing through my resolve.
“Because,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “I love you more than the world.”
Aurora’s laughter began to fade as she handed the phone back to Miles. The sound of her giggles and her mother’s laughter echoed in the background, a cruel reminder of the life I was about to lose. My heart clenched painfully at the thought of never hearing those sounds again.
“What’s up, sissy?” Miles asked, his tone tinged with concern.
“I was just heading out,” I said, forcing a tremulous cheerfulness into my voice. “Thought I’d call before my cab gets here. I’m leaving a little early.”
There was a heavy pause on the other end, a silence that spoke louder than words.
“Everything okay, Y/N? You sound upset.”
“No, no,” I hurried to reassure him, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. “Just tired. You know how it is.”
“You sure?” Miles pressed, his concern palpable. He was always too perceptive for his own good, but he never pushed too hard. I hoped he wouldn’t miss me too much.
“I’m positive, Bubba,” I said, my eyes darting to the cab pulling up to the curb. “My ride’s here. I love you.”
“Love you too, sis. Call me later?”
“I’ll try to remember in the morning,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat despite the crushing weight in my chest. “I know it’s late for you guys.”
I closed my phone with shaking hands and stuffed it into my purse, the weight of my decisions pressing down on me. The cab driver approached, his face a blur through my tears.
“Where to?” he asked, his voice a lifeline in the growing storm of my fear.
“1st and East 54th in the Diamond District,” I replied, offering a weak, strained smile.
“Dauphine?” The driver’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, a hint of something unsettling in his gaze. “Ever been there before?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying to steady my breath. “I don’t remember it all that well. Guess I had too much fun last time.”
“Watch yourself,” the driver said, turning on the radio with a slow, deliberate movement. “That place is crawling with freaks.”
“Welcome to New York,” I muttered, more to myself than him.
He chuckled, his voice a touch too jovial. “Been here my whole life. My name’s Jimin. Call me if you need a getaway driver.”
The car rumbled with the low hum of R&B, Jimin fiddling with the radio as if trying to mask the creeping anxiety that gnawed at my insides. I mouthed the lyrics, trying to drown out the terror that threatened to consume me.
My thoughts were a twisted mess of fear and longing. The image of Hoseok, tainted by his manipulation, flickered through my mind. The desire to escape him was overpowered by the suffocating grip of my own confusion. Taehyung was my last, desperate hope—a fleeting chance at redemption. But deep down, a gnawing realization settled in I was already damned, teetering on the edge with no way back.
The mantra echoed relentlessly in my head: I miss him, love him, and need him…
I was spiraling, caught in a web of my own making, and the thought of facing what awaited me at Dauphine was almost too much to bear.
“We’re here,” Jimin's voice cut through the thick fog of dread that enveloped me.
“Thanks for the ride,” I muttered, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the cash. I handed him a generous tip, a feeble attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy.
The alleyway stretched before me, a grim path between the upscale buildings of the Diamond District. It looked less menacing than I’d imagined, but its familiarity offered no comfort. Dim street lamps cast weak pools of light that barely touched the encroaching darkness. I hoped—prayed—that Hoseok wasn’t already here. The fading daylight gave me just enough visibility to navigate, and the murmur of voices outside the bar was a small, shaky comfort. I clung to the hope that these voices belonged to ordinary people, potential witnesses if I needed to make a quick escape.
As I approached, the group of people outside fell silent. My stomach churned violently, and bile rose in my throat, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face them; their gaze was almost a physical presence, making my skin crawl even though I never looked directly at them. A low, sinister snicker from one of them sent a shiver down my spine, amplifying my fear. I hadn’t even seen their faces, yet their mere presence was enough to make me quake.
The bouncer at the gate eyed me with a scrutinizing glare.
“Password,” he demanded, his voice flat and unyielding.
“I-” I stammered, my mind racing to recall the password Hoseok had given me. “Audubon.”
The gate creaked open, and I slipped past the security guard, my heart pounding like a drum. Despite my nervous bravado, the bouncer’s indifference did little to soothe me. Once inside, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, escaping the unsettling stares.
I gripped my bag tightly, knuckles white, and started searching for the bar. The interior was starkly underwhelming—plush couches and private booths scattered haphazardly, with red neon signs pointing to the restrooms. The oppressive red and black color scheme was heavy, but thankfully devoid of any overtly horrific scenes. I had no desire for strobe lights or dance floors; the thought of walking into a trap was more than enough to keep me on edge.
Navigating through the dimly lit space, I felt like I was moving through a maze. The long hallway ahead seemed to stretch into an abyss, the darkness intensifying with each step. The oppressive gloom and the eerie silence made my nerves jangle. The jazz music that had been softly playing in the background had faded, leaving me in a disquieting void.
At the end of the hall, the emptiness was almost a relief. The silence was oppressive but meant I wasn’t walking into a room full of hostile eyes. Perhaps this was how I’d met Bootsy—wandering aimlessly until she had found me and guided me out.
The bar seemed to stretch on forever, an architectural labyrinth that added to my growing sense of dread. I held my breath as the walls seemed to close in, my anxiety a tangible weight pressing against my chest. The high ceilings and claustrophobic spaces combined to create a sensation of being trapped. My heels clicked sharply against the linoleum, the sound echoing eerily in the silence. The place felt more like a mausoleum than a bar. Every step heightened my unease, and the hairs on my neck stood on end as I glanced around, trying to ignore the creeping terror that threatened to overwhelm me.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling as it cut through the oppressive silence. “Is anybody here?”
The sudden sound of a voice behind me made me jump, my heart racing as I spun around with a gasp that morphed into a shriek. My balance faltered, and I slammed into the wall, scraping my arm against the rough surface. The sharp sting of pain was immediate and searing. I clutched my injured arm, the pain and the shock making my vision blur. I turned to face the figure who had startled me.
He stood there, his white button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the dim surroundings. His tall, lean frame was framed by broad shoulders, and his long fingers seemed to move with an effortless grace. But it was his smile that made my blood run cold—a wide, boxy grin that stretched unnaturally across his face, his eyes glinting with a mischievous, unsettling light.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I glared at him, struggling to steady my breathing and regain my composure. “It’s fine. It didn’t kill me, did it?”
He chuckled softly; a sound that felt more sinister than soothing. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his gaze dropping to my arm.
I looked down and saw blood seeping through a tear in my blazer. The sight of my own blood was like a cruel reminder of my vulnerability. The pain, combined with the sight of my blood, pushed me to the edge. My hands shook as I raised them to my face, tears welling up uncontrollably. The enormity of my situation crashed down on me like a tidal wave. Everything felt chaotic; my life had been turned upside down, and the relentless pounding in my head was unbearable. I should have stayed home. At least Hoseok’s presence, while twisted, had been a semblance of comfort.
The despair was suffocating.
“Are you okay, sha?” His voice was soft, but his touch on my arm was disconcertingly gentle.
I laughed, a hollow, despairing sound. “Does it look like it?”
���No, you look upset,” he replied, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of sympathy and amusement.
“You don’t say?” I snapped, rolling my eyes and jerking my arm away from his touch.
Despite my evident distress, he remained unnervingly calm, his smile lingering like a dark shadow. His pleasure at my discomfort was unsettling, and the aura around him felt eerily similar to the disquieting presence of those outside. His attractiveness was overshadowed by a deeply disturbing quality that made me want to flee. It was as if fear had paralyzed me, pinning me in place.
Suddenly, a chilling realization hit me. As I forced myself to examine his face more closely, I recognized him from the shadows of my past. He was strikingly beautiful in a haunting way, like Bootsy. His pale skin was almost luminescent, and his eyes, once hidden in the darkness, now revealed flecks of red that seemed to glow with a menacing, otherworldly light. They were mesmerizing yet horrifying, a dangerous allure that made my skin crawl. The spell he cast was broken as quickly as it had begun, and I struggled to look him in the eye again.
“You’re looking for me, aren’t you?” His voice was a silky whisper that seemed to wrap around me, tightening with a sinister intent.
Embarrassed by my earlier outburst, I nodded slowly. My hope of finding help felt increasingly elusive as the night grew darker and more menacing. All I wanted was to escape, but the hope that things might improve clung stubbornly to me. Taehyung exuded a disorienting blend of warmth and menace, a mix of comfort and dread that left me feeling more lost than ever.
“I’m sorry for being snappy,” I said, my voice quivering as I wiped away a tear. “I don’t remember you all that well.” 
Or at all, my mind whispered in the encroaching darkness. The more I looked at him, the more I felt Hoseok’s oppressive influence tugging at my thoughts. Images of Hoseok’s touch, his voice, his eyes—each one flared in my mind with an insidious intensity. He misses you; he loves you, he needs you…
“Requiem was wrong,” Taehyung murmured, his fingers chillingly cold as they cradled my face. “You’re too far gone.”
“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling and my head spinning. His touch was both numbing and intoxicating.
“Bootsy,” he cooed, his breath a mix of cotton and sweet pine needles. “She said you had a chance, but she was mistaken. My friend has already completed the bond.”
“W-what?” I whispered, dazed and confused. The throbbing ache in my head resonated with Taehyung’s presence. “What bond?”
“Maybe not,” he whispered, his proximity making my pulse race.
When his lips met mine, they were like ice, yet the jolt of electricity that surged through me made my knees buckle. His laughter was dark and twisted as he wrapped an arm around my waist, his tongue brushing against my lips. I mewled, clutching his shoulders as the electric sensation overwhelmed me. His groan sent shivers through my entire body, and the echo of Hoseok’s voice in my head was relentless. He misses you, he loves you, he needs you…
Suddenly, I shoved Taehyung away, gasping for air as a searing pain exploded in my head. It felt as if a sledgehammer had struck my temple. My vision swam, and I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably.
“Poor child,” Taehyung crooned, kneeling beside me. His scent, soothing yet oddly comforting, did little to ease the tremors wracking my body. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot help you.”
“I’m going to die,” I sobbed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “The pain will lessen once you accept it; accept him.”
“What does he want?” I managed to choke out.
“Can’t you see?” Taehyung’s eyes glittered ominously in the dim light. “He believes he’s in love with you. It’s a pity, really. I want nothing more than to keep you, but I can’t risk angering him. He would destroy Requiem for revealing his secrets; she is my most cherished friend. Do you understand?”
Numbly, I nodded. I’m going to die. I miss him. I’m going to die. He loves you. I’m going to die. I need him. I’m going to die. I love him. He needs you. I’m—
“Your eyes look just like his,” Taehyung marveled, his gaze softening. “He’s bound to you in a way I’ve never seen before.”
As I stared at Taehyung, my vision began to blur, and the voices in my head whispered louder in the dark corners of my mind. Their weight pressed down on me, my eyes rolling back until all I could see was a void. When I came to, I was horrified to find vomit splattered across Taehyung’s pristine white shirt. His expression twisted in horror and pain as he watched me unravel.
A dark, malevolent presence loomed near, its acrid stench of soot and kerosene overwhelming my senses. My head throbbed as if it had been cleaved in two, and a grotesque, pecking sensation gnawed at my exposed, vulnerable insides. Taehyung’s icy touch against my rigid form offered little comfort as I lay helpless against his chest, terror seeping in with every passing second.
“There’s my girl!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the haze of despair, and just like that, the pain evaporated.
I exhaled, sinking into Taehyung’s embrace. His body felt like ice against my fevered skin, a chilling contrast that brought an unexpected relief. His cool fingers traced my scalp, their touch a soothing balm amidst the chaos.
“I hope you understand Bootsy’s decision,” Taehyung’s voice was as cold as his touch, carrying a weight of finality. “She thought you were still playing games. But she was wrong.”
A deep, resonant rumble filled the space, and Hoseok’s voice emerged from the darkness like a spectral echo.
“Requiem has every right to her judgment,” Hoseok said, his voice a smooth caress laced with menace. “If it were anyone else, I might not care. But Y/N’s suffering is a consequence of her meddling. I had hoped to keep her alive.”
“Why?” I croaked, the question barely escaping my lips.
“You’re my special girl,” Hoseok purred, his voice dripping with a twisted, cruel fondness. “So innocent, so malleable. You’re perfect.”
A strange calm enveloped me as I lay against Taehyung, the tumult of emotions and pain fading to a low murmur. Hoseok’s presence hung over me like a dark, oppressive cloud, his words a cruel mockery of the comfort I desperately sought.
Taehyung’s fingers moved through my hair with a cold, almost clinical precision. “You’ve been chosen,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “It’s a rare bond that neither Bootsy nor I can undo. I wish there was something more I could do for you.”
My vision blurred, shadows of past anguish swirling around me. Hoseok’s voice echoed in my mind, a haunting lullaby that twisted my insides. “You’re mine, Y/N. No matter how you struggle, you are woven into my essence.”
The room seemed to constrict, the walls inching inward, shadows elongating and darkening. A biting chill settled over the space, the whispers of the damned intertwining with my deepest fears. I could almost see their forms, spectral and menacing, reaching out from the darkness.
I struggled to my feet, the world spinning dizzily around me. My head throbbed with a relentless ache, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. I stumbled away from Taehyung’s unnervingly composed presence, my eyes darting frantically for any sign of escape or salvation.
“Y/N,” Hoseok’s voice was a dissonant blend of soothing and threatening. “Don’t run from me. You belong here, with me.”
My breath came in ragged gasps, the overwhelming urge to flee battling with a stubborn thread of hope tangled in my despair. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, clinging to the faintest possibility of survival amidst the encroaching darkness.
I turned to Taehyung, my gaze pleading, desperate. “Is there no way out? Is there any hope left?”
Taehyung’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and sorrow. “Try to enjoy your final moments.”
Footsteps echoed ominously down the corridor, each step deliberate and foreboding. My heart leaped as a figure emerged from the gloom. Bootsy. Her presence was both a flicker of reassurance and a shadow of dread.
“I’m sorry,” Bootsy’s voice was a murmur of regret in the darkness.
I looked at her, then back at Taehyung, and finally at the encroaching shadows that seemed to reach out with a ravenous hunger. The weight of the choice, of my impending doom, pressed heavily on my chest, threatening to crush me under its gravity.
With a shuddering breath, I steeled myself. “I can’t let this happen to me,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “I don’t want this.”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the darkness thickening. Hoseok’s laughter echoed through the void, a low, mocking sound that sent icy shivers down my spine. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be writhing on the floor if you didn’t.”
The shadows deepened, the walls closing in as if reality itself was warping to ensnare me. A cold grip tightened around my soul, a force dragging me back into the abyss I had fought so hard to escape. An aching chill settled below my diaphragm, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My head spun again, his voice a soft whisper in the recesses of my mind. I miss you. I love you. I need you…
Don’t leave me.
Taehyung’s expression hardened into one of grim resignation. “You’re already bound to him. The bond is too strong.”
As I fought against the invisible chains tightening around me, the futility of my struggle became all too apparent. The darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me back into the depths I had desperately tried to escape.
“Please,” I whispered into the void, but the darkness consumed my plea. “Please, no.”
Hoseok’s voice filled the void, smooth and victorious. “Welcome home, darling.”
The last glimmers of light vanished, leaving me in an eternal night, a prisoner of my own choices and the dark forces that had ensnared me. My mind fractured under the weight of the consuming darkness, and as the final remnants of my resistance crumbled, I faced the harrowing truth.
There was no salvation. No escape. Only the endless, consuming dark.
And in that darkness, I was utterly, irrevocably alone.
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I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped in this suffocating darkness—hours, days, months, or maybe even years. Time has become an abstract concept here, slipping through my grasp like the thin veil of reality that separates me from the void. The only link to the world beyond this prison is Hoseok, a ghostly presence who appears with a gleam in his eyes that chills me to the bone. His voice, carrying the weight of a thousand tortured souls, always asks the same haunting question: How are you feeling?
We were never friends. Each passing day has sharpened my memories into a cruel clarity. I don’t know where my physical body is—doubtful it’s anywhere near this place. The ink and paper I use to write materialize out of nowhere whenever I need them, appearing and disappearing like phantoms in my disturbed mind. This place defies all logic and reason.
Initially, I fought Hoseok with every ounce of my being. Each refusal brought excruciating pain that felt like it would tear me apart. My screams echoed back at me from the oppressive void, unanswered and ignored. Hoseok would slip into the darkness with a silent, predatory grace, his hot hands roaming over my shivering body before I even knew he was there. I would scramble away, howling and begging him to take me home, but he always left without a word.
Eventually, I gave up the fight. I accepted that escape was impossible, even though my soul still ached for my old life. The pain eased only when I surrendered, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent. They were filled with idle chatter about his plans for me. I learned he was a demon, and I was destined to become one too. The possession would erase most of who I once was, but when I awoke, we would be forever linked as master and shade. My freedom would only come after I took my first human life, but that day seemed impossibly distant. Hoseok savored every bite of my soul with a mournful delight.
What I felt for Hoseok wasn’t love—it was an obsession, a malignant force that had seeped into every corner of my being. “A natural reaction of a shade to its master,” he said. I was bound to him, and escape was nothing but a cruel illusion.
The first signs of my unraveling appeared when Hoseok vanished for days on end. In the infinite darkness, where time had no meaning, his absence was a torment of its own. Despite his power to bend reality, he chose to leave me here, dependent on his presence for any sign of change. I began talking to myself, my voice the only sound in the oppressive silence. I spoke for hours, my throat raw and hoarse from the effort, desperately trying to fend off the encroaching madness.
I felt like an addict in withdrawal. I don’t recall when hallucinations began, but soon I was conversing with a phantom chorus of voices. Deep down, I knew it was Hoseok orchestrating these illusions, but my fractured mind twisted reality into something I could barely comprehend. My hatred for him only served to cloud my already distorted perception.
As time dragged on, I grew weary. My speech turned into riddles, convinced I was a prophet receiving divine revelations. Raised Catholic, I had long drifted from faith, but the darkness reignited an obsession with God. I clung desperately to fragmented Bible verses. Hoseok, ever the manipulator, provided me with a Bible. If I weren’t so far gone, I might have questioned his uncanny ability to fulfill my twisted needs.
When I told Hoseok about my religious background, he laughed, and the darkness morphed into a cathedral. For the first time, there was something tangible to focus on during his absences. It was both a prison and a gift. The pews were filled with spectral congregants, and every day became Sunday. I feverishly wrote sermons, warning of the apocalypse. Hoseok attended with a devotion bordering on reverence, but he always left too soon.
The withdrawal pangs paralyzed me, but incessant talking kept the crushing loneliness at bay. I remember the first encounter after becoming accustomed to this madness. My body trembled with need, yet my mind remained alert. Each denial of release brought physical agony, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent and prolonged. My breakdown was inevitable.
On the day of my final descent, I felt his presence before I saw him. My struggle had reached its nadir. Despite my lingering hope for escape, Hoseok’s presence shattered my resolve. I became an all-too-willing participant in his dark designs. Even now, as I lie prostrate in my despair, I can’t escape the haunting reality of my existence.
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The words of the prayer rolled off my tongue like a ghostly murmur in the dim, solemn church. Each syllable was a desperate plea, a sacrament of my crumbling faith:
“Soul of Christ, sanctify me.”
“Body of Christ, save me.”
“Blood of Christ, inebriate me.”
This prayer was a twisted sacrament, a litany of sacred pleas that felt increasingly like cries into the void.
“Water from Christ’s side, wash me.”
“Passion of Christ, strengthen me.”
“O good Jesus, hear me.”
I bowed my head, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. My hands gripped tightly in a futile attempt to hold onto my sanity. I prayed not just for absolution but for a distraction, for him to stay away, for the sinful thoughts to dissipate like smoke in the sun.
“Y/N,” a voice whispered, spectral and insistent, urging me to rise, to accept, to finally bend to its will.
Reluctantly, I dragged myself to the pulpit, my legs trembling. I focused on the Gospel before me, the rhythm of my breath, the rehearsed words of today’s homily. I could hear murmurs of anticipation swelling in the pews, bouncing off the stone walls like echoes of forgotten promises.
Did they know? Did they sense the darkness creeping into my soul?
To be honest, I was unsure if anyone was really there or if my mind was playing tricks on me. This place had a maddening ability to distort my perception. I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, offering a fleeting smile to the choir’s children—figments of my fractured mind. Their eyes, hungry for guidance, believed in my wisdom, though I felt utterly unworthy. Their gaze was a reflection of my own inner torment.
My eyes locked on a figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, as I beheld him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—an irreverent defiance slicing through the sanctity of the church. His gaze was a burning, unholy fire that cut through the darkness with unnerving clarity.
In that moment, the last vestiges of my sanity crumbled, leaving me exposed to the consuming darkness that had become my prison.
I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, and offered a fleeting smile to the choir’s children, who I no longer believed were real. My gaze wandered over the congregation, each face a testament to a faith I felt unworthy of. Their eyes, brimming with expectation, seemed to pierce through me, demanding guidance I could no longer provide. I questioned my own sanity, wondering if anyone in that room could see how profoundly empty I felt.
I once had everything figured out. Before this… before him.
My eyes locked on a single figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat. There he was: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—a casual defiance that sliced through the church’s sanctity like a blade. His legs were crossed, hands poised by his sides, eyes ablaze with a fire that seemed to burn straight through my composure.
No holy book in his hands, no righteous smile on his lips—just an unspoken, rebellious challenge. His presence was a magnetism that pulled me toward a pit of temptation and sin. I forgot my sermon. I forgot the vows and promises etched into my soul. The solemn pledges made to men of faith and to God. Promises I had written daily to stave off the creeping insanity.
Those promises now felt like distant echoes, overshadowed by him. His eyes, his lips, his rebellious aura—an inferno of forbidden heat that ignited a longing I could no longer contain. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to escape the searing image of him. Abs, legs, an all-consuming heat that seemed to draw me into its vortex.
When I opened my eyes again, the fire remained. A cough from the crowd jolted me back to the present. I tugged at my collar, the symbol of my childhood and a cruel gift from Hoseok. It used to offer comfort, a sign of belonging, but now it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.
The faces of the congregation were a sea of silent, unspoken questions. Their eyes bored into me, filled with unvoiced suspicions and judgments.
Shit.
My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the pulpit, trying to anchor myself amidst the spiraling chaos. The eyes of the congregation felt like spectral judgments, each one a reminder of my spiraling failure. Hoseok’s presence, fixed in my peripheral vision, was a constant, unsettling pull—a dark promise of chaos just beyond the edge of reason. It pressed heavily on my chest, a suffocating weight threatening to collapse my fragile sanity.
I forced my gaze back to the Gospel, attempting to focus on the familiar lines of scripture, hoping they would restore my fractured resolve. But the words on the page blurred and twisted, tangled in the storm raging inside my head. Each verse felt like wading through molasses, and a bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the cold sweat already gathering at the base of my neck. I cleared my throat, trying to regain control, but the sound emerged as a strangled rasp.
The whispers grew louder, like rustling wings pressing against the walls of my sanity. My heart pounded like a funeral drum, each beat a reminder of my mounting desperation. I could almost hear the devil’s laughter, mocking my feeble attempts to maintain a façade of righteousness.
Hoseok’s gaze was unwavering, a predator’s gaze that seemed to sear through my composure. His movements were fluid, deliberate—like a hunter preparing to strike. My mind raced, desperately searching for an escape from this hellish vortex. I glanced at the crucifix behind me, its hollow eyes and outstretched arms now a pitifully inadequate shield against the encroaching darkness. The sacred symbol that once offered solace now seemed like a cruel joke, highlighting how far I had strayed from purity.
The murmurs of the congregation grew insistent, a chorus of impatient whispers that echoed like an unholy chant. The church, once a sanctuary, now closed in around me, its weight suffocating. I took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of my willpower. I forced myself to meet Hoseok’s gaze again, confronting the fiery rebellion in his eyes. He offered no sympathy, only a silent taunt that echoed my own guilt.
With a trembling hand, I reached for the microphone. My voice cracked as I began to speak, the words spilling out in a disjointed stream. I struggled to reclaim my authority, but with each passing moment, my grip on sanity slipped further. The congregation’s expressions shifted from curiosity to concern, then to alarm. Their faith faltered under the weight of my unraveling composure.
Hoseok’s gaze remained fixed, a dark star in a sea of light, drawing me inexorably towards his gravitational pull. My voice faltered, becoming increasingly erratic, reflecting the chaos within. The church fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rustling of the congregation’s uneasy shifting. I felt every eye on me, their silent judgment a palpable force.
My final words came out as a barely coherent murmur, a defeated whisper lost in the oppressive silence. I stumbled away from the pulpit, my mind a tempest of confusion and dread. As I retreated from the glaring scrutiny of the congregation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stumbling towards some dark, inevitable reckoning. Hoseok’s gaze followed me, a constant, unsettling presence as I fled the sanctuary.
I collapsed into the shadows behind the altar, my breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed through the oppressive silence of the church. The darkness around me felt like a living entity, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing, threatening to suffocate me. Hoseok's eyes lingered in my mind, their haunting intensity a constant reminder of the sin and torment that had become my existence. The certainty of my spiraling downfall felt inescapable, and every breath I took seemed to deepen my dread.
The pews had emptied in an instant, leaving the room cloaked in a suffocating silence. My heart pounded as I watched Hoseok move toward me. The man before me was no longer the mortal guise he had once worn; his true form emerged, dark and unnervingly compelling. His eyes, once warm and inviting, now burned with a shadowed hunger that quickened my pulse with a mix of terror and something I couldn’t quite name.
“Y/N.” His voice, soft and reverent, seemed to carry a sacramental weight that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There was a truth hidden in those syllables, a meaning only he understood. As his nearness intensified, confusion and fear danced across my features. His calm, deliberate hand cradled my cheek, the touch both tender and overwhelming. The heat of my skin seemed to beckon to him, an invitation that terrified and enthralled me simultaneously.
"You're so lovely," he whispered, his voice a gentle murmur that barely masked the wild intensity in his eyes. His touch guided me backward with a grace that felt almost otherworldly. The church seemed to dissolve around us, melting away into a space that was unsettlingly familiar—a fragment of my life from New York. The red brick of the two-story house brought a strange, bittersweet comfort, like a fragment of a life I had once known. It calmed my racing heart with its eerie familiarity. He led me to the front door, his touch both comforting and possessive.
The lock yielded effortlessly, and as we crossed the threshold, the gravity of the situation settled like a stone in my stomach. The house, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in with a menacing intimacy. 
"So perfectly lovely," he murmured again as he closed the door behind us. I stumbled back, my nerves crackling with an unsettling energy. It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was something darker and more confusing. A part of me ached for normalcy, for escape, while another part was drawn to him with a desperate, confusing need. The line between terror and an inexplicable, forbidden desire blurred beyond recognition. I clung to the last shreds of my sanity, even as I felt myself unraveling under the weight of my own conflicted emotions.
"Why are we here?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of breathlessness and an unspoken longing. My heart pounded with a confusing blend of fear and desire. It was as if clarity had returned to me for a fleeting moment, yet I was still tethered to the confusion Hoseok had woven into my days. His promises of relief had begun to erode the pain, even as they wrapped around me like a vice. I remembered the dreams he'd planted in my mind, their seductive whispers blurring my sense of reality.
"I thought you might feel more at ease here," he said softly, his tone smooth and soothing as he followed me through the cluttered living room. Each backward step I took seemed to draw him closer, his presence an inescapable shadow. "Do you like it?"
I hesitated, glancing around at the artifacts of my past—family photos, treasured mementos, relics of a life that now felt so distant. The room was a museum of a future slipping away from me, and Hoseok's eyes seemed intent on taking it all. "Yes, I do," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. The room, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a stage for his dark play.
"I'd like a drink," I said, placing a hand over my racing heart. I clung to the pretense of normalcy, desperate to maintain some semblance of control. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a flicker of my old self. "Is there anything here? Surely you would... like one... as well."
Hoseok, having long since discarded any pretense of humanity, closed the distance between us with unsettling swiftness. His movements were almost too fluid, his presence too intense. His hands, warm and steady, framed my face with a possessive grace, his gaze fixed on the pulse in my neck, the rich, inviting blood beneath my skin.
"Oh, Y/N, my sweet, innocent little lamb." His voice, a velvety murmur, sent a shiver down my spine. His touch, trailing down to my neck, felt both magnetic and maddening. His eyes lingered on my flesh with a hunger that was almost palpable, a craving that seemed to consume him as much as it did me.
I trembled in his embrace, my conflicting desires mirrored in his touch. A soft moan escaped my lips, my breath warm and trembling with a heady mix of fear and desire. His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes as he encircled my waist, his touch moving possessively lower, tracing the curve of my hips and thighs. The tension between fight and flight heightened the charged atmosphere, leaving me both desperate and disoriented.
His eyes traced the flush of my lips, a reflection of the flush between my legs. The scent of my arousal mingled with my anxious heartbeat, a call to the beast inside him. His senses seemed overwhelmed by the promise of my warmth, the floral sweetness of my skin, and the earthy musk of my desire.
"You don't want... a drink?" I stammered, struggling to grasp the situation, to find a shred of reason amid the chaos of my emotions.
"Oh yes, Y/N. I very much desire a... drink." His smile was amused, his lips hovering just above mine. The taste of his breath, mingling with his tantalizing scent, sparked a deep, primal hunger within me. I was alive with all these unfulfilled needs, caught between an overwhelming desire and a paralyzing fear.
I inhaled shakily, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. "What... would you like?" The question was a desperate plea for clarity, a tenuous grasp at the last vestiges of control in a world that had become a tumultuous blur of lust and dread.
A low laugh rumbled in Hoseok’s throat as he brushed his lips over mine, savoring the teasing trace of my flavor. "I want you, Y/N. I want to drink you." His honesty was laced with a raw, consuming need, a plea that mirrored the chaotic mix of longing and fear surging through me. It was clear he had no intention of letting me escape—not now. His tongue traced the corners of my mouth, and his body pressed against mine, making his heat seep through every layer of fabric that separated us.
I trembled, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions. The scents of my home—the cheap cotton sheets, synthetic pillows, and lingering traces of my perfume—led him with a haunting familiarity. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me with a purposeful stride, and placed me gently at the foot of my bed. The moonlight offered only a weak shield against the encroaching darkness that seemed to swallow us whole.
My heart raced, feeling like a delicate butterfly trapped in a predatory web. As he dropped his coat to the floor and drew me into a deep kiss, my earlier uncertainty dissolved into a raw, electric need. Each touch of his fingers against my body made me shiver, a mix of anticipation and dread coiling tightly within me.
The bed was unmade, its disarray a silent testament to my disordered state. His scent lingered in the tangled sheets and blankets as he lowered me onto them. My sweat-dampened palms gripped his hair, my fingers exploring the nape of his neck and shoulders. The buttons on his shirt came undone beneath my trembling hands, my desire growing bolder despite the icy grip of fear that clenched at my chest. His groan as his teeth grazed my throat made me arch my hips, pressing closer, driven by a need I couldn't fully understand.
My clothes fell away under his hands, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. His eyes devoured every curve of my body, his gaze as palpable as his touch. His mouth descended on mine, hungry and insatiable, and I was enveloped by him, lost in a swirling tempest of our shared desire. His touch became a language, one that read my body with an intimate knowledge I was helpless to resist.
As he explored my secret places, my soft sighs turned into desperate pleas. His searing touch brought goosebumps to my skin, but I pressed closer, overwhelmed by the pleasure he was giving me. I was caught between wanting more and the creeping dread of losing myself entirely.
"Y/N," he groaned, his voice a dark promise. "I want to consume you." His words were a growl, a warning wrapped in seductive desire.
"Yes, I want you to. Do it. Take me," I panted, clutching at his shirt sleeve. My body spoke louder than words, arching upwards in desperate need. I knew I didn't fully understand what I was asking for, but the awareness was drowned out by the intensity of my longing.
His hands covered my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples. I gasped, pushing closer as his mouth found each tip, his low growl sending shivers through me. My heart raced beneath his lips, the rush of blood whispering of more delights to come. I arched again, my body twisting off the bed, craving more.
His mouth sucked at my nipple, his tongue flicking to heighten my pleasure. His thigh pressed between mine, the fabric of his jeans rasping over my nakedness, igniting a desperate heat. I moaned and bucked against him, my fingers digging into his arms as I convulsed beneath him, reaching the peak of my desire. The exhilaration of the moment was punctuated by the fear that clawed at the edges of my consciousness, a persistent reminder that I was teetering on the brink of something both irresistible and terrifying.
The climax left me gasping, trembling, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and overwhelming need. Each wave of pleasure only heightened my fear, and my body’s reaction seemed to betray my mind's desperate protests. His touch, relentless and insistent, found a rhythm that both seduced and terrified me. I cried out, unable to stop the sounds that escaped my lips, but a part of me wanted to resist.
I tried to pull away, my hand grasping his wrist with a frantic intensity. "What... what are you doing to me…?" My voice was a ragged whisper, trembling with a blend of confusion and fear.
He looked at me with a dark, hungry smile, his eyes alight with a dangerous fire. "Y/N, don’t lie to yourself," he said softly, his fingers curling in ways that made my body shudder. "You’re not overwhelmed. Your body is telling me you want this. You’re close to coming again. I can feel it."
My protests dissolved into incoherent moans as his touch stimulated a spot deep within me. The pleasure was a cruel paradox, blurring the line between ecstasy and dread. I could barely think, my mind clouded by the intensity of his actions.
"No, Hoseok, it’s too much," I whimpered, struggling to catch my breath. "I can’t..."
His mouth moved to mine, his lips teasing, his breath warm against my skin. "You’re a beautiful little liar," he murmured. "It’s not too much. You crave this. You know you do. Beg for it."
The force of his command broke through my haze of desire. "Please, Hoseok...," I gasped, my will crumbling under his dominance. My words felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t stop myself from begging. "Please, just... take me."
His satisfaction was palpable, a dangerous hunger in his eyes. His touch grew more urgent, driving me to the brink of madness. I was lost in a maelstrom of sensation, my mind screaming to pull away, but my body’s response only seemed to draw him closer.
The moment of his thrust was jarring, a mix of pain and pleasure that overwhelmed me. My body reacted instinctively, my hips rising to meet him even as my mind struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening. The intense pleasure was intermingled with a profound fear, a dread of losing myself completely.
His movements were urgent, almost desperate, as though he were chasing an elusive climax. I was limp in his arms, my breathing ragged, torn between an unbearable desire and an escalating terror.
Despite my growing fear, I clung to him, my hands fumbling for some semblance of control. My kisses were desperate, seeking to anchor myself amidst the chaos. His touch was relentless, and every stroke seemed to heighten the conflict within me.
He pressed closer, his hands exploring with a possessive intensity. My body’s reactions were at odds with my thoughts, creating a tumultuous storm of sensation and fear. My mind raced, grappling with the realization of what was happening, but the pleasure was so consuming that it blurred the line between consent and coercion.
As the moment approached, I felt his breath on my neck, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked beneath his seductive veneer. The final act was a blur, my fear mingling with an overwhelming rush of sensation.
I was a walking paradox—caught between heaven and hell, life and death, sin and redemption. His presence was a fiery furnace, consuming me with the heat of stolen life he had been deprived of for so long. My body clenched around him, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to drive him to the edge of his sanity. His pleasure was overwhelming, a torrent of sensations that painted the world in a chaotic blaze of colors.
“Hoseok, please…” I whispered, my voice a fragile breath against the overpowering cacophony of sensations. I wasn’t sure if my plea was for him to stop or to continue, a desperate cry from a place deep within me that I couldn’t fully comprehend. My fear was a gnawing presence, clawing at the edges of my desire, but the confusion of what I wanted and what I was willing to accept blurred together.
His eyes were dark with a twisted satisfaction as he sensed the last of my climax and my blood draining from me. The thought of taking me to the brink of death both exhilarated and haunted him. His grip tightened, and with a guttural snarl, he pulled away from my neck, his fangs retracting with a mixture of frustration and reluctant restraint. The rush of his thirst roared inside him, but he forced himself to temper his need.
I was an indulgence he wouldn’t be denied again, a forbidden pleasure he was determined to claim. He gently laid me back on the disheveled sheets, my heartbeat weak and fluttering. He licked the last drops of blood from my skin, his breath ragged and uneven. Each touch was deliberate, sealing the wounds with a final, lingering caress—a practical necessity for a demon who wanted to savor every part of me.
“Mine,” he growled, his voice a low, dark promise that vibrated through my core. “You are mine, Y/N. From now until death claims you, until I claim you.” His breath was warm and heavy against my face. My eyelids fluttered, barely able to focus, but his words penetrated my haze. “If any other man dares to touch you, I will tear him apart. Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to.”
“Hoseok,” I murmured, my voice a faint echo of surrender. His satisfaction was palpable, a twisted delight in my obedience and submission. He rose and slipped out of the room, leaving me tangled in sheets and blankets. From across the street, hidden in the shadows, he watched and listened, his gaze a persistent weight on my fragile state.
As dawn’s first light crept through the blinds, it painted the room in a sickly, eerie glow. I lay amidst the tangled sheets, each twist revealing new bruises and bite marks—a grotesque map of the night’s events etched into my skin. The aftermath was a haunting blend of pleasure and torment, an unsettling reminder of what had transpired.
Hoseok’s presence lingered in the room like a shadow that refused to lift. The darkness he brought with him clung to the corners, an inescapable reminder of the nightmare I had just lived through. My mind, once a storm of fear and confusion, now spun in a twisted acceptance—a deranged serenity that felt as liberating as it was unsettling.
The door creaked open like the groan of an old house settling into its own despair. Hoseok reappeared, his eyes still gleaming with that predatory glow, but now softened by an unsettling tenderness. He moved towards me with a deliberate grace, each step imbued with a dark reverence that made my heart pound with a blend of fear and reluctant desire.
“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive murmur that slithered across the room. “Do you understand now? You are mine, every inch of you.”
I looked up at him, my smile a grotesque reflection of the twisted contentment that had taken root in me. It was not a smile of joy or freedom but a shadowy acknowledgment of a reality I could no longer escape. My old life had withered into obscurity, replaced by the suffocating reality Hoseok had imposed upon me.
“Yes,” I breathed, the word barely escaping my lips. “I belong to you.”
The truth of my submission felt like a heavy, warm blanket, pressing down on me with an oppressive weight. Despite the enormity of what I had given up—my freedom, my chance to reclaim any semblance of my old life—there was an undeniable satisfaction in surrendering wholly to him. The pain and loss had twisted into a perverse form of fulfillment, filling the void in my chest with a dark semblance of love.
Hoseok’s smile widened, a dark curve that spoke of unyielding possession. He reached out, his hand caressing my cheek with a gentleness that clashed violently with the ferocity of his claim. The room seemed to close in around us, the air thick with a palpable tension, as if the very walls bore witness to my surrender.
“You will never leave me,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine with an unbreakable determination. “You are mine, forever.”
I nodded, the movement small and almost imperceptible, but it was enough. It was a surrender, a relinquishment of my will to the dark force that was Hoseok. He pulled me into his arms, and I felt my resolve melt away, my body becoming a canvas for his power, intermingling with the strange warmth of our shared connection.
As his darkness enveloped me, I felt a disturbing sense of belonging. In the shadows of the night, under his control, my fears and desires tangled together, creating a new reality that was both terrifying and intoxicating. In that moment, I understood there was no turning back. I was his, bound in body and soul by the twisted threads of fate and desire.
Hoseok’s eyes softened as he pulled me close, his cold skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own body. His embrace was a strange sanctuary, a place where I felt both ensnared and cherished. My mind, once a battleground of conflicting emotions, had slipped into a state of blissful madness. In Hoseok’s dark embrace, I discovered a twisted joy that defied all rational thought.
“I’ve given you everything,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. “We are bound now, Y/N. Forever.”
His words were a chilling promise that resonated through the marrow of my bones, a haunting echo that left me trembling uncontrollably. I clung to him, my grip a mix of desperate need and profound terror, as a disturbing form of happiness took root in the darkest corners of my mind. The loss of my old life, the sacrifice of everything I had once held dear, seemed like a fevered dream compared to the unsettling contentment I felt in his arms.
As the first light of dawn filtered into the room, casting long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed, I looked at Hoseok with a gaze that was both adoring and disturbingly fractured. The vibrant world I had once known had dissolved into a distant memory, replaced by a nightmarish existence defined by the twisted love and passion we shared. My heart swelled with a love so profound it overshadowed any lingering regret, even as my mind spiraled further into chaos.
Hoseok’s final words were a chilling promise wrapped in disturbing tenderness. “Remember, Y/N,” he whispered softly, his voice a ghostly caress in the dim light. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.”
As the door creaked shut behind him, the morning light seeping in like a reluctant witness, I was left enveloped in the oppressive embrace of the darkness we had forged together. My smile, twisted and unnatural, reflected the bizarre, unsettling happiness I had found in the abyss. I was forever bound to the night, my soul tangled in the shadows of Hoseok’s dark desires.
The room seemed to breathe with the remnants of his presence, each corner cloaked in an oppressive stillness that mirrored the void he had filled within me. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of fragmented thoughts that raged in my mind. Now, there was only the echo of his words, the haunting promise of a future forever intertwined with his darkness.
I lay there, wrapped in the aftermath of our twisted union, my body marked by the evidence of his possession. Each bruise, each bite mark was a grotesque map of the new life I had been forced into. The pain was now a distant echo, overshadowed by the profound and disturbing contentment that gnawed at my chest—a contentment born of both surrender and madness.
As the minutes ticked by and the morning light grew stronger, I found myself replaying his final words in my mind, my thoughts fracturing with each repetition. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.” The truth of those words reverberated through me like a haunting mantra, a binding contract signed with my very essence, even as my grip on reality slipped further away.
There was no turning back, no reclaiming the life I had once known. I was irrevocably his, a willing participant in the dark dance we had begun. The thought brought a grotesque smile to my lips, a smile that spoke of a happiness found in the shadows, a contentment born of surrender and madness.
At least, I wanted to believe it was madness alone that made me forget how afraid I was.
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October 31, 2024
The house had become an enigmatic beast, its former guise of normalcy utterly transformed. From the street, it looked like any other home—silent and shadowy against the midnight sky. But within its walls, it was something else entirely. The shutters were clamped shut, keeping out any unwelcome glimmers of daylight. The curtains, heavy with dust, obscured the outside world, making everything inside a surreal, dreamlike blur.
Within this labyrinth of darkness, the house seemed like a twisted echo of a familiar nightmare. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old incense and stale dreams, creating a heavy, almost intoxicating atmosphere. Flickering candlelight cast eerie, jittery shadows that danced and twisted, as if mocking my attempts at normalcy. Silence pressed down on me, almost alive in its oppressive weight.
Days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the next in a fog of disorientation. Hoseok’s routines had become my own, though I couldn’t quite remember how or when they had taken over. My existence revolved around small tasks—cooking, cleaning, and performing acts of devotion—that had evolved into a kind of ritualistic pattern. It was as though each action was a silent offering to the enigmatic darkness that had enveloped our lives.
When I glanced in the mirror, the person staring back was a ghostly apparition of my former self. My face, serene to the point of being unsettling, bore a look of eerie contentment. I was a wraith, drifting through my days with a confusing mix of dread and satisfaction.
As night fell, the house came alive with an almost palpable energy. Hoseok’s presence was overwhelming, filling the space with his dark, commanding aura. His arrival was always marked by the ritualistic locking of doors, a subtle reminder of his control. The sensations of pleasure and pain that accompanied his touch had become a surreal symphony, a haunting reminder of the path I had chosen.
One particularly cold night, as the moonlight filtered through the grime-covered windows, Hoseok and I stood together, looking out into the void. The world outside was a distant blur, an irrelevant expanse that felt disconnected from my reality. The sky stretched above us, a vast, unyielding black, reflecting the emptiness of my existence. We were bound together by something primal and deep, though its true nature remained elusive.
Time inside these walls seemed to warp and distort. The house, once a symbol of normalcy, had turned into a crypt of our peculiar existence. The outside world had faded into obscurity, replaced by the certainty of Hoseok’s presence. I had found a strange form of happiness in this eternal night, where the terror of the outside world had been replaced by the dark, enveloping comfort of Hoseok’s embrace.
As I settled into my favorite worn leather chair, the house seemed to pulse with anticipation for Hoseok’s return. My knitting supplies were spread around me, with a scarf for Hoseok in progress. I hummed softly, my heart beating with a sense of calm and eager expectancy, as if I were awaiting a beloved dream to resume.
I replayed our last conversation in my mind, Hoseok’s words lingering like a haunting melody. “An old friend is coming for a visit,” he’d said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “She’s good at dealing with werewolves.”
I couldn’t suppress a bubbling laugh, the sound rising unbidden. “Isn’t she the one Namjoon’s obsessed with?”
His kiss on my temple had been darkly tender, sending shivers of pleasure through me. “Clever girl. It will be fun.”
I teased him playfully. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”
His laughter resonated through me, sending a thrill down my spine. “When have I ever been nice, lamb?”
“Nice to me,” I’d replied, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Very, very nice.”
Settling back into the leather chair, the hearth’s flickering light casting long, shifting shadows, I resumed my knitting with a serene focus. Each stitch felt like a small act of devotion, a testament to my growing obsession. I hummed softly, my heart a silent witness to the peace I had found in this twisted, eternal night. The lines between fear and love, sanity and madness, had merged into a strange, intoxicating tapestry that I no longer fully understood.
Hoseok said I was perfect. His praise was a balm to my disoriented soul.
I smiled, pushing away any lingering doubts about my sanity. I was fine. I was perfect.
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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago
Text
An excerpt from The Bezzle
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I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me next in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!
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Today, I'm bringing you part one of an excerpt from Chapter 14 of The Bezzle, my next novel, which drops on Feb 20. It's an ice-cold revenge technothriller starring Martin Hench, a two-fisted forensic accountant specialized in high-tech fraud:
https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle
Hench is the Zelig of high-tech fraud, a character who's spent 40 years in Silicon Valley unwinding every tortured scheme hatched by tech-bros who view the spreadsheet as a teleporter that whisks other peoples' money into their own bank-accounts. This setup is allowing me to write a whole string of these books, each of which unwinds a different scam from tech's past, present and future, starting with last year's Red Team Blues (now in paperback!), a novel that whose high-intensity thriller plotline is also a masterclass in why cryptocurrency is a scam:
https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865854/redteamblues
Turning financial scams into entertainment is important work. Finance's most devastating defense is the Shield Of Boringness (h/t Dana Clare) – tactically deployed complexity designed to induce the state that finance bros call "MEGO" ("my eyes glaze over"). By combining jargon and obfuscation, the most monstrous criminals of our age have been able to repeatedly bring our civilization to the brink of collapse (remember 2008?) and then spin their way out of it.
Turning these schemes into entertainment is hard, necessary work, because it incinerates the respectable suit and tie and leaves the naked dishonesty of the finance sector on display for all to see. In The Big Short, they recruited Margot Robbie to explain synthetic CDOs from a bubble-bath. And John Oliver does this every week on Last Week Tonight, coming up with endlessly imaginative stunts and gags to flense the bullshit, laying the scam economy open to the bone.
This was my inspiration for the Hench novels (I've written and sold three of these, of which The Bezzle is number two; I've got at least two more planned). Could I use the same narrative tactics I used to explain mass surveillance, cryptography and infosec in the Little Brother books to turn scams into entertainment, and entertainment into the necessary, informed outrage that might precipitate change?
The main storyline in The Bezzle concerns one of the most gruesome scams in today's America: prison-tech, which sees America's vast army of prisoners being stripped of letters, calls, in-person visits, parcels, libraries and continuing ed in favor of cheap tablets that bilk prisoners and their families of eye-watering sums for every click they make:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/14/minnesota-nice/#shitty-technology-adoption-curve
But each Hench novel has a variety of side-quests that work to expose different kinds of financial chicanery. The Bezzle also contains explainers on the workings of MLMs/Ponzis (and how Gerry Ford and Betsy DeVos's father-in-law legalized one of the most destructive forces in America) and the way that oligarchs, foreign and domestic, use Real Estate Investment Trusts to hide their money and destroy our cities.
And there's a subplot about music-royalty theft, a form of pernicious wage theft that is present up and down the music industry supply-chain. This is a subject that came up a lot when Rebecca Giblin and I were researching and writing Chokepoint Capitalism, our 2022 book about creative labor markets:
https://chokepointcapitalism.com/
Two of the standout cases from that research formed the nucleus of the subplot in The Bezzle, the case of Leonard Cohen's batshit manager who stole millions from him and then went to prison for stalking him, leaving him virtually penniless and forced to keep touring to keep himself fed:
https://www.theguardian.com/music/2012/apr/19/leonard-cohen-former-manager-jailed
The other was George Clinton, whose manager forged his signature on a royalty assignment, then used the stolen money to defend himself against Clinton's attempts to wrestle his rights back and even to sue Clinton for defamation for writing about the caper in his memoir:
https://www.musicconnection.com/the-legal-beat-george-clinton-wins-defamation-case/
That's the tale that this excerpt – which I'll be serializing in six parts over the coming week – tells, in fictionalized form. It's not Margot Robbie in a bubble-bath, it's not a John Oliver monologue, but I think it's pretty goddamned good.
I'm leaving for a long, multi-city, multi-country, multi-continent tour with The Bezzle next Wednesday, starting with an event at Weller Bookworks in Salt Lake City on the 21st:
https://www.wellerbookworks.com/event/store-cory-doctorow-feb-21-630-pm
I'll in be in San Diego on the 22nd at Mysterious Galaxy:
https://www.mystgalaxy.com/22224Doctorow
And then it's on to LA (with Adam Conover), Seattle (with Neal Stephenson), Portland, Phoenix and beyond:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/16/narrative-capitalism/#bezzle-tour
I hope you'll come out for the tour (and bring your friends)!
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Between 1972 and 1978, Steve Soul (a.k.a. Stefon Magner) had a string of sixteen Billboard Hot 100 singles, one of which cracked the Top 10 and won him an appearance on Soul Train. He is largely forgotten today, except by hip-­hop producers who prize his tracks as a source of deep, funky grooves. They sampled the hell out of him, not least because his rights were controlled by Inglewood Jams, a clearinghouse for obscure funk tracks that charged less than half of what the Big Three labels extracted for each sample license.
Even at that lower rate, those license payments would have set Stefon up for a comfortable retirement, especially when added to his Social Security and the disability check from Dodgers Stadium, where he cleaned floors for more than a decade before he fell down a beer-­slicked bleacher and cracked two of his lumbar discs. But Stefon didn’t get a dime. His former manager, Chuy Flores, forged his signature on a copyright assignment in 1976. Stefon didn’t discover this fact until 1979, because Chuy kept cutting him royalty checks, even as Stefon’s band broke up and those royalties trickled off. In Stefon’s telling, the band broke up because the rest of the act—­especially the three-­piece rhythm section of two percussionists and a beautiful bass player with a natural afro and a wild, infectious hip-­wiggle while she played—­were too coked up to make it to rehearsal, making their performances into shambling wreckages and their studio sessions into vicious bickerfests. To hear the band tell of it, Stefon had bad LSD (“Lead Singer Disease”) and decided he didn’t need the rest of them. One thing they all agreed on: there was no way Stefon would have signed over the band’s earnings to Chuy, who was little more than a glorified bookkeeper, with Stefon hustling all their bookings and even ordering taxis to his bandmates’ houses to make sure they showed up at the studio or the club on time. Stefon remembered October of ’79 well. He’d been waiting with dread for the envelope from Chuy. The previous royalty check, in July, had been under $250. The previous quarter’s had been over $1,000. This quarter’s might have zero. Stefon needed the money. His 1972 Ford Galaxie needed a new transmission. He couldn’t keep driving it in first.
The envelope arrived late, the day before Halloween, and for a brief moment, Stefon was overcome by an incredible, unbelieving elation: Chuy’s laboriously typewritten royalty statement ended with the miraculous figure of $7,421.16. Seven thousand dollars! It was more than two years’ royalties, all in one go! He could fix the Galaxie’s transmission and get the ragtop patched, and still have money left over for his back rent, his bar tab, his child support, and a fine steak dinner, and even then, he’d end the month with money in his savings account.
But there was no check in the envelope. Stefon shook the envelope, carefully unfolded the royalty statement to ensure that there was no check stapled to its back, went downstairs to the apartment building lobby and rechecked his mailbox.
Finally, he called Chuy.
“Chuy, man, you forgot to put a check in the envelope.”
“I didn’t forget, Steve. Read the paperwork again. You gotta send me a check.”
“What the fuck? That’s not funny, Chuy.”
“I ain’t joking, Steve. I been advancing you royalties for more than three years, but you haven’t earned nothing new since then—­no new recordings. I can’t afford to carry you no more.”
“Say what?”
Chuy explained it to him like he was a toddler. “Remember when you signed over your royalties to me in ’76? Every dime I’ve sent you since then was an advance on your future recordings, only you haven’t had none of those, so I’m cutting you off and calling in your note. I’m sorry, Steve, but I ain’t a charity. You don’t work, you don’t earn. This is America, brother. No free lunches.”
“After I did what in ’76?”
“Steve, in 1976 you signed over all your royalties to me. We agreed, man! I can’t believe you don’t remember this! You came over to my spot and I told you how it was and you said you needed money to cover the extra horns for the studio session on Fight Fire with Water. I told you I’d cover them and you’d sign over all your royalties to me.”
Stefon was briefly speechless. Chuy had paid the sidemen on that session, but that was because Chuy owed him a thousand bucks for a string of private parties they’d played for some of Chuy’s cronies. Chuy had been stiffing him for months and Stefon had agreed to swap the session fees for the horn players in exchange for wiping out the debt, which had been getting in the way of their professional relationship.
“Chuy, you know it didn’t happen that way. What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about when you signed over all your royalties to me. And you know what? I don’t like your tone. I’ve carried your ass for years now, sent you all that money out of my own pocket, and now you gotta pay up. My generosity’s run out. When you gonna send me a check?”
Of course, it was a gambit. It put Stefon on tilt, got him to say a lot of ill-­advised things over the phone, which Chuy secretly recorded. It also prompted Stefon to take a swing at Chuy, which Chuy dived on, shamming that he’d had a soft-­tissue injury in his neck, bringing suit for damages and pressing an aggravated-­assault charge.
He dropped all that once Stefon agreed not to keep on with any claims about the forged signature; Stefon went on to become a good husband, a good father, and a hard worker. And if cleaning floors at Dodgers Stadium wasn’t what he’d dreamed of when he was headlining on Soul Train, at least he never missed a game, and his boy came most weekends and watched with him. Stefon’s supervisor didn’t care.
But the stolen royalties ate at him, especially when he started hearing his licks every time he turned on the radio. His voice, even. Chuy Flores had a fully paid-­off three-­bedroom in Eagle Rock and two cars and two ex-­wives and three kids he was paying child support on, and Stefon sometimes drove past Chuy Flores’s house to look at his fancy palm trees all wrapped up in strings of Christmas lights and think about who paid for them.
ETA: Here's part two!
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If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease
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rebelliousstories · 6 months ago
Text
The Other Hexenbiest
Relationship: Sean Renard x Reader, (past) Sean Renard x Adalind Schade
Fandom: Grimm
Request: No
Warnings: Fluff, Brief Strong Language, Mentions of Fertility and Fertility Issues
Word Count: 1,896
Main Masterlist: Here
Grimm Masterlist: Here
Summary: Adalind has come back into the storyline yet again. But what happens when she finds out that her favorite zauberbiest no longer is interested?
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Soon he was so in love with the witch’s daughter that he could think of nothing else. He lived by the light of her eyes and gladly did whatever she asked.
“Hello Sean.” That was a voice he never wanted to hear again, not after all she had done.
“Adalind. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He kept an eye on the door to his office in the precinct.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m planning a trip home. Feel like revisiting past acquaintances.” She droned on, trying to make her voice sound innocent and appealing.
“The last thing I want is to see you right now. Enjoy your visit home.” With that, Sean hung up the phone. He let out a deep breath and leaned back in his chair while trying to think of the reason the woman would call. That was until he was interrupted by Nick coming into his office.
“Captain, we got a case.” Behind Burkhardt was Griffin with a case file and a worried look.
“Bring it in.”
~
Meanwhile, across town, a woman was making her way into the exotic spice and tea shop that was in the heart of Portland. In her hands was a list, and a smile on her face. It had taken a long time to get to where she was, but she was happy. In a happy place, with a happy relationship, and a good reputation. Walking in, she was met with a Fuchsbau behind the counter.
“Welcome in. Something I can help you with?” The woman was cheerful, which only put the woman in a better mood.
“Yes actually. You wouldn’t happen to have these ingredients would you? I need them for something special for my lover.” She explained, handing over the list to the Fuchsbau behind the counter. Scanning the list, the other woman looked to her with a mischievous tint to her eyes.
“This is for a fertility spell, right?” The Fuchsbau’s question was answered with a definitive nod.
“Yes. My husband and I are having some issues. We’re hoping it’s nothing, but figured we would give it a try as it’s an easier spell.” She replied, feeling nervous about coming in. However she was put at ease when the woman across the counter stuck out her hand.
“I’m Rosalee.” Shaking her hand, the woman supplied her own name.
“Feel free to look around the shop while I get these ingredients for you.” Rosalee flitted around said shop and collected different spices and herbs. The woman walked around at a leisurely pace as she tried to stay out of the Fuchsbau’s way. Her eyes scanned over all the different jars, and felt like a kid in a candy store. This was definitely going to be her new go to shop. The shrill ringing of her phone broke her from her daze, and she reached into her pocket to only be met with her lovely husband’s photo from their wedding day.
“Sean, hello dear.” She breathed, feeling relief at hearing his voice.
“Hello darling. I was just letting you know that I am leaving the precinct now and I’ll be home shortly. Where are you?” He asked, moving some things around on his desk which she could hear.
“I’m just grabbing some ingredients. I’ll be home soon. Maybe even before you,” came her tease. Her husband chuckled over the other end of the line.
“I would appreciate that with the day I have had. What do you say to Italian for dinner?” Renard opened the car door and dropped himself down into his seat.
“As long as we can have dessert at the cupcake shop across the road.” His wife responded, leaning against the counter and choosing to ignore the Fuchsbau’s coy looks sent her way.
“Anything you want, darling.” Sean confirmed, relaxing into the car seat.
“Okay. Well, I’m almost done at the shop. I’ll be on my way home soon to get ready.” Digging around in her jacket, the woman found her wallet and waited while Rosalee bagged up everything she requested.
“I will see you at home, darling. I love you.” His comforting words caused a smile to pop up on the woman’s face.
“Love you too, dear.” They said their goodbyes and hung up the phone to be stored away. She knew that she had a dopey lovesick smile on her face, but she just could not help it.
“Alright. What’s my damage?” She asked the Fuchsbau, opening her wallet to retrieve her money.
~
Sean made it to the condo and happily walked inside his home. He noticed that there was an extra pair of shoes by the front door, one he did not recognize, and immediately drew his firearm. Clearing the foyer, he made is way to clear the living room and kitchen. Both of them were good, so he moved on to his bedroom. When he got there, Renard let out a deep sigh and holstered his weapon.
“Careful Sean. People could get here with that thing.” Adalind teased, sitting with her legs draped over one another on his bed. The bed he shared with his wife.
“What are you doing here Adalind?” He snipped, feeling on edge and cautious about what she was up to.
“Can’t a girl just want to catch up with an old friend? Remember how many memories we made right here?” She trailed a hand over the silken sheets that she was sitting atop.
“I don’t particularly care to remember.” Sean was losing his patience with this Hexenbiest.
“Oh don’t be like that Sean. And don’t think I haven’t noticed it.” Adalind leveled a bored glare at the man standing in front of her. His face was neutral, but she only took that as confused silence.
“The other Hexenbiest that is here. Who is she?” Her tone was clipped, feeling anger and jealousy boil to the surface.
“None of your business.” Sean replied quickly, but Adalind just stood to her feet and made her way to him. She dragged her hands over his chest, and played with his tie as she gazed up at him with her best doe eyes.
“Oh, but it is my business,” her hands parted ways. One stayed on his chest, pulling the tie from its place and messing with his shirt buttons. While the other one trailed up to his face and tickled her nails over his skin. “So who is she?”
“My wife. Happy?” Sean studied the blonde woman’s face, which went from jealous, to fury, to faux happiness.
“So glad to hear you could find your true love. But, let’s be honest, I was the original blueprint that she knocked off. You always were predictable in bedmate choices, Sean.” Adalind dropped her voice down at the end. The sound of the door opening drew both of their attentions away from one another.
“Sean? Dear, are you home?” He heard his wife call out. Footsteps grew closer to the bedroom as she looked through the condo.
“You need to leave.” Sean growled at the Hexenbiest in front of him, but she only grew a wide Cheshire Cat smile in return.
“Dearest, are you here? I saw your car in your spot and figured-”
The sight the greeted her was not a welcomed one. On her bed, was Sean. Except he was on top of a beautiful blonde in full lip lock on their bed. Broken out of his trance, Sean tried to push himself up off of the bed. He was not even sure how he got there in the fast of a time frame.
“Darling, don’t. Please. Just wait a second.” But it was too late. She was his messed up tie and shirt, and her lipgloss on his lips. The blonde sat up in the bed, and looked at home there. However Mrs. Renard was looking back and forth between both the woman and her husband.
“What is wrong with you, Sean?” She whispered, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. As much as she tried to push the man away, her husband kept overpowering her and grabbing her hands.
“It’s not what you think. That’s what Adalind wants you to think.” When he said the Hexenbiest’s name, she paused.
“That’s Adalind?” She whimpered, looking over to the blonde who just looked bored. Once the sadness left, all that was rage. Without her will, her woge came fully to the surface. The deformity of her face shocked Adalind. It looked as if it was starting to reverse as it was not as severe as a Hexenbiest of her age should have been.
“Oh, I see. Taking pity on a Hexenbiest who doesn’t even use her magic the way she is supposed to.” Adalind smirked, her voice dropping down and venomous.
“Get out of my house.” The woged woman growled. It only resulted in Adalind producing a woge as well; she was challenging a Hexenbiest in her own territory, and that took guts. But Mrs. Renard was not one to be pushed around so easily. Getting in the blonde’s face, she continued to assert dominance over her dominion. Adalind conceded, and receded back into herself. The other woman followed suit, and leveled a glare at the woman who only held a playful smirk.
“Good seeing you, Sean. Come see me when you get tired of the fake Hexenbiest.” She took one last look up and down at the man, before she left out the front door. Once they heard the door close, the woman collapsed right as Sean wrapped his arms around her.
“Come here,” he cooed as she sobbed. “You’re okay. It’s okay. I’m so sorry you had to see that. I love you so much.”
Her cries wracked her body as they continued. All the frustration, confusion, and upset that she had felt in the last few minutes, and all of the feelings in between came rushing out. Through out it all, her husband held her close in a tight embrace. Sean kept his arms around her as a ring of strength which she clung to like a raft when lost at sea. As her sobs died down, the Renard’s stayed locked in their embrace through the rough time.
“You’re okay. We’re okay. I love you, darling.” Sean’s deep voice resonated through her sniffles. It took a minute, but eventually her cries did die down enough to communicate with her husband.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what is wrong with me.” She whispered, burrowing in to her husband’s chest.
“No need to apologize. I should be the one apologizing.” He pressed a kiss to her head, and pulled away to look at her face. Wiping away her tears, she smiled as she looked at his face.
“Are you alright?” Sean asked his wife, running a hand over her hair to smooth it.
“Yeah. I’m okay,” her finger trailed over the makeup that was left over his lips. “If I see some other hexen-bitch kiss you, I may have to go back on my oath.”
“Oh so is it just another Hexenbiest or just another woman you have a problem with?” Sean teased, happily accepting his wife wiping the gloss off of him. She launched herself into his arms and planted her lips on his in an eager kiss. One that ensured that Sean remembered just which Hexenbiest he belonged to.
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sunshine-theseus · 11 months ago
Text
Cyclones | Christine Sinclair x Reader
Words: 3k
Summary: cyclones and cancelled flights eventually lead to good things.
Warnings: natural disaster?, fake injury. Let me know if I missed anything
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the voice crackles through my phone speaker, the shotty connection barely giving me time to talk to my best friend.
“I have my candles and torches, the tub and my water bottles are full, everything is inside or tied down. The only devasting loss so far is my leftover curry I had to throw out.” The torrential rain hasn’t let up since it arrived last night, but it isn’t helping the sweltering heat that will only worsen with no power. The second of which I fear I may lose any moment.
“This isn’t my first rodeo Chris, I’ll be okay.”
“But what if this is the one time you aren’t? I can’t spend my retirement vacation without my best friend. I’ll end up mourning you instead.”
“Why the fuck would y-” my phone dies and everything else in my house goes with it. I didn’t realise I had such little charge, but the newly found lack of airflow through my house is my number one issue.
A cyclone hasn’t hit my little coastal town in years, but the universe has conveniently chosen the day I’m supposed to fly out to join Christine, to hit. The Australian heat is wasting no time and as the rain carries on, I lay down on the tiles to find relief. I originally planned to turn my generator on, but eventually decide to keep everything off, it’s been a while since I’ve properly disconnected.
I gather books I’m yet to read, candles and snacks from the cupboard and sit down at my desk. I’m an hour into reading The Iliad when my cat jumps up and starts meowing and pawing at the pictures that are carefully placed on or around my desk. The main focus seems to be the two polaroid images in the same frame, of Christine and I from when we first played each other at the 2003 world cup, and from her retirement match a month ago.
We’d never met before 2003, but both sported the number 12 and thought a jersey swap would be cool. We became close friends rather quickly but only played each other at big tournaments until we both signed for the Portland Thorns in 2013.
I think that’s when I first knew I had a crush on her, but 10 years into a friendship is a rather odd time to confess to your best friend you like them, so I never mentioned it. We’ve both dated multiple people since then, but nothing ever sticks.
Then, 4 years ago, I retired after one too many ACL injuries. At 34 it was probably time for me anyway, and I always knew I’d never play for as long as Christine. After my official retirement, I moved back to Cairns, now a professional sports psychologist. I love being home, but it was missing something, or someone. Within the first month I put up every memento, gift or picture I had that reminds me of Chris, who Scout has also grown to love.
“I miss her too buddy. Maybe she should come visit us so she can see you huh?” I scratch her chin as she leans into my hand affectionately.
I spend the rest of the day and the next, reading and playing around on my violin. The doors and window are all shut to keep the rain from flying in but I’m so desperate to open them to feel some sort of relief from the sauna I’ve created.
It’s around 4pm on the 3rd day that the rain slows, and another few hours until fans begin to spin again and lights flicker on. I scramble for my aircon remote before rushing to plug in my phone, desperate to speak to someone other than my cat.
It takes a few minutes, the battery slowly whirring to life, but I can’t even swipe to put in my password before a rather excessive amount of notification begin to make their way through. There are messages from friends and family asking if I’m safe, others are simple social media notifications, but the majority seem to be made up by a certain, newly retired striker.
13 missed calls
58 messages
I can’t suppress the smile that slides onto my face and the red tint that warms my cheeks as I think about how worried she was. That’s what friends do right? Worry when you might get eaten up by a natural disaster.
And I quickly figure I should call her and let her know I have power again and am in fact not dead. And I do just that.
“YOU’RE OKAY. YOU’RE BACK.” I move the phone aware from my ear as she screams down the line, but I laugh none the less.
“I’m alive, nothing is damaged, the rain has stopped, everything is back in business.”
“I can’t wait to see you. Get your ass on the next plane I swear.”
“I don’t think there’ll be a plane on a route to Canada for at least a few days. The world hates us Sincy.” A groan I’ve grown familiar with sounds over the speaker, and I can picture her falling back dramatically in her chair.
“I promise as soon as I can I’ll be on that flight out of here. Scout will be chilling with my neighbours, and we’ll be chilling on the beach with some gin.”
“Good. First flight out, I expect you on it.”
~~~~~
The first flight route heading to Vancouver turns out to be 4 days after the cyclone passed. So far two of those days have gone and I’m trying to fill my time, Christine seemed to drop off everyone’s radar and that left me with very little to do.
I’m loading up The Sims 4 for the first time in months when a knock rattles against my door. While confused, not expecting anyone or anything, I sneak toward the door, peaking my head around the wall to get a glance of who it could be. That’s when I see a very familiar face, looking around in a stupor.
“Christine?” I stand in the doorway looking quite the mess with a dumbfound look on my face. My hair in a knotty bun, glasses resting crookedly on my nose, shirt 3 sizes too big (perhaps one of Christine’s I stole a few visits ago) and bike shorts. Anything more and I’d be dying from the heat.
“Surprise! No flights were leaving for a while but some were coming in, so I thought why not go to the ultimate vacation destination.” Despite what would be nearly a full 24-hours of travel, she looks rather adorable. Her own hoodie must be a few sizes bigger and her curls rest over her shoulders, a rare sight. Her headphones rest around her neck and her bags are almost toppling over behind her.
I shake off my surprise and start running, jumping into her arms and nearly tackle her to the ground.
“I can’t believe you’re here! What the fuck, oh my god, holy shit. There’s so much to show you, very little to do. I don’t have a spare room. I’ll sleep on the couch, take my room. Oh, let’s get your bags in, you’re probably exhausted.” I squeeze between her and the lattice work that makes the short hallway outside my door and grab her rather large duffle bag and suitcase.
I take them to my bedroom, which thankfully had been tidied up recently, and tuck them neatly in the corner. Her footsteps signal that she’s following me and I quickly wipe my sweaty palms on my shirt before turning toward her.
“It gets super hot so the aircon remote is on the bedside table, or you can open the window, but Scout likes to jump out of it sometimes. Speaking of, she’s here somewhere, you’ll hear her before you see her. Also free-range of like the kitchen and stuff. There’s an ensui-” Christine cuts my rambling off with a tap to the back of my knee with her foot. Said knee buckles and I fall forward, into her arms.
“What the fuck Sincy?”
“You’re rambling.”
“Sorry. It’s just the first time you’ve been here. In my house. In my hometown. Ever.”
“And I’m excited. I’m sorry for springing it on you, I don’t actually have to stay here I can get a hotel.”
“No! No I want you to stay here. It’s just I’m usually the one making the trip, I’m not a very good host.”
“You’ll be fine. I’m down for anything and everything. After a very long nap.”
~~~~~
I waited until a reasonable hour to wake Christine up the next day.
“What the fuck is this? Do you put tar on your toast?”
“You’re telling me, all the times you’ve visited Australia, even during the world cup, you’ve never tried Vegemite? Christine… come on.” I push the plate toward her.
“No. You can’t make me eat that.” She pushes it away.
“Please, just one bite. You’re staying with me you gotta try stuff. You’re on vacation, you’re trying new things.”
“If you even try to bring a shoe with beer near me, I’m hopping on the next flight out.”
“I promise a shoey is completely off limits. That shit is nasty. But I’m going to take you to a cricket game and snorkelling on the reef, and Harley’s Crocodile Farm. The point is I have a list. Now try the ‘mite Chris.” The plate slides back toward her and she hesitantly takes a bite. A pleasantly surprised look flashes across her face.
“I’ll give you the point. This is good.”
“Oh! Mary, Mary Fowler that is, is back  for Christmas. Do you want to have a beach day with her and her family? Play beach cricket and soccer?”
“For sure.”
“Oh make sure to have thongs. Your feet will thank me.”
“If you said that sentence to me 20 years ago, I possibly would have slapped you.” I giggle but make my way to grab togs and pack a beach bag.
When we arrive, the promised burning sand is what greets us, rather than the young Australian who I’ve grown somewhat close with. The sun beams down, in great comparison to the previous week, and I make sure to push more sunscreen into Christine’s hands.
“Dude how do you survive here.” A bead of sweat rolls down the side of her face and I just smile, slip my thongs off and lead the way to try and find the Fowlers.
When we do eventually find them, Christine is desperate to slip into the water, and I set up our towels beside Mary, who watches over her own family’s things as she soaks up the sun.
“In all my years of knowing you, and that is almost all my life, you’ve never been this happy. And you won’t even admit your feelings to the person who makes you this happy. You giggled when you called telling me she surprised you. Giggled Y/n.”
“I- I don’t know what to do Maz. I know I like her; I have for years. I just always figured it’d go away once I moved after retiring and seeing her significantly less but if anything, it’s worse.” I flop back against the towel covered sand and Mary joins me, resting a hand on my arm.
“Maybe you should just confess. I can’t say I know she likes you back, but the chances are high.” I glance toward the water and let a soft smile grace my lips as I watch Christine play with Louise and Ciara. Maybe confessing wouldn’t be such a terrible idea.
~~~~~
A few hours later, the sun is lower in the sky and the water laps at my feet as I retrieve the soccer ball. I throw it back into play and run along the sand. The ball ends up at my feet and I begin the run back to my team’s goal, I’m about to make a pass to Caoimhin when Christine makes a tackle and takes my feet out from underneath me.
I let out a scream and clutch my knee. The sand sticks to my skin as I writhe in pain, and I feel a hand gently touch my shoulder.
“Fuck fuck fuck it hurts.”
“Holy shit I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make a tackle. Oh god we need to call the ambulance.” Christine rolls me onto my back, and I scrunch my eyes in pain. She stands up to grab her phone when I stick my leg out and trip her, making her fall beside me.
“What the fuck!?.” I start to giggle as I watch Christine’s face morph from fear to shock.
“You little shit! You faked it?”
“Uhh yeah, you were playing dirty Sinclair.” I poke her in the side as I stand and offer her a hand. As she stands back up, I remember how much she towers over me and blush.
Not long after, Mary and her family head back home, and before the sun begins to set, I get some fish and chips for Chris and me to share. As I sit back on the sand, the sun begins dipping below the horizon, casting pinks and oranges across the sky. The light shines on Chris and for a moment I forget I’m staring. Her blue eyes are clouded by the golden hues but still as beautiful as they have always been. Her hair is wet from the salty water, curling as it dries.
I only stop when she bumps her shoulder against mine, holding a chip toward me expectantly.
“You’re staring.”
“Sorry.” The now familiar heat spreads over my cheeks as I tuck my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on them.
“What’s running through that pretty little head of yours?” I take a moment to contemplate if I should tell her the truth.
“I… I’ve just missed playing, especially with you. I haven’t felt anything close to how I felt on the pitch, and I was forced out because of a stupid ACL injury. It’s been so long.” She wraps an arm around me and pulls me into her side. My head falls to her shoulder and her’s falls on top of mine.
“You deserved a better ending.” We both reach for the chips, hands grazing against each other. I drop the chip and rest my hand on my lap, palm facing upward. Christine’s fingers trace the lines on my palm before slipping her fingers between mine and interlocking our hands.
Nothing is said as we watch the sun rest behind the water. The sound of waves crashing on the sand nearly lulls me to sleep but Christine slowly slips from beside me and stands up. I follow suit, grabbing the fish and chips and heading to the car.
“I’d say this was a rather successful first day. Wouldn’t you?” I ask as I sit on the edge of the bed, drying off my freshly washed hair.
It’s silent for a moment and I turn to look at the Canadian.
“Chris?” her vacant stare refocuses, and she smiles.
“Absolutely.” I smile back and stand up, about to head out to go to sleep.
“Wait.” I stop at the door and wait for her to continue.
“Do you want to sleep here? I mean you don’t have to if you don’t want. Or we can put like pillows between us or something. Or-” I run and jump onto the bed, rolling onto my side to face Christine.
“Thank you for coming. I’m excited to show you everything I love. Today is only one of many.”
“I’d do anything for you. And I was thinking… what if I made this stay a little more… permanent? Well not permanent maybe just extended. Or permanent if you want. Or neither at all.”
“Yes! Yes, yes absolutely 100% I want that definitely. Please stay.” I only now notice how close together we are. I can feel her breath against my cheek, her leg brushing against my own.
Her fingers brush against my forehead and cheek as she moves a piece of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. I inch closer, eyes flickering between her own eyes and her lips.
“Are you going to kiss me or do I have to kiss you.” Her lips ghost mine as she jokes, but I don’t allow myself to overthink it as I close the gap between us.
Her lips are as soft as expected, and sweet. I can feel her smile as she kisses me back and I wind an arm around her waist.
“I’ve wanted to do that for 10 years.” I whisper.
“Do not tell me I wasted 10 years of my life thinking you didn’t like me back.” I let out a rather pathetic laugh and my head falls forward, forehead resting against Christine’s.
“Well now is as good a time as any to make up for all the lost time.”
~~~~~
Our hands swing between us as I lead her down the esplanade. The bright rainbow lights of the ferris wheel that never left, reflect off every surface as we approach. The carriages lurch to a stop and we’re ushered on by the teenager at the counter.
“This is possibly the cheesiest thing you’ve done. If we stop at the top, I will start laughing.”
“No! Stop, it’s going to be cute, okay? And a little cliché.” I knock my foot against her’s as we stare out the window, looking out across the water and the mountains, in awe of the stars that twinkle above us.
As predicted, we come to a stop right at the top, and I smile as Christine starts laughing.
“I’d do anything to make you smile, including cheesy ass shit like this.” I slide across to her and she pulls me into her side.
“I love you.” I kiss each of her cheeks before kissing her lips.
“I’ll love you forever.”
“Is it odd I’m glad you retired? I just don’t know if this would have happened if you did.” She smiles and kisses me on the forehead, and we continue to watch the landscape as we make the decent.
@Y/N_Y/L
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@Y/N_Y/L I will love you until the end of time. 20 years of knowing you, 1 year of getting to let you know I love you. Chris, you’ll always be my number 1 @c_sinc12.
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transit-fag · 10 months ago
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hi, i was just wondering if there is a train that runs from burlington up to maine
I am thinking about visiting friends there in the summer and don't want to drive (gas money, eck).
It is possible to get from Burlington to Maine, but you need to transfer in New York and Boston. The route would be: Ethan Allen Express to NYC then Northeast Regional to Boston then take the T (Boston Metro) from the South Station to North Station where you can take the Downeastern to Portland Maine
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masonmcgregorx · 1 year ago
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Bug Lighthouse, Portland Maine
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oleanderbailey · 25 days ago
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The Dinner Party of Adolescence
An internal monologue from Ives Gannet, the main character of my WIP novel Into The Vortex. Ives, the soon-to-be serial killer nicknamed the Portland Maneater, reminisces on how she chose to let her putrid nature develop back when she was still capable of stopping it.
1323 words // 6.5 minute read
Not a recommended read for those sensitive to mentions of sexual themes, murder and child molestation.
The only times I’ve felt true desire were those moments just before sleep. That’s the time most people tend to drift into yearning, right? They lay in bed and think of sweat-covered, glistening bodies and masturbate their worries away until they fall asleep. I do things a little differently.
My way of experiencing nightly desire seems to be less practical than the normal way, but that’s usually the case. These trains of thought never lead me to happy places – instead, to a tear-stained sleep and a jaw so tense it hurts in the morning. I don’t think of shirtless men with rippled abs or bikini-clad women, yet, I still find something to long for. I long for the desperate yearning of memories. I long to look behind me at everywhere I’ve been, and scramble back towards it, clammy hands reaching for the good that supposedly so heavily riddled my past. I long to be able to trace my winding trail of footsteps through the scenes I’ve seen, the homes I’ve lived in, the people I have loved, all the way back to my first everything – without feeling such an intense sorrow.
Even in the most benign-looking places I could visit in my head – break-times at my first school, the quiet walks in the local park, the kitchen of my childhood home – at any little disturbance, the bugs hiding in the cracks and the crevices will scuttle out of their hidey-holes, and I’ll remember. I’ll remember how disease and dirt has infected every experience I call my own. I’ll remember how other children would giggle amongst themselves and point at me as I paced the playground alone, I’ll remember only feeling safe enough to cry in the solitude of the deep woods, I’ll remember how much blood was on the kitchen floor and how I felt nothing when I saw my own mother’s lifeless body. Her head was pointed towards the door when I walked in, her mouth hanging open inhumanly wide, her trademark rosy cheeks a paper-white, eyes merely scattered with the remnants of fear. The fear I should have felt, too, but I didn’t.
All I felt was fascination. And then, I’ll remember why instead of lusting after memories, I fantasise about taking a gun and blowing them out of my head. They’re too irregular for me to understand. After a certain point, I stopped walking through life, and instead tripped over and was dragged through dirt to where I am now. I’m too tired to get up.
I don’t know why I’m like this. I just want to lose all comprehension of myself and rebuild my consciousness from scratch, because honestly, I think I’ve fucked up from my first thought. And unless I get a chance to start over, I’ll fuck up until my last breath.
If I were to try and rationalise myself – an admittedly bad habit that I sometimes try to get out of - I’d explain my current state as a consequence of my experience with sex and family and life being fucked up so young, so early into my development that I can’t see any point trying to be normal moving forward, because I never will be. Instead of doing what others do and push down any “forbidden” intrigues or desires, why shouldn’t I just embrace them? I never had the normality that they cling onto, so what have I got to lose?
I understand why so many psychologists jump to theories that serial killers and rapists were molested as children too, even when there’s no direct account to suggest it. It’s such a dark and morbid thing that, to the human brain, it’s only logical that things so vile must have sourced from another evil. To some extent, they’re right. Mixing childhood or trauma with sex can really, really fuck you up - if you let it. That’s the key to it that not many of these psychologists can ever get because they’re talking about experiences they will never have; it’s not as simple as “get molested, become a sexual deviant” with entire inevitability, it’s more like having the option of becoming an absolute fucking freak offered to you at the dinner party of adolescence, whilst everyone else was served “a thing for boys with brown hair” or “a thing for girls making fun of them”. Well, “offered”… you’re never able to refuse it completely.
See, the dish I was served, it had teeth, malice, and a thirst to ruin the life of the prepubescent it saw before itself. Before there was any hope in stopping it, it jumped up from the table and sank its teeth into my flesh. If you were to ask for forceps to rip it out, although the fight and the desperation would be gone, you’re still left with the wound, and then still left with the scar. You’re not truly free from it. But, you are free from the danger you could manifest. You know how to easily keep a lid on it.
Others like me immediately asked for the forceps – they were scared by something feeling wrong in their head and they cried to their parents about it, who quickly whisked them off to a child psychologist who knew what they were doing and knew how to ensure this child’s wounds turned into perfect, shiny scars. Something I struggle with when I look into the mirror each morning is that I liked the feeling of the curse gnawing at the muscle in my forearm. I was intrigued by these thoughts and that I was thinking beyond the trivial hand-holding that my classmates were discussing on the playground. But, most of all, I didn’t care that it wasn’t normal – because I never knew if I was normal! Pushed out of my family, pushed out of any conceivable social group in school, I never had a reference. So, I just never asked for the forceps. Because I didn’t know they existed. I looked at the demon making mince of my flesh and I took it as a fascination.
I know that’s not entirely my fault. I was just a kid – a very, very lonely kid – who didn’t know that her brain was driving on the other side of the road until it was too late. Everything just aligned too well – I was born morbid, I lived in morbid, and was in perfect shape to react to something like the murder in the way that I did. On the other hand, I feel like I still would have loved the way things were going even if I knew they shouldn’t be going that way. I didn’t want to stop this when I could, or to seek treatment when it would have made a difference. There’s no way to know, of course, but after all these years I have never been able to shake the feeling that my demented decisions caused all of this, and if I was a kinder person to myself, things wouldn’t be like this. I chose to be this way.
I am an evil reimagining that my holier self sees in the bathroom mirror each morning. I see her, too. I see her disappointment in what she knows is inside herself, and what she is capable of. To her, I embody filth. To me, she embodies everything I could have been. Just to scare her, I stare into her eyes sometimes until she starts crying.
Being so comfortable with what is vile about myself has led me to reject the parts of me that are wholesome and good. I want that cunt through the water-stained glass pane to wake the fuck up and realise she is already what she is so afraid of being; she has just sugar-coated everything to deceive others and hopes that she will eventually deceive herself. But - she won’t. I know she won’t. Because it didn’t work for me, either.
Purity is fucking overrated.
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muttball · 2 years ago
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The Maine Lobsteman
Sculptor Victor Kahill of Portland was commissioned to create the Maine Lobsterman with Maine’s participation in the 1939 New York World’s Fair, as a commemoration of Mainers who have dedicated their lives to fishing. See publicartportland.
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heavencasteel420 · 7 months ago
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Terrible early 2000s stoner comedy AU called Weed College (a very dubious pun on Reed College in Portland, Oregon, where the story isn’t even set, probably). Details:
Argyle is a gentle soul who owns a head shop on the main drag of a college town. He lets his friend Eddie play music there sometimes, which proves to be a mistake when Eddie incurs the wrath of conservative Christian frat boy Jason by sabotaging his anti-abortion Christian haunted house on Halloween. Jason and his frat buddies vow to have the head shop closed down.
Jonathan, a stressed-out scholarship student, also works at the shop. He’s worried that his type-A longterm girlfriend Nancy will find out he smokes weed, and also that her douchey ex Steve, also Jason’s frat bro, is trying to persuade her to break up with him. Steve is trying to do this, in fact, and he does so by revealing in front of both of them that Jonathan smokes weed. Nancy is not impressed by this maneuver. She’s like, “Jonathan…I also smoke weed” and takes out a BIG JOINT. They embrace and Steve is moved. “May I try some weed?” he asks, and they say yes. The weed turns him all the way nice and they have a threesome. Also he defects and helps take down the frat.
Robin, a musically and linguistically talented lesbian who just started at college, abruptly goes from lonely closeted girl to (excuse my language) total pussy magnet. Her fun and flirty energy wreaks havoc on Jason’s frat’s sister house, because every girl gradually either wants to sleep with her or hang out with her or at least dress like her. She is literally just trying to study for her Russian final for most of the movie but life keeps happening.
Eddie finds out that Chrissy, Jason’s sweet girlfriend, is a total weirdo who feels stifled by all the conservative Christianity. They fall in love, which brings Jason’s rage to a fever pitch.
At one point, Argyle’s goth girlfriend Eden’s Mormon family visits, so she had to put on preppy girl drag and he has to disguise the head shop as an off-brand Hallmark Store.
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Visit the official website to learn more about Outcasts of the Rift, sign up for the newsletter, follow the Kickstarter preview page and wishlist Outcasts of the Rift on Steam!
This Saturday, I will be demoing in the gaming room at Kids Con in South Portland, ME! This is my last convention of the year.
It has been a busy past few weeks for me, so I’m relieved I don’t have to travel far or prepare much.
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oblivious-idiot · 2 years ago
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Marker Mayhem
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Lockwood and Co Appreciation Week: Day One - Favourite Main Trio Character Summary: You find Lockwood asleep in the living room from waiting up for you but your delirious state gets a bit carried away with your permanent marker.
AN: This is for day one of the Lockwood and Co Appreciation Week! Lockwood is probably my favourite character but only by a smidge haha. I love how he can be so protective of George and Lucy while also being a reckless dickhead lol. Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x Reader
Word count: 800~
Warnings: just some fluff and hysterical laughter
When arriving back home to 35 Portland Row it was late in the evening and way past curfew. You'd spent the past few days up north visiting your family but you train back to London was delayed, meaning you got home much later than expected. You made sure to enter the house as quietly as you could so you wouldn't wake any of your housemates, knowing they all could do with as much undisturbed rest as possible.
Once you had taken all your stuff back up to your room and gotten changed you headed back downstairs to make yourself a cup of tea, only to notice the living room light dimly glowing from underneath the door. Slowly opening the door, your tired eyes fell upon the sleeping body of your best friend - and crush, Anthony Lockwood. His body had slightly slid down in his armchair, a magazine sprawled across his chest which he'd clearly tried to read to keep himself awake, drool starting to form on the edge of his mouth. You couldn't help but quietly giggle at his sleepy state and you decided that you should probably get him up to bed. But first you had another idea in mind.
You scoured the kitchen draws until you came across what you were looking for, a permanent marker. He was going to absolutely hate you for this but you were starting to get delirious from your long day that you simply didn't care, it was going to be too funny. Plus, when were you going to get another chance like this again? Lockwood looked like he never slept so it was probably unlikely.
Creeping back into the living room where Lockwood was softly snoring in his chair, you uncapped the pen in your hands with a mischievous grin on your lips. Suppressing your laughter, you slowly and softly drew on Lockwood's face - first just an intricate moustache, but then you moved on to horns and other squiggles around his eyes and chin. What's more, Lockwood smarted to smile when you drew around his lips and temple, which made your face so red from holding in your sniggers. Once you were happy with your completed work you stepped out of the room to get yourself a drink of water and let yourself breathe steady, letting your face turn back to a normal colour.
It was getting late and you realised it was probably due time to wake Lockwood up so he could get some actual rest. "Hey Anthony, it's time to go to bed" you say to him softly as you stroked his hair, making him slowly wake up as he stretched out his arms, looking at you once he opened his eyes. "Oh you're back, thank goodness I was getting worried..." he looked around the dark room and then back to your face "what time is it?" giving you a puzzled look. "Way past your bedtime, come on let's go upstairs" you say as you pull him up from his chair. You lead Lockwood upstairs into his room, guiding him to his bed and away from his mirror so he didn't have time to see the drawings on his face.
The next morning you were in the kitchen with George and Lucy before Lockwood had woken up, but the next thing you heard was Lockwood's voice shouting from within his room "whAT THE-" and then rapid footsteps racing down the stairs. George and Lucy exchanged confused glances while you remembered what happened last night. Suddenly Lockwood swung the kitchen door open, still wearing his clothes from the night before and his face covered in slightly smudged pen "Alright, which one of you three did this!?" his voice mildly angry, breaking halfway through his sentence, eyes darting between the three of you in the room.
George and Lucy both broke down into laughter as soon as Lockwood came in the room "oh I thought it was something serious" Lucy said through snorted laughter, "it suits you quite well actually, really brings out your eyes" George adds in with a smirk. You were trying so hard to not laugh, your artwork looking so much more funny the day after, but because of your suppressed laughter Lockwood shot you a look "it was you.." "I'm sorry, I was really tired, I don't even remember doing it" you held up your hands in defence, laughter escaping your lips. "You don't remember!? Y/n look at my face!" he said, clearly in disbelief "I waited up for you to come home, I was worried, and this is what I get in return??" Lockwood continued, but you couldn't meet his eyes, you couldn't take him seriously looking like that. "I- I'm sorry" you force out amongst your hysterical giggles "I'll help you clean up, I promise" "I would bloody well hope so." Lockwood finally heaved out, finally letting himself laugh about the whole situation.
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ratsoh-writes · 8 months ago
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WELCOME TO THE GOLDEN FLOWER FESTIVAL!
For those of you who don’t know, this is an RP event taking place from today (tuesday) to Saturday evening! I’ll be answering replies whenever I’m online! The setting will be one of ebotts biggest celebrations, the golden flower festival, a spring celebration of the arts and culture of ebott!
This year is extra special! The festival is being held all around Portland, a city next to the ocean full of docks. Normally any sort of trade and skipping ships dock there, but they’re being redirected to all the smaller seaside towns for these few days. And it’s also the first major festival that’s completely hadal accessible! All the shopping and events will take place on the docks and beaches around the ocean. Many ships have also volunteered as spots to host events.
This year’s art theme will be blacksmithing. All the art contests and shows will center around metal works.
Activities to do:
Visit the shops of course! Artists and artisans of all kinds fight for a booth in this fair, so there will be all kinds of goodies!
What’s a fair without fair games? Of course there will be many booths looking to rip you off for the chance to win a cheap stuffed animal! So much fun!
Also this fair is literally on the beach, so find a clearer spot and enjoy the sand and water! Because of how many aquatic monsters will be around, fishing with any sort of hook or nets are strictly prohibited in Portland for the week.
See the art show! There’s four sections being judged: small works, large works, weapons and machines! All got blacksmiths and metalworkers of course!
Visit seaweed mall! While it’s not as big as the metta mall in hotland, it is a nice mall and was the first one built in ebott. Seaweed mall is special for selling brands from outside of ebott. So it’s mostly catered to humans but most brands are slowly making monster geared items too!
There’s gonna be a school play on one of the navy ships docked about the story of ambassador frisk when they first fell underground. It has two showings, a day apart. Ambassador frisk has no comments about the play lol
There’s also gonna be a cosplay contest on the same ship at different times. Ebotts first comic con group paid some serious gold to advertise this and are hoping to draw out more fans for the con coming up in may. No theme, just show up as a character you love.
The royals presiding over this festival will be King, Summer, Olympia, Titanic (and to a lesser extent, toriel miss and asgore) so there’s a small chance to run into them.
The biggest show will be a meet and greet with some of ebotts biggest stars! The big three: mettaton, napstablook and fallentron (or felltron) will be the main guests, but there’s also a chance to run into Goldentron (fellswap gold) and silverblook (swapfell) throughout the festival.
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