#wine superstitions

[invisiblerambler]

I am being the biggest baby alive but I don't want to do a stupid useless internship or go back to school. I need to be sedated for like 3 straight weeks and then I need to just have a real job that pays me real money.

[motorclit]

Actually a bit disappointed that the Fandom wiki for the Witcher 3 (which I use frequently as a walkthrough) doesn't list a bit of trivia that was blatantly obvious to me (unless it's there and I don't know what entry to find it in).

So, I've picked up the Witcher 3 again after my period kicked my ass and then covid wanted a piece of me, and I just need to complete the Blood and Wine DLC before I move onto taking a crack at the Witcher 2.

I don't know how far I am technically in the story, but I had just finished helping Regis concoct the Resonance potion thing and Geralt drank the hand-juice to find out what Detlaff did.

Well, Detlaff killed Count de la Croix in a flour mill... located next to a body of water. And I've yet to find any trivia pieces where it states how it references the famous legend of the Serbian vampire Sava Savanovich. It was believed that vampires lurked in flour mills, which was why many refused to be in there at night unless proper precautions were taken (commonly garlic was famously involved).

Of course, Detlaff probably couldn't give two shits about the flour in the mill, but where Count de la Croix was killed stood out to me, and I'm not seeing any reference to it in the Fandom wiki page anywhere about it.

I'm also speaking as someone who has very limited info on many other Slavic regions and their legends, as I'm lucky to find out anything about my Serbian heritage and what the culture and myths are like over there, as I have not learned the language and only know English. (I hope to change that, of course.) So there could be other references.

Also when you help Lambert fight an ekimmara in the main storyline, that also took place in a water mill. I just looked at the page for that and saw no references there, either.

I don't know if there is a reference somewhere and I just overlooked it or what. But it's bugging the shit out of me.

[annefretz]

Wishing you a happy, healthy, and lucky 2024. Cheers!

[antivanwine14]

Emmrich: I never did thank you for the wine glasses.

Lucanis: Don't do that. It's bad luck

Emmrich: Thanks a bad luck?

Lucanis: Putting your affairs in order. The job is not done until its done.

I have been looking for something like this. This is the last dialogue between Lucanis and Emmrich before the last fight of the game. Why does this matter?

Before Tearstone Island, Rook was going to say something to Lucanis and Lucanis stopped them. In the other languages, it is pretty clear Rook was going to confess their love for him. I suspected superstition might have been a reason Lucanis stopped them, so this confirms the idea that Lucanis did NOT want Rook putting their affairs in order before such a big fight. I like knowing that at least part of him did not fear Rook's love, but was afraid this would be the jinx that ruined their string of good luck. (Could part of him had been afraid of Rook's feelings? Absolutely! However, we now have another reason for why Lucanis stopped Rook)

[moongreenlight]

pls pls pls more controversially young wife x price im acc on my knees my brain chemistry has changed i need

This was buried under all the secret wife asks, Aurora so I’m so sorry it took me this long to get back to you! Also I’m drunk on white wine so these are purely smut. Only the finest for you, m’lady.

Price is soooooo secure in himself and his relationship. Imo more so than any of the other boys. He knows he’s sexy, he knows you’re sexy, and he knows he’s the only one that fucks you this well so he’s not shy about sharing you.

I really bet he loves fucking you in very public parts of the house while cleaners or cooks are there. He’d never bend you over the island while the chef is making dinner, but he’d sit at the dinner table and pull you over his lap so you could cockwarm him or he could stick his hand up your skirt.

Or while the cleaners are there he almost makes a game out of how many rooms can he shove you in and fuck you before the two of you need to change locations so they can tidy.

But his ultimate all time goal is to make you his controversially young baby mama. You buy ovulation tests in bulk, track your period, study the moon cycles, whatever, but he still insists on fucking his come as close to your womb as he can at least twice a night regardless of what science says.

When he’s particularly stressed, he’ll go a third or fourth time just to make sure if there’s any possibility of you getting pregnant, it will stick. Shushes you when you weakly try and shove him away and pulls you down the bed toward him by your waist saying something like “S’alright, doll. You just never know. Didn’t finish school, so you don’t know. S’alright. Trust me.”

(He’s defo into dollification in some regard. Loves reminding you that you stopped going to school because the two of you got married.)

Plugs you up after he’s done for the night. Maybe has you put your legs up on the wall for fifteen minutes out of superstition.

And then when you actually do get pregnant, he still insists on dumping a few loads in you a week. Makes the same shitty joke every time about giving you a set of twins or triplets.

[astra-ravana]

Witch's Marks

Throughout history, certain bodily features, marks, and signs have been associated with witchcraft. Some were used as evidence in witch trials, while others are esoteric indicators of magickal potential. This guide explores birthmarks, scars, deformities, palmistry signs, and other physical features believed to mark someone as a witch.

The Devil’s Mark (Historical Accusations)

During European and Colonial American witch trials, interrogators searched for "witch marks"—signs that a person had made a pact with the Devil. These included:

• Birthmarks, moles, or skin discolorations – Believed to be "kissed" or marked by spirits.

• Unusual scars – Especially if they did not bleed or were insensitive to pain.

• Extra nipples or "witch's teat" – Supposedly used to nurse familiars or demons.

• Cold or unbleeding spots – Accused witches were pricked with needles; if they didn’t bleed, it was considered proof of guilt.

• Webbed fingers or extra digits – Rare genetic traits mistaken for supernatural origins.

Many of these were simply natural bodily variations but were feared in times of witch hunts and superstition.

Birthmarks & Deformities (Signs of Magical Power)

In folklore, specific birthmarks were considered signs of innate witchery or past-life connections to magick:

• Crescent Moon Birthmark – A birthmark in the shape of a moon was thought to indicate a connection to lunar magick and intuition.

• Pentagram or Star-shaped Marks – Rare but sometimes reported, believed to signify natural protection and spiritual insight.

• Heart-shaped Birthmarks – Associated with love magick and emotional sensitivity.

• Red or Wine-Colored Marks (Port-Wine Stains) – In some cultures, these were seen as marks of a fire-witch or one chosen by spirits.

• Marks on the Hands or Feet – A birthmark on the palm was believed to give heightened intuition.

• Eye Discoloration (Heterochromia or Unusual Eyes) – Seen as a sign of second sight or fae lineage.

Palmistry Indicators of a Witch

Palmistry holds many signs that indicate a natural witch, healer, or mystic. The most significant ones include:

• The Mystic Cross or Secret Cross(X Between Heart & Head Lines) – A powerful mark of psychic ability and magickal talent.

• Psychic Crosses - Potent psychic ability, blessed by the planets at birth.

• The Healer’s Mark (Multiple Vertical Lines on the Mercury Mount) – Found on those gifted in energy work, spellcraft, and healing.

• The Conjure Mark - A star mark under the ring finger that indicates special talents in magick and spiritual favor.

• The Mystic M - 'M' shaped lines that indicate heightened intuition and mystical abilities.

• The Ring of Solomon (A Semi-circle Under the Index Finger) – Indicates a deep understanding of occult wisdom and esoteric arts.

• The Deep Cross - An inverted cross that symbolizes cleverness, trickiness, luck, and a connection to the crossroads.

• The Psychic Triangle - Indicator of strong psychic abilities.

• The Fate Line Merging with the Life Line – Shows a destiny closely tied to magick and spirituality.

• Astral Travel Lines - Indicator of ability to transcend time and space.

• The Debtor's Mark - Indicates a generational curse, appears as an 'X' on the thumb.

• A Star on the Mount of Moon (Near the Base of the Palm) – Indicates prophetic dreams, intuition, and a connection to spirits.

• Curved or Clawed Index Finger – Called the "witch’s finger", symbolizing strong will and magickal power.

• Unusual Fingernail Shapes – Some traditions claim long, almond-shaped, or black-ridged nails indicate magickal energy.

Facial & Eye Features of a Witch

Certain facial traits were thought to reveal innate magickal abilities:

• Different Colored Eyes (Heterochromia) – Considered a sign of foresight or fae ancestry.

• Deep-Set or Piercing Eyes – Often linked to hypnotic power and psychic perception.

• Naturally Arched or "Fox-Like" Eyebrows – Some folklore says this reveals a cunning or spellcasting nature.

• A Widow’s Peak Hairline – In some cultures, a widow’s peak was seen as a sign of powerful intuition.

Other Supernatural Bodily Features

• Toes of Equal Length (Greek Foot) – Thought to be a mark of spiritual leaders, witches, or powerful souls.

• Long or Slender Fingers – Associated with energy manipulation and spellcasting.

• Naturally Cold Hands – In some traditions, this was seen as a sign of spirit sensitivity.

• Naturally White or Silver Hair (Young Age) – Seen as a sign of wisdom beyond one's years and magical lineage.

• Unusual Hair Growth Patterns – Some cultures believed a single streak of white hair indicated past-life magic use.

• Unusually Pale or Unnaturally Dark Skin (Relative to Ancestry) – In folklore, extreme contrast in skin tone was thought to mark those "touched" by magic.

Scars & Witch Marks from Rituals

Some witches intentionally mark themselves with scars, tattoos, or ritual wounds as signs of initiation, devotion, or power. These include:

• Self-Carved Sigils or Runes – Done in blood magic or personal empowerment rituals.

• Burn Marks (Fire Walkers or Flame-Proof Witches) – Some traditions claim that a witch initiated into fire magic might have a burn-resistant patch of skin.

• Scars from Spiritual Battles or Shamanic Trials – Found in spirit workers and energy healers, especially in Indigenous traditions.

While historical witch marks were often used to persecute and harm innocent people, many esoteric traditions still recognize certain physical signs as indicators of magical gifts. Whether birthmarks, palmistry signs, or deliberate markings, these features connect people to the ancient mystical heritage of witchcraft.

Do you have any of these witch marks? Many believe that discovering such features can be a sign of magical potential, past-life witchcraft, or a deep connection to the unseen world.

[sanakimohara]

[ BOUND BY BLOOD ] - H. H.

master lists <> + CHRISTMAS EVENT: day two (n/a yet)

pairing: Hyunjin x fem! reader

summary: A seductive vampire who has been watching you for centuries finally reveals himself. As Hyunjin pulls you deeper into his world of immortality, the line between love and obsession begins to blur.

date: December 21st 2024

playlist:

warnings: MDNI + NSFW + BLOOD KINK + ORAL + LOTS OF EXPOSITION + MENTIONS OF WITCHCRAFT & PAGAN HOLIDAY + EXTENSIVE PINING

Yule is more than a concession of sacred days ending in immense celebration. You knew of this from a very tender age, of course.

Your mother impressed upon you how vastly more important it was than any other festivity held throughout the year in your small village. A place nestled in the rocky edges of the St. Romanov mountains, just below the everlasting castle at the very top of the harsh scenery. In a dreary land, everyone would be just the same—sulking like the grey, cold clouds that hung high above, even in mid-summer, and bitter like the bark of the evergreen trees and pines occupying the surrounding woods. Many who lived far and near the little ancient plot began to whisper of its strangely happy and content inhabitants centuries before books made of linen and leather were being traded for secrets on the land they lived on.

Some talked of how women resembled eerily beautiful statues on a winter's night. Others told tales of men who never seemed to age past their prime but nearly always perished under terrible circumstances, whether in secret or for all to behold. You were born to a family who pressed truth into these oh-so-beguiled wise tales made up by outsiders. Yet, that was natural within a family littered with witches and warlocks of every kind.

Young and blessed with slow aging and graceful wisdom, your mother and father took it upon themselves to grant you a moderately lavish life within the strangely quaint village. You went without very little, and whatever your kind heart desired was promptly given. Your demure features disarmed many, growing enchanting as you neared the age of two centuries, looking nothing past the age of two bright decades. One might call it luck -especially living in a jagged and whimsical place. But many who lived beyond called it witchcraft at its finest point -the undead's evil doing.

You paid the assumptions no mind. Content with living a life in your studies of the dark arts under the teachings of your nearly pestering and frazzled mother and her less distracted and elated partner -your father. To some extent, he was a patriarch of the town, never fully taking on the title of its Baron and never desiring to when asked. He helped people experiencing poverty, aided people in need, and advised those who did have a hand in village affairs. On the other hand, your mother saw to the population's superstitions and unusual ailments and guarded their shaken resolves with practiced and refined magik. You had undoubtedly become their most prized offering to the masses. A beauty many could behold but could never understand being kept so hidden away at your family estate.

In turn, you were plagued with loneliness that could only be ailed by knowledge of the arts for so long. Years shifted into another half a decade of unbound youth and restrained confidence for you. Thinking of another century in such a state made your heartache and your head spin with sound worry. The terror struck you at family dinner in the dining hall, and you nearly opened your mouth to suggest an alternative to your parents. However, you were halted in a speech by your ever-so-live mother, who'd been unable to stop smiling since you stepped foot into the candlelit room behind your father's usual late arrival.

"I have grand news for you, my dear!" she beamed, and you perked up in your seat in interest. "Mother?...' you cautiously egged her on, sipping from the blackened wine glass set before your plate of half-finished food. She waited to hear you swallow your blackberry wine before glancing at your oddly silent father. "I and your Papa have a gift for you...well, a surprise, to be more specific."

Please, Mother of Darkness, do not let it be another grimoire. I've already filled in four others.

You prayed to the powers that be in a single silent breath, glancing between them as they observed you. "Oh...please do tell me of it. You know how little patience I have for surprises." The sweetest smile crossed your face, pulled tight by subtle anxiety and held there by a need to seem mildly normal about the implications of receiving a new and unknown gift.

Yet, it fell into a quivering line as your mother excitedly spilled her heart out for you to hear.

"We have found you a match, and he is rather eager about it. More than we are if my senses ring true!"

The light wave of shock that gripped you dissipated into relief. A hot flush rushed through d your veins like a flame catching the edge of fresh linen. Any other woman being told of a secure match might feel her heart turned to icey malice, but all you could taste was wild freedom being attained without much fight.

And you couldn't be happier to have it.

Who this match was and why he was so eager to be one with you was another mystery for different times. Now, you wanted a moment to relish in a world to be discovered outside the village you'd known an entire lifetime and mask that joy from the two beings who gave you such power over life as if their announcement hadn't changed a thing in your reeling mind.

With a deep and steadying breath, you replied, "How fortunate. I look forward to beginning our union."

Your mother nodded, sipping wine while your father grumbled a phrase of contentment. She offered you an all-too-tender smile, her bright gaze sparking as you tilted your head in curiosity. "Is there something more you'd like to tell me, Mother?"

She sighed, humming melodically, then set her glass down to speak again, her tone genuinely matter-of-fact.

"You'll be traveling to meet him at his estate within a fortnight."

This wasn't unexpected, yet hearing it aloud stirred a peculiar thrill within you, an undeniable pull toward the unknown that lay waiting.

The fortnight came within a whirlwind of a day. Your belongings were packed and shipped off early at noon, and your father blessed and sealed your treasures an hour before your departure. Your mother sent you off with genuine gifts of goodwill and more excellent fortune, refusing to speak on the mysterious author more than she already had -which only gave you a semblance of a surname from which to paint a picture of him.

Hwang.

It was all you'd know of him until the moon reached its height and your horse-drawn carriage stopped in the gravel walkway in front of his glaringly cold estate. You imagined his features, charm, voice, and sway over those within his power. Sketching his imaginations in a tattered leather-bound grimoire and writing earnest anecdotes of goodwill under each one. You wrote and drew until your hand ached, glad to see the semblance of a large mansion coming into view far across a snow-touched meadow.

The book snapped shut as you refined your focus on the blatantly grand estate. Your mother had called it magnificent when describing where this Hwang hailed from, but she left out the fair detail of how larger-than-life it seemed, with its gardens packed with mere hundreds of people.

A party.

A celebration.

An honoring of Yule.

You had never, ever seen such a large and lavish gathering. Granted, your mother and father never threw one as grand as the one you witnessed now from afar, but the edge of awe was still present as you observed it. People -men, women, the moderately young, and the wise old roamed about.

Some wore masks of gleaming gold, amber, and cherry red. Others wore black veils and cashmere shawls. Everyone in attendance held prestigious looks from afar, dressed in sacred colors starkly contrasting with the pure white snow coating the grounds.

Candles and lanterns were lit to perfection, leaking light into the moonlit night and casting a golden white glow on those who swayed beneath and through them. Shadows danced as many grabbed for waltz partners. A quartet strummed at their instruments and rang their bells into the air. Laughter and speech leaked into the music, piercing the sky.

It was life.

It was passion.

It was beautiful to see.

You ached to join the fun. Think of it constantly, even as the carriage stops at the steps leading straight to the heavy dark oak wood doors carved with the face of Medusa and sealed shut with iron wrought doubles of the letter 'H' leading straight to your new home.

With the help of a kind footman and the relief of a soft gasp, you took tentative steps to the top of the staircase, undeterred by the ice under your heeled boots and the gentle crunch of snow under your every movement. With a step left, the doors creaked open for you, a sudden chill wrapping around you before a steady warmth replaced it. You stopped short, unaffordable of the sudden eeriness, but perplexed to see not a soul standing behind the door.

"Mother of the moon.." you whispered in timid amusement, gazing up at the white sphere gleaming down on your clocked form before allowing its energy to steady your shaken nerves. When your mind could focus again, you bit the inside of your left cheek, slipping into the estate's front doors with a quiet huff, passing by the eyes of Medusa with a solemn smile of thanks.

The doors slammed shut as your feet hit the marble floor inside, loudly clicking its locks with finality as you spared them a final glance before sauntering further into the massive household. The small palace was lit, and not a corner was left cold or void, but not a life in your sight. It seemed as if the tree outside was merely a dreamscape and a phantom of reality within the world you stood in now - a wonderous opener to the spectacle within your suitor's less-than-humble abode. You reached another set of winding staircases. The embroidered carpet gently glistened under an amber-lit chandelier, never seeming to stain your wet footprints and littered with mistletoe, pine, fresh herbs, and trimmed garland. It was neat chaos at its finest, but what took your breath away was the line of blackened roses lining the center. Their thrones were pricked clean off, and their stems meticulously swirled in on themselves and tied off in an alternation of crimson red and deep violet silk ribbons. "How strange..." you thought aloud, pricking one from the warm floor, examining it until its petals were paled compared to the folded letter hidden underneath it.

It simply read in practiced well, done calligraphy,

"My Dearest Love,

The hour is late, and the world outside lies shrouded in slumber, save for me and my kin—ever wakeful, ever longing. I have watched you from the shadows, not with the eyes of a stranger, but with the gaze of a soul tethered to yours by threads spun long before this life. You do not yet know me, but I have known you for an eternity, each passing moment a cruel reminder of my yearning to claim what fate has promised me.

I am writing to you now, my beloved, because our meeting is near. The winter moon will shine brightest on the eve of the year's final breath, casting its silvery veil upon the snow-laden earth. In that sacred hour, I shall come to you. Do not fear the chill in the air or the stillness accompanying my presence. Know that every step I take toward you is born of reverence and an unyielding desire to protect, cherish, and love.

You may wonder why I have chosen you among all others, why I dare to speak of binding our lives together in the sacred vow of marriage. The truth is as eternal as the stars: I did not choose you. Though it beats no longer, my heart has always belonged to you. In your laughter, I hear the echo of joy I have long since forgotten; in your gaze, I see a light that pierces the veil of my darkness. You are the warmth my cold existence craves, the embodiment of all that is pure and eternal.

For centuries, I have wandered through this world, untouched by its beauty and unmoved by its offerings. Yet, the barren void within me stirred from the moment I beheld you, even from afar. My soul cursed as it is, recognized in you its redemption—a love that transcends time, a light strong enough to shatter even the deepest shadows.

I write this letter not to frighten you but to offer you a choice. When we meet, you will see me as I truly am. My nature, my curse—it is not one I would impose upon you without consent. But if your heart, as I suspect, already beats in harmony with mine, I ask for your hand, trust, and love. Together, we will defy the passage of time, weaving a tapestry of eternity that no force can unravel.

Await me on the night of our destined meeting. Do not despair the hour, for it shall mark the beginning of a love that poets and dreamers could only hope to capture. I shall kneel before you, not as a creature of the night, but as a man who has waited lifetimes to call you his own.

Until then, my love, guard your heart, for it is already mine. And know that no force on this earth, nor in the heavens above, could keep me from you.

Yours eternally,

Hyunjin..."

A weight lingered over your shoulders as his name slipped past your lips like pure honey. As if it were planned to happen, and for one explicable reason or another, he had pined for it to be that way on this very night. You pieced things together in the moment it took you to realize them. Every night since your 118th risi, you'd felt a presence -not nearly a calling- but something tethered to your existence. Had that been him for all these years? Watching over you in the smallest of moments. Moving when you moved. Listening when you spoke. Caring when it seemed no one else could. Being there when you felt further trapped in an unintentional isolation.

Were the sharp and bloodborne eyes trailing every move in glimpses of mirrors.?Was he the lurking shadow hovering above your own in the light of a single candle? Was he the one leaving gifts of your desire at the foot of your bed? Each one left with no note or card of recognition but instead wrapped neatly and meant for you to find and enjoy. Wasthee soft chill of breath you felt through the coldest nights? Twinged with a peculiar warmth and steadily streaming against the crook of your neck and behind the shell of your ear.

You thought of the possibilities, fueled by a deep curiosity and security, as you followed the trail of roses left along the ststastaircathrough staircase-through rooTandyandy stopped at a particular door on the second floor, previously leading through the tre right-wing amenities before the abr.aWithhith one big push of both your hands, you revealed what lay within the last unlocked room.

A man, dressed in fine clothing with a more captivating charmed beauty to match, stood before you in a moment of tensed admiration.

He seemed to hold in a breath, lips pressed into a slow-growing smile of recognition as his eyes scanned you in familiarity. Your heart thumped twice its normal speed as he did, and your feet shifted closer to each other as his gaze halted on your flushing face. "He-Hello..." you muttered, unsure what else to say and completely startled to see another person standing in the emptied estate.

Hyunjin did not hold your lack of recognition and frazzled greeting against you; he accepted them. I expect much worse, and he was glad those assumptions did not come to fruition upon your timely arrival.

He found the words to speak and the will to be heard when you took a half-nervous step back, shuffling closer to the doorway in a plain attempt to close it shut if prompted to. "You're quite alright. I've been waiting for you for some time now, so I would like you to stay even if it's for a moment..."

The cadence of his words and the gentle tone of his voice sounded the same as the whisper within your most common dreams. It was healing, charming, sweet, and meant to cause delirium to anyone who heard it without warning. You unconsciously paired it with the letter you'd found. Gripping it in your right hands, your mind collected subtle connections.

This had to be him.

Your allusive and eager suitor?...

"Hwang...Hyunjin..."

"That is my full name, yes..." he jested a bit, treading carefully through your observation of him. However, when your stare found him again, you seemed neither displeased nor perplexed.

"Are you to be my match, then? " you asked, hoping his answer would satisfy your growing uncertainties.

He nodded, nibbling at his lush bottom lip for a split second of tension relief. Then, you noticed his edged canines glinting in the soft light filling the room. Your heart jumped, but your breath slowed at the minuscule sight.

You'd gotten yourself a walking undead of your own, it seems.

Hyunjin's quick eyes caught yours wondering towards his mouth, fixated on the slip-upphe'ddd ma unconsciously but nowhere near frightened or frazzled by the reveal. It eased his rare nerves and allowed him to speak more freely as you inched further into the room to get a closer look at him. "I know stepping into this new life may be very odd to you now, but as I explained in the letter-"

"I've read it twice since my arrival..." you confess in one uttered breath, unable to keep smiling softly at him, "You're a lovely admirer and a gifted writer by all means..." You paused, unsure what to call him and afraid you'd begun to ramble, seeing his head lower at your words. However, Hyunjin flashed a charmed grin your way after half a moment. His pale cheeks flushed a tinge of rouge you thought was a trick of the light. How could someone so confident in their presence be so easily flustered? The answer was beyond you, but it was a question you cherished watching him watch you from across the room.

His smile fell to a slight smirk, eyes cutting to the side for a moment before he spoke again, "You are one charming doll... do you know that?" He chuckled, and you shrugged, eyeing him as he wandered closer with steady strides. "I've been told otherwise..." you confess in a whisper, accepting bated breath as he flows above the top of your head.

A pull surged in your chest, urging you forward into his immobile warmth and drawing your head up at an angle so his face remained inches from your own. Hyunjin stared back, eyes downcast in jaded concern as you hid a coy smile. "Wel, my love, they don't know you as I do."

He spoke of your intentional grace and earned your trust. He is unafraid to let you witness the flicker of vulnerability behind his maroon irises.

It was then that you knew what he thought of you, how he felt, with only your eyes to capture him.

A life to live in the eternity he found himself in.

One year came and went in the Hwang estate; in that time, you'd grown to love hearing that surname replace your own. Hyunjin was far more than a dashing husband and far better than any other living man you had encounteredHisis obsession with you was infinite and dedicated. It showed in every little thing he did for you and was present in every intimate interaction you had with him - even if he took each one no further than a heated kiss and a passing touch of his cold hands over your warmer flesh.

There were times it drove you mad.

His withholding of passion in fear of harming you during such acts was maddening, to say the very least. Sleeping with him had begun to be the only thing you could think of. You are noo longer able to keep such thoughts within the confines of your still-separated rooms during the dead of night and are frazzled by the visceral need to feel him take you.

He knew of your struggles but never acknowledged them. Hell-bent on sticking to his version of affection for as long as possible and undeterred by your subtle begging far longer than you had expected him to be.

That is until the very night you met him came around again.

Sweat shined your skin from the heat of the broiling water you sank into only moments ago. Herbs, spices sprinkled, and citrus shreds floated to the top of the scented bath. It was a relief to feel each component working into your tired body and slowly bringing life back into it as moments of solace trickled into a calm, quiet passage.

Finally, you could rest and not answer another question about decorations, food to serve partygoers of the evening, or what musical set to be played throughout the night. Taking on the task of planning for the Hwang household Yule was tedious and meticulous. Every detail was meant to be perfect, just as you had seen upon your arrival a year prior, but against Hyunjin's well-meant wishes, you took on the assignment with vigor for perfection.

It was overwhelming in all aspects, but you'd done it to the best of your ability, and now you wanted nothing more than to relax before the celebration began. The guests slowly showed themselves.

Your eyelids lowered, fully closing as the hot water sank deeper into your skin—the smell of fresfragranceses swept under your nose in gentle wafts. For a while,nt the world went utterly sti, ll, and you could hear the wind and snow softly blowing outside; your lonely peace was dissolved as a tender kiss was placed at the of your head by familiar lips.

"My love..." Hyunjin greeted you humbly, and you returned the sentiment by peeking your eyes at him. "My prince..."

He smiled at the neverending nickname you'd decided long ago to give him. You held his lingering gaze, tracing the lift of his lips as he leaned in to place a meaningful kiss against your lips. Your hands floated from the water, gently cupping his face as his lips pressed into yours. They were tinted with red wine and the lingering taste of iron blood, but you paid the bitterness no mind, delving for something more profound as he trailed a hand through your damp hair and brushed back the strands sticking to your flushed cheeks.

A fire stirred in your stomach, spiraling as the swipe of his tongue over your own melted the taste of him into your senses. Hyunjin pressed to shift backward, understanding the intensity of your exchange, but had no room to do so as your freshly manicured nails gently dug into the skin of his unblemished face. He stayed still, falling into a pattern of returning slow and wet kisses with you in the quiet of the large washroom. You hummed at his intentional sweetness to please you, smiling as he tilted your head back to rest on his thigh, your right hand cupping your chin firmly as his left raked through your hair and massaged the roots at your scalp. A trickle of drool seeped past your lips, tainted with blood a moment later, as he bit down on your inner lower lip with the tip of a fang. You whined softly as the sudden and short infliction of pain pleasured that he took joy in marking you in such a discreet place and was not timid about savoring the reward of your blood on his tongue, but the mix of elation didn't last long. Hyunjin snapped away from your lips, pressing loving kisses to them as you frowned and whimpered from the loss of connection. "Please do not torture me..." you huffed, legs closing instinctively to put pressure on the throbbing heat between them.

“Don’t…do this to me, “ you repeat yourself, stirring into a fever as his touch on your jaw slid to cup and caress the side of your face as if to lull you back to sanity.

He failed, a rare thing to happen, but something he couldn’t help as you stared up at him with the most unforgiving and pleading stare. “Please…” you utter to him, bottom lip catching between your teeth as his eyes settle across your body in a languid dance. His gaze stops at your chest -barely hidden in the cream-filled water, and you’re tempted to slip out of the bath and let him have a full view if it’ll coax him to give what you so desperately want from him.

Hyunjin needs no further persuasion than a flicker of sadness and disappointment in your eyes. You’re prepared to handle your growing frustration of heat alone and hope it will be done by the time guests arrive, but a simple phrase from him shatters your ideas of doing so.

“You’ve waited long and well enough.”

The sound of praise in his tone has you turning in the water to face him like an excited mutt being given a treat. Your smile returns, and your hands fall to rest on his thigh. “You won’t back down from me?…” You ask out of fear he will, knowing his quick change of mind could be fickle and turned again if you weren’t careful with your intent. Hyunjin stifled a chuckle, unbothered by your eagerness and thrilled to see you smiling at him brightly again.

That generous lift of your lips always made his cock twitch to life no matter when, where, or why it happened.

It was such a curse to him that even now, he failed to think straight enough as you rose a bit more from Luke's warm water to press a slow kiss to his parted lips. The cherry stain on your lips seeped onto his tongue, your tongue slow and delicate against his, steadily licking into his mouth a sweet confidence. He swallowed your noises, smothering them with nips and licks before easing your mouth open for a singular line of his spit to slide down your tongue. You purred at the feeling, sinking into the water a bit as he stood up and spat straight into your throat as if he owned it.

Because he did…and you adored him for it.

“Come with me…” Hyunjin grunted against your ear, not caring about the mess made, as he wrapped a strengthened arm around your waist to pull you from the cold bathwater. You helped lousy in excitement as he did, completely fine with being tossed over his shoulder like a sack of packed sugar cane. “I wasn’t finished bathing-!” You start to scold him despite not having the heart or right mind to mean anything by it, but a tender prick of his fangs to the flesh of your thighs startles you into a fit of giggles.

“And I don’t care anymore, my love…”

“Ca…c…can’t…” you choked on your words, falling to pieces as Hyunjin laid his head between your legs, hair sheened with sweat as your fingers traveled through and gripped every strand it touched tight. “Third time a charm,” he muttered, all too focused on the task in front of him and unbothered by your shaking thighs and rolling hips. “N-no..” you protested in half-sought agony, unsure if he’d even heard you when he earned another shout of his name with a slow and deliberate swipe of his tongue pressed flat to your entrance. He let the wet muscle rest there for a second, nudging it into your creamy walls inch by inch until you tugged at his hair and groaned in pleasurable despair at the feeling.

He added to the pattern, tracing the inner folds of your cunt and circling your bundle of nerves in repetitive motions. You quivered every time, leaking cum onto the fresh linen, and overstimulated in every sense you had left.

Hyunjin groaned loudly, with a collared shirt falling from his broad shoulders and your legs lazily hanging over them. A tug in your hips brought your scented body an inch closer to his face before he buried himself in your cunt again. Licking, searching, and finding exactly what he wanted. You squirmed and tossed above him, gripping at anything soft and mailable to have a steadying grip, but you couldn’t sit still or stay calm. Hyunjin wouldn’t have it any other way, sinking his fangs into your plush thighs and the soft skin just above your left knee to keep you on edge.

“N-ngh ugh….ah! Ah! Hy-Hyunjin…” you called for his attention, on the of unraveling, feeling his lips wrap around and suckle on your clit generously before his tongue went right back to exploring your insides in a practiced dance. He refused to settle down, looking up at you through fallen strands of dark and damp hair and devouring you with intent as your moans climbed to new octave before a scream tore from your throat at a final flick of his skilled tongue.

It nearly hurt how fast and how intensely he’d thrown you over the edge. A third instance is not more straightforward than the first two; a fourth is meant to top it all off immediately. You panted, feeling wild and shaken but unable to care as a buzzing heat flooded through your veins and leaked onto the sheets in arousal. It stained the soft fabric, your inner thighs -painting the darkened marks he’d left and smearing the trickles of blood he’d caused with small bites, and coated the bottom half of his face as he raised to hover above you.

You caught him in a delirious kiss, too tired to sit up and lock him in your arms but glad he felt no desire for you to do it. Hyunjin caved into you, letting your hands wander over his skin, across his shoulders, down his back, around his waist, and stopping right where his heart should beat in his toned chest.

There wasn’t a throb of life left in him, and you trusted that he saw yours as valuable enough to change.

One day…but not yet…

He answered your lingering question without a word, peppering the corner of your upturned lips with gentle kisses and soft sighs you returned. Your legs remained parted, allowing his free hand to lazily touch and spread your slick along the expanse of your cunt. “Such a pretty little flower for me…so sweet…and so,” he trailed off, nudging your head to the side to sink his teeth into your heated neck, drawing blood and a pleased moan from you as he took slow sips of your blood.

“Soft…” he finished.

His fingers plunged deep into your core, stretching the gummy walls within in slender but tasteful thrusts. You shook from the contrasting actions he was committing. Awed at how full he made you feel despite draining you in the same breath.

Was this the true love of an undead man?

Does the obsession of another once alive come back to life?

You hadn’t the slightest clue to answer both inquires, fixated on watching his fingers pump into your soaked entrance as your head spinning from the lack of blood beginning to take effect. Hyunjin refrained from sucking you dry, driven mad by the taste of you no matter how he got it, but aware of your limits as part of the living. Still, he detached from your neck with a soft and crisp sound, focused on pulling another climax from you.

You were on the verge of another, lashes fluttering as the syllables of his name faded into breathy gasps as your high tiptoed closer, but the slow drag of his fingers from your cunt slowed it to a standstill. “No..!” You yelp in disbelief, ready to shed tears if this was his way of putting a stop to your feigning for him, but your disappointment was short-lived and replaced with pleasant surprise as he shifted to kneel on the soiled sheets between your spread legs.

You watched in particular excitement as he stared you down, rolling his neck once to release tension in it, and licked the remaining droplets of your blood from the corner of his lips while reaching to undo the confines of his trousers. He said nothing as you marveled at the sight of his cock. Your face flushed a bit as he brought it into your view with his large hand wrapped around its inches more considerable length. You refused to speak a word, having imagined the sight of his cock more than once before, but speechless at its true nature being revealed.

Thick, full of stock, and neatly groomed.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of it -merely glancing up at Hyunjin in awe when he leaned forward to press the length of it against your sensitive folds, but shifting your gaze right back to it as he passed over your folds.

“Oh!…mmm..” you shuddered into a gasp and fell into a moan at the sensation. Your insides flipped and twisted, eager to know if his cock could reach new places you’d never forget. Hyunjin clicked his tongue, sparing a glance downward between your bodies before lowering his head to rest against yours, hips set back slightly to prod the tip of his length to your aching entrance. You whined, prepared for the stretch but intolerant of his ever-waning patience. “We’ll miss our first guests if we continue like this…” He hummed, sensing approaching carriages and steeds from afar in the low blizzard rousing the night air. You cup his face, eyes set on his as your lips curl into a coy smile. “Let them wait…Let them wonder where we are the whole night if that’s what must be done..”

He raised a brow, licking his lips while his cock inched into your untouched entrance, watching the fall of your smile into a small ‘o’ shape as he did so. “Your wish is my command, Lady Hwang..”

A/N: I’m sick so this is late but it’s a double feature (Changbin is next)

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[myster-roca]

La Pelle del Diavolo: A Halloween Special

The night air in the hills of Tuscany was thick with the scent of earth and wild herbs, but a chill crept through the wind, slipping from the shadows cast by ancient oaks around the estate. Marco Romano, a seasoned thief, felt the familiar prickle of excitement as he approached the villa.

Dark whispers and superstitions tugged at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed them aside. Danger was an old friend, and tonight, it had led him to the mysterious Villa Tenebra.

The locals had spoken of the villa’s hidden treasure in hushed tones over dark wine, only daring to mention it in shadowed corners of Florence’s oldest bars. It was a relic of myth, known as the Corpus Noctem, the key to immortal life. Marco had dismissed it as folklore at first, but the lure of such power was impossible to resist.

He had slipped into Villa Tenebra with the help of a map from a cryptic dealer in Florence—a strange man eager to be rid of it. The map was faded and worn, but it revealed something extraordinary: an old smugglers’ passage hidden in the villa’s foundations, built centuries ago to let noblemen move treasures in and out undetected.

The entrance to the passage lay hidden behind a statue in the villa’s overgrown gardens, its base concealing a narrow stone door. With a grunt, Marco pushed it open, revealing a winding staircase descending into the earth. The air was cool and damp, and each step echoed, punctuating the silence with a heavy, ominous beat.

At the bottom, the passage twisted into a dimly lit stone hallway. Shadows flickered on the walls, worn smooth by years of forgotten footsteps. Marco moved forward, his senses sharp, adrenaline building. The air was thick, carrying an old, metallic scent, as though it held memories of things long past.

A few meters down, he found himself in a corridor and saw something he had never encountered—a perfectly sculpted muscle suit that looked like leather, coated in wax, and painted red. The closer he got, the more he felt an odd pull, a magnetic force that made his skin tingle and his pulse intensify.

The suit looked like leather but felt too smooth, too alive. It beckoned to him.

“This is it. The Corpus Noctem. The Flesh of the Night,” he whispered, his voice thick with greed. “The key to youth and eternal life.”

His fingers hovered over the material, and as soon as he touched it, a rush of heat surged through him, like electricity flooding his veins. His fingertips tingled as he traced its sculpted lines. The sensation was intoxicating, almost erotic. His breath quickened, and an unfamiliar hunger stirred deep within him.

With the suit clutched in his arms, he moved quickly down the hall, rounding a corner, his breathing quickening as he felt its warmth intensify. The heat from the suit seemed to throb, mirroring his own pulse, sending waves of anticipation rippling through him.

He knew he couldn’t wait any longer—he needed it on his body, needed to feel it enveloping him.

Setting the suit down, he hurriedly removed his clothes, pulling off his sleek, dark outfit and kicking off his boots. His legs trembled as he reached for the red muscle suit once more, pressing himself against it and feeling heat spread through his body.

He removed his pants, standing completely naked before the suit, savoring the rich red sheen of the leather.

Without hesitation, he began to put it on. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of pleasure and power flooded his senses.

As he slid the suit further up his leg, he felt an incredible tightness around his calf, a strange, thrilling tension as though the suit were pulling at his muscles. And then, to his astonishment, he felt his calf muscle expand, swelling against the material as though infused with newfound strength.

He continued, slipping his other leg in, feeling the suit tighten around his thighs. The same sensation of growth surged through him, his quads and hamstrings expanding, hardening, becoming thicker, stronger.

Marco’s hands trembled as he pulled the suit up over his hips, feeling the snug embrace of the material. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, and as the suit enveloped his torso, a wave of heat exploded through his chest and back.

He watched in awe as his pecs rose, filling out, becoming solid and powerful, each muscle now perfectly defined. His shoulders broadened, the suit tightening around them, forcing them to grow, to harden, until they were as strong as stone.

His arousal surged as he ran his hands down to the calves and then up to the chest, pressing his palm against the sculpted abdomen. It felt perfect—hard, tight, like a muscular man was inside.

Eyes closed, he traced his hands over the biceps and around to the triceps, savoring every sensation.

“You shouldn’t have touched that.”

The thief spun around. An old man stood in the hallway, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. On his right hand, a tarnished silver ring caught the faint glow, intricate symbols etched into its surface.

His eyes, sharp and full of something the thief couldn’t quite place, bore into him. The air between them crackled with tension.

“This is your treasure, old man?” the thief sneered, masking the tremor in his voice.

The old man stepped forward, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Treasure? No… it’s a curse. You should strip it off and leave while you still can. That suit… The Corpus Noctem… was never meant to be worn by anyone who values their soul.”

The thief chuckled darkly, reveling in the waves of pleasure and power coursing through him as the suit clung tighter, molding to his body like a second skin. “You’re just trying to scare me. It’s mine now.”

But then, something shifted. The warmth he’d felt before began to change, becoming suffocating, as though the suit itself was tightening around him, digging deeper into his flesh.

The initial rush of pleasure twisted into something unbearable, a heat that clawed at him from within.

His chest heaved as panic seized him. “What… what is happening?”

The old man’s gaze was steely, his voice soft yet filled with grim satisfaction. “You wanted to own the suit, to wield its power. But now, it owns you.”

The thief’s hands flew to the suit, trying to rip it off, but the material wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at him as he realized the truth—this wasn’t just a myth or legend. This was real, and he had fallen for its trap.

“The suit was crafted centuries ago,” the old man continued, his voice soft yet laden with dark knowledge. “A coven of sorcerers, desperate for immortality, summoned an ancient demon—the Harrower of Flesh—who bound its essence into the hollow skin of a man, creating the Corpus Noctem. Whoever wore it would gain eternal youth and beauty, but at a cost: for each year they lived, they’d need to drain another’s essence, leaving behind a lifeless skinsuit. To bypass this, the wearer must cloak themselves in the flesh of another soul—only by donning this skin over the Corpus Noctem can one remain whole.”

The thief’s vision blurred as the suit constricted around him, merging deeper into his skin. His body tingled with a sensation that was equal parts pleasure and terror. It felt as if the suit were feeding on him, consuming his very essence.

The old man’s frail form shifted, and with deliberate slowness, he raised his hands to his face. He pulled it off, revealing a lifelike mask, and beneath it, a strikingly youthful, handsome face emerged—features sharp, jawline strong, eyes dark and piercing. Smirking, he removed his clothes piece by piece, casting off the disguise of age.

As the last layer fell, the old, fragile illusion was gone, replaced by a chiseled, muscular figure that looked as if it had been carved from marble. His back straightened, shoulders broad, and every inch of him radiated a powerful, youthful energy.

“You see, I was once like you,” the man said, his voice now rich and powerful. “I, too, was lured by the suit’s promises. But unlike you, I learned its secrets and made it my own. I’ve lived for centuries, wearing this skin, draining life from those foolish enough to fall into its grasp.”

The thief stumbled back, his body no longer his own. The suit tightened again, and he felt his skin loosen, as if separating from his bones, becoming pliable and empty. He was now little more than an outer shell waiting to be filled.

“You’ll be perfect,” the man murmured with a predatory smile. “I’ve been needing a new face. And your body… it will serve me well.”

The man reached down, his fingers trailing over the thief’s hollowed form, savoring the warmth and fresh pliability. He lifted the emptied skin carefully, feeling its readiness to be inhabited. Pausing, he slid a tarnished silver ring from his finger and set it gently on the floor beside him, a faint smile crossing his lips, as if the gesture held private, ritualistic meaning.

With a sigh of satisfaction, he began donning the suit, the thief’s former identity slipping over him like a glove. The skin conformed to him, tightening and sealing with a sensation that sent shivers through him—a seductive merging of flesh and power.

He ran his hands over his new form, relishing the strength beneath his fingers. This body was everything he’d hoped for—youthful, strong, and ready to endure another century. He reached down, rubbing his hands over Marco's abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch. His hands drifted lower, gripping Marco's cock, heat radiating from it. Wrapping his hand around the shaft, he began to stroke.

“Do you like it?” he asked himself with a smile.

He began to laugh as he continued stroking, feeling Marco grow harder. On the verge of climax, he still sensed remnants of Marco's essence, and his smile grew even wider. Reaching up, he massaged his new face.

But he wasn’t done. He turned to the Corpus Noctem, lying on the floor like a crimson shadow. With practiced ease, he slipped it on, layer by layer, feeling it fuse with his stolen body, amplifying his strength, fortifying every fiber. The suit melded seamlessly, completing his transformation.

Reaching down, he retrieved the silver ring from the floor and slid it back onto his finger, a final touch that signified the bond. He looked into the grand mirror, admiring the flawless reflection. Turning sharply, he traced a hand along his new jawline, savoring the unfamiliar yet perfectly familiar contours. The face of a man he had consumed, a youth he had stolen, now belonged to him entirely.

With a slow exhale, he ran his hands over his abs, savoring each hard, sculpted ridge beneath his fingertips. The suit hugged every contour perfectly, every muscle honed, every line exact.

“Magnificent,” he whispered, his voice low with satisfaction, echoing through the empty hall like a dark promise. Only his faint laughter remained, drifting through Villa Tenebra’s silent halls, waiting for the next soul to fall prey to the Corpus Noctem.

--- ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ---

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[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- kisses + the 13 flame-chasers

summary: what it says on the tin!

tags: flame-chasers x gn!reader, griseo's is platonic of course, fluff, lots of kissies.

i. kevin kaslana

kevin’s last try at love had left him unable to touch anything living, his body now colder than ice. he craves the contact he once was able to give and receive freely, but to sacrifice his own body in pursuit of the MOTH’s goals was something he was more than willing to do. but even the icy-hearted first flame chaser has his moments of weakness. in those moments he’ll grab your tie, or the end of your skirt and bring it up to his lips, inhaling the scent he was never close enough to know, and wonder how warm your skin felt underneath.

ii. elysia

elysia adores everything about you, and she wants you to know how much you are loved every moment she is with you. she places kisses to any place she can reach, but more than that she loves watching your reactions. so human, so beautiful. it’s not rare to end up with her rosy gloss all over you.

iii. aponia

aponia likes listening to you breathe. underneath a tree in the tall grass, your head in her lap. it’s one of the few times she feels she can live in the present. the future is the farthest thing from her mind as she leans down and places a kiss to your forehead, telling you to go to sleep. she doesn’t command you to do it so, but with her soft humming, you soon drift off. aponia kisses your eyelids, then, and prays for your dreams to be pleasant.

iv. eden

her lips taste of the finest wine; how could you not get intoxicated after kissing her? the high of eden’s performance doesn’t wear off for hours, and she loves to perch you up on her vanity and kiss you until she’s satisfied… and eden is hard to satiate. out of all the endless riches she has amassed, you are her favorite treasure of all.

v. vill-v

the great magician loves to woo you with her performances. look down into their hat and when you see nothing inside, she’ll tilt your chin up and give you a quick peck.

the expert likes to ramble off her ideas for projects — you’re the only one allowed in their lab. it’s not often they get excited about things, but with you there she finds that old passion for inventing return in spades. when you aren’t looking, she’ll place a lingering kiss to your temple, whispering out her thanks.

vill-v loves you wholly, with every part of themself.

vi. kalpas

you’re one of the few who has gotten to see under kalpas’s mask. his skin is fair, sunken pale eyes tired and angry. it’s the first time he lets you see underneath that you finally get to kiss him. his teeth are bared, and he threatens to kill you for standing so close. but when your lips touch his own, all feigned malice melts away, and he pulls you into him hard.

vii. su

his kisses are featherlight, as soft as a summer breeze. as busy as he is with his work, he will always find pockets of time to spend with you. even if it’s just as small as kissing your cheek before he leaves for work, he will remember your loving eyes, the way the morning light made your skin glow, your small smile… yes, this is one memory that will follow him forevermore.

viii. SAKURA

SAKURA always looks for you after battles. she is covered in bruises and cuts that will leave ugly scars later, but she needs to know you’re okay; that the one person left that she loves is still there. she ushers you someplace quiet and hums, a familiar song that she once sang to RIN and patches you up. you tell her of an old superstition that you once heard, and she takes it to heart. SAKURA doesn’t let you go until she’s placed her lips against every future scar, promising you that next time, she’ll keep you safe.

ix. kosma

try as he might, he will never be able to figure out what you’re thinking. when you reassure him that you like him, he wonders if you mean in a way that he can sit close to you. it’s easier show him what’s on your mind, tilt his chin up and plant a sweet kiss to his lips. kosma will think about your touch for a long time, one hand touching his lips and the other balled into his tunic. he hopes you’ll kiss him again and again.

x. mobius

mobius tastes sickeningly sweet, you sometimes wonder if her lipstick is laced with poison. when mobius kisses you, it is needy, her lips moving hard and fast against your own, pressing you against her lab table. when she pulls back, you’re seeing stars, and she grins at you like a predator. you can’t help but think if this is where you die, it wouldn’t be so bad.

xi. griseo

mama aponia tells griseo that kisses are reserved for people she loves. and so she gives mama aponia a kiss on the cheek before she goes to look for inspiration. today, you are her muse, and you sit for hours as she paints every color that she sees in you; each one unique to you. once you’re done, she tugs your sleeve and tells you to come look. you tell her it’s beautiful, and she kisses you on the cheeks as thanks.

xii. fu hua

hua fights with her fists, and so the bruises left on her knuckles are forever rosy, never allowed to fully heal. when she spars with you, she never goes easy, and you’re face down in the dirt after only one round. she notices the deep purple of fresh bruises on your hands, and places a kiss to each one, praising you for trying so hard.

xiii. pardofelis

pardo loves all things shiny, but she’s found she doesn’t mind being paid in kisses from time to time. she purrs as you take her cheeks into your hands, kissing her all over the face. felis can’t help but laugh at the way it tickles, falling forward into your lap and nuzzling into your neck.

[lostloveletters]

Give Me Shelter, The Night Is Dark (Vampire!Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Local superstition and a reclusive man offer you refuge when your parents grievously misstep in Sicily, putting your life in danger in more ways than one.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This incredibly self-indulgent gothic romance-esque idea came to me while I was half-asleep, and the time period is intentionally vague, but it’s not a modern setting (here's a little aesthetic tag for this fic). Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Major canon divergence. Canon-typical violence. Emotional manipulation. Vampirism, including non-consensual blood drinking and compulsion (in the context of it being an ability vampires possess and can use on humans). Sexually explicit content involving elements of bloodplay. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

You couldn’t remember what had brought your family to the village of Corleone, only that your father had promised you and your mother an extravagant Sicilian vacation. Three days of beachside paradise in Mondello, eating fresh seafood cooked to perfection and entertaining the antics of handsome men with scars that stood out like bolts of lightning against their tanned skin were hardly enough to sate your voracious appetite for the weeks of bliss you were promised. 

Despite your attempts at bargaining to stay in Palermo on your own, your mother refused, insisting she’d be better off throwing you into shark-infested waters than alone with the men who came calling to your hotel. Some days of travel through the breathtaking Sicilian countryside later, you and your parents arrived in Corleone, a village that appeared all but frozen in time, as if decades had passed it by with no one any the wiser. 

To your dismay, you found the selection of eligible men to spend your time with far more limited than in Palermo. The working young men were too tired from their labor in the fields or their trades to engage in foolish antics with a vacationing foreigner. The rest were mafiosi, as you gathered from the veiled comments and numerous euphemisms the older villagers used. 

These elderly became your companions during your stay in Corleone, talking wildly with their weathered hands over coffee or wine. Filomena, a woman of nearly eighty years and fluent in English, lived in the house next to the one your family was renting. Her husband Gianni only left the house if absolutely necessary, and she considered him a burdensome hermit. Each morning, she fetched you to accompany her into town. Some days, you’d do little else than sit outside of a cafe on the sleepy main street, eating and drinking and gossiping. 

Your Sicilian improved immensely in the near month you kept up with their chatter. Those women always had their ears to the ground, as far as knowing more about your father’s business in Corleone than you did. The vacation he promised you was little more than a gesture of confidence toward Don Manusco, a man notoriously difficult to meet directly with. That your father achieved this naturally generated interest in the village, as no one knew of him. When pressed for more information about your own family’s line of work, you answered what you knew, that your father invested, mostly in stocks, but occasionally in new business ventures. 

You were privy to little else, much to the disappointment of your companions, who moved onto other topics of discussion. One woman’s son sought work in Milan and within three months of getting hired at a factory, married a Northerner, much to her displeasure. In contrast, Filomena’s daughter was cloistered elsewhere in the countryside, preparing to take her vows and become a nun. 

Their superstitions, however, intrigued you most of all. A curse and blessing existed for nearly every conceivable situation. The most striking tale they spun regarded an abandoned villa about a mile past the rental house. Foreboding and hostile, its faded facade peeking out from thorny vines, it was once the envy of the village. At one point in time, though no one could agree quite when, the Don of another family lived there. He took in a strange young man, reclusive yet polite, wandering the countryside with two armed shepherds as bodyguards. He married a local girl, but the marriage ended tragically soon after the wedding. In a sudden blaze of fire and betrayal, she was killed. The strange man vanished not long after, and anyone associated with the villa—including the old Don Tomassino—were soon found dead or had disappeared altogether. Thus, no one dared approach it for fear of the curse surely cast upon the place.

Some of the gruesome murders in the vicinity of the villa could have been attributed to the tradition of violence Don Manusco carried on following Don Tomassino’s death. It didn’t explain the livestock dying of unusual causes, an older woman interjected. Even the land surrounding it was cursed, and the local shepherds knew better than to let their flocks graze nearby, explaining the abnormally tall grass and overgrown foliage that surrounded the villa.

Yet another woman claimed to have seen a demon or ghost in the form of a man wandering the villa’s grounds at night. Of course, she didn’t get close enough to take a good look, instead uttering Hail Marys as she ran into the local church to take refuge until her husband found her some time later.

Your mind drifted to the villa sometimes, this forbidden and mysterious monument to grief and superstition that seemed to cast a longer shadow over the village than the mafiosos who ran it. Like Don Manusco, who your parents were joining for dinner one evening, and Filomena insisted you join her and Gianni instead of eating alone.

The scent of stewing summer tomatoes with garlic and mouth-watering spices invited you inside the house, its windows open for hopes of cool breezes moving through. Gianni offered you wine and a simple antipasto spread of cheese and oranges to snack on while Filomena cooked dinner. Despite his reclusiveness, he somehow knew that your father’s dinner with Don Manusco involved more business than a friendly visit, the final chance for your father to seal what he hoped would be a lucrative deal with the mafia boss.

Two hours later, you sat across from Filomena at the small wooden table in their kitchen, filling your plate with the delicious meal she prepared. You ate silence while Filomena spoke, bickering with Gianni every now and then. As the sun set over Corleone, unease crept over you, though you chose to attribute it to the heat of the day and eating too quickly.

Until a commotion erupted up the street, almost deafening as it approached, finally arriving outside of Filomena’s house. Frantic Sicilian shouting mingled with rapid pounding on the front door startled you into dropping your fork. Filomena and Gianni shared a worried glance before both getting up from the table to answer. 

Wailing. 

Screaming. 

Arguing. 

All you found yourself able to do was sit in confused silence. When they returned to the kitchen with a few other locals, panic truly set in.

“You have to leave!” Filomena cried, pulling you out of your seat by your arm.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

“Your father’s a fool–”

Gianni shook his head. “A dead fool–”

“Your father should have never brought you here if he were going to try to cheat Don Manusco!” an older woman said.

Another cursed. “Selfish bastard!” 

“Go! As far from here as you can!” Filomena implored.

A hard push toward the back door was the extent of the help you’d receive from the villagers of Corleone. 

Blood pounded in your ears, your heart beating in time with your feet against the uneven dirt path that nearly tripped you up in your desperate rush to the rental home. You opened the door, scrambling upstairs in a frantic half-crawl to reach your room.

You shoved clothes and essentials into a bag, hardly paying attention to what exactly you were packing, just knowing you couldn’t flee empty-handed and hope to rely on the goodwill of strangers. 

In the kitchen, you grabbed what you could from the pantry and shoved everything into a wicker basket. With just that and your suitcase in hand, you clumsily ran across the uneven countryside roads, hoping to find somewhere to take shelter for the night. Every rustle of leaves and animal cry sent chills across your skin. Just when you felt hopeless for a place to hide, you saw the abandoned villa's high walls, overgrown with vines and bramble in the distance. Superstition be damned, it was better than dying at the hands of a mafioso.

The iron gate was closed, but not locked. You held your breath as you opened it, sending out silent thanks to the universe that it didn’t release some otherworldly screech and announce your presence. Hardly visible in the dead of night, the villa peeked out from beneath the plants that had overtaken it. Even from a distance, it appeared as if the building were hollowed out somehow. It remained your best bet. 

Superstition offered you refuge, as masculine voices drifted above the villa’s high walls, the structure still sturdy despite the general state of disrepair.

“Should we go in?”

“You sound as much of a fool as that old man. That place is cursed. Even if she were in there, she'd be dead anyway.”

Their heavy, rushed footsteps against the rocky terrain fell silent after a few moments. You sighed in relief, allowing yourself to relax just the slightest bit. Until you glanced back at the villa again, a new sense of dread making your stomach turn at the prospect of having to go inside the place. While you didn’t believe all of the rumors you’d been told over the previous few weeks, being in its presence unsettled you.

Then again, feeling unsettled in an abandoned villa was preferable to whatever would happen if Don Manusco’s men got his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, you approached the shadowy building, hoping your luck wouldn’t run out when you got inside. 

To your surprise, the interior wasn’t as poorly maintained as the exterior. The furniture betrayed the wealth of whoever lived there previously, though they’d seen better days. Dark wood scuffed or splintered. Dull fabrics that must have been rich violets or crimson upon their initial purchase. 

You walked into the living room, freezing upon seeing lit candles around. Someone was living there after all. 

“Hello? Is anyone–” you gasped upon seeing a man standing on the other side of the living room, partially obscured by shadows.

Even in the cover of darkness, his features rendered you speechless as he approached. Handsome seemed too pedestrian of a word to describe him. His raven hair fell across his forehead with a deceptive boyishness. Brown eyes, almost black as the night itself bore into your own. His skin wasn’t nearly as tan as the villagers you’d met, but you supposed someone who lived in such a place was wealthy enough to not have to partake in the grueling manual labor typical of the area, the strong Sicilian sun giving its residents a healthy glow which he lacked. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

“The men who were outside before—I think they’re going to kill me,” you said, panic overtaking your senses as his face remained unmoved by your explanation. “Please, I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

“Why do they want to kill you?”

“I think my father tried to cheat Don Manusco. I don’t know all of the details, but if they don’t want to kill me, then they’ll probably—“ Your voice caught in your throat. 

“You can stay.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow and find a way to get back to Palermo.”

He shook his head. “You have a vendetta out against you now. Getting back to Palermo so soon will be nearly impossible, especially if Manusco has allies there.” He watched in unreadable silence as hopelessness ate away at your resolve. “You can stay,” he finally repeated. “Don’t leave the villa. Not during the day, and especially not at night. You’ll be safe.”

“Thank you. I owe you my life.” You offered him your name, as a courtesy and as collateral. More valuable than anything else you carried with you, he could use it to betray you for his own gain whenever he wished. You prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“Michael Corleone,” he said.

“Like the village.”

He smiled the slightest bit, his dark eyes shining an almost betraying crimson in the moonlight. Ethereal. That was the right word for him. “Yes, like the village.”

Your host led you upstairs, helping you with your meager belongings despite your insistence you could handle your small suitcase and a basket of food, which you left on the console table in the foyer. The villa had certainly seen better days, its plaster walls cracked, crumbling in some places. You would’ve used caution going up the stairs if Michael hadn’t been so confident as he ascended them. 

He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing at each of the doors along the hallway. After a few moments, he seemed to settle on one, leading you to a dark bedroom, full of odd shadows that made you pause. It seemed otherwise better taken care of than the rest of the villa you’d seen up to that point.  

“It’s just me here. I’m afraid I’m not the best homemaker,” he half-joked in response to your hesitation to enter the room. 

“No, I’m sorry. It’s nice. I can’t thank you enough, Michael.”

He nodded. “I have insomnia, so you’ll see more of me at night than during the day. The cellar stays locked, but you can have the run of the place otherwise.”

You bid each other good night. 

When he shut the bedroom door behind you, you collapsed onto the bed and cried into your pillow, both from heartbreak and exhaustion, until you fell asleep. 

The following morning, you awoke to fresh bug bites on your arm–inflamed and itchy, though perfectly in line with each other, oddly enough. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and you supposed you’d rather deal with mosquito bites than whatever Don Manusco and his soldiers had in mind for you. 

True to his word, Michael was nowhere to be found when you went downstairs to eat a breakfast of bread and hard salami. Again, not ideal, but you’d make do with what you brought with you. For the rest of the day, you explored the villa, acquainting yourself with your new albeit temporary home.

You found yourself with little to do to pass the time. Venturing out onto the surrounding grounds of the villa was hardly an option, most of it so overgrown you couldn’t take a proper walk. There were a few books in the house, but often you found your mind drifting to your parents, what their fate looked like and what could await you if Don Manusco found out where you were hiding. By the time you’d finally see Michael around in the evenings, you’d force yourself to stay up as long as you could to be in his company. Soon, your schedule nearly matched his nocturnal one.

Over the following weeks, you got to know Michael. At times, you couldn’t help but stare at him, but sometimes it felt as though you couldn’t do much else if you tried. He was a gracious host for how you imposed on him, showing concern for the bug bites you tried to hide from him. A good thing he noticed, as he brought you a cup of tea, a deep maroon color that he explained was a natural remedy from the village for the discomfort you were experiencing. A common occurrence that you’d been fortunate enough to avoid since arriving in Corleone.

“You’re not from around here either,” you said one night. “I can tell from your accent.”

“I’m from New York, but my father was born here,” he explained. “My last name is a mistake from when he immigrated.”

“Do you miss it?”

He was silent for some time, lost in thought before answering with a soft, “Terribly.”

“But you can’t go back.”

“No, I’m very sick. I wouldn’t survive the trip.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, your curiosity getting the better of you when you asked, “What do you have?”

“What I have is incredibly rare, there’s no word for it. Sunlight puts me in excruciating pain, and my appetite is abnormal.”

“How long have you been sick for?”

“Years. More than you’d believe.”

“You know, everyone in the village thinks this place is cursed. If you just talked to them, then they’d understand what was going on and maybe be able to help.”

“I can’t be around people. It’s not safe for them.”

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Are you contagious?”

He hesitated. “Not how you’d think.”

“No matter what you have, it’s not good to be alone,” you argued.

“You’re here now.”

“Only until it’s safe for me to go to Palermo and leave Sicily.”

He shook his head. “You won’t be able to leave. Not when a man like Don Manusco has a vendetta out against you,” he said, his intense gaze boring into you. Your chest grew tighter as he spoke. “This villa is the only place you’ll ever be safe.”

“Michael, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just know what he did to your parents…he and men like him have done to many others on this island, too.” Your silence perturbed him. He grabbed your shoulders, squeezing them gently, though his eyes seemed to blaze with fury. “I’m keeping you safe here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice nearly catching in your throat.

“Then what’s there to be afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s right, as long as you stay here.”

“I can’t stay forever.”

He hummed dismissively, not bothering to acknowledge your statement. You soon excused yourself to go to sleep, a sudden uneasiness settling in your stomach.

You awoke late into the afternoon the following day, judging by the amber sunlight that streamed through the broken shutters. Still, your limbs felt heavy, and your head pounded as if you’d hardly slept at all. A quick glance at your arm revealed twin bug bites on your wrist again, this time darker than the previous ones, leaving your skin tender to the touch. 

Dizziness turned the room over when you sat up from the bed, and you nearly considered going back to sleep, if it weren’t for the hunger that ached in your bones. 

You ventured down into the kitchen, relieved to find a pot of tea sitting out. You didn’t even bother reheating it, though the consistency was odd, thicker in its room temperature state. The texture didn’t deter you, as the more you drank, the better you felt, your dizziness and aches gone as the tea overflowed from the corners of your mouth and dripped down your chin, insatiable until there was nothing left. Wiping off your face, you went back up to your room and fell back asleep.

A knock on the door woke you up in the pitch black some hours later. You lit the candle on your bedside table before getting up to answer. You knew it was Michael, concerned about why you hadn’t joined him yet. 

Just as you got up to answer, he opened the door, letting himself into your room–except it wasn’t your room. It was his, and you supposed he could enter whenever he wanted. 

Frozen in place by his gaze alone, you stood still and silent as he approached, demeanor darker and more intense as his presence filled the room, as if his essence somehow intermixed with each breath you took. A citrusy sweetness with a bloodcurdling undercurrent of violence filled your lungs. Despite this, you felt no fear, but rather anticipation when he finally reached out and caressed your cheek, his hand freezing against your warm skin.

“Michael,” you whispered.

“Don’t fight me, sweetheart.”

And you couldn’t. Not even if you tried. His eyes took in your face with a softness that betrayed his fondness for you. His lips pressed against yours, a chaste kiss to start, but it proved to be insufficient for him, as he claimed your mouth with the fervor of a man long starved for affection. His desire for you tangible as you kissed him back, allowing his hands to roam your body above your nightgown until his fingers brushed your thighs, pushing the hem up to your hips. 

He laid you back on the bed, ridding you of your panties and slipping his fingers between your folds. “Tell me how it feels,” he said, his lips against your skin. “Tell me everything.”

Before then, you would have died rather than admit it to him, but at his urging, the dam broke. Of course your thoughts of him weren’t always innocent. Some nights, when you were sure he was elsewhere, you touched yourself to the thought of him. The confession slipped from your mouth so quickly that shame couldn’t catch you, not when Michael pushed his fingers inside you, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, denying you any sensation but absolute pleasure. 

“I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he whispered, pressing desperate kisses into your neck. “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me not to–”

Your whine interrupted his train of thought, and a knife-sharp pain jolted through you when he sunk his teeth into your throat, breaking the fragile skin. His fingers curled inside you, a moan clawing its way out of you as you came, ecstasy pulsing through your limbs in waves that threatened to drown you in it. Spots clouded your vision and breath evaded you, the poignant scent of copper mixed with your sex made your head spin. 

“Michael, I–” You passed out, though you awoke later, curled up next to him, your body sore and more fatigued than ever. You winced when you tried to move your head, a dull ache coming from your neck. “What did you do?” you mumbled.

“Sweetheart?”

“To my neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, petting your hair. “I got carried away. I haven’t felt this way in a long time.”

“Me either,” you admitted. 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. From then on, he was ravenous, and like a woman possessed, you gave in to him every time. Nights with him blurred together as thoughts of escaping Sicily and the danger that waited for you outside of the villa walls were almost nonexistent. 

Some time later, though you’d largely stopped keeping track of the days by then, you realized your food supply was running low. Michael would go out at night and get some for you if you asked, though he never revealed where exactly he went. Still unsure of your safety from Don Manusco, you figured the farm up the road would be a good place to swipe some fruit from the orchard and anything else they might have lying around and not exactly miss.

The sun felt especially harsh when you went outside. Each step brought about unimaginable fatigue that made your bones ache. You hardly made it halfway to the farm before you had to rest beneath a large tree’s shade to rest your tired limbs and eyes. 

“Excuse me, miss? Are you okay?” 

You jolted awake, surrounded by a handful of elderly villagers from around the countryside. You recognized at least one of the older women as one of your old cafe companions in Corleone.

“I’m fine.”

The woman in question squinted at you. “Where do I know you from?”

“We’ve never met before,” you said, voice tight with panic. “I have to go. Goodbye.” You forced yourself up, using what little strength you had to return to the villa, ignoring their calls for you to wait. Exhaustion swept over you by the time you made it inside, promptly collapsing in the foyer. They had recognized you, and surely they had seen you retreat into the villa and were on their way to let Don Manusco know of your whereabouts. They’d be foolish not to with the price on your head.

Michael was nowhere to be found, and you worried that by the time you finally saw him that night, it’d be too late to tell him what transpired. Tears rolled down your cheeks as fear and guilt crept up on you. Your carelessness had put Michael in danger, too.

With no way of knowing how long it’d be until word got back to Manusco, you considered the layout of the villa, which you knew like the back of your hand, and the best place to hide if he or his men intruded in search of you.

In hindsight, the kitchen cupboard was a more obvious choice for a hiding spot, but it was the most your fatigued brain could come up with while you were panicked. 

Your instincts had been right, though. The inevitable intrusion did come.

The voices that echoed through the foyer were the same ones from the night you first arrived in the villa. You kept a hand over your mouth, the other with an iron grip around the kitchen knife. 

“Come on, Don Manusco isn’t angry with you. He just wants to talk,” one of the men called out.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” the other added. “He knows you didn’t have anything to do with your father’s schemes.”

You couldn’t take a chance on whether or not they were telling the truth. 

Footsteps approached, growing louder with each passing second. You readied yourself for attack, until you heard a blood-curdling scream rip through the night and you dropped the knife in shock. 

With all of the foolishness of your father, you opened the cupboard door. Blood pooled around the man’s head, a look of terror etched into his face, betraying his final thoughts. Your gaze lifted, and you stumbled backward, unable to comprehend the gruesome sight before you. If you hadn’t been watching Michael with your own eyes, you would have assumed an animal attack was responsible for the carnage at your feet. What more, after the initial shock wore off, an almost physical pull drew you to the spilled blood.

The villagers had been right. It wasn’t mere superstition, but reality, one more horrific than any of them could have fathomed. The unexplained murders, the livestock deaths, all by his hand. His illness a fabrication to conceal the true nature of his being, something unnatural that existed in the worlds between life and death with a hunger to match. He’d been feeding from you for weeks, allowing you to carry on believing lies. Of course you felt awful, constantly fatigued. You could only hazard a guess as to what was really in the tea you’d been drinking like a fiend.

You wished you could scream at yourself for your naivete, as if he’d help you out of the kindness of his heart and not expect something in return. Your willful ignorance of his odd behavior in exchange for refuge in the one place where you’d be safe from who you thought were the only men who wanted to harm you. But he saved you from Don Manusco and his men. He kept you alive. He could gain little from drawing out your death for so long. Unless…your eyes widened, and you looked at him in horror.

Michael spoke your name softly. “Do you understand now?”

“You–You’ve been making me like you.”

“I should have done it sooner. It’s the best way to keep you safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“I guess not.”

He cupped your face in his hands, “Things won’t be that different. We’ll be together. No one will be able to hurt you.” 

“How–How much longer until I’m–”

“As soon as tonight, if you’ll let me.” Sensing your hesitation, he pressed a bloody kiss to your forehead. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the urge to trust him, to commit to an eternity of all-consuming, reclusive violence with him. “I want to be with you. I want to be like you.”

His hands drifted down to your neck, his fingers digging into your pulse as he leaned in, his teeth grazing the half-healed wound he’d inflicted all those nights before. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

LUPERCALIA

Pairings: Emperor Geta x Fem!reader Summary: You participate in Lupercalia with your husband. Warnings: 18+ smut. MDNI mention of whipping, nudity. p in v

This is my first fic for my Valentine event!

Valentine Masterlist

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

The torches burned low in the grand halls of the Palatine Palace, their golden glow flickering against the marble columns. Beyond the palace walls, Lupercalia roared through the streets of Rome. Laughter and drunken chants echoed through the Forum, accompanied by the steady pounding of bare feet against stone. The scent of sacrificial blood, burnt offerings, and spiced wine carried on the cold February air.

From the terrace overlooking the city, Emperor Geta stood, his expression unreadable as he observed the chaos below. Half-naked Lupercalia, still streaked with goat’s blood, ran wild, striking young women with thin strips of hide in a ritual meant to bless them with fertility and ease childbirth. The women laughed and shrieked, but they did not run. They stood willingly, arms outstretched, eager for the blessing.

At his side, you watched as well. Your dark eyes, lined with kohl, flickered between the crowd and your husband’s silent disapproval.

"You call it ridiculous," you mused, "but Rome calls it tradition."

Geta exhaled sharply, swirling his Falernian wine in a silver goblet. "Rome also believed that Romulus and Remus suckled at the teat of a she-wolf. Superstition, all of it."

"And yet," you murmured, your gaze turning back to the spectacle below, "you do not forbid it."

He scoffed. "Because Rome would riot if I did."

A cool breeze drifted through the open-air terrace, rustling the golden embroidery on your stola. You turned toward him, your voice softer now. "Would you deny me the same luck?"

His fingers tensed around the goblet. He knew what you meant. A child. An heir.

For all his wealth, for all the power of his name, it was the one thing he had not yet secured. His father, Septimius Severus, had raised two sons to rule Rome, and now Geta ruled alone, His brother's condition so bad he is unable to rule. Which leaves Geta alone, with no child of his own to follow him. He knew how Rome whispered about it. How they whispered about you.

His gaze lingered on you in the torchlight- the high cheekbones, the regal bearing, the way you carried yourself with the grace of a woman who had spent your entire life in the shadow of emperors. He had chosen you not just for your lineage but for your mind, your sharp wit, the way you stood beside him in a world where women were expected to stand behind.

After a moment, he set his goblet down and gestured to a waiting servant. A strip of goat hide, still fresh from the sacrifice, was placed into his open palm.

You knew the custom. You knew what was required.

Wordlessly, you stepped away from the warmth of your cloak, undoing the golden pins that held the fabric in place, letting it slip from your shoulders and pool at your feet. The air was cold against your skin, but you did not flinch. You wore only the fine linen undertunic beneath, light and thin enough that every movement of your body was visible beneath the fabric.

The Lupercalia rite demanded that women be struck bare-skinned, unobstructed by heavy garments. In the streets, Roman women stood unclothed, laughing and reaching for the lashes as if inviting the gods’ favour. Here, in the privacy of the palace, you stood before Geta, the man who ruled an empire, the man who had never needed to prove his power over you.

Geta hesitated. The emperor of Rome, the son of gods, bound by a tradition older than the Republic itself. Then, with a quiet breath, he brought the leather down in a sharp, decisive strike against your thigh.

The first lash was firm but controlled, the sting blooming across your skin in a heat that spread through your limbs. You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling at your sides, but you did not retreat. You had asked for this. You had asked him to honour the gods, to honour you.

The second strike came swiftly after, higher this time, catching the curve of your hip. The fabric of your undertunic did little to dull the sensation; if anything, it heightened it, pressing against the warmth rising beneath your skin. Geta’s eyes darkened as he watched you, the flickering torchlight reflecting the way your breath quickened.

Again, the lash fell. Then again. A steady rhythm, measured, deliberate. It was not punishment- it was ritual. It was devotion. It was an offering, not just to the gods, but to each other.

By the time the final stroke landed, a soft gasp left your lips, and the silence that followed was thick with something unspoken. Geta dropped the leather to the floor between you, his breathing uneven. Slowly, carefully, he reached for you, his fingers brushing against the reddened skin where the lashes had landed.

His voice was quiet. "Does it hurt?"

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze. "Would it matter if it did?"

A muscle in his jaw flexed. He hated that you were right.

He cupped your hip, his thumb tracing the mark he had left there. "The gods have heard you now."

"And you?" you whispered. "Do you hear me?"

Geta said nothing at first. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he pressed his forehead to yours, his grip tightening as if anchoring himself to you. "I hear you."

"Then listen closely," you murmured, tilting your head to brush your lips against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble that indicates the day's celebrations have begun without him. "I want more than Lupercalia blessings from the gods. I want our blessings, Geta. Our child, our heir."

His hands tensed, gripping your waist harder, as if he could physically hold onto your words, make them tangible. "I know," he breathed, his voice strained. "Believe me, I know."

"But can you give it to me?" You asked, your fingers trailing up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath the linen of his tunic. "Can you give us the future we both desire?"

Geta pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light.

You and your dear Emperor have tried, you have tried so so many times to become with child, but after so many failed attempts, you pray that this would work out for you both.

It would be a shame to fail to give your husband a child. It hurt you.

"I am trying," he said, his voice low and sincere. "Every night, every dawn… I pray, I offer sacrifices, I seek omens and portents. But the gods remain silent. They withhold their favour, leaving me with nothing but frustration and despair."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Sometimes I wonder if it's because of me. If I'm not worthy of their blessing. That perhaps I'm cursed, doomed to rule without an heir, without legacy."

Geta's confession hung in the air, heavy with doubt and desperation. He has always been a man of action, of conquests and triumphs, but in this moment, he seemed fragile, vulnerable. Like a king stripped of his armor, exposed and uncertain.

"Shh," you whispered, placing a finger against his lips.

His lips parted slightly at your touch, and for a fleeting instant, you glimpse the lost boy behind the emperor, the son yearning for his mother's love, the husband desperate for his wife's comfort.

"I don't believe that," you said softly, your hand sliding down to cradle his jaw. "The gods adore you, Geta. They've blessed you with power, strength, and a heart capable of great love. If they're withholding something, it's not because of you, but because it's meant for another time."

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, sharing your conviction, your faith in him. "Shall we try again?" you said, leaving a hot trail of kisses down his jewelled neck

A shuddering sigh escaped him as your lips caress his skin, each kiss igniting sparks under his flesh. His grip on your hips tightening, pulling you flush against him, the hard planes of his body a stark contrast to your softer curves.

"Yes," he rasped, his voice thick with need. "Let us try again. Together."

With that, he captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim you, to merge your essence with his own. It's a kiss born of passion, of desperation, of a fierce determination to conceive, to create life amidst the chaos of the imperial court.

As he kissed you, his hands roamed your body, mapping every inch of you, committing your shape to memory.

Your bodies entwined like living vines, twisting and turning until you're pressed against the stone wall, his weight pinning you in place. The heat between you is almost palpable, a living thing that pulses and throbs with every beat of your hearts.

Geta's hands slid beneath your tunic, his calloused palms grazing the sensitive skin of your stomach as he explores the contours of your body. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as if he's rediscovering you anew with each passing moment.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, his breath hot and urgent. "So perfect. I want to worship every inch of you, to show you how much you mean to me."

And then, with a growl of primal need, he tears away your clothing, baring you to his hungry gaze.

As you stand before him, naked and trembling with anticipation, Geta's eyes drink in the sight of you, his gaze a physical touch that sends shivers down your spine. He reaches out, tracing the curve of your breast with a single finger, watching intently as your nipple hardens under his touch.

"You're exquisite," he whispered, his voice a low purr of admiration. "A goddess among mortals."

With that, he lowered his head, capturing your pert nipple between his lips. He suckles gently at first, then with increasing fervour, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud as his hands roam over your body, kneading your flesh, teasing your other nipple into a similar state of arousal.

As he worshipped your breasts, his free hand ventures lower, dipping between your thighs to find the slick heat of your arousal.

Geta groaned into your breast, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through you as he feels the evidence of your desire coating his fingers. He strokes you slowly, deliberately, savouring the feel of your wetness as he continues to lavish attention on your nipples.

"You're so ready for me," he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "So eager to take my seed, to bear my children."

With that, he released your breast and steps back, his dark eyes blazing with hunger as he strips off his own garments. His body is a work of art, all chiselled muscle and taut skin, adorned with the symbols of his power- the golden Toric around his neck, the intricate tattoos that cover his arms and torso.

As Geta stepped toward you, his massive erection jutting proudly from his groin, you couldn't help but marvel at the sheer size of him. He towered over you, a dominating presence that fills the room with an aura of raw masculinity.

But despite his intimidating stature, there's a tenderness in his gaze as he looks at you, a vulnerability that speaks to the depth of his feelings for you. In this moment, he's not the ruthless emperor, but a man stripped bare, laying his heart open for you to see.

Without a word, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards the ornate bed that dominates one corner of the chamber. The silk sheets were already rumpled, a testament to previous encounters that have left the bed looking invitingly dishevelled.

As Geta layed you down on the plush bed, the cool silk a soothing contrast to the feverish heat of your skin, you can't help but admire the way he moves with deliberate purpose. Every step, every gesture, exudes confidence and control, the hallmarks of a man who is used to getting what he wants.

He followed you onto the bed, his large frame crowding yours as he settles between your legs. The weight of him is comforting, reassuring, as if he's shielding you from the world outside these four walls.

"Geta…" you breathe, reaching up to stroke his face, your fingertips tracing the strong lines of his jaw. "Make love to me. Fill me with your seed and let the gods decide our fate."

Your words seem to ignite something within him, a spark of primal desire that consumes them both.

With a guttural growl, Geta claims your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plunging deep to stake his claim. His hands roam your body, gripping and kneading, as if trying to brand you with his touch.

Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin, leaving a trail of red marks in his wake. His teeth graze your collarbone before moving lower to the swell of your breasts.

He took a nipple into his mouth once more, suckling hard as his fingers pinch and roll the other, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through you. All the while, his hips grind against yours, the thick length of his cock rubbing maddeningly against your slick folds.

"Please," you whimpered, arching into him, desperate for more.

Geta released your breast with a wet pop, his chest heaving with exertion and desire. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he positions himself at your entrance.

"I'll give you everything," he vowed, his voice rough with need. "Everything you crave, everything you need."

With that, he thrusted forward, sheathing himself inside you in one powerful stroke. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your body stretching to accommodate his girth. But the pain is short-lived, replaced by a wave of pleasure as he begins to move, his hips snapping against yours in a relentless rhythm.

Geta set a punishing pace, driving into you again and again, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep within you. The bed creaks and shakes beneath you, the sound of slapping flesh filling the room as he takes you with primal abandon.

As Geta pounded into you, the force of his thrusts causing the bed to rock violently, you cling to him desperately, your nails digging into his back as you're driven higher and higher on the crest of ecstasy.

The sensation of being filled so completely, of having your deepest depths claimed and conquered, is overwhelming. Each stroke seems to reach further inside you, stroking the very core of your being, until you feel like you might shatter apart at any moment.

"More!" you screamed, your voice lost in the cacophony of grunts and moans that fill the room. "Give me more!"

Geta responded with a feral snarl, his movements becoming even more brutal, more frenzied. He leans down to capture your lips in a savage kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives you mercilessly towards the brink of climax.

Geta's kiss turned possessive, claiming your mouth as surely as his body claims yours. His tongue delves deep, tangling with yours in a dance of dominance and desire. The taste of you is intoxicating, fueling his own rising frenzy.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he pistons into you with unrelenting intensity. The bed frame creaks ominously, threatening to give way under the force of their coupling.

Suddenly, Geta breaks the kiss, his head thrown back in a roar of triumph as he feels your inner muscles clenching around him.

"Yes!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Take it! Take my cum!"

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he spills his essence deep within you.

As Geta's hot seed floods your womb, you feel yourself convulsing around him, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves of intense pleasure. Your body trembles and writhes beneath him, overwhelmed by the force of your release.

For long moments, you remain locked together, your hearts pounding in tandem as the aftershocks ripple through you. Geta's forehead rests against yours, his breathing ragged as he tries to calm his racing pulse.

Eventually, he pulled out of you, his spent cock slipping free with a wet sound. A trickle of his cum escapes your stretched opening, dripping down your thigh. You lie there, panting and sated, feeling the warmth of his seed inside you.

Geta gathered you close, cradling you against his chest as he stroked your hair. "The Gods have to hear that,"

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

A few days later, you find yourself in the presence of a doctor, carefully examining you.

You finally bared a child, an Heir. All thanks to Lupercalia

Ⅰ Ⅱ Ⅲ Ⅳ Ⅴ Ⅵ Ⅶ Ⅷ Ⅸ Ⅹ Ⅺ Ⅻ XIII

[pomefioredove]

Noble Bell ; prologue

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: (possible) series characters: rollo (barely mentioned), original characters additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is largely my own vision, I wrote this all in one sitting and it shows LOL, word count: 3.1k author's note: after several failed drafts, I decided to just write my thoughts on noble bell as a story. do tell me what you think and if I should continue, if you have the chance!

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 |

It appeared as if, for all its hundreds of years of life, very little of Noble Bell College had changed. 

The original face, or what is left of it at this time, is almost indistinguishable from the prints of great artists who lived when the City of Flowers was still but three parts of one whole. If it were not for her clothes, those great banners of cotton which hang from her walls and surround her like the ruffles of an unflattering dress, that which cradle the insignia of a college in wine-colored hands, that pointed fleur de lis in gold, Noble Bell College would be the very picture of her younger self. 

The halls which extend from one end of her body to the other like the grotesque wings of a pigeon were added after the University, which had once been confined to its own division on the left side of the River Soleil, had consumed the island of the City, that which had, at one time, cradled twenty-one of these magnificent buildings, and now had only one. Noble Bell became a skeletal reminder of its medieval past. 

Now, what was once a ground of solemnity and penance, and other ancient things, had given a painful birth to a different sort of self-punishment, that of academia. Noble Bell dawned its new clothes and its new name, and became a home of scholars, a place of enlightened thought. The island that had once been a sanctuary for the sacred became its final resting place. The College was built over hallowed ground. 

The body of the Gothic building had gone, in some parts, untouched, however, the later additions, done in the style Haussmann some hundreds of years after, coil around her like the chains of a falsely accused prisoner, or the noose around a beggar's neck. 

Statues on the face, neglected, crumbled into dust. The colored glass in the lecture halls were replaced with white windows for better light. Every hundred years, some haughty new headmaster would consider cutting down the building herself, and putting something new and ugly in her stead. 

Nothing would ever come of it. 

It is important to note, dear reader, that though the past of religion and superstition had been abandoned by the scholars of Noble Bell in pursuit of the enlightened future of thought, with it went only the body, not the soul. 

The students of Noble Bell began to look upon their history with pride, rather than disdain, and thus the construction on the lady ceased, and the reconstruction started up. In some aspects, it was too late; the medieval glass had already been sold and repurposed into bottles which floated at the surface of the Soleil, the stone turned to dust and carried into the wind. 

This romanticized past was tainted with a bitter guilt, one that struck even the proudest of freshmen when they met the eyes of the statues which guarded the building and her history. A sense of possession consumed the heart of the student body, and, thus, a gate was built. It was sanctuary no more. 

A romantic would tell you that it is the love of the people that kept the heart of Noble Bell alive. 

This is not true; it is guilt. 

To the wise man, the realist, the freshman who feared the eyes of the statues, the traditions that carried on were as meaningful as digging up a rotting corpse and putting it on trial. Without the superstition, it was a delusion, a pathetic attempt at absolution for the sins of the scholar and the printing press. 

Enlightenment became repulsive to him. 

What was in the hollow halls of the Haussmann was never alive, and what had survived the purge of time and man was hidden in the bell tower for few to touch. 

To the wise man, the only absolution of sin was through the fire. 

Your heart wakes you before your body.

That is to say, the feeling of dread, of knowing you are somewhere you shouldn't be, comes before the biting cold and the splinters pressing against your back.

The inky water surrounding you in three directions (the fourth being the stone mouth of the river) nearly cradles you back to sleep. Your rest was quite comfortable. You can't remember the last time you slept like that.

Your mind is the very last to wake, and it is what finally forces your body up in a sudden jolt, uneasily rocking the boat which had become your manger.

You grip both sides until it steadies, which gives you enough time to adjust to the dark.

One thing becomes quite clear: This is not where you fell asleep.

Then, another: This is not what you were wearing before.

The delicate fabric, hand-dyed in wine and blood red, is like nothing you own. Where had these come from? Surely, not your closet.

And, more worrying: how did you get in them?

Take a moment, if you will, to look beyond the black water of the river: next to you, on your right, is a stone embankment, with a short ledging that extends only to a single flight of stairs. The wall is so high you cannot see above that.

Now, look behind you: there is one fabulous bridge, also of stone, arching above the water in a mesmerizing pirouette. Warm light spills from its sides and dances on the inky waters below.

Ahead of you is only more river and stone.

And then, on your right again, is screaming.

You had heard screams before, but none like this. This is bloody murder, save me screaming, the sort that makes you jump and run to its source without thinking first.

You climb out of the trembling boat, the sound of your footsteps scuffing against stone following you across the landing and up the steps.

Yet again you are stopped.

Rising above the embankment of the river as if ascending to heaven itself, reaching through the thin evening clouds and into the stars, are two magnificent bell towers.

Your steps slow, and then stop at the peak of the stairs to admire the body of the building, illuminated by street lamps and candlelight, blanketed in a fog of distant laughter.

You have never seen such an unearthly sight.

If not for the screaming, you could have spent days there.

But you are motivated once more to follow the strange sound, and, perhaps, find out where on earth you are.

Like a princess in a tower, the building is guarded by a rather impressive gate, not done in the style of the place itself, but sightly nonetheless. If it were not already left open and vulnerable by some obvious human error, you might not have found a way in.

The sound of your footsteps follows you across the stone, and you stop at the base of a staircase that would have led you to a set of inhuman wooden doors.

And... there is a goat.

A pretty, white little thing, with a bow around its neck.

it turns to you as you stop, and it makes that same screaming noise, and then bounds off around the corner of the building and into another, attached at its side.

"Wait," you say.

Though, your feet move before your mouth, your mouth before your mind, and you suddenly find yourself following this odd twist of a white rabbit.

The delicate thing leaps through an opening in the side, and you climb in after it, chasing it down open-air hallways that remind you all too much of an old monastery.

The goat bleats. "Wait!" you say. "Where is your owner?"

It bleats again, and it almost sounds like a laugh. How strange...

You tumble down corridors and halls, turn corners, ignoring the sound of laughter and cheering that is growing ever so close, and, all at once, you stumble out into the warm light of a party, crashing into something cold and metal. The goat disappears in the crowd.

Everything is silent.

You can see nothing but feet from where you fell, and a hundred hems of wine and blood red. Your clothes.

"Who is that?" someone asks.

"They weren't at orientation,"

"How could anyone be late? That's never happened,"

"They don't look like a student of Noble Bell..."

Student? So this is a school?

"You," a voice says, much colder and sharper than the others, like a winter breeze. "Get up."

You are in no place to disobey.

You stand, uneasily, and, much to your displeasure, every head in the crowd is turned towards you. Whispers dance amongst the students, glances are exchanged, looks ranging from confusion to disdain.

There is only one face you cannot see. At one distant end of the courtyard, there is a stage, dressed in reds and oranges, and on it, four actors. They are as still as the crowd, seemingly having abandoned their play in favor of the mysterious stranger.

The person in question, then, is actually below them, whispering something quite loudly, but you cannot make it out at this distance.

"Your name?"

You turn back to the wintry voice.

This man, you notice, is dressed differently from the others. He's in all black, from his boots to the cloak around him, even his hair, which flows around his shoulders, is as inky as the cold water of the river you had woken on.

"My name?" you ask.

He scoffs. "It is a simple request,"

"Shall we return to the mystery?" a weak, artificially high-pitched voice calls from the front of the crowd. "I'd like to see the mystery continue!"

"Quiet, Gregoire," the man in black snaps. "Now, who are you to come so late?"

"Late to what?"

A few murmurs ripple through the stillness of the crowd.

He sniffles, turning his nose up at you. "You do not know where you are?"

"No,"

Someone begins to whisper. "Do you think they're from-"

"Quiet!" he demands. "This is clearly not a student of any arcane academy I know of."

"They're wearing our robes!"

You look down at yourself. You'd almost forgotten about that.

The boy narrows his eyes. "How did you get here?"

"I don't know. I woke up on a boat,"

He sighs. "What part of the city are you from?"

"...The city?"

Another moment of whispers and stares. The crowd seems to have all but forgotten the play happening at the mouth of the courtyard.

The man in black puts his hands on his hips. "Yes. Now, what division are you from? The old university? The Ville?"

"I, um... none of those,"

"The outskirts, then?"

"No. What city is this?"

His brow furrows, and he crosses his arms. At the very least, he no longer seems angry. More... thoughtful.

"What country are you from?"

You tell him, and he huffs.

"There is no such place. None that I have heard of,"

The same voice from earlier returns. "Perhaps we should wait until after the mystery has concluded-"

"Gregoire!" the man in black snaps, "We know it's you! Quiet, for once in your life!"

"...Very well,"

He grumbles, massaging his temples, and then turns back to you. His eyes are as sharp and focused as his voice. They're dark, almost black, with the faintest gleam of red. He's wearing a lot of eyeliner, you think.

"Come with me. If you are telling the truth, then you will have nothing to fear,"

"There is no such place,"

"That's what I said!" the boy exclaims, swiping the atlas off the desk.

The headmaster of this school is old, much older than you are imagining now, thought perhaps it is not the fault of age, but of weariness.

"Control yourself, Monsieur de Neige," he says, looking longingly at the book whose pages are now scattered across the floor.

The boy grumbles, giving you a nasty side-eye.

"What will we do with them?"

"What else? They will stay here until we can find an answer. I will reach out to my colleagues at the other arcane academies and see if they have any council,"

"Stay here?" he snaps, standing from his chair with such force that it goes flying backward, narrowly missing you from where you're standing against the wall.

"They are not a student of Noble Bell. They are a stranger! Who knows what they might-"

"Now," the headmaster sighs. "I know we are a... private institution. But a long time ago, this building was a sanctuary for outcasts."

He grits his teeth. "I am not willing to risk the safety of the building or its students for an act of pity. You should know that I take my duties as vice president of the student council quite seriously-,"

The corner you'd been backed into was starting to feel tighter and tighter. If not for the conversation, you'd-

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the heavy wooden door of the office opening, but a sliver, and something white just outside.

Your eyes widen. You glance between M. de Neige and the headmaster, and, in the throes of their heated argument, you slip out into the dark hall.

"You," you say, putting your hands on your hips.

The little goat bleats. It doesn't seem very guilty.

"You led me there on purpose, didn't you? To create a diversion? What did you want?'

It stomps and scuffs its hooves against the stone floor, and with another little bleat, it turns around itself to show you something.

Your eyes soften.

There are two apples on the floor beneath it, both bruised and wrinkled, but good nonetheless.

"For me?"

You stoop forward and take one of the browning fruits off the cold, dirty ground, and slip it into one of the wide pockets of the robe. The goat chuffs, clearly pleased, and not even you can help but smile.

"Let's go, then, shall we? I want to get out of this place,"

The hallway is pitch black, the moonlight subdued by clouds and softened by the thick windows, but you can still make your way around quite easily.

You start heading in the direction you came, your new (and only) friend in tow, when the sound of footsteps scuffing against stone follows you.

You turn, eyes wide, expecting M. de Neige, or worse, but there's only a flash of gold and then quiet.

"Who's there? Come out, now, or... my goat will gouge you!"

The little animal stares at you, mouth hanging open in bewilderment, but it seems to work, anyway.

A boy, taller and thinner than M. de Neige, comes out from around the corner with his hands held up. Even in the dull silver light of the hall, you can make out the color of his eyes. Green. His hair is blond and reaches his chin, and is rather unkempt, curling and sticking out at odd places. His straight bangs are clearly cut by his own hand.

"My-my apologies. I did not mean to frighten you. I was only curious,"

You sigh. It's the voice from the orientation festival, the one M. de Neige called Gregoire.

"Well, don't be. We're leaving," you say. "Now... which way is out?"

"There are more than one, if you know where to look,"

You narrow your eyes at him and he goes pale.

"I-I only mean that there are many ways out into the streets, but you wouldn't want to be alone in the city after curfew,"

"I think I can handle it,"

"It's unsafe,"

"Is it?"

"Veritably,"

He doesn't seem to be lying, at least. You let your arms fall to your sides with a sigh.

"But I can't stay here. This feels like a prison,"

"It may," he nods. "It is stone walls all the same. But you don't have to stay here. The dorms are but a short walk away."

The goat bleats, and you agree. You're not sure whether you can trust this man or not, yet.

"What's your name?"

He seems to stand a little straighter, almost eager to talk about himself.

"I am the author Pierrot Gregoire, whose mystery was presented in the courtyard this evening,"

You seem to recall his voice again, his back turned to you in the crowd, as if he were infinitely more interested in his play than the commotion.

"I remember you," you say, sticking your hands in your pockets. You feel around the apple you'd put in there earlier. "Sorry I ruined it."

"The people were losing interest either way," he sighs and hangs his head. "My poor mystery..."

You glance at the little goat, and it chuffs back, nodding its head towards the end of the hall as if telling you to make a break for it while he's distracted.

You can't bring yourself to.

"Here," you say, handing him the shriveled apple. "We're even, then."

Pierrot's entire disposition changes; his face lights up with a childlike joy that makes it seem as if he'd completely forgotten about his woes, and he cups the apple in his palm with reverence.

"Oh... thank you," he says, finally. "I will take you to the dorms."

The evening had grown cold and windy since your spectacle in the courtyard.

The robes, at least, are warm enough to keep you comfortable, although you feel a pang of sympathy for the poor goat, who has only its fur, and, in a way, for Pierrot, whose robes look worn and beaten and strangely burnt.

"You can stay with me in the spare house," he says.

"You don't stay in a dorm?"

"My housewarden threw me to the streets months ago,"

He says it merrily, with that same smile, but there's an underlying sense of bitterness. You don't ask about it again.

Pierrot brings you to a small, dark building at the very edge of the island. Once again, you are surrounded by inky black water.

"Here," he hums, lighting a single candle as you walk in. "It's not much, but better than the sewers."

"You've slept in the sewers?"

He shudders. "I don't want to talk about it,"

Once an adequate amount of candles are lit, he pulls up a chest for you to sit on, and takes a seat on the floor across from you.

You sigh, letting out the stress and tension you'd been carrying in your chest in a single breath.

It felt much later than it truly was.

"That is a pretty creature of yours," he says, nodding at your goat. "Does it have a name?"

"Hugo," it says.

Both you and Pierrot go silent.

Then, finally, you shout.

"You can talk?!"

[callooopie]

The night, she calls me.. // Vampire!HOTD men

Come with me to the other side. Make the girl in black your bride — The Night // Aurelio Voltaire

It took all my willpower to not make this like a What We Do in the Shadows bit. No one asked for this either.. so that’s why I’m writing it. Is this gonna be a series of headcannons? No… no. No no… no no nono. I’ve started tooooo many writing projects I cannot… or can I 😏 (I actually can’t I have too many requests I need to lock in on)

Did you know what land you were walking on? Did you see the figure watching you from the top floor window? Was that a shadow you saw out the corner of your eye?

Davos Blackwood // Bloody Lord of Raventree Hall

A manor buried in the dark forests of Blackwood Vale, an urban legend surrounded the woods and the semi-ghost town beside it. Locals would talk of a figure that walked the empty streets at night, and the older residents would sometimes speak of an old estate once owned by a wealthy family that could be found in the heart of the forest. But no one has seen this place, or perhaps no one has ever returned alive to tell the tale.

The ever playful lord of Raventree Hall likes toying with his victims before they meet their bloody demise. If a fool ever gets lost on his land, Davos will follow them around in the form of a raven, acting as if he was leading them to the help they desperately called out for. Some would fall for it; the ‘guiding’ corvid that had brought them to this dusty manor. Little did they know, they wouldn’t be leaving that place.

He’s the type to make Raventree Hall look appealing and safe to the unwitting person, sometimes even playing the part of a humble boy who lives in his family’s old home. He’d learn all about a person as he feeds them food, bloody meat cooked to perfection for any human. Eat up, Davos would say, it’s a good cut of meat.. he’d hate for it to go to waste. Oh? The red wine tastes metallic? Strange.. perhaps a bottle gone bad?

He’d keep his lover human, not out of admiration of their humanity—but as more of a ‘pet’. The only reason Davos would turn a human into a vampire would be for his own entertainment purposes. It’s more fun when you can handle him and not pass out every time he does something. Plus, he wants the security of knowing you won’t be leaving him anytime soon. Forever stuck by his side, living forever in a world of night and pleasure by his doing and his doing alone.

Before you become his lovely lady, perhaps you’re one of those lost souls who stumble upon the estate. Either by poor luck or poorer fortunes, you catch the attention of Davos. He scares you from the shadows, setting candles alight with just a gust of wind, slamming doors and sending phantasms to spook you with howls and haunting steps, sending ravens and crows to caw and peck at you. It’s only when you get to the main atrium of the manor does he strike. A sinister smile on his pale face as he lunges at you from out of nowhere, teeth sinking into the skin of your neck as hands travel up and down your torso.

A master of shadows and tricks, Davos isn’t one to meet his adversaries head on. He doesn’t think they deserve his attention. He can deal with vampire hunters and celebrity ghost hunters with a wave of his hand from his bed chambers at the very top of the manor. He can make it as if ghouls are chasing around those idiots, birds seemingly attacking them on sight, if he’s feeling funny he might summon a demon or two. Why does he have the title of bloody lord? Well, he’s just a messy eater, and the corpses he leaves behind are unrecognizable from what they once were.

Jacaerys Velaryon // Draconic Prince of the Night

The picturesque village that the castle of Dragonstone sits next to has gained a plethora of tourists. However, no one has ever been allowed inside. From a mixture of local superstition, and simply because the wooden gates and doors will not open. Nothing can break, or even burn, the wood. Cursed or blessed, many have stayed away from that castle said to have been forged by dragon fire.. if local legends are to be believed.

Local legends also speak of how beautiful women are kidnapped from their homes and beds, never to be seen ever again. As a tourist, you believe you’re safe.. and you don’t really believe in those tales.. at least you don’t believe them until you awaken in a bed that’s not the hostel’s.

Jacaerys is a vampire who is easily bored. He wants someone who’ll keep up with him. A pretty princess to take care of and to simply sit like a doll, but also one who has a bit of wit and brain to them. Someone to go hunting with, or to fly around in the dead of night together. Someone to chase, someone to have intellectual conversation with.

A little more serious than a certain bloodthirsty lord, Jacaerys will turn his lover almost immediately. What’s the use in keeping you human and mortal? There is no use! Now you’re just like him, and you two can bond and be merry together in that lonesome stone castle. All the others he had spirited away were awfully dull, perhaps you will be different?

Like a dragon, he hoards his treasures. He’ll keep you close, too close almost. Jacaerys will hand feed you blood, lifting someone’s arm up to your mouth and praising you for dining on the thick liquid and flesh. He’ll hover near you, you two are royalty after all. It’s good for a prince like him to check up on his princess. He’ll dress you in gold and red fabrics, or maybe nothing at all! Jacaerys does like it when you’re only clad in gold and gems, sit yourself down on his mountains of treasure and make your nest; he’ll show he’s a good dragon who takes care of his mate.

A scholar of dragon magic, the only thing that can destroy his castle is what made it in the first place. Dragon fire. And dragons died out long long ago sweet thing (or never existed at all…). He’s perhaps the only one that remains! Believe whatever you will, Jacaerys will happily prove to you that dragons are real. And you believe it as you watch him transform into one to deal with trespassers who had somehow broken into the castle. Sure there’s ways in if your crafty enough, but what people don’t say is that there’s no way out once you’re in. The charred piles of bones that litter the treasure room are a testament to that.

Cregan Stark // Vampiric King in the North

Perhaps the only one out of the trio to be semi-normal. An urban legend surrounds the snowy mountains of a large wolf that leads lost wanderers to an empty yet warm and alive stone keep. It’s said if you stay for one night and leave the next day, you’ll find your way back to civilization. However, overstay your welcome and you won’t be heard from ever again…

Your car had broke down, and you hadn’t expected such a large snowstorm to sweep through. You’re on the brink of hypothermia, however you spot something in the distance. The howl of a wolf reaching your ears as the wild beast walks toward you. It almost seems to gesture toward you with its head, beckoning for you to follow. You’ve heard this legend, and so when you find yourself in the safety and warmth of a stone fortress you do your best to remain courteous and respectful. The plan was to leave in the morning, however when you try to open the large wooden door to leave—it slams shut on you before locking tightly.

Cregan likes your humanity, wishing only to learn from you. He would not covet you like a prize, nor would he treat you like a pet. To turn you without your consent? Unfathomable. If you wish to be turned, he would gladly do so at your request. Although he would tell you what you’ll miss, what you will be letting go of in exchange for this eternal life of coldness and blood. Perhaps it’ll all be worth it in the face of his love and companionship?

Teach him everything about you, and he’ll teach you all he knows. Cregan’s an old soul who’s lived more lifetimes than he can remember. He’s powerful, ancient; that uppity prince and cocky lord answer to him! He’s their overlord, they are his mere sons subordinates. All that aside, Cregan has vast collections of knowledge from throughout the ages. Although do remember, he scratches your back, and you will scratch his. Or he’ll show you what happens to those who’ve forgotten such an important lesson.

Unlike his underlings, Cregan can control his appetite for blood. He’s learned, and so he keeps a stockpile of it. Some of it ages like wine in a cellar, other bottles he keeps near and close. A special cabinet is reserved for special blood of course. What? You’ve never tried the blood of a priest? It’s heavenly.

Unlike the other two, Cregan lives more on red meats. Which he can get from almost anything. Although due to the coldness of the region, not many animals venture out. For a special occasion, you’ll find your plate full of fresh organs and fatty raw meat. A glass of thick red liquid right next to your plate. Cheers and eat your fill, it’s fresher than fresh. And who knows when an unsuspecting person will come up these mountains again?

[skeletonsloverockcandy]

Man, each year I get to it, I love the May 5th entry and what it means. I take something new from it each time. Like last year I noticed the sacrifices and efforts the Driver and the other passengers made to try and save Jonathan, a stranger to them, by showing up early, by giving him gifts, by blessing him, despite the danger that puts them in. Especially when Dracula, as the driver, points it out to the Driver of the first coach, what he was trying to do, and scares him by pointing out what he said (despite it being heard far out of normal earshot and over the sound of horses galloping).

This year though, I notice that, but I see some of the smaller details too. Like how the mountains are full of blooming fruit trees, and how we are so used to the “gothic” aesthetic we almost forget it’s Spring. How Jonathan takes notice and comfort in the view, despite the growing unease he feels because of the people around him. He is trying to distract himself from how scared he’s getting based on their warnings. Warding him from the Evil Eye.

"No, no," he said; "you must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce"; and then he added, with what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry—for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest—"and you may have enough of such matters before you go to sleep."

I also take notice of this from the driver, as it’s almost a morbid gallows humor that he clearly knows to expect the wolves, and knowing what happens later, I’m sure the people here have a horrible fear of them, knowing what Dracula can do…and what he does to that poor mother later.

There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous one.

We also get here what might be our first indication that the Count can control the weather to an extent.

They were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us.

All I can imagine is Dracula in a fake beard now lol.

"You are early to-night, my friend." The man stammered in reply:—

"The English Herr was in a hurry," to which the stranger replied:—

"That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift."

But God, this must have been terrifying for the driver and the passengers. What would Dracula do to punish them for trying to escape him? Would he dare make an example in front of the Englishman right now, or would he grant them mercy to say nothing else as Jonathan is unsuspectingly led to his doom, so they think.

"Denn die Todten reiten schnell"— ("For the dead travel fast.")

The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile.

It feels like they’re all in on some sick joke that they know the punchline to, but Jonathan doesn’t, so with the dramatic irony, it feels like we the readers are the same peasants, trying to do anything to save or warn Jonathan but it’s already too late.

I also notice how quickly Dracula tries to shift the power dynamic with Jonathan, and have him doubt his sanity so soon, and he’s not even in the castle yet.

He drives him in circles to try and disorient Jonathan and make him feel even more lost, also keeping him out for far later and making Jonathan question if he’s dreaming or if what he’s seeing is real. I’d also bet more than anything that wine he offer Jonathan on the coach that Jonathan didn’t end up taking was drugged. Because it’s far easier to disorient an unconscious passenger in the dark than it is to disorient a conscious passenger. But he still does a pretty darn good job.

Then there’s the blue flames, which Jonathan doesn’t know how to react to as they seem supernatural and he doesn’t know how to rationalize it yet, so he takes it as if he’s dreaming.

This gave me a sort of shock, for I suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.

Jonathan also has already felt the fear and nerves associated with the supernatural and superstition after what all of the townsfolk have told him, and later he tries to brush this off and rationalize again, try not to get too scared, but a part of him already realizes something is wrong.

Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road—a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear.

I also want to point this out, as it’s right before the wolves surround the coach, but it’s the second time a “dog” has been mentioned howling in the night, and with this evidence, I bet Dracula uses the wolves as a threat to keep the peasants and townsfolk in line, as he can’t munch down on everyone. But it shows how powerful he is and what a threat he poses. I wonder who the wolves kill in the night.

Also how Jonathan, as an Englishman where there were no more native wolves, can’t even imagine that’s what they were and thinks they are dogs.

And it makes sense now that earlier when Jonathan was getting out his good ol’ polyglot dictionary, how the two words mean the same thing.

"vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire.

As Dracula, as we see later, can transform into a wolf himself, and so there is probably less distinction between the two in this culture than we have tried to establish in the modern day.

Once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for I could see its ghostly flicker all the same.

Ah, I wonder if this is an early indication that Dracula cannot be depicted through traditional means? Like how he can’t be seen in the mirror. Certain lights just, pass through him.

I shouted and beat the side of the calèche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap.

We also see Jonathan taking an active and proactive approach, in this manner trying to be helpful and aid his (what he assumes human) driver. With these sorts of actions already, I can see signs of the man who will pick up a shovel to try and do what needs to be done. Who takes a knife and vows action, not hesitating.

He is polite right now, he’s on business. He doesn’t know what’s coming. But regardless, that person is still in him, and he’s capable of taking great action and doing great things for the sake of survival and doing what he thinks is right.

And Dracula commanding the wolves to stop as the driver, and the cloud passing overhead, I feel is like a subtle display of power and threat to Jonathan. He’s still playing pretend, but when Jonathan does figure out he was the coach the whole time, and he plays coy, the Count knows Jonathan will remember this threat, and it feels that much more sinister.

Jonathan still questions and thinks he fell asleep, as he doesn’t see how he’d have missed the approach of the castle otherwise, but I think he was awake because it was dark, and the count was intentionally taking him a winding and confusing path under a lot of fear. Though if he did fall asleep, I’m that much more terrified about how Dracula was driving him about, now secure in the knowledge that Jonathan would be thoroughly isolated and lost.

And the thing that nearly gives Dracula away twice as the driver is the strength of his grip on Jonathan’s hand, also lacing a subtle threat.

through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate.

Well this is just scary knowing how trapped Jonathan becomes later, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear the outside world, and how the outside world might not be able to hear him, and how he’s already acknowledging that.

The time I waited seemed endless, and I felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. What sort of place had I come to, and among what kind of people? What sort of grim adventure was it on which I had embarked?

He already is expressing doubts and fears, he isn’t ignorant of what situation he might be in, and it’s only later when he tries to rationalize with the count and is given the comforts manipulation of food and sleep, that he tries to dismiss these fears and take the Count at his word.

Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor!

Okay, this is just really cute. Mina said You passed the Bar, you Deserve to call yourself a Solicitor Jonathan <3

Also explains a lot that Jonathan is a fresh faced baby lawyer who just passed the bar and needs this assignment. He’s probably hoping that after this pay day he can marry Mina and have enough for them to start making a life together. Also says a lot for Dracula’s strategy to him to get someone young, inexperienced, and unfamiliar with the area, who might be seen as “expendable” so that Jonathan’s sudden “disappearance” might go unremarked by those in charge (though Mina would notice).

I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and I expected that I should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as I had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. But my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. I was indeed awake and among the Carpathians. All I could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the morning.

Again, those early signs of doubt and fear from Jonathan, showing his unease already at the situation. We did not deserve to be clowning on him so much when this book club first started. It’s not his fault he’s not genre aware 😔 I’m sorry Jonathan.

And when Drac does show up to open the door:

"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!" He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone.

I wonder if he’s like that because he needs to be invited into places to be there, so if it’s almost like a supernatural hold of importance for him to offer the same thing. Almost like a subtle joke or curse with the knowledge that after Jonathan enters, he won’t be allowed to leave of his own will

holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice—more like the hand of a dead than a living man.

I also like how all the clues are there, and since Jonathan has written them down and taken note of them, the expression on them must be some of the things he’s piercing together about his own fears as well that he’s afraid to voice aloud or in his journal, because if he voices his suspicions, they might become more real to him.

The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking

See? He knows what’s up, he’s just afraid to say it.

I also didn’t pick up that Jonathan’s room is octagonal for some reason. I wonder if there’s any reason for that or symbolism with the 8 sides?

Also the letter from Mr. Hawkin’s feels very ominous in retrospect knowing what’s coming and how Dracula will treat Jonathan:

"I must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady I am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come; but I am happy to say I can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom I have every possible confidence. He is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. He is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. He shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters."

I feel like Dracula knew to take advantage of that, and also this feels like him basically reading the menu for an ideal victim once his business is said and done, so I get shivers, brrrrr.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. It may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal.

I also like that while Jonathan is describing Dracula, he notice his hands. And I am also struck with how little it is brought up that he has hair on his palms, and I can see the more wolf-like nature of this vampire mythology. I wonder if Bram Stoker intended for werewolves and vampires to be the same thing in his novel? They are certainly compared and have similar powers and weaknesses, so it’s possible I guess.

Also Dracula has corpse-breath lol. Nasty.

I saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. There seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as I listened I heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves.

Ah ha! Also the first foreshadowing we get for the importance of dawn and dusk in the novel, as we know later how important timing becomes for our protagonists, so seeing its affects already make me smile at the recognition of the signs so early.

"Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!" Seeing, I suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:—

"Ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter."

And ah, an iconic line. Though I just get second hand angry and uncomfortable at Dracula’s insistence that he’s a “hunter” 🤢. God I just hate him haha.

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!

And literally Day 1 of being in the castle and Jonathan is already questioning his sanity and piecing things together he’s afraid to even voice in his journal. This is the second time in as many days he has already wished that those around him find this journal and laments should anything bad happen to him. It creates the impression of one who knows they’re walking into danger but must go on anyway.

But I love Jonathan so much, and I definitely really like the May 5th entry, and it does so much work to set up what happens later.

[wileys-russo]

✨ leah williamson masterlist ✨

☼ series;

mila's masterlist

☼ fics;

house wife

dancing in the street

face masks and horror films

mrs williamson

mrs williamson ficlet (2)

ignorance is bliss

ignorance is bliss ficlet (2)

green eyed snake

small intimate interactions

small intimate interactions ficlet

handyman

handyman ficlet

insensitive

spontaneous

put a ring on it

cold snap

wined, dined and dipped

love is blind

forget me not (2)

the royal box

a deals a deal

mascot

don't look back

the good partner test

☼ blurbs;

step by step

top golfer

teenage love

skin on skin

jorts

heels

work wife

lucky charms

sore loser

big swing

sidetracked

garden gnome

the ick

narcissist

horror movies

mrs williamson

mario kart

hobbies

early mornings

tech fleece

eight legged attack

3am serenades

happy gas

bubble wrap

drill sergeant

portugal sunsets

an hour of sleep

i can't sleep

left unsupervised

4am wake up

topless

the bet

one of your girls

superstitions

the new number six

under strict instruction

lock down

gossip

something silver

plucky

stupid hat

rivals

the look

two wheels

the collection

just one more

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (5)

—  Pairing: Namkook, Vminkook, Namjingi, Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader,

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, enemies to friends to lovers, Healing & Themes of trauma,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 5.7k

—  Warnings: Hospitals, sickfic, Angst, Hurt/comfort, Humor, Polyamory negotiations, Seizures, Chronic illness, flirting

—  Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! — 

(Previous chapter)

(3 years ago, Namjoon)

It’s been a little more than a year after Namjoon officially moved Seokjin and Yoongi into his apartment. And although the addition of the pup doesn’t happen overnight, it sort of feels like it does.

Namjoon is not regularly a skeptic, he doesn’t look down his nose at certain tropes, love at first sight, enemies to lovers, the waspish omega that falls into the arms of the big buff alpha brute. But there is only one trope when Jimin, Jungkook, and Taehyung fall into their lives: neither an old wives tale, a good luck charm, or a superstition.

Good things come in threes.

When Namjoon meets him, he doesn’t know Jungkook will be his omega one day. One day, but not quite yet. The day they meet, Jungkook is just another one of Namjoon’s patients:

The waiting room is full of the smell of sick people, vomit, and a lingering sliminess of blood and antiseptic. Covering up the smell of sour fear and anguish. It’s full of blaring red exist signs and the beep of an overhead alert for a code blue upstairs. Overstimulating to even those who are used to it.

Namjoon doesn’t have to worry, code blue means cardiology, code purple maternity.

A code red? Then he’d be running.

There’s one blond head, one black head, and one tawny waiting in bay 8. All of them look too young to consider themselves packmates and yet they act as one unit when Namjoon calls Jeon Jungkook’s name. He’s got wavy black hair and doe eyes and a strong jawline that he has yet to grow into. A pup still. But not for much longer.

An attractive omega. A pretty one.

Namjoon is just two hours shy of a desperately needed break and 10 hours into his current shift. Exhaustion weighs on his bones like a physical ache. No worse and no better than the other patients. But Namjoon's hoping to be promoted to the head of neurosurgery within the next few years (it will take him 6 months before they offer him the job) and he needs to put in the hours to achieve that goal. 

A goal that comes with things for his pack, a bigger apartment maybe, less hours for Yoongi and Jin, and more good food in the little kitchen. A vacation maybe (they’ve never been anywhere together, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?)  Both Jin and Yoongi like to cook and a bigger kitchen and a larger apartment is high on Namjoon’s lists of wants.

While the omega looks absolutely fine, you’d never guess that judging by the gun smoke and spiced wine scents that spike agitated into the air from each of his alphas. They’re tense, each of them holding one of the omega's hands so hard their knuckles are white.

Jungkook’s hands are calloused, Namjoon notices while he’s taking his blood pressure. Eyes on the monitor and not on Jungkook’s eyes. Staring at him unwaveringly as Namjoon asks his quiet questions.

“Do you lift weights Jungkook?”

“Yes, I ugh, I’m a personal trainer.”

Namjoon hums, it shows, Jungkook’s veins are so good that Namjoon doesn’t even have to check to see if he’s dehydrated. He compliments him on it (weird doctor quirk) and the omega blushes. Looking down an away. “Have you ever hit your head on any of the equipment at work? Or ever fallen during a set. You said you had a seizure, where you working out when you had it?”  

“No, I was at home I was-”

The larger of the two alphas is the first one to speak- when his patient chokes on his own words. The blond one turns his impassive eyes upwards at Namjoon and says nothing. He’s terribly small for an alpha, but his eyes are no less threatening, his glare, although it comes from a sweet face, is anything but blank, it’s murderous.

But Namjoon is not here to hurt their omega, he’s here to help heal him. Namjoon is only too used to dealing with this sort of thing- packmates worried and fussing over their pack members, omega’s nesting around their alpha’s in the waiting room, that sort of thing.

Namjoon feels a tug in his gut. But the tawny haired one is the first one to speak, and Namjoon shoves it down in favor of doing his job.

“If someone had a seizure during…” he pauses, glancing at Jungkook then at Namjoon “Sex- would you be able to tell? And how would we make sure it doesn’t happen again?”

The omega is bright red between the two of them.  the alpha that smells like gunsmoke and glares a bit like the devil might, re-settles his other hand on the back of Jungkook’s neck to soothe him. His shoulders drop from around his ears and Jungkook’s distressed omega scent evens out from rotting flowers back to sweet honey. 

Namjoon’s inner alpha perks up. Lifting its head from folded polite paws.

People smell different when they're sad than when they're happy. Namjoon’s own coffee scent starts to smell like coffee liquor when he’s angry, or too tired to breathe properly or too anxious to think straight. Seokjin smells like curdled milk and wet dog when he's upset or missing them but sweet milk when he's happy. And Yoongi goes all salty and ocean murky when he's miffed that someone's looking at him a bit too long but smells like thick chocolate every other hour of the day. 

The two alphas on either side of Jungkook smell like Gunsmoke (the angry one) and peppery wine (the tall one) or maybe he's just drunk and smells like pepper. Namjoon's first thought is not how to help them- but wondering what they'd smell like if they were happy.  

Huh.

That should be the first thing that tips him off really. He tries not to worry too much about the happiness of his patients, only their health. There are some boundaries that need to be maintained so that Namjoon doesn’t get too attached.

Namjoon pauses to fill Jungkook’s waterglass. He gets two other paper cups and fills those too while he talks about symptoms.

They all look so small and scared. And Namjoon can’t help but send out comforting pheromones- his scent blockers have worn off this long into his shift. It’s just in his nature to want to comfort these three- so lost in a sea of concerned stressed faces and scents. It must be bombarding them. Namjoon is used to how the emergency room smells. The tangle of stressed scents and possible threats.

Their shoes sit side by side, a pair of combat boots, a pair of converse, and a pair of brown leather loafers. All of them have purple shoelaces threaded through. Namjoon knows a pack mark when he sees it. All of Namjoon’s packmates wear Yoongi’s one flannel- trading it back and forth between the three of them.

The three of them lean into Namjoon’s space.

But still, he’s nothing but professional, taking Jungkook’s vitals under the watchful eye of both of his alpha’s. And the small cagey looking one hands over Jungkook’s hand when Namjoon needs to fix the heartrate monitor and lets him take Jungkook in for a scan upstairs, promising that he’s in good hands and really Jungkook is.

He prattles on to Namjoon the whole way up and is Namjoon sure he’s never worked out before, not even a little? How else does he get so strong? Namjoon guides Jungkook into the big machine, trying to soothe his anxiety. Rubbing his fingers on his wrist, his scent gland there small and tender to the touch.

The minutes Jungkook is in the machine feel terribly long, the thudding all around him loud and scary. “Are you still there Dr.Kim?” he asks through the intercom.

“Of course I am, Jungkook.”

“My alpha’s call me Kookie, or Jk, you can call me Kookie if you want. Cuz I’m sweet like one.”

Namjoon pauses, before he clicks the button on the intercom, worried. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

“No! I’m like this naturally!”

He watches the screen, waiting, tapping his foot, and the technician asks him if he has more important things to do.

Namjoon’s glasses reflect the blue light of the monitor. “Looking after my patients take precedent” the technician scoffs something like ‘looking after huh’ and continues to click away as pixel after pixel comes through.

Namjoon finds evidence of the seizure and others on Jungkook’s MRI.

He gives the three of them a lengthy conversation, spending more time than he ordinarily would on them, explaining the depts of Jungkook’s illness. He hates breaking life-changing news to people. He hates the look in their eyes when it hits them. When they look at him like he can change it or like he might be wrong.

Namjoon is a good doctor, he’s rarely ever wrong.

Telling this omega that he has epilepsy, that he can't drive and will likely have to change every aspect of his life to avoid as many seizures as possible or risk permanent brain damage- sucks. Telling the omega with the bunny eyes and the chubby cheeks that his life as he knows it is over feels like the worst thing that Namjoon has ever had to do. And he had to perform a craniotomy on a two-year-old last week, so he’s got perspective. He books multiple follow up appointments with Jungkook. More than normal.  

It's pretty clear that Namjoon's instincts are having some bearing on his emotions. He usually doesn't care so much. He's had enough people die on him that he can't care the way he used too about people who aren't Jin or Yoongi. It’s not heartlessness, it’s just self-preservation.

But that all goes out of the window when he breathes in their scents. So unhappy, Namjoon can’t not soothe them, can’t do nothing.

“It could never happen again, and it could happen twice every week. There's no way to know how often you’ll have them so you should be extra careful for a little while. No operating heavy machinery or driving and stay away from stairs if you can. You’ve got two packmates to take care of you so that’s good.” 

 I’ve got two packmates too, he wants to say. If yours are any good, they’ll take care of you half as well as Seokjin and Yoongi take care of me.

As if the two alphas can smell a hint of the suggestion that they wouldn’t hang the stars for Jeon Jungkook, they curl protectively around Namjoon’s patient. Even the small one with the blond hair looks protective and large in the small space, sizing Namjoon up like he could be a potential threat. He’s used to this kind of alpha posturing at the hospital when tensions run high and concern for loved ones becomes adrenaline. Any possible threat prompts aggression.

Instincts are fickle things. Namjoon’s alpha does not take his posturing as a threat.

Namjoon’s alpha is pacing and howling in the confines of his head, straining it’s neck to get out out out. He’s a man of science not instinct. No one, not even the other alpha- would be able to tell that Namjoon was feeling anything at all.

But Seokjin would know.

Seokjin would poke at the vein on Namjoon’s neck that stands out when he rolls his jaw and Namjoon would go from feral wolf to puppy and putty in Seokjin’s hands.

Namjoon has always been a dominant alpha. It doesn’t matter much in their small 3-person pack because Namjoon is the only alpha when it comes to Seokjin and Yoongi. But looking at these two sitting here, it feels like it does. The tall alpha- Taehyung- looks at Namjoon but he looks away first. The small patient room is full of the scent of fresh coffee. Namjoon's scent fluffs out through his blockers without any kind of effort.

The two alphas breathe in the scent of coffee- the kind that’s pressed into your hand the second after you wake by someone you love. To Jimin and Taehyung- it conjures up the image happy Saturdays and Sundays, the moments shared in intimacy and half wakefulness. Namjoon likes that he smells like innocent moments.

Even they have to admit that Dr. Kim smells good.

Their shoulders ease away from their necks, and their fear begins to dissipate as Namjoon explains.

To Jimin fear has always been a necessary evil. It feels weird to try and let go of it with Jungkook sick, with the news that everything is going to change (that maybe everything already has). Every few seconds Namjoon’s scent makes Jimin’s body relax, and he has to straighten up again. Namjoon just tells himself that it’s a sign he’s good at his job even though it feels a little too much like flirting to be completely appropriate.

Namjoon has never flirted with another alpha, at least not knowingly.

“Could it also have been a one-off fluke?” Taehyung asks. He’s been mostly quiet, but Namjoon shivers when he meets his eyes. There is something placid about his face, even under the storm of this, the alpha looks mostly calm. He can't explain it, but looking at Taehyung feels like looking at the ocean, scary if you look away.

Namjoon reminds them that he’d found signs of other seizures on his brain scan too. Points them out to them on his tablet, shows a picture of a normal brain to compare. He explains that sometimes the only indication that a seizure is happening could be that time is passing weirdly or that someone is staring off into space for too long.

Taehyung goes pale when he says that. “Jungkook gets that way all the time.” He says the next part quieter, “especially when he’s nesting.”

Namjoon’s breath goes shallow at that, the idea that this omega, this Jungkook and his packmates will never be able to see him nest again without worrying, without asking and doublechecking. Something that is routine and a necessary part of all omega’s and their biology and pack intimacy will never feel normal to them again.

When they leave- Namjoon gives them his personal number because he’s so concerned about the three of them. So vulnerable and unprepared to help Jungkook navigate the world like this. None of them are older than 25. And while they're not not adults, Namjoon's instincts scream at him pups pups pups. 

Surprisingly it’s Jungkook who uses Namjoon's number the most often.

He wants to talk to Namjoon about it all- the new definition of his life inside his medical condition. No bright flashing lights and limited screen time. A set bedtime every night and a new diet that’s helping considerably but still feels so restrictive. Jungkook can’t do anything without thinking about it, weighing out calories and estimating carbohydrates. Pricking his fingers to monitor the blood sugar spikes.

“I would kill for some pretzels- or just- some fucking bread. Do you know how good fresh bread is when you know you can't have it Joonie?”

Namjoon doesn't scold Jungkook for the nicknames anymore. Not after the first few calls when Jungkook's natural earnestness melts away Namjoon’s better judgment. “Too much salt bunny” Namjoon hears Taehyung say on the other side of the phone.

“I will kill you for carbohydrates Hyung.”

Namjoon does the best he can to ease the young omega's worries. And slowly- they talk about things other than Jungkook’s condition. Though that remains a soft topic, “I didn’t have any this week hyung! Maybe they’re finally turning a corner, aren’t you proud of me?”

“Of course, I am bunny- I’ll always be proud of you.”

In the background of the call, he hears the words ‘hot doctor’ and ‘hopeless’ faintly. A happy little giggle he’s started to recognize as Jimin’s when Jungkook shoots him a scandalized “Hyung!”

He and Jungkook talk until late at night sometimes. They text a lot too, so much that Yoongi and Jin tease him about it, “What are you smiling at your phone about?”

Like they don’t already know.

Jungkook fills the spaces when Yoongi and Jin aren’t there; the days after Namjoon’s had a night shift and both of his pack mates are working. Jungkook’s voice fills the air in Namjoon’s room. And when he closes his eyes, it feels like he’s really there.

Namjoon wants more than he would ever willingly admit. Wants more than he’d ever think through if Seokjin told him no.

But Seokjin only ever teases Namjoon for smelling strong and ask to see Jungkook’s Instagram. “Wow he’s like- model hot.” Namjoon had just pecked his cheek, dispelling any anxiety or insecurity.

“If he’s model hot then you’re ancient Greek statue hot.”

“Joonie.”

“Do you want me to stop calling him? I will.”

Seokjin’s thumb had hovered, a photo of the three of them there. The like count is what bothers him. Even Seokjin gets more than 50 likes on his photos of Namjoon and Yoongi. But these three pups, they only have 11 people in their corner. Two alphas and one omega.

This omega, this Jungkook must be special.

Seokjin’s heart beats hard. Flicking through the photos. Namjoon lets him look through their texts too. Jungkook is old fashioned, he prefers to call. “He’s got seizures Namjoon.”

“I know hyung.”

“He’s sick, and you can’t cure him.”

“I know.”

But packs are built this way, they all know that.

He talks to Jungkook’s alphas too. Mostly Taehyung who studied literature in undergrad and works at the large public library in the city center, not far from Namjoon’s hospital. One morning he even finds a coffee waiting at the check in desk for him, a cup of coffee and a not scrawled on the side in elegant handwriting.

Thanks for looking after Koo. He’s very special to us.

How many nicknames does this omega have? Namjoon saves the note, keeps it in his jacket pocket.

They share a lot of the same interest in poetry. Taehyungs the one who rescues Namjoon from the sound of static when Jungkook falls asleep on the line and talks quick, about stories and plot lines and the newest viral book that they can’t keep off the shelves that he’s just been dying to read but won’t until no one reserves it.

(Namjoon might leave it at the front desk in the library, might wrap it in a little purple bow)

The next time Jungkook calls he opens the phone to, “no fair! You got Taehyung a present before you go me something! It’s supposed to be omega’s first Hyung.”

“Okay bunny okay, what would you have me get you?”

“I don’t know.” Jungkook had hesitated, “something for my nest maybe?” Namjoon’s breath had gone short, and the shouting through the other end of the line was good natured, goofy, but still indignant enough that Jungkook’s giggles had smoothed over any uncomfortableness. “Kidding hyung, you can buy me food.”

“Something seizure safe?” Namjoon had clarified, ducked into a corner at the hospital, words quiet.

“You gonna tell my doctor on me if it’s not?”

“Kookie-”

But scolding Jungkook never works out well, he’s too cute to be scolded, too good for it. Jungkook’s a personal trainer and luckily his work hasn’t been too disrupted by his diagnosis. Namjoon doesn’t know if he would have been able to resist offering monetary help if it had. They’re not rich, but having three people to pool their paychecks together takes the anxiety out of a lot of things.

Jungkook’s body feels more and more like a cage as the seizures get worse. His life is narrowed down to the five or ten minutes a week he surrenders to the seizures. But the best part, the part that makes him feel most free, is picking up the phone and calling Namjoon. Namjoon never makes him feel like he’s sick, his concern isn’t stifling like Jimin and Tae's can be at times. Namjoon never makes Jungkook feel worried and under watch, only looked after.

Jungkook knows that Jimin and Taehyung will get better at it, they have been adjusting but it’s Been hard. He’s not fragile right? He’s not going to die from this? Right?

Jungkook’s okay until he’s not.

Taehyung sends him poems and pictures of Jungkook sleeping and getting his rest. But he also calls in a panic just days from his third follow up MRI because Jungkook had a seizure when neither of the alphas was home. He’s still on the floor, and he’s having trouble standing.

Namjoon knows. Namjoon knows what that looks like after a seizure, knows how scary it is when the body won’t listen to the brain. The dissonance to it, like a car crash happening quietly or mold inside of a jam jar, shocking at the opening.

“He says he’s okay- but Joonie- Joonie- how do we know- what if he’s bleeding in his head or if he’s-”

“Tae- Tae- it’s okay baby. I’m here, do you want me to come over and check him out?”

The use of the word baby gets a little look from Yoongi and Jin. They’re playing footsie at the coffee table with a pint of ice cream and only one spoon between the two of them. Their night of domestic leisure interrupted by this phone call. Namjoon’s startled tone draws their attention away from each other. Namjoon’s too panicked to notice their questioning eyes, too worried about Jungkook.

He’s got more on his mind right now, the thought of brain bleeds and strokes and the misfiring neurons in Jungkook’s brain that could kill him. Really- Jungkook could die at any time from this. He could die and Namjoon's only seen them a handful of times. His follow up appointment that Namjoon had desperately been looking forward too, is barely a week away.

But that's not soon enough. 

Tae goes silent on the other line until the phone gets handed over with a rustle of fabric against the earpiece. But Namjoon recognizes the calm breath. Namjoon doesn’t have as much of a rapport with Jimin, beyond a few selfies or videos of him and Jungkook being cute sent to him by Taehyung (because if he has to suffer through being so deeply in love that Jimin snorting sprite out his nose makes him have heart eyes then everyone else has to witness it too).

(In Namjoon’s defense those are Taehyung’s words- not his).

“Hyung, can you come over?” He asks.

He's never called Namjoon Hyung before and never asked to. There's a warmness there. Namjoon knows a little about why that might be. All of them are immigrants to different degrees and Namjoon's technically 3rd generation and had never learned Korean just like Jungkook. Tae and Jimin know more, have the sentiment built into their language, Korean to English and back again tangling until it’s hard to tell what they are- if they’re anything other than other. Jimin can’t read hangul but Tae can.

Jungkook throws the word ‘Hyung’ around like an American and likes to tack it onto every sentence or forget it entirely. Namjoon doesn't speak Korean like Yoongi and Jin do. But Namjoon recognizes the same cadence in Jimin's voice that Yoongi uses when he talks to Seokjin in that soft special way reserved for someone you expect to look after you.

The supplication is sweet as he asks for Namjoon. He lives up to his stoic persona; his voice barely wavers when he gives Namjoon their address.

In the mad dash over to their apartment, Namjoon recalls the story Jungkook told him of how he met Tae and Jimin. Jimin is a professional bodyguard and works for an entertainment agency, they both used to go to the same gym (Jungkook works there now but Jimin is too busy working to go more than once or twice a week) both of them staunch jocks and Tae the one erudite that charmed their hearts.

Taehyung and Jimin had known each other since grade school, had grown up and gotten kicked out at the same time because their parents didn’t approve of alpha and alpha relationships. They’ve been together even longer than Seokjin and Yoongi have. Had presented together and loved each other through it. Although it seems impossible given their age. He remembers Jungkook’s smitten expression over Facetime, stars in his eyes only meant for the two alphas’ and Namjoon a happy voyeur.

“They’re soulmates Hyung, like you and Seokjinnie.”

And that’s how Namjoon ends up halfway across town wearing only one slipper in Yoongi’s robe at 10 pm on a Wednesday. His car keys jingle in his hand as he realizes- fuck- I didn’t even comb my hair. His alpha instincts are screaming at him to find the three pups and make sure they’re alright. Maybe scruff them, maybe make sure that their den is as safe as Namjoon's.

(It couldn't be as safe as Namjoon's- his instincts say. He should take them by the nape and drag them back to place them in Seokjin's nest, the only safe place for pups. Seokjin might not even mind, Seokjin might chirp like his alpha has brought something significantly valuable back to his nest, like food from hunting or more furs. Three more packmates yes. That would be a very very good courting gift for the pack omega. Seokjin will like these alpha’s, Namjoon is sure of it).

Namjoon’s only ever felt this protective with two people in his life and he knows enough to guess what this means.

Jimin answers the door, moving to the side instantly to let Namjoon into their den. Routine, like not even an inch of his instincts reject him. They’ve only met in person twice and talked over the phone a handful of times. But Jimin’s eyes still shine, glassy and trusting.

“Alpha, you came.” He says, blushing when he realizes his slip-up. It’s quite a chang3e from his glaring before but Namjoon doesn’t question it. Namjoon whips through their apartment, his nose seeking out their omega.

“Couldn’t stay away, would have come over even if you said you didn’t want me to.” Is the confession too much or is it perfect? Jimin’s eyes go dark, and his hand loosens on the doorknob where it’s closed. Keeping the world out and Namjoon inside.

Namjoon wants to growl, but it comes out as a near purr.

Namjoon barely notices the checkered yellow carpet and the plants on the windowsill or the books piled by the couch where Jungkook sits with Taehyung, head in the alpha’s lap. The soft drone of the TV is the only noise. The brightness is turned down too. Both of his hands clasped in Taehyung’s tight, and a kitchen towel pressed to a mark on his cheek that's not bleeding anymore. 

It doesn’t need stitches but will scar anyway. The scar will stay for years after, small and slight. Just barely puckering over Jungkook’s cheekbone. Namjoon spends half an hour holding his hands and checking his pulse. Shining a light in Jungkook’s eyes before he verifies that Jungkook is okay. That his pupils look fine, that he doesn't have a concussion. And he's going to be fine. 

Tonight, Jungkook is alive and healthy, but that will not always be the case.

“You can borrow a pair of Tae’s shoes to go home,” Jimin says while Tae and Jungkook waddle off together towards the end of the hall where the scent of the three of them grows thick and sweet. In the direction of Jungkook’s nest.

Taehyung holds Jungkook up, still tired and dizzy from the seizure, but at least his legs are cooperating again. He’ll be back to normal by the morning. But for now he sleepily nuzzles into Namjoon’s shoulder. His words lisping with sleep, “it feels better when you’re here. Like you a lot hyung, like you lots and lots.”

Taehyung laughs awkwardly. “Okay, that’s enough honey bunny.” He’s understandably a little embarrassed that his omega is scenting the doctor that they met that one time (no matter that their call history says they’ve spent nearly 50 hours talking on the phone over the last 3 weeks.)

Taehyung holds his shoulders and puppets Jungkook to their room. Namjoon has to force himself to let them go down the narrow hallway and not follow them.

Namjoon is just about to leave when Jimin stops him at the door. “Alpha?” It’s not a mistake this time. Namjoon pauses in the doorway.

“Thanks for caring for us.”

Namjoon can’t stop his shivers even when he gets home. Yoongi strokes down his arms to warm him up. “You look like you’ve just had a bomb dropped on you or like you're coming down with something.”

Yoongi's honesty makes Namjoon word vomit all over the quiet. Jin is asleep next to them, but he stirs at the sudden spike of Namjoon's distress. Turns and opens his eyes, crusty. Rubbing at them with a curled fist before he leans his head on Yoongi’s arm. Curled beneath his cheek. Both of them lean in close to watch and listen.

“I think- I think they’re going to be a part of our pack.”

Yoongi kisses Namjoon’s frown away, kissing him over top of Seokjin who huffs, a little bratty at being ignored. Yoongi’s scent remains an uninterrupted ribbon of chocolate melty goodness. If Yoongi feels at all threatened or uncomfortable. He doesn’t smell it.

Namjoon knows he smells relived, even more when Yoongi kisses his cheeks, his brow. Namjoon clings, hands circling the beta’s waist. Possessive, almost apologetic.  “Good, I’d rather listen to them talk here than get only half of your conversation through the phone.”

Late-night phone calls turn into tentative flirting and pinky promises. Seokjin always makes sure to like Jungkook’s posts on Instagram. Makes Yoongi like them too.

He finds flowers downstairs not long after, pink roses, two dozen of them. Long stems elegant and pretty. ‘To Dr.Kim’s pack omega, from Jungkook’s alphas’

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange? I just liked their photos on Instagram and they’re sending flowers?” He remarks to Yoongi later, admiring the flowers in their kitchen, so tall they almost block the view.

Yoongi had simply shrugged, “I think they’re probably just feeling guilty that Namjoon’s spending so much time away from us to take care of him.”

“What do you think of him. Of Jungkook?”

 Yoongi had simply shrugged, “if it works out, it works out.”

“And if it doesn’t.”

“Then we put Joonie back together again.”

But lucky for them it will work out. Lucky for all of them there is nothing to worry about.

~-~

“I always think I’m too much for Jiminie and Taehyung- they’re such good alphas, and I’m just a burden.”

Namjoon hums disapprovingly, soft in his reassurance, opening the fridge to get out the milk, it’s almost noon, and Jungkook is just finishing up his classes. Namjoon is home and the others aren’t.

“Enough of that bunny. They love you. You know they don’t mind at all. They’ve told me they don’t. Promise me you'll call me when you feel this way.”

I’d take care of you too if you’d let me. Taking care of someone like you would be the opposite of a burden. Do you want me to take care of you Jungkook?

Jungkook’s voice is crackly through the phone. "I promise Hyung." 

Seokjin steals the phone from Namjoon sometimes. “Namjoon says you’re cuter in person and I demand we have a cuteness competition where we make out and don’t let him join us.”

Jungkook’s hum comes through immediately. “To torture him? Wouldn’t nesting be more painful? I have a really really cute next Seokjin Hyung. Can you come over and see it sometime?” Asking an older omega for help nesting is-

Seokjin licks his lips, eyes Namjoon up and down, the blush on his cheeks, at a loss for what to say for once. Seokjin looks like he’s relishing in it. And Namjoon starts to get worried for a whole different reason.

It’s so terribly Seokjin as first introductions go. Jungkook’s laugh echoes through the phone and has Namjoon reaching for the phone to hear it. Leaning in cheek to cheek with Seokjin, fighting for it, play wrestling and roughhousing, but Namjoon is resistant to use any real force with Jin.

The omega puts his foot on Namjoon’s chest, both of them sprawled on the couch as Yoongi watches, brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink. Smiling through the bit of white foam that’s gathered on his lips.

“But seriously- when am I going to get to meet you Kookie? Can I call you that?”

They have a group dinner after Tae complains that he’s missing his favorite pair of comfy slip-ons and Jungkook complains that he’s missing his favorite alpha (a sentence that has both Tae and Jimin screaming indignantly but it’s all playful animosity and healthy competition between alphas).

They come over Jin pets Jimin's hair for a full hour, The puppy alpha leans into his touch, staying quiet while Tae explains to Jin the finer points of the dewy decimal system and where he went to college and how he organizes his own personal library in a much much more efficient system. Maybe the quiet or attention Jin gives the other man would bother Namjoon where it not for the sweet, sweet scent of vanilla that the alpha brings with him and the fluttering of his pretty eyelashes.

It’s not the usual vanilla, something deeper to it than baking vanilla, not quite as warm, but still musky and sweet.

Alphas don’t usually smell so sweet, Namjoon knows Jimin smells like Gunsmoke when he’s angry or distressed, had sort of assumed that his happy scent would mirror it. It’s a scent that most omega’s would have, makes saliva gather in his mouth, it smells awfully good when combined with Jin’s happy scent. Both of them smell like melted vanilla ice cream.

Tae chuckles and holds him when he starts to teeter. “Careful, Jimin’s sweet spot is his hair.” And Namjoon drinks down the pretty blush stronger than any whiskey. When Jimin blinks owlishly up at Jin, suddenly looking nervous Jungkook pipes up, agreeing.

“Seriously, just keep doing and he’ll kill for you.”

Jimin- Namjoon’s learned- is probably the quietest in their little pack.  Jimin confesses to him months later that he got teased for his sweet scent growing up. Combined with his short stature and soft features he gets mistaken for an omega more often than not. 

Namjoon learns that out of all of them Jimin is probably the most in touch with his baser instincts. This is why he was so shy at first. Jimin’s inner wolf (though he’d cringe if Namjoon ever used such archaic wording) is so much louder than everyone else’s. He’d recognized Namjoon as not just an alpha but his alpha immediately.

It had come as such a shock to him that day in the hospital that Jimin had rejected it a little. Jimin had never thought he’d feel the urge (and actually did have to stop himself) from rolling over and showing his stomach to another alpha. The same way that Taehyung does in the middle of rut sometimes when he's truly brought into a lower more instinctual headspace. 

Namjoon watches him interact with Jin while Jungkook curls under his arm. It feels so natural to touch Jungkook, to stroke down his side, to duck low and whisper his observations into the omega’s hair. While they watch their two packs intermingle. Yoongi and Tae talk through their favorite books and music while he helps Yoongi set everything up for dinner. Yoongi might not read as much as Namjoon or Jin or Tae do- but he still appreciates Tae talking about what he loves. The way he’s so invested in the stories that he talks quick. The pretty way he smiles when he's really getting into his favorite book. 

Tae is a librarian, Yoongi learns. He looks the part of it. 

His soft silk shirt looks so delicate and simply pretty, the collar parted against honey collarbones. His well-tailored pants hug his toned thighs and trim waist. Yoongi is a little distracted by it that he almost burns the bechamel sauce. Distracted enough that he loses track of what Taehyung’s saying and settles for just watching.

Taehyung’s adorable grin flattens after a moment when he realizes how long he’s been rambling, that Yoongi hasn’t replied to anything in a few minutes. “Sorry you probably don’t want to hear about this I know it’s annoying when I info dump-”

“No, I was listening, keep going- that story sounds really interesting.”

He’s honest and genuine and he never looks away from Tae as he talks. There is something about the beta’s attention that makes Tae feel undeniably special. But less like a butterfly burning under a magnifying glass and more like a piece of sea glass in a child’s bucket. A treasure found to be marveled over. The attention makes all sorts of foolish emotions warm in Taehyung’s chest, nurtured carefully by every encouraging nod he earns from Yoongi.

If this is what Yoongi’s flirting is like they’re all doomed. There’s nothing more attractive than someone who is genuinely interested in your experience as a person. And Yoongi is invested, he wants to hear everything.

A beta. Taehyung hasn't been around many betas before. None of them have. Very few packs have Beta’s that stay for any length of time. But somehow Namjoon and Seokjin have managed to keep this one. It’s clear that Yoongi’s roots are here, his record collection is in the corner, and his flannel hangs by the door along with these beat up old shoes that look like something out of the 80’s.

Taehyung doesn’t have to look very far to find reasons why. Namjoon and Jin are sort of a power couple, they’re sort of perfect together. It’s hard to believe that Namjoon is both a doctor and only a year older than him and Jimin. Both of them are tall- just as tall as Taehyung and broader even.

By all measurable standards, the night is going fantastic until Jungkook has a seizure at their dinner table.

Triggered by what- who knows? It could easily be all the new scents in the room or the faintly flickering light that Yoongi’s been meaning to change in the living room. The spicy soup that Seokjin cooks or all the new scents tangling in the air overloading Jungkook’s cerebellum and plunging him headlong into it.

Dinner has barely started, there is still bites on the ends of forks, drinks being lifted to lips for first sips, when Jungkook’s body goes limp. He’s like a marionette with its strings cut. Limbs all limp and trembling, the whites of Jungkook’s eyes visible- only for a second before Namjoon guides him carefully to the floor.  

Jimin and Taehyung operate with practiced ease. They’ve learned to see the signs right before it happens. Sometimes Jimin even thinks he can smell a subtle shift in Jungkook’s honey scent before his eyes roll back and his brain just shuts off and goes all wonky.

Yoongi and Jin watch on scared. Jin flinches, reaching, spilling a glass of white wine.

But Namjoon holds his head, and they hold each other and don’t restrain him except to keep him from flinching his arm into the leg of the chair which Seokjin takes and promptly yeets away from the youngest- the pup. They're all Seokjin's pups, he's already decided. Together the five of them wait for the twitching to stop because that’s all they can do.

Namjoon watches Jungkook and feels like he wants to cry, keeping time with his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Counting the seconds. He hadn’t expected something like this to happen outside of work hours. Seeing sick people when you’re not expecting to as a doctor- it’s jarring. Even though Namjoon’s used to it, it never gets any easier.

And then Yoongi swoops in when Jungkook’s body gives a particularly violent jerk, knees sliding across the linoleum floor, smashing his arm into the table leg in a way that looks incredibly painful. Yoongi doesn’t think- just follows his instincts and shoves his wrist under Jungkook’s nose.

Jungkook’s body heaves an unsteady breath of Yoongi’s chocolate scent and stops twitching. The violence in his wild limbs calming to a tremble.

Everyone just blinks.

He comes out of this seizure faster than others. Barely a minute before he’s blinking into clarity. His body’s first reaction is to press further into Yoongi. Curling around him on the kitchen floor. Knees behind his back as Yoongi threads his hand through Jungkook’s hair and holds him close.

The disorientation fades after a few minutes when they all help Jungkook up and onto the couch after the room has stopped swirling with colors like the filmy edge of a bubble. His brain trying to turn back on. Tae’s hands are shaking. Seokjin is crying a little, hiccupping. But he’s the least used to these kinds of things out of all of them, his shock is understandable. No one knows what to say, even less what to do.

In the silence, Yoongi turns to the three of them and calls it.  

“That’s it, you’re staying.” His declaration rings with a tone of finality. 

No one challenges him.

~-~

They move in next week, though they try to keep to separate bedrooms to make the transition from two packs to one a little less dramatic. It hardly works when Jungkook splits his time between the two rooms, when the others can’t help but wake up to the sound of pattering feet across the narrow hallway. Even on the nights he’s supposed to spend cuddling with Jimin and Tae, he somehow always finds his way into Yoongi’s arms.

He smells nice, or so Jungkook says, soothing. Especially on the days after the seizures. Sometimes Yoongi's scent is the only one Jungkook can handle. 

It's so much more than that.

Jungkook’s seizures decrease dramatically after he moves in. Until they’re barely happening at all. Maybe once a month when before they’d been once or twice a week. He doesn't change his diet or his schedule. He doesn't change anything but his scenting sessions with Yoongi. 

Yoongi doesn’t mind when he asks, always says sure and sits and lets Jungkook crawl tentatively to his side, rubbing their wrists together slowly at first and them more brazenly as the shyness wears away. And Yoongi tilts his throat up to let Jungkook have at it, cheeks all ruddy and blushy by the time he’s satisfied.

“We’re all a pack, we should all wear each other’s scents around.”

"You just want an excuse to kiss Jin Hyung in the nest Kookie" Taehyung teases, making the tops of Jin's ears go pink. Jungkook is a little bit obsessed with the elder omega’s nest.  

"It's like a really sexy nest alright- you guys just don't get it because you're not omegas." 

At the beginning Jungkook tried a few medications to get his seizures under control but none of them worked, either their side effects where worse than the seizures themselves or they hardly decreased their frequency. Yoongi's scent is better than any pill Jungkook could pop. Jungkook feels one coming on and a quick drag of Yoongi’s wrist along his throat stops it dead in his tracks. Or Yoongi shoves his wrist under his nose when Jungkook’s starts twitching, and the seizure lasts barely a minute. It’s not correlation, it’s causation.

Yoongi stops the seizures. He’s medicine made man, love made cure.  

Privately, Namjoon thinks that he’d love to study it- the healing powers of betas aren’t something that’s well understood by science. When he accesses the hospital’s medical databases on his break, he finds that the evidence of any special beta healing properties is anecdotal at best and pseudoscience at worst.  

There’s only one story in the scientific literature- from a beta doctor who says he cured his mate’s lupus after he gave them a mating mark. But the peer review on that alone is scathing. And in Namjoon’s agrees with it, because betas don’t mate.

For one beta to bind themselves to only one other person goes against everything that Namjoon knows about beta biology and sociology. There are even some in the field who don’t believe betas even can give or receive a mating bite.

One or two reports (that seem more like horror stories) he finds on his way down the rabbit hole of omegas and betas going absolutely insane after they’d tried to be bonded. They couldn’t be separated- that it seemed to hurt them if they were. Brain scans support this idea. Both of them had bright parietal lobes, actively experiencing pain when they were only a few rooms away from each other. Though noticeably less from the beta than their non-beta counterpart. 

Betas can’t mate. At least not in the same way that omegas and alphas can. (And even alphas and alphas, and omegas and omegas- Namjoon’s progressive brain reminds him).

Things are changing, with Jimin and Taehyung in the house. Namjoon tries to be polite about it, watching both of them kiss over morning coffee, watching them nip and nibble. Tries to convince himself that his scent isn’t going heady and musky, that he’s not watching both of them over the top of his newspaper.

It becomes harder to ignore when both of them sit on either side of him and tangle their hands over the table. Pausing to feed him bites of Jin’s cooking saying, “alpha this is so good, you have to have it.” And Tae's gentle chiding of “good bite.”

It’s not so strange, is it? Two people of the same sub-gender loving each other, right? Namjoon’s instincts hum in agreement as he watches Jin and Jungkook roughhouse, Jin says something low and sweet that makes Jungkook laugh and Jungkook slaps Jin’s thigh in retaliation.

They all recognize the correlation between Jungkook’s health and Yoongi’s presence in the young omega's life. Jungkook’s seizures only come back if he and Yoongi haven’t spent enough quality time together or if he hasn’t been scent-marked or cuddled daily.

The near-overnight change is amazing. To Jungkook- it feels like he gets his life back. 

At night Taehyung and Jimin look down at Yoongi like he’s a marvel. Like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. They kiss at his scent glands and even dare to nibble, as if to absorb part of him, so that they might keep Jungkook safe too. Making the beta gasp and his heart beat quick.

Honey and spice and vanilla- as good as Jungkook and Taehyung and Jimin. They join their pack, meeting Namjoon and Jin’s milk and coffee. Sometimes Yoongi just lies back up and breathes in deep. Enjoying the smell of all of them together and yet sure that they’re missing something.

“We smell like a bakery,” someone never fails to comment. “Yoongi’s bakery.” 

It makes him feel good that he belongs here; this is where he’s meant to be he’s sure of it. But still- his heart has edges that still need mending. Or maybe he needs something to mend. Like arms he doesn’t know yet but can’t help but reach out for.

That something that their combined pack scent is missing happens to be the caramel sweetness of Jung Hoseok.

Another sweet-smelling alpha and sunshine incarnate.

(Next Chapter)

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(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

- You guys really have no idea how much medical researched I’ve had to do over the years to talk about Jungkook’s seizures in an accurate way! Like literally I’ve had to look up everything. I would have thought grey’s anatomy would have prepared me for this but I guess those hours rewatching season 7 where wasted.

- I can confidently say that Jk probably has something called focal transmantle cortical dysplasia- which is resistant to treatment via medication and is either genetic or can sometimes be triggered by injury.

- Having worked in medical stuff for the last 4ish years- I can tell you without a doubt that if a patient acted like Jk with me I would be!!! Swooning!

- Okay but I’m a little in love with how Jungkook’s character changed to the beginning. Like “I’m like this naturally.” What a little shithead. I love him so much, he’s like lowkey my favorite character.

- Okay so, I’m not entirely sure whether or not my depiction of them as immigrants and the tangle of this being a kpop fanfic is like- alright? Because all cultures are different, and all cultural experiences are different and I’ve been reading a lot about the Korean diaspora. But I will say that like- I am an immigrant to the extent that Namjoon is in this story. Both my grandparents where in refugee camps before they came to America, they don’t have accents anymore but they still speak to each other in private in their first language. I’m American, I’ve never known any life than this and my mom calls herself American too, but I still feel in the middle you know? I want my depiction of it to be accurate but it’s not a focal point of this story in any major way- unlike for instance Jungkook’s illness or Tae's transition if that makes sense? I’m wondering how much I should talk about it and how much I should explain in this universe.

- If we’re talking like- actuality, I think that there is a possibility that Jimin could have presented as an omega in bily but because he grew up in such an abusive and stressful environment his body made him present as an alpha to better protect Tae.