june kissed

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[junhui-recs]

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june ☆ she/her. adult ( 21+ ). i write on @junkissed!

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[petrichor-han]

ever-strange & ephemeral; eyeless jack

PAIRING | eyeless jack x afab!scientist!reader

CAST | jack nyras (eyeless jack), the operator (slenderman), the rake, jeffrey woods (jeff the killer)

WC | 26.3k

GENRE | horror, slight angst, smut, strangers to lovers, captive x kidnapper

WARNINGS | semi-canon & non-canon origin stories, references to slender: the eight pages, references to the proxies but no appearances, explicit language, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption (casual), smoking (cigarettes), dissection, medical torture, surgery without anesthesia, non-consensual injections, gore, de-gloving, cannibalism, attempted murder, murder, murder cover-ups, stabbing, strangling, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, scarification, biting, scratching, bruising, extremely rough sex, hair pulling, spanking, choking, oral (fem receiving), degradation, knotting, breeding, unprotected sex, overstimulation

SYNOPSIS | as a graduate student finishing up your final rotation, you’re quite used to the monotony of the laboratory. there are only three things on your mind until graduation — dissecting dead mice, finishing your thesis, and securing a recommendation from your professor. that is, until your professor proposes a new project with a new subject — and this one isn’t giving in without a fight.

A/N | this fic is special to me because it’s been a full decade since the last time i wrote for the pastas but i’m back and i hope people enjoy this fic — please reblog or comment if you do!! it was super super fun to write this and i hope to write more for the pastas very soon ;) inspiration behind jack’s three tongues are from @rainrot4me and @yuriversal. i was also inspired by @cryingintheclubdhmu’s interpretation of jack and by @bloodblanks’s works to write for creepypasta again in general. love to see the fandom alive and thriving in 2026!!

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MASTERLIST | CREEPYPASTA MASTERLIST

prologue.

Despite the fact that it was late summer, when the junebugs were thick in the air and the cicadas chirped loudly, the wind had a chill to it as it blew straight through Jack’s hooded silhouette. There was so much life fleeing with him — the aforementioned noisy insects, the fluttering birds overhead, even a deer with velvety antlers bounding alongside him momentarily before being scared off further into the woods by a stray bullet. 

With all of that life surrounding him, it was a shame he was about to die. 

Jack’s feet pound heavily against the ground as he pushes himself faster, further. He kicks up dirt and leaves, twigs snap beneath his boots as his desperation grows. His heart hammers in his chest, uneven and panicked, as yet another bullet whizzes past his head — this time just barely missing him. Jack curses under his breath, inhaling deeply as sweat trickles down his temple, his face suffocating beneath his mask. 

Just a little further. 

Trying to duck beneath a low hanging tree branch, Jack slows momentarily, using the moment to turn around and look at his perpetrators. Much to his dismay, he can’t see anyone — only hear them, and smell them as they grow closer. 

Not wasting another moment, Jack speeds off again, hoping that he’s far enough into the Operator’s territory that the Rake might get to them before they can get to him. 

He keeps running, until he feels a sharp pain in his side and his knees buckle one by one. 

Once his head hits the forest floor — hard — he doesn’t see, nor feel, any more. 

The last thing he hears is the cicadas and crickets, jeering at him before everything fades into silence all at once.

i. 

You might need to do something about that, you tell yourself with annoyance. 

Although your home isn’t fancy by any measures, and it’s an extremely temporary living situation, you feel as if you’re entitled to a living space that doesn’t literally leak. 

Quite the pleasant way to start your morning, being awoken by the sound of water droplets pitter pattering into the growing puddle in the corner of your room. Supposing that it’ll be worse to put it off, you sit up in bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes and pushing your covers back. The air is chilly, unusual for this time of year, and your teeth chatter a little as your bare feet make contact with the cold wooden floor. It creaks loudly with each careful step you take over to the sopping corner, and you suck in a breath as you see the extensive amount of water that’s made itself welcome during your once peaceful slumber. 

Much less careful and much more awake now that you’ve assessed the situation, you stomp over to your closet and pull out a towel, throwing it onto the puddle and watching the fabric darken with dampness. Using your foot, you step on the towel gingerly until it seems the puddle is gone, and you run to retrieve a bucket of sorts while you dial your landlord’s number on your phone. 

“No, it’s literally dripping right now — I swear, I can send you a video,” you say, quite irritated as your landlord denies it. You hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder, thrusting a large pot beneath the drip as your landlord insists that the building couldn’t possibly have any such issues; he’d inspected it personally before you moved in. 

“I refuse to be late for work because of this. It’s leaking, and I expect it to be fixed by the time I come back!” you shout, gripping your phone with more strength than necessary. You’d never even taken a negative tone with your landlord before, but seeing that this was a temporary situation, you couldn’t care less what the stupid man thought about you as a tenant. 

Your alarm goes off at that exact moment, reminding you that it’s your last chance to look decent for the day before you really have to leave. You glance down at your phone, turning the alarm off and exhaling deeply. Just a few more months of this, and then you’d have your degree and a job lined up for you. 

For now — work was your priority. It would just be nice if little inconveniences could stop building up and getting in the way of that. 

— 

The chill that permeated your bones as soon as you stepped out of bed should have been a sign, but you were so scatterbrained about being late that it didn’t hit you until you stepped outside. 

This weather was the sort that could penetrate through layers of clothing with ease, and there it would stay all day until you could truly warm yourself at night beneath the covers once more. It was wet and soggy and downright melancholy. It certainly didn’t help you want to go to work on such a dismal day, especially not when you had no desire to go in the first place. Although it was your priority, it didn’t cancel out the fact that you were exhausted and ready to graduate from the laboratory. 

Your fingers are already going numb as you fumble with your keys, managing to lock your door after a few pathetic misses. You bring your hands up to your face, exhaling warm air into your enclosed palms, attempting to warm yourself up as you walk to your car. 

Chilled dew rests upon each blade of grass, dampening your shoes as you wearily trek across the neatly trimmed lawn of your apartment complex. Despite its upkeep, the short green blades are still long enough to tickle your ankles beneath your pant legs, making your face twitch as you grimace and try to ignore the annoying feeling. The soles of your shoes squeak against the moist vegetation, sinking lightly into the mud and ensuring that your steps are as quick as possible, so that you don’t sink in further. 

Your headlights gleam yellow through the foggy morning, and the familiar beep of your car welcomes you as it unlocks, your thumb summoning it to life with one swift press of your keys. Droplets of rain slither down the roof of your car as it roars to life, dripping down and soaking into the sleeve of your sweater as you swing open your car door. 

Before you step into your car, something inside of you calls for you to look around. The early morning is somewhat eerie in the thick fog, and although you’re used to being awake when not many others are, something about today feels… off. 

Just behind your apartment complex and designated parking lot is a man-made field, and just beyond that is a line of trees, the entrance to a thick and dense forest. You shiver a little as you peer into the lush foliage, which looks especially green and wild from the recent rain. The faint sound of dripping water echoes towards you, seemingly from deep in the woods between the hefty trees. 

A flock of birds suddenly flies out from the treeline — crows most likely, from how they’re cawing, and their coal black feathers. It startles you at first, your heart nearly pounding out of your chest before you realize it’s only a few birds and nothing more. 

Even so, you hurry and get inside your car, locking the doors as quickly as possible and starting your engine. 

One of the crows lands on the hood of your car, making your grip tighten on the wheel out of surprise once more. It hops closer, seemingly tittering to itself as its beak opens and closes. Its beady black eye bores deep into your own eyes, unblinking and dark, before it flies off, its caws echoing in your ears. 

What the fuck? 

You try to ignore it, but the way the bird seemed to be trying to communicate something didn’t help ease the feeling that something felt off about today. It was probably nothing, you try to tell yourself. 

But nothing else consumes your mind the way that does — and before you know it, you’re parked in your spot at the laboratory, your clammy hands still gripping the steering wheel much tighter than necessary. Focus, idiot, focus, you murmur to yourself, as you gather your things and step out of your car, at least remembering to lock it in your apparently scrambled state. 

The weather is just as, if not more dismal at the laboratory. It was to be expected — it’s not too far from your apartment complex, and the weather around the laboratory was unusually intense, even when it was agreeable elsewhere close by. 

It’s in fact sprinkling a bit as you walk up the sidewalk to the front entrance of the laboratory, and you can tell that it has been for a short while. The tiny droplets of rain make their appearance known on the concrete surrounding you, darkening the ground as it dampens it. The smell of rain is stronger here too; the wet stone and earth is almost sharp in your nostrils as you inhale, likely heightened by the fact that the laboratory borders that same large forest outside of your apartment complex — the convenience of living near campus, you suppose. 

You’re deep in exhausted, monotonous thought when a hand claps on your shoulder, and you nearly jump out of your skin for the third time this morning. “Morning, graduate.” The unpleasantly silky voice of one of your labmates — Alex — crawls into your ear, sending a shiver up your spine. Luckily, the shiver gives you a segue into shrugging Alex’s arm off of your shoulders. 

“Uh… Morning, Alex,” you mutter, trying but failing to inject a modicum of cheerfulness into your voice. “Not a graduate yet.” 

“Ah, well. You will be in the next few months, right? Sooner than anyone else in the lab.” Alex moves away from you, much to your relief, and swivels ahead of you, walking backwards in order to attempt eye contact. “What’s with the Monday blues? Senioritis? Hangover from the Sunday scaries?” 

How does he know so many of these damn sayings? You force a chuckle, shaking your head as you speed up your gait, passing Alex and grabbing the handle of the front door — which is freezing cold and wet, much to your dismay. “Just tired, I’ll wake up as soon as we get into the lab,” you assure Alex, holding the door for him to justify your rude exit immediately afterwards. 

Speeding off once again, you find your locker in the staff room and shrug off your damp coat, shoving it inside the tiny space along with your depressing soggy lunch. You move as quickly as possible, wanting to be out of there before Alex arrives. Your timing is impeccable, and you squeeze past him as he enters the room, cutting off whatever insufferable question or statement he began with a, “see you in lab!” 

The hallway is yellow with warm lighting, giving the illusion of comfort and coziness. You’re all too familiar with this lie, however, and swallow past the scowl that threatens to make itself known on your face as you attempt to ignore the annoyingly positive flyers and posters littering the walls. 

A gap in the mess of papers pinned and taped to the walls reveals a door, the office of your professor — the one in charge of this laboratory, your boss, the one that’ll help make or break your future career as a researcher and scientist — Dr. Hellström. Your steps falter for a moment as you stare at his door before you continue on your way to lab. 

For a second, you swore you heard something from inside the room, even though Dr. Hellström is always in the laboratory before anyone else arrives in the morning. Always. On your first day in the laboratory, Dr. Hellström welcomed you with a stack of paperwork and only a verbal promise that you’d someday be actually involved in the hands-on experimentation. 

Lucky for you, you proved competent and impressed him enough that you were able to work alongside him before any of your other peers (although Alex was the second, only a day after you had proved yourself). 

The man himself was, of course, already in the laboratory when you entered, focused on dissecting something tiny; as you get closer, you can see that it’s a mouse. Nothing new — that’s exactly what you’d been doing for the past five years. The sound of you turning on the sink to wash your hands arouses him from his daze, and Dr. Hellström’s head snaps up in your direction. He pulls down his surgical mask, his crooked grin arranging itself on his cracked, chapped lips. “First in the lab again, are you?” he asks, his voice dry both in tone and in the sense that he sounded as if he could benefit from a drink of water. “I’m not surprised.” 

“You know me, professor,” you say, your desire to impress overriding your overall annoyance. After finishing washing your hands, you dry them and carefully put on a pair of gloves. You grab a mask and a pair of goggles, putting them on as quickly as possible and approaching Dr. Hellström. “What are you working on?” you ask, just as Alex walks through the door, making you stiffen up once again. 

“Take a look. Same shit we’ve been working on all year, don’t get too excited,” Dr. Hellström says with a wheezing laugh, before pulling his mask back up over his rough, patchy facial hair. “Alex, I see you’re here early as well. Do the two of you carpool or something?” 

Alex’s responding chuckle sounds genuine, while yours sounds hollow and numb echoing in your own mind. 

ii. 

The rain outside begins to come down harder, the once gentle pattering of small droplets turning into wet thuds as more substantial downpour begins. The rain against the windows is so thick that it’s impossible to look through the glass and see the other side clearly; everything is awash with those fat droplets, blurring the picturesque green outdoors. 

This isn’t something that you would normally pay particular attention to — you’re used to the dismal weather, after spending a few consecutive years in the exact area. However, today, your mind seems to be trying to occupy itself anywhere other than inside the laboratory, where it’s supposed to remain for the next few months. It’s quite frustrating, and you attempt over and over again to force your attention back to the specimens before you. Once upon a time, a new and naive version of yourself was excited to work with any specimens in dissection; your undergraduate years were disappointingly lacking when it came to actual hands-on work in the lab. You so desperately wish for that version of yourself to possess your current self, needing that hopeless, stupid motivation more than anything. The rain outside roars even harder, prompting you to turn your attention to the blurred out window once more, away from your mice — they weren’t going anywhere, after all. 

After a brief consideration of the unchanged window, your gaze shifts to your professor. He’s engaged with his work in a way you could only recreate in your wildest dreams — hunched over his dissection, visible sweat beading on his crooked nose and dripping down his balding gray temples, disappearing as they soak into the collar of his lab coat. He hardly seems to be breathing as he examines the fragile, intricate innards of his specimen, his hands completely calm and steady as he maneuvers the scalpel. 

At the table beside you, Alex is engaged with his work in a similar manner, which annoys you instead of inspiring you, which is how you felt about your professor. Alex seems to be mimicking the motions and posture of your professor, which makes you feel as if you should be doing the same. You take a deep inhale of the stale, warm air inside of your surgical mask and hunch over your mice, looking for anything new that would be helpful to Dr. Hellström. 

For a moment, you actually feel engaged in your work, trying to place yourself in the eager mindset of your younger self. But before you can truly immerse yourself in your work, Dr. Hellström calls for a lunch break. 

“I was waiting for one of you to crack first, but the two of you were so immersed today that I suppose I’m the weak link,” he chuckles, tossing his mask and gloves into a nearby trash can. He doesn’t wait for a response from either you nor Alex, exiting the room and whistling a sharp tune as he casually ambles down the hallway. 

“I always get like this when I’m getting work done. Just another sign that I’m gonna make it big someday soon,” Alex says, mostly to himself. The notes of pride and arrogance make your nose wrinkle, and you’re grateful that you haven’t yet taken off your disposable gear. 

Similar to your professor, Alex doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response, and he doesn’t waste time tossing his gear and washing his hands before leaving the room, presumably heading to the break room where most of the students gathered to eat lunch together. 

You move much slower than both Dr. Hellström and Alex, not particularly looking forward to the soggy lunch you had packed yourself in a rushed panic this morning, and especially not looking forward to eating lunch with Alex in the break room. No one else in your lab had showed today, and it seemed like the weather had warded off a majority of the other students as well — meaning that it was highly likely that you and Alex would be the only two in the break room. This time, you don’t need a mask to hide your grimace from the otherwise empty room. 

Soberly, you pull off your blue latex gloves, watching the garment turn itself inside out and free itself from your clammy fingers one by one. You dispose of both gloves before your mask follows, but it’s only once you’ve removed your goggles as well that you can truly take in the strong aroma of formaldehyde and other chemicals. Your eyes water, and your nose burns a little from the intensity, despite the fact that you’d spent the last several hours in this room. 

You swallow the saliva that’s starting to pool in your mouth from the slight nausea, which is from both the strong smell of the room and the lack of food in your stomach. Eager to exit the room for a break, you leave, your nostrils now flooded with the smell of musty old wood, the general overall smell of the old building. 

You’re just passing by your professor’s office on the way to your locker when his door suddenly creaks open, just enough that you can see a sliver of his grizzled old face. “I knew it was you. Can you step inside for a moment? There’s something I want to discuss with you in private,” Dr. Hellström says. He speaks quickly, his tone a little lilting and off — it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but something tells you that despite the warning signs, you weren’t in danger. Your curiosity begins to bubble up inside of you, stronger than your hesitation. “It’ll be real quick. We’ll be able to get right back to work after this,” he says, his words encouraging but his tone still a little frightening and unfamiliar. 

You make your choice quickly when you hear Alex’s loud chortle from the nearby break room — apparently, he wasn’t alone in there after all. Still, the sound of your competitor’s voice thaws you from your freeze, and you approach Dr. Hellström, entering his office as he quickly steps aside, hardly leaving enough room for you to squeeze through. You’re about to chide him for it playfully, when he shuts the door somewhat aggressively, startling you slightly. 

“Professor, what’s wrong…?” you ask, your gaze still trained on your trusted boss and educator. You can see now that his breathing is slightly uneven, his lips are shiny with saliva. He notices your gaze, and licks his lips. Although he’s watching you, his eyes are trained on something behind you. The same moment that you make that realization, you hear something behind you. It sounds like chains clinking, something big shifting — and a low growl permeates the thick air. 

“Professor…” you say again, your voice clearly less confident this time. It wobbles a little, even though you only uttered a single word. You swallow thickly as you wait for him to respond. 

“Don’t be afraid. It can’t hurt you,” Dr. Hellström says, letting out a pleased little hum. “I have asked you here for a few very specific reasons. Firstly, I trust you, on multiple terms.” He turns to ensure that the door to his office is locked from the inside, before turning back to you and starting to slowly walk towards you. “I trust that you’re competent enough to be such a big part of this research project.” Step. “I trust that you’ve got enough grit and guts to take on such an experiment.” Step. “And…” He stops right in front of you, and now you see, all of that reaction was from pure excitement, unfiltered rampant glee. “I trust that you won’t tell anyone about this, unless I say so.” 

Your back prickles with the knowledge that you’re being watched from the front, and from behind. Yet, you can’t seem to find out how to walk away — both literally, and metaphorically. 

“Yes, professor,” you hear yourself saying meekly. 

“Good,” he mutters, “good.” He inhales deeply, and you can hear the mucus and phlegm in his airways as he does so. You try not to let the disgust show on your face. “Then, please turn around. I have our next great experiment right here.” 

It was like he released you from a magic spell — as soon as he said you could, your previously frozen legs and feet began to move, and you slowly turn around on the spot. At first, everything that you see is familiar. You’ve spent plenty of time in this office, asking questions and working on reports late into the night with Dr. Hellström. The bookshelves that line a majority of the walls, stuffed to the brim with thick, ancient texts about various related subjects. The large arched windows that are currently obstructed from view with plush velvet curtains, but you know are there. His desk, always messy with papers and spilled ink; the “guest” desk that sits just beside it, where you so often spend late nights. Then, in the center of the room, where usually there would just be an unassuming brick fireplace (which you’ve never seen lit, mind you), there were girthy metal dowels drilled deep into the brick mantle, with the heaviest chains you’ve ever seen attached to them. 

The chains had something attached on the other end, as well. 

If you thought that you were afraid before, it was nothing compared to how you felt now. 

Pure, frozen, white-cold fear began in your toes, freezing you to your spot on the hardwood floor, before traveling up your legs and through your limbs, nearly stopping your heart and lungs. It certainly felt like all of your internal organs had stopped working, as you lay eyes upon a creature that seemed to be damned to Earth by God or whatever higher power there was; there was no sense of purity or innocence in the slightest. 

This creature had to be at least seven feet tall, perhaps more, but you couldn’t tell with the position that it was chained up in. The thick chains connected to the dowels on the fireplace led to handcuffs around its dark gray wrists, which were as thick and muscular as they were raw and bloody from the cuffs. These chains left it in a permanent pose, in which it is on its knees, with its arms raised above its head and chained to either side of the mantle. Its feet are chained up too, you can see them bound in chains of similar thickness and weight. 

Each feature that this creature possessed was not human; the only humanity that it carried was in its face and general body structure. Although monstrous in muscle and size, the creature’s body still roughly resembled that of a human; bipedal, similar bone structure and limbs. Its feet were clad in the biggest pair of black boots you’ve ever seen, so you could not assess them in the same way you did with its hands — huge, could cover your entire face and then some, with black claws that come to sharp, curved points. You worry that the creature is somehow able to sense your gaze upon its appendages, as its fingers twitch, the first movement you see from it. 

You were this comfortable making your observations up until this point, because the first thing that you noticed about the creature was that it did not have any eyes — and you assumed that meant it could not see. Now, though, you have the dreaded feeling that the creature can see — just not in the way one might automatically assume. 

This realization makes you tear your gaze away from the creature, your entire body shrinking away in a shudder as you face your familiar professor instead. Part of you thinks that this is fake, that if you look away then the creature will disappear. You glance back with foolish hopefulness, instead feeling the soulless black voids of its empty eye sockets boring into your gaze. You’ll never be able to forget the way its face looks — it’s more horrifying than the rest of the creature somehow, because here is where the creature resembles a human the most. 

It has tousled brown hair — its style a little outdated, perhaps, but reminiscent of guys in your age range. A sharper jawline than expected with how large and hulking its body is, and a sharp nose to match. Thin, but shapely lips, a slightly darker and more pigmented shade of gray than the rest of its body, and quite chapped and cracked. The lightest sprinkle of freckles across his nose, and the lightest hint of facial hair, stubbly and prickly. If you ignored the fact that his skin was the color of slate, you might be able to pretend he was a normal human, until you focus on his eyes — for they are not only missing, but seemingly gory, open wounds on his face. The sockets are unnaturally dark; they do not seem to have an ending, as ridiculous as it sounds. The flesh around the sockets are bruised and irritated, and most noticeable of all, there is a thick black fluid consistently flowing from the voids, too dark and too viscous to be blood. 

“I found this marvelous being in our very own local forest,” your professor suddenly booms, rousing you from your deep thoughts and analysis, “feeding on something… quite suspicious. This is where my trust in you to keep a secret begins.” Dr. Hellström grunts, and then clears his throat, nodding to himself. 

Part of you wants to tell Dr. Hellström to go fuck himself, before running out of the room and screaming like you’re the one he wanted to imprison. That part of you, the sane and selfless part of you, would obviously report Dr. Hellström to the authorities, and get this… creature some help, whatever that would entail. Another part of you, however, a deeper and more sinister part of you that you like to ignore on a daily basis, urges you to stay where you are. Tattling would result in Dr. Hellström being investigated and unable to serve as your advisor. It would mean that you don’t get to become published, nor defend your final thesis on time. It would also mean that you wouldn’t ever get to see this creature again, never have the chance to not only glimpse it but study it. Depending on what Dr. Hellström was planning on proposing to you, sticking around and keeping your mouth shut might reward you with the opportunity of a lifetime. 

“You can trust me, professor. I haven’t rejected you yet, have I?” you say boldly, a little louder than you wanted to be. It makes you cringe just as much as your fake laugh from earlier, in lab. 

Dr. Hellström doesn’t seem to care — if anything, your loudness spurs him on. He cackles loudly, throwing his head back. “I knew it. I knew I made the right choice with you,” he hums, his voice almost a purr with how pleased he seems. “Now, I must ask you, do you remember that student that went missing earlier this month? The undergraduate?” 

“Um… Yes, I do. The girl, the one that lived right off campus? She was in the news for a while,” you reply, a little confused about the sudden change of topic. 

Your professor’s eyes gleam with something rabid now, and as he parts his lips to speak there are foamy bits of saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I found her. But we can’t tell anyone, alright?” He seems to gather himself a little here, wiping his mouth with his fingers and gritting his teeth. “She… was what this creature was feeding on when I came across it in the forest.” 

The very thought should sicken you to your stomach, and you feel an odd sense of guilt as you realize that your initial reaction was interest. Further interest in this creature, what it was, why it was apparently consuming humans. 

“It ate her?” you ask, more fascination coming through in your tone than you wanted. 

“Mm. Indeed,” your professor says, nodding slightly. “Come. I have more to show you.” 

Intrigued to no end, you follow your professor over to his desk. His desk is situated quite close to the fireplace, where the creature is chained up, and it’s quite a bit closer than you were before. Although you’re interested, you’re still quite wary of being so close to the creature, especially knowing now that you were apparently its idea of a good meal. 

Your professor doesn’t seem especially bothered by this fact, nonchalantly plopping down in his desk chair as he rifles through the numerous papers and files strewn across the tabletop. He mumbles quietly to himself, and you wait patiently though your restlessness grows with each passing moment. Finally, beneath a stack of lab report drafts and a long-empty box of chocolates, he pulls out a thick manila folder, so stuffed full that it’s clipped together on the sides for extra durability and security. This seems to be exactly what Dr. Hellström was looking for, as he holds it up and waves it at you triumphantly before tossing it roughly onto the desktop. 

“Look through this, and tell me what you think,” he says, reaching forward to undo the numerous clips holding the folder together. 

As soon as the last clip is undone, the folder nearly springs open on its own. You realize that the contents of this folder are not hundreds of pieces of paperwork, but instead, hundreds of photographs. Photographs that were seemingly taken all at once, very recently, by Dr. Hellström of the creature. 

You quickly realize that the photos are sorted by body part, and that each stack of photos contains up-close shots of a certain part of the creature’s body. You hold up one that analyzes the creature’s hands, flipping through the photos of the claws, the knuckles, the palms. 

“I still need some more of these photo sets. I haven’t taken any of the creature undressed,” Dr. Hellström says bluntly. Perhaps the most humanistic trait of this creature, other than its facial features, was the fact that it was clad in human clothing; a thick black hoodie and a pair of black jeans, along with the aforementioned black boots. 

Upon the mention of photographs (and perhaps the mention of undressing), the creature suddenly roars from behind you, causing both you and Dr. Hellström to nearly jump out of your skins. Its chains rattle fiercely, the growls and snarls grow fiercer and grow in volume, seeming to make the very room shake. As you freeze, Dr. Hellström flies into action, snatching a syringe from his desk that you did not previously realize was there, and injecting whatever clear fluid inside directly into the creature’s meaty neck. The roars stop, and the creature’s head lulls forward limply as Dr. Hellström removes the needle, exhaling exasperatedly after he does so successfully. For a moment, there is no sound except for the slow drips of the creature’s black eye fluid onto the floor, creating small puddles beneath where his face hangs. You’re almost grateful for the creature’s reaction, a pool of guilt and disgust forming in your stomach from the idea of exposing the creature in such a way — especially after it expressed such discontent at the mere mention.

“As I was saying,” Dr. Hellström says, a tad of irritation in his voice, as if he were appalled by the fact that the creature retaliated. “There are still plenty more tests to run, evidence to gather. There’s so much to do alongside our main lab… I can’t possibly do it all myself.” 

This was exactly what you were hoping for, the reason why you were waiting around this entire time. 

“Would you be interested in taking part in this research study alongside myself? You would of course be able to keep your position in my main lab as well, with your peers,” Dr. Hellström says, his tone enticing, as if he were offering candy to a baby. “And… you would be able to have two publications under your name, as well as a job at nearly any institution you long for. With a recommendation from me, you’re golden — not to sound too full of myself.” 

Your hesitating seemed to have been rid from your system earlier, as you felt none of it now in this moment. “I am extremely interested, professor, and I accept,” you say confidently. 

Dr. Hellström grins widely, before extending his hand to you. You take it, shaking it firmly. 

“Welcome to the team once again,” he says, placing a hand on your back as he guides you towards the door to his office. The heavy lock clunks into place as Dr. Hellström unlocks it, and the two of you walk back to the laboratory, ignoring Alex’s parroting questions in tandem, in perfect sync. 

iii.

Luckily for you, by the time you returned home late that evening — much later than you were supposed to get out, but you were used to the extremely late dismissals — it seemed that some repair person had come by and fixed the leak in your ceiling. There was a faint smell of plaster and wet paint as soon as you entered through your front door, and it only got stronger as you walked down the hallway and entered your bedroom. Now you could see that there was a slightly noticeable patch on the ceiling, with paint that looked like it was still drying; you deduced this from the slightly lighter hue that the area had taken on. Your pot, which had been faithfully catching the droplets until help presumably arrived, had been emptied and was sitting in the same corner, waiting for you. 

The luck cheered you up immensely, and even though you were extremely tired and had yet another early day in the morning, you decided to treat yourself to ordering dinner and having both a glass of wine and a cigarette — you needed it after today. 

Your apartment had a small fire escape, hardly a balcony despite the fact that you treated it as such. Balanced quite precariously on the shallow, cramped metal flooring was a stool and a tiny table that you assumed was originally a child’s nightstand before you found it at the thrift store. It wasn’t much at all, but it served its purpose as your designated smoke spot. 

Before you could go out there, however, you had to wait for your food to arrive. 

It was a dull process, and you ended up downing two glasses of wine and watching some shitty reality dating show with plastic faces and bodies on both the men and women. For some reason, you found yourself getting invested in the moment. Your hand shakes a little as you pour your third glass of wine, promising yourself that it’s the last and you’ll save it to have with your food. It arrives soon after — lucky you, once again — and you guzzle the wine within the first few bites and sorrowfully pour just one more, which lasts for the duration of your meal. You can feel the tipsiness; although you’d consumed quite a bit of the bottle you were used to this amount of alcohol in a short amount of time, and it was the perfect amount to get you buzzed but not drunk. 

Your stomach full, you rise and yawn, leaving the television on but lowering the volume before opening your curtains and pushing open your window. The fire escape greets you, still damp from the rain. Droplets of water have beaded upon the surfaces of both pieces of furniture, and you ignore the feeling of cold water soaking through the back of your pants and panties, knowing you’ll shed the clothing in favor of a shower soon after your last reward. 

Your last reward is waiting for you in your pocket, permanently and safely at home inside one of your jackets that you’ve designated as your smoking jacket. It’s old and thick and thrifted, with a waterproof exterior and now, a slight stench of cigarettes. 

Your fingers are cold and starting to get numb and stiff again, reminding you of the unchanged weather from the morning. Grumbling slightly, you hold a cigarette between your teeth gingerly and fumble for your lighter, clicking it a few times before the flame stays steady long enough for the end of your cigarette to light. You let out a puff of smoke, exhaling as you pull the lighter away, and pocket it as you hold your cigarette in your free hand. 

Finally. 

Soft patters of draining water dribbling down and hitting the metal stairs fills your ears, leftover rain from throughout the day making its way back to the earth. It smells wet, slightly metallic but mostly of dirt and leaves and trees. Smoke too, of course. You close your eyes for a moment to savor it, all of those sensory details, before you open them again, staring into the void of the forest just beyond your building. It seems so massive and dark, not much less foreboding even in the daylight. That’s where the creature is from. That’s where he ran free until very recently. 

That thought sends a chill down your spine. Suddenly, the idea that there are likely more creatures in those woods becomes very, very real. 

The timing is perfect, however, and as soon as you start to feel real fear seeping into your stomach, your cigarette goes out. It had started to taste bitter and harsh anyways, so you have no issue stubbing it out on your wet ashtray and hurrying back inside. You double check the lock before pulling your curtains closed, your heart hammering in your chest. 

When you lay down to sleep that night, you feel stone cold sober — the pit in your stomach growing and keeping you aware and awake until you drift off into a fitful sleep. 

—

The next morning dawns early, and its weather seems nearly identical to the day before. Your commute is just as abysmal (and for some reason, rampant with crows), as are your interactions with Alex in the main laboratory. As he bores you with stories about his undergraduate years that you did not ask about, you think about the time that you’ll get to spend with Dr. Hellström and the creature. It serves as motivation for you to get through the wretched morning hours. Dr. Hellström had promised that you would be able to spend your afternoons — and evenings, if you wished — with the creature, studying it to your heart’s content. 

The giddiness in his voice had sickened you a little once again, for he had told you that soon after he had put the creature to sleep quite violently. Your professor went on and on about the details, promising you that he would discuss more with you in the coming days, but it all went in one ear and out the other. You were concentrated on the now slumped figure behind Dr. Hellström. Its arms looked so painfully strained, holding up the entire weight of its upper body as it was forced to practically hang there by its chains. There was no movement at all, other than the soft breathing that served as the only visible sign of life within the creature. 

The silver needle glinted in the late evening light coming through a crack in the curtains, making you wince. It was the most honest you’d been all evening; the closest your face got to matching how you felt about this whole ordeal. 

At first, you were hesitant. It seemed insane and inhumane. Then, you became confident in your involvement, for the sake of your career and your future in the field. Now that you’d had more time to think about it, and a night to (fitfully) sleep on it, you were hesitating once more. You were undeniably excited at the prospect of such a project and being able to be the first to learn about this unknown creature. But there was still a nagging feeling that something about this was off, that your professor had been lying when he said everything was handled ethically. How the hell could you cover up the murder of a student ethically? Still, though, you were reluctant to immediately tell Dr. Hellström that you wanted to revoke your involvement — because you didn’t fully want to revoke it, to be completely honest. At this point, it seemed like the pros outweighed the cons. You would just have to learn how to sit with this uncomfortable feeling, especially if you wanted to participate in more such studies in the future as a professional. It was the right thing to do. 

Lunch finally rolls around, and this time Alex waits for you, much to your dismay. 

“I saved you a seat yesterday and you didn’t show! The other lab felt bad for me,” Alex says, groaning with embarrassment — as if you would have sat with him anyway. 

“Oh, really? Sorry about that. Tell them I’m taking my lunches and afternoons with Dr. Hellström from now on, then. It’ll stop the rumors and wondering,” you reply, faux pity piled on thick. Alex was the sort of person that didn’t seem to question when people were overly nice and accommodating to them, even if it’s obviously sarcastic.

“Wait, lunches and afternoons? What about our lab?” Alex asks, stuttering a little on the first word. He scratches his temple, looking at you for an answer. 

You should’ve known that Alex would pry. Why the fuck did you try and brag? You hesitate for a moment before settling on the fact that Dr. Hellström hadn’t told you to not mention a second lab — he just said no one else could know about the creature. 

A slightly uncomfortable laugh escapes you, but Alex doesn’t seem to notice the fakeness of it. “Oh, yeah. He recruited me for a second lab last minute, I’m just helping out again.” 

Alex exhales, pursing his lips before his sunny demeanor returns. “Damn. You’re really on that grind, huh? I better get on your level. Congratulations, two research labs is hella impressive.” He claps you on the shoulder again, meaning it as a friendly gesture but only receiving a flinch from you in return. “Well, see you tomorrow, then.” He gives you a grin before whistling and heading out of the lab, leaving you muttering under your breath about what an idiot he is. 

You head over to Dr. Hellström’s office as soon as you finish cleaning up your station for the day. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you knock on the heavy wooden door. Dr. Hellström opens it almost immediately, his bloodshot eyes locking with yours. His right eye twitches, and as you look closer upon entering the room, you see his pupils practically vibrating — from excitement or lack of sleep, you’re unsure. 

The second thing you notice when you walk in is the dog kennel that’s now in front of the fireplace, and more importantly, housing the creature. Its arms are still bound by the wrists, but now they’re free from the chains and merely held in its lap. It’s able to sit now too, and from what you can tell, move around more freely in general. Similar to its wrists, its ankles are bound as well, still in heavy chains. 

“You must look at the samples I’ve been analyzing,” Dr. Hellström raves, clearly not focused on the fact that you’re still taking in the sight of the creature in the cage, “they’re… the answer. The answer to what we’ve all been asking, all these years.” His words are so vague that they’re hard to decipher exactly. 

“What do you mean, professor?” you ask, undeniably interested. 

He waves you over to his desk. The previously scattered papers are now messily stacked on one side of the surface; the rest is taken up by a large microscope and a slightly neater stack of new paper. His laptop rests on one of the precarious stacks of old notes, shunted off into the corner, unneeded at the moment. He motions for you to come over to the microscope. “Look. Look,” he urges, letting out a shrill, excited little noise as you lean forward and peer into the microscope. 

You’re not sure what you’re looking at. There are countless cells — skin cells, from what you could tell, but obviously not human. “Its skin, professor?” you ask under your breath, feeling uncomfortable with discussing the sample so close to its source. You pull away from the microscope momentarily to look at your professor. 

“Keep looking,” he grunts, pointing to the microscope. Before you return your attention to the cells, you hear slight clinking, and look over at the creature to see it facing you completely. It doesn’t utter anything, merely watching you and observing you. You were certain yesterday that it could see you despite its lack of eyes, and today you’re now certain that it can hear you from across the room, even though you were whispering. 

Shakily, you return your attention to the view under the microscope. The cells aren’t doing much — until suddenly, they are. It’s the oddest sight you’ve ever seen under a microscope — the cells all suddenly stop and freeze at the same time, before vibrating quickly, so fast that it’s just a blur no matter how much you magnify it. When the movement slows, there are twice as many cells as there were before. You let out a low exhale, fascinated. 

“The blood does the same. The potential that these cells carry… we could take over the entire medical field if they perform how I expect them to,” Dr. Hellström says, unable to hide his excitement as always. 

“Healing properties. And potential cures for all sorts of diseases and disorders that rely on cell regeneration,” you mutter, earning a frantic nod from Dr. Hellström. 

“Yes, yes! And more! What if we could extend the human lifespan? Or even further, the lifespans of other creatures? Until we know more, the possibilities are endless.” He laughs aloud, licking his lips and smoothing his hair back to look at you. For the first time since he had introduced this project to you, he looked calm — just like his old self. Then, his appearance seems to shift again, this time into a man that looks older than his years, weary and beaten down. “I can only hope that the subject lasts long enough.” 

“How long will it take? Surely, it can survive a few months. It looks hardy,” you say, still keeping your voice low. The creature continues to watch the two of you from its cage, silently. 

“It hasn’t eaten since I found it,” he says, sighing. Now he looks over at the creature, almost longingly and affectionately. “I just can’t source human flesh. Not unless I want to end up behind bars. And it won’t eat any of the animal meat I’ve provided it with… beef, pork, chicken… even tried venison and fuckin’ kangaroo meat.” Now he scoffs, the slight affection gone from his voice and his face. “Thing’s picky. And it’s for sure weaker now than it was a few days ago.” 

You’re silent for a moment, pondering different possibilities before concluding that Dr. Hellström had likely explored all potential options before even bringing this up to you. “We’ll have to collect samples and preserve them, then. As fast as possible.” There goes the likelihood of analyzing a live specimen up close. At least it would be far easier once the creature was deceased. 

“Mm. That’s what I thought, too.” Dr. Hellström sighs. “Well, we shouldn’t waste any more of our limited time, then. Let’s get to work.” He pulls out another syringe, identical to the one that he used to put the creature to sleep the day before. The creature seems to recognize it too, immediately letting out a growl as the two of you approach the cage. 

“Now, now,” Dr. Hellström tuts, the mocking tone to his voice making you uncomfortable for the creature, “you know how fast this goes when you don’t struggle, right?” 

The creature growls louder, shrinking back into the back corner of the cage, as far away from the two of you as possible. The cage is much too small to contain such a large being, however, and Dr. Hellström is easily able to jab the creature’s meaty shoulder with the needle, chuckling as he watches its head lull to the side uncontrollably. 

With seemingly Herculean effort, the creature lifts its head by barely an inch, its eye sockets trained on your face — not Dr. Hellström’s. 

“The operator… won’t… be pleased. He… is coming.” 

The voice is low, gravelly. It sounds so human — the idea that if you hadn’t seen the creature before you heard it, you’d have no differentiation between it and a normal person sends a chill down your spine, a feeling that’s been much too familiar recently. 

After those few bone chilling words, its head drops and its body goes completely slack once more. Just like the day before, you find yourself fixated on the endless black liquid dripping from its eye sockets and puddling on the floor of the kennel. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend you could rewind time and go back to yesterday morning. The drips were just from your stupid leaking ceiling — nothing else. 

You almost believed it. 

iv. 

Who was the Operator? What did the creature mean, that he was coming? For you? For Dr. Hellström? For him? Furthermore, the creature could talk? That brought upon a consideration that you hadn’t previously thought about — you had contemplated its sight, its hearing — but never its speech abilities, or the fact that it might speak your language and fully understand how to communicate using the social norms of humans. The vision of the creature’s face floats in your mind endlessly, torturing your consciousness with a burning question. It had human traits — not all of them, but plenty. It spoke like humans, communicated like them, understood them. It dressed in human clothing, and not in a manner that seemed unfamiliar with the concept. Was this creature… human? 

It couldn’t be. Another disturbingly clear picture pops into your mind, of the vibrating cells under the microscope. That wasn’t human — not at all. 

Your mind is swarming with thoughts, with questions, with oddly clear memories from the past few days. It becomes suffocating after a while, and as you lay in bed on the eve of the creature’s first utterances, you soon realize there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep. Not like this, at least. 

Sitting up in bed, you push back the covers that have become sweltering without you realizing. The air outside the blankets is cool and fresh on your clammy limbs, though still a bit stuffy as you inhale deeply. You know exactly what’ll calm you, and at this point you don’t care how many cigarettes it takes you to make it to your graduation. 

You don’t go out onto the fire escape, not this time. In fact, you hadn’t used it since the night before, when you felt a foreboding tenseness in the night air. You had no plans in the near future to use it, at the very least not alone or at night — both of which were currently occurring. Instead, you open your bedroom window, reaching into your jacket pocket and pulling out your box of cigarettes and lighter. The air is even fresher now, and once more it smells of petrichor and damp earth. Crickets chirp loudly, the noise unnoticeable when the window was closed. A slight breeze makes you clutch your jacket closer around your body as you lean against the windowsill, bringing an unlit cigarette to your lips before you click your lighter. Each metallic snap sounds like it echoes through the pitch black forest before you, but you feel safer inside your bedroom than out on the fire escape. 

The false sense of security lulls you into a half-sleep, a state between dream and consciousness. You’d long since finished your first cigarette — and a second, though you wouldn’t admit it to anyone but yourself — and the butts lay on a discarded paper plate that once held leftover takeout, ash scattered around them. The crickets continue to chirp, but the natural sounds of the night do not wake you — they simply incorporate into your odd dream. 

In the dream — which is half reality and half dreamt — you’re standing outside rather than slumped against the wall, right beneath your window. You’re not only outside, but standing on the border of the forest, staring into the black void in front of you. Just like in reality, you can only really see the initial line of trees clearly, illuminated by the silvery moonlight. Beyond that, there are only glimpses of branches and other shrubbery in areas where the foliage has thinned and allows for slivers of silver to peek through. Other than that — there is nothing that your eyes can distinguish from the darkness. 

For some reason, you don’t walk away even though fear is flowing freely through your entire body. You stand there, petrified, as you hear branches crackling. The fear hits you tenfold suddenly, but your frozen stance remains unchanged even as your heart pounds in your chest, resonating in your ears. 

Within the darkness — somehow — there appears a pit of even darker energy. It acts like a energy focused black hole, and your entire body feels weak and jittery — the pure adrenaline — or perhaps something more sinister — was keeping you standing there. 

Black tendrils creep forth from that center of dark energy, and they seem to be made of pure shadow and matter. You can’t tell if they have a true physical form, but they’re coming for you regardless. Just as they reach the edge of the forest, you see two huge white hands, reaching, grasping — and a completely smooth white face. Static and screeching tones blur your vision almost immediately, making you gasp weakly and taste metal in the back of your throat. It gets louder, ringing in your ears until you manage to let out a desperate scream — and then you awaken. 

In your bedroom. Sitting on the floor. You close your eyes once more after registering your surroundings, exhaling with relief. When you open them, however, that same blank white face is right in front of yours, making you scream again — and you wake into your body once more. 

This time, it’s real. You don’t dare to close your eyes again, standing up and slamming your windows shut. As soon as they lock, you feel a wet substance dripping down your upper lip. You bring your fingers up to feel it, examining your digits as you pull them back to your line of vision. Blood. There’s still a faint ringing in your ears too, and you can feel an intense headache beginning to bloom from the back of your head and moving forwards. “Fuck,” you mutter, pinching your nose shut. As you tilt your head back, you make the mistake of looking out the window once more before you shut the curtains. 

Nothing’s there — but now you know what’s waiting in the darkness. 

— 

You’re again eager to waste away the morning and get away from Alex and the stench of formaldehyde soaked mouse corpses, but today proves… especially difficult. 

For some reason, your work with Dr. Hellström and the creature was beginning to lose its luster. The nagging feeling that you were hurting this creature and putting it through unnecessary pain was growing, and the initial thought that it was worth it to prove your name in science was shrinking into a meaningless dud of an apparent opportunity. Thinking about it more, Dr. Hellström probably would’ve written you that letter of recommendation anyways, and you were going to be published regardless. 

Further, today you walked into Dr. Hellström’s office, and the creature was already knocked out. Dr. Hellström had sent you an email saying that he had to step out of the building for a meeting during his lunch hour today, but the creature was already sedated and you were free to take whatever samples you deemed necessary. Already wrestling with the growing guilt, the sight of the creature in such a sorry state and the lack of professional supervision allowed for your true emotions to surface. 

“Shit…” you mutter, rubbing your tired, red eyes. You hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before either, not after the weird… dream? Sleep paralysis? It only added to the crappy feeling. 

The creature was significantly thinner than it had been just a few days ago. Despite the heavy hoodie and jeans, you could see that its frame was already much thinner and bonier. The clothes now practically hung off of its body. The exposed wrists were even more telling, with the bones more prominent. The creature was literally wasting away and dying, in your and Dr. Hellström’s bloodied hands. 

You get a little closer, confident in its sedated state. Just like before, the only movement is its slight breathing. Now, you can see the scarring on the creature’s wrists and forearms from the handcuffs. The flesh is worn and scarred over, with new wounds on top of the knotted skin. The rapid cell regeneration made sense now. 

The creature’s head of messy brown hair was even messier now, starting to get knotted and matted from lack of attention. The back of its head was especially tangled, and you felt a sudden urge to brush its hair before you shook off the insane idea. If anything, you would try to get a saliva and a hair sample — not literally brush its hair like a pet, or a doll. 

You turn your attention back to its hands. They’re resting on the ground, close to the edge of the cage. The creature is in a sitting position, but slumped forward enough that his hands are able to extend out in front of him a bit. Drawing even closer, you kneel beside the cage and look at the creature’s hands. Other than the sharp claws and massive size, you realize that they do resemble human hands quite closely — another comparison that sends a jolt of emotion and guilt through your body. Without realizing, your hand is slowly moving towards his, getting closer and closer to reaching through the bars. 

“Holy fuck, dude. This is the project you and Dr. Hellström have been working on?” 

The sudden and unexpected voice makes you jerk your hand back quickly, and you turn around to give the intruder a glare. You’re not surprised to see Alex standing there, his jaw dropped as he stares at the creature. “What the hell is it?” 

“Get out, Alex,” you snap, standing up and starting towards your labmate, trying to shield the creature from his view. It’s not much help, given that the creature and the cage itself are much larger than you are. “You shouldn’t be in here.” 

Alex ignores you, pushing past you without much needed effort despite your hissing complaints. He approaches the cage immediately, leaning on it and making it rattle. The creature does not stir, although he sways a little from the impact. 

“Relax, I just want to take a look. I’ve been curious about what the two of you have been cooking up in here anyways,” he scoffs, waving you off nonchalantly. He returns his attention to the creature, letting out a low whistle. “This is insane. You guys will be famous in like, every science field.” He grips the top of the cage, shaking it a little and jostling the creature even more, making you let out a choked gasp. 

“Alex, stop it. It’s sedated,” you hiss, stalking over to him and nudging him off the cage. Alex lets out an exasperated huff. 

“If it’s sedated, then why does it fucking matter? That’s like saying we have to handle the dead mice like live pets,” he counters, pushing past you again and making you stumble. Your blood boils, but you try to stay calm. 

“I don’t know, respect? Human decency? Just not being a piece of shit?” you spit, clenching and unclenching your fists. You can feel your fingernails digging into the soft skin of your palms, for sure leaving marks. 

Alex ignores you again, and you’re not sure if that makes you angrier than you would be if he responded with something equally as stupid. He sticks his hand between the bars of the cage, and his arm barely wedges in the small gap. He looks over at you with a shit-eating grin, wiggling his fingers in front of the creature’s face. 

“Alex, seriously, stop. The creature eats—” 

“Seriously, stop,” he mocks, his tone reminiscent of a young child that has no other more educated comebacks to use. He grabs a handful of the creature’s matted hair, chuckling as he shakes its head from side to side. “It’s sedated, remember?” 

He lifts the creature’s head, curious and wanting to look at its face. You grimace and look away, praying for Dr. Hellström to come back and tell Alex off before you kicked his ass. 

But as soon as you look away, you hear a yelp — and turn back to see the creature gripping Alex’s wrist so tight that his hand paled and turned grayish white — the color of a corpse. 

“F-fuck! Get your ass over here and f-fucking help me!” Alex shouts, pain evident in his voice. The creature cackles, a sound that makes you clench your jaw and hesitate to move. 

In one sickeningly fluid movement, the creature pulls on Alex’s arm so hard that the narrow bars he barely fit in initially slice through the flesh of his forearm, de-gloving the appendage up to his elbow where the bony joint stops it from going further. Alex’s screams rattle the walls, enhancing the faint tinnitus that you’d retained from the night before, as the creature leans forward and tears the remaining mangled flesh from the bone. The screams start to quiet, and you find yourself missing them, for they drowned out the harrowing sounds of flesh peeling from body and the gnashing sound of the creature’s teeth as it eats Alex’s arm off his still living body. 

You’re unable to turn your head away from the disturbing sight, as much as you want to and know you’ll never be able to unsee this. There’s so much blood. Did the human body really have that much blood inside of it? If you were the one that was getting torn apart, would you paint the room red as much as Alex is? Dark red has soaked into the vintage rug that covered a majority of the office floor, and it has spread so far that it even lays in puddles and flecks across the minimal exposed hardwood. The brick fireplace is absolutely wrecked with red; flecks from the struggle and splashes from the consumption.

Alex is sobbing, having long abandoned his hope of being rescued by you. He’s weak, but still trying to pull away from the creature. It almost seems like the creature is letting him go, its grip slackening and allowing Alex to pull away ever so slightly. There’s a glimmer in his eyes as he takes a step forward, his other foot following. 

Crunch. 

Alex screams again, but this time his voice cracks mid-utterance and he whispers hoarsely, his face going pale now — the same shade as his hand before it lost its skin. 

The creature had returned its iron-clad grip on Alex, inhumane strength yanking him violently back towards the cage. The force and impact makes a sickening crunching sound as one of his joints is popped from their socket — the elbow or the shoulder you’re unsure. The creature laughs again, breathy and phlegmy as a mixture of blood and saliva dribble down its already crimson stained chin — before he takes another bite from Alex’s arm, the nauseating snap of tendon and muscle making bile rise in your throat. 

The sound of your gag summons the attention of the creature. He turns to look at you while still gripping the remains of Alex’s now limp, mangled arm. Alex has gone still and silent. 

The creature slowly licks its lips, and you swallow back another gag as you watch a second and third tongue emerge, cleaning the blood and chunks of meat from various areas on its face. 

“The Operator might spare you,” the creature chuckles, letting go of Alex’s arm, resulting in his body falling to the floor with a sick, squishy thud as he lands on the blood soaked carpet. 

The creature grabs the closer of Alex’s legs and chomps down, hard. 

v.

Similar to your bedroom at home, Dr. Hellström’s office now smells like wet, new paint. 

The brick fireplace, which previously had been darling and antique looking with its natural reddish brown tone, was now muted and mind numbing, painted an off white that made it look permanently dingy. The floor was now bare too, and along with the smell of paint there’s the headache inducing scent of a citrusy cleaning product. 

Bleach too, for obvious reasons. 

Everything was perfectly in order, and you once more you find yourself unsure if the reality or an alternate scenario would have made you more uncomfortable. You suppose that walking back in here to see Alex’s rotting corpse would have been much less pleasant, but the knowledge that Dr. Hellström had done something with the body was… incredibly disturbing, to say the least. 

You supposed he did something similar back when the undergraduate student died, and was found in the forest alongside the creature. 

He seemed unaffected by it too, as he worked alongside you, humming to himself. His mask was covering his entire lower face, but you could tell from the deepened crinkles around his eyes that he was smiling ear to ear behind that thin layer of fabric. 

He turns to face you just as you shift your gaze away, the back of your neck clammy and nervous as he looks you up and down. Your hands are shaking slightly as they turn a knob on the microscope, but you haven’t been focusing much on the saliva sample that’s been rubbed onto the glass slide. 

“I think… it’s time for a lunch break,” Dr. Hellström declares, after analyzing you without much thought. “I’m hungry, so I assume you must be too. And not to mention, our little friend over there.” He nods over in the direction of the creature, who has been awake but docile this entire time, watching the two of you. 

“Sure. It’s about the same time our usual lunch is, anyway.” You stand up, peeling back your gloves and mask. The scent of paint and lemons and bleach floods your nostrils again, ten times stronger than it was when you were shielded. 

A silence falls upon the room after Dr. Hellström lets out a grunt of approval, no words being exchanged but gentle sounds filling the room as the two of you wash up thoroughly. 

You’re about to retrieve your own lunch from the mini fridge in the corner of the room, but Dr. Hellström stops you. “Before you eat, let’s feed it.” He ambles over to a cooler, which is slightly hidden behind his desk. He pulls it out with a sharp exhale and another grunt, opening the lid to expose pieces of flesh and organs. You suck in a deep breath, regretting it instantly as you smell the blood and raw meat, coppery and metallic in your nose and mouth. 

Dr. Hellström retrieves a long pair of tweezers, picking up a long strip of flesh that, much to your horror, seemed to be from Alex’s shin, for there was his tattoo of a rose. It was unmistakable; Alex had shown it to you the day after he’d gotten it done, lamenting about the fact that it was done by an apprentice, and they had apparently fucked up on some of the shading. You can see the uneven part he had complained about, just before Dr. Hellström strolls over to the cage and tosses it over to the creature. The creature watches it hit the side of the cage and fall to the floor, before reluctantly picking it up with its still shackled hands and pulling it through the bars. The distinct sound of teeth cutting through flesh makes you grimace, as Dr. Hellström comes back over to the cooler and picks up what looks to be part of an intestine. The creature lets out a low rumble, and as soon as Dr. Hellström tosses it over, it grabs the organ and shoves it into its mouth, smacking obscenely and growling like an animal. 

Dr. Hellström looks over at you with a sly grin. He picks up another organ — clearly a lung, this time, and throws it to the creature. Once more, the creature gobbles it up with much more enthusiasm than the strips of flesh. 

“We’ve cracked the code, my dear pupil. Now, time is our friend, not our enemy.” 

He spears another organ onto the end of the tweezers — another bit of intestine, it looked like — and throws it to the creature. 

— 

You’re really an idiot. 

Your head pounds with the need for a cigarette, but all that stares back at you is the glaringly empty box in your shaking hand. You knew this too — told yourself that you needed to stop by either before or after work and pick up a new box — you’d hate yourself if you didn’t. 

And now look. You really do hate yourself at the moment. 

“Fuck me,” you spit, crushing the box in your hand and stalking over to your kitchen. You open the cheap, plastic trash bin and throw the remains of the little cardboard box inside, sucking at the inside of your teeth to try and keep yourself from swearing aloud more, for no reason. 

Letting out a shaky breath, your gaze drifts over to your car keys, haphazardly tossed onto the surface of your kitchen table. Without another thought, you numbly walk over and snatch the keys, the cool metal pressing against your heated palms and engraving the exact shape of your house and car keys into your soft skin. 

“One fuckin’ thing… couldn’t remember one fuckin’ thing…” you mutter to yourself, still extremely annoyed as you throw on your smoke scented jacket and stumble out your front door, the toe of your boot catching on the lifted lip of your doormat. Cursing again, you slam your door and lock it, trying to quell at least some of your rage before you get onto the road. 

Deep inhales allow the damp, fresh smell of earth and rain to cycle through your lungs, the scent of nature rather than stale laboratory air calming you just enough. Crickets and other insects unknown to you chirp and buzz in the black night.

Your drive to the nearest gas station is short, but enough time to reflect upon the events of the day, and the looming expectations of tomorrow. Small raindrops begin to scatter across your windshield, and you turn on your wipers. They drag across the glass slowly, one of them making an irritating screeching sound as the rubber scrapes against the smooth surface; replacing the wipers is just another thing that you need to add to your never ending list of mundane chores. 

Think of today. Less mundane. 

You stop at a red light, the bright colors splashed across the oily black road and reflected back in neon puddles. The short pause allows your mind to settle a bit. 

Earlier today, after the creature had finished feeding, Dr. Hellström had put the cooler back in its inconspicuous place behind his desk. “There should be enough in here for at least a week or so. Unless we stuff the brute full each meal,” he had promised. 

After that… well, you suppose the rest of the day was less mundane when compared to other aspects of your stagnant life. But still quite monotonous when compared to the exciting events that had conspired in the previous few days. 

You pull into the parking lot of the gas station, your tires crackling on loose asphalt. The engine goes quiet as you turn it off and exit, squinting up at the glaring, blinking sign that displayed the name of the place — not a name that anyone would commonly know, rather, a local mom and pop shop that wasn’t a chain. 

Inside, it smells musty and still. Much like the basement at someone’s parents’ house, or the inside of a dying mall. It makes sense as to why — there are no windows that open into the small building from what you can see, and the slight breeze that comes in through the door with you as you enter is the only movement. It stops as soon as the door closes behind you, and you’re left inhaling the still air. 

You don’t waste time looking around, shuffling up to the cash register. A young man stands behind the counter, his gaze already settled on you — you’re the only one in here, after all. He looks a little too young to be working here, surely not old enough yet to drink or purchase cigarettes himself. His acne marked cheeks and sparse mustache point towards teenhood, but the dead look in his eyes and the slump in his shoulders makes you question it. He sniffles as you stop in front of him, and you hear him swallow a thick gulp of phlegm. 

“How can I help you today?” he asks, scratching at one of the scabby pimples on his cheek. 

“Marlboro reds. Thanks,” you mutter, already digging in your pocket for your wallet. The man doesn’t seem too disgruntled, but you hear him let out a light exasperated exhale as he turns around to eye up the wall of cigarettes behind him. He grabs the box. 

“$11.95.” He tosses the box down onto the counter in front of you, but you’re still digging through your pocket. All you’ve managed to come up with is your phone and your keys (and an embarrassing amount of lint). 

“Uh… shit. One second,” you say, gnawing on your lower lip. Your hands turn out the pockets of your sweatpants; empty as well. 

“We don’t have a tap to pay system here,” the man says, coming to realize that you don’t have your wallet with you. “Sorry.” 

“No worries,” you spit, more annoyed at the situation than any individual in particular. You manage to choke out an apology as you leave through the front door, before angry curses tumble from your lips loud and clear. 

Your annoyance only grows when you can’t seem to find your wallet anywhere in your apartment. And you swear you’ve turned it upside down, and it’s nowhere to be seen. Sure — at first you were a little too pissed off to be thoroughly searching, but the more you looked the more your panic grew. If it wasn’t here, it had to be back at the laboratory. You hadn’t been anywhere else today. 

It was late. The clock on the wall above your kitchen table read just past midnight. You knew that you had access to the building — that wasn’t the problem. It was the fact that it would most definitely be in Dr. Hellström’s office, and you would be alone with the creature in there while you searched. 

Habit taking over, you start chewing on your raw bottom lip again, tasting blood when you accidentally rip a piece of skin off too fast. The iron-y taste blooms across your taste buds, and you swipe your tongue over your lower lip slowly before you tighten your grip on your keys and turn on your heel to leave your apartment once again, for the second time in under an hour. 

“Idiot,” you say to yourself again, watching your headlights illuminate the rain slick black asphalt before you; the path towards the dreaded creature that’s guarding your beloved belonging. Your turn signal clicks steadily as you wait to round that last corner, the one that’ll take you right up towards the laboratory parking lot. The light turns green, nearly blinding you as you frantically blink your rapidly tearing eyes and turn onto the dirt road. 

Pebbles and loose chunks of earth are kicked up by your tires as you slow to a stop in your designated parking spot. The lot is completely empty, except for one other vehicle. You’re not sure who it belongs to — you’re actually not sure you’ve never seen it here before. It’s a black van with tinted windows, parked in the closest spot to the building. It gives you a peculiar feeling as you stare at it, and you decide to hurry up and get this shit over with. You’d have to be back here in the morning anyways — you could just ask your professor about it then. 

Your key card beeps softly, and the front door makes a loud clunking sound as it unlocks for you. The neon lights of the hallway are all still on, buzzing quietly as you make your way towards Dr. Hellström’s office. 

The building is completely silent save for the faint buzzing of the lights and your own footsteps. It makes the entire experience that much eerier. As you finally make it into the right hallway, your skin prickles as you hear a faint screeching sound. Screeching — or screaming? You’re unsure. It doesn’t sound human. 

Your heart skips a beat as you think about the non-human individual that’s being kept in this very hallway. You start speed walking towards Dr. Hellström’s office, your heart now pounding loudly in your chest with anxiousness. The screams grow louder. You’re now almost certain that they’re from the creature, as you hear a growl trail the end of one of the utterances. 

Swallowing hard, you stand before Dr. Hellström’s office door. The screams are more sporadic now, but no less gut wrenching. Your hand shakes as you hold your key card up to the door, hoping that you’re wrong, praying to whatever higher power is out there that you’re mishearing things. 

The doorknob is cold in your grasp as you turn it, but the screams intensify tenfold. It chills your blood, curdles your soul. 

The creature is strapped down to a surgical table, Dr. Hellström hovering over it as he shaves off a sliver of flesh from its abdomen — clearly not the first, you realize with horror, as you spot a small silver dish with a few other bloody grayish slivers. Your eyes dart from place to place, analyzing the various wounds on the creature — it’s missing a nail from its right hand, slivers of flesh from its abdomen, a chunk of hair from its head. There’s an area on the creature’s stomach that’s marked, and you realize with even more horror that Dr. Hellström was intending to likely get an organ sample next, judging from the empty awaiting jars beside the other already collected samples. 

“I wasn’t expecting you this late,” Dr. Hellström says calmly, bringing one bloodied glove to his face and lowering his surgical mask. He grins at you, his teeth yellow and stained in the bright light of the lamp above the surgical table. “But I’m glad you’re here. I’m so close to finding our answer! I just need—” 

“I won’t be part of this any more,” you shout, your voice cracking — much to your own horror. “You’re — you’re operating on it without any numbing? Any anesthesia? I could hear its screams from down the hall!” You clench your jaw, hating how emotional you sound in the moment. You want to stress how inhumane this is — not entertain your professor with your childish personal feelings. 

“What does it matter?” Dr. Hellström lets go of his mask, letting out a dry wheezy chuckle. “You were on board with it starving to death after we got what we wanted up until a few days ago. What changed?” 

You grit your teeth. “I’m not a hypocrite,” you begin with, your voice wavering slightly. 

Dr. Hellström barks out a loud, rough laugh. “Oh, you’re not? Then maybe you’re just a liar. A pathetic, cowardly, liar.” He takes a step towards you, wagging the bloodied scalpel at you disapprovingly. “I brought you onto this project because you said you could handle it. If you can’t handle it, I might have to do something I’ll regret—”

There’s a loud ripping sound from behind Dr. Hellström. You see it before he even has time to turn around — the creature is free. 

How, you’re not sure. It had been strapped down to that table being tortured for who knows how long, but only now did it escape. 

In reality, hardly a second passes between the moment that it breaks free and the moment it tackles Dr. Hellström to the ground. But as you watch it, you feel like life is moving in slow motion. 

Dr. Hellström doesn’t have a chance to turn around and see what’s happening before the creature is on top of him. Roughly seven feet of pure monster is on top of him, making his knees buckle instantly. He lets out a yelp as he plummets to the ground, face smacking onto the tiled floor as his scalpel is knocked free from his grip. The creature lets out a low rumble as the clatter seems to catch its attention, and it snatches the tool before Dr. Hellström has a chance to catch his breath. The wind has clearly been knocked out of the man, as he gasps and chokes beneath the creature. His gaze flickers up to you once and only once. 

There’s no regret in his eyes, and no fear. Only anger as he presses his chapped lips together and grits his teeth, the weight of the creature starting to really affect him now. 

The creature twirls the scalpel between its fingers, and you can’t help but notice that one of the fingers on said hand is missing a nail. Your eyes dart over to the samples on the table before you look back at the creature and your professor — but by then the creature had clearly made up its mind, and had begun to take further action. 

Dr. Hellström lets out a gurgled scream as the creature plunges the scalpel deep into his back, the sharp blade piercing the flesh with ease. Dark red immediately begins to spread across the back of Dr. Hellström’s white lab coat, blooming in rusty splotches as the creature retracts the blade and drives it back in over and over again. 

The sound — it’s sickening. But it doesn’t phase you, not after you’d watched and heard the creature devour Alex’s limbs. You watch, completely still, as your professor slowly goes limp. The creature continues to pierce the tender flesh of your professor’s back with the scalpel, until the entirety of his lab coat has been painted red. Only then does the creature stop. Only then does it stand up, panting raggedly, clenching and loosening its fists over and over again. 

Only then does it look at you. 

It lasts for just a moment, before the creature’s attention is back on your professor. It flips the corpse over with brute strength, using one claw to slice through the front of your professor’s shirt. Then, it grips the scalpel tightly and slices through the abdomen with precise, practiced movements. 

It gets much less precise after that, however. 

Something seems to overtake the creature, and it lets out a growl that seems to reverberate around the dark room. Both clawed hands thrust inside the slit, even more blood pouring forth from the incision and pooling beneath the body, staining the floors that had just been scrubbed clean of crime. Squishy, sloshy noises make you slightly nauseated as the creature rifles around your professor’s insides, until it finds what it’s looking for. Its mouth opens wide, three black tongues snaking out one by one, dripping with tendrils of hot, viscous saliva. In goes a kidney. Then the other. Then a long piece of intestine. 

It’s then that you manage to look away. You hadn’t been sickened before, but it was starting to get to you now. It was starting to sink in that you were witnessing your professor’s innards get brutally removed and devoured, right before your eyes. And that was a bit much for a weekday night, even for you. 

The slight movement of your head gets the attention of the creature again. Slightly satiated now, it has more capacity to think rationally. 

Eliminate the witness. 

The speed at which its hands close around your neck is inhumanly fast — and just like your professor, you don’t even have enough time to turn your head and see it coming before your vision goes black. 

vi.

Popcorn ceilings are fucking hideous. 

Why did you move into an apartment with popcorn ceilings? 

The sight that your eyes are met with as soon as they open is more than unappealing — you can’t think of a properly hurtful word to describe it at the moment, so you close them again, welcoming the darkness. 

It is inside the peace of that darkness that you remember — you don’t have popcorn ceilings. 

Your eyes snap open again. This time, you try to look around more while still being inconspicuous. The assumingly recent events of — well, you can’t remember what or when exactly, but the last time you were conscious — were beginning to come back to you piece by piece. 

So… you were strangled into unconsciousness by the creature, and now you were here. 

In this room. 

From your limited movements, you gathered that you were in a bedroom. Where this bedroom was, you were unsure. It wasn’t familiar in the slightest, and you were almost glad for that — the room was a sight for sore eyes. 

The walls seemed to have once been a beautiful creamy white, but were now yellowed with age and nicotine stains. The wallpaper is peeling in many places and destroyed in the others, many patches of the original wood paneling showing through. There’s that terrible popcorn ceiling, and in the middle a cracked ceiling light that doesn’t seem to have a lightbulb inside anyways. 

A small closet was in the far left corner, and the door to the rest of the building in the far right corner. The bed occupied a majority of the room on the other end, but you could see that there was a beat-up old nightstand on your left side. Other than that, the room was void of furniture. 

The nicotine stains were telling on their own, but with every breath you take you can smell stale cigarettes and rotting wood. It would take years, maybe even decades, of heavy smoking in this exact room daily to make it this bad. To pair with the initial stench, there was a light odor of ammonia — equally lovely.

Looking down, you see that you’re covered up with a crusty white sheet, tucked neatly into bed. It’s insulting, the neat and almost careful way that you were left here juxtaposing with the disturbingly filthy state of the bed itself. You’re not sure what most of the stains are, but some of them are definitely blood. Whose blood, you’re unsure you want to know.

You decide to take a risk and sit up, only to regret it immediately. You find that your wrists are in chains — almost identical to the ones that the creature had been bound in whilst imprisoned in Dr. Hellström’s office — and they clink noisily with every slight movement you make. Sitting up was more than a small movement, and it’s evident in the way the chains rattle so loudly that the sound seems to reverberate around the empty room. 

Almost immediately, heavy footsteps begin approaching from the right-hand door. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” you mutter under your breath, staring down at your bound wrists, now free from the confines of the dirty sheet but nothing else. You hadn’t noticed the pain before, but your wrists have been rubbed raw from the metal cuffs. Your voice, too, is different — scratchy and rough. You only now realize how sore your throat is, how much it hurts to put any sort of strain on your vocal cords with a mere utterance. 

The door opens, slowly at first and then all at once, slamming into the wall and leaving a mark on the wall. Not that it made much of a difference, with the state that the walls were already in. 

The creature stands there, hulking and massive in the dim doorway. It’s wearing a mask — one that you recognize from some of the photos that Dr. Hellström had taken upon his first interaction with the creature. Dark, almost navy blue. No facial features except for two cut outs for eyes, black mesh covering the holes. You can see the crustiness of this part of the mask, black goo both new and old dribbling down from the mask’s eye holes and catching in the mesh. Enough of the goo escapes, however, that there are wet and dried black tears leaking down the mask’s blank lower face. It’s also wearing an identical outfit to the one it was captured in, a black hoodie and black jeans. 

It is also holding a plate with a sandwich on it. 

You’re unsure when the last time you ate was — seeing that you’re also unsure of how long you’ve been unconscious. Judging from the way your stomach growls at the mere sight of food, it has to have been at least a fair while. 

“You’re awake. Finally,” the creature says, its voice muffled from behind the mask. “Eat this. You’re probably starving by now.” 

Almost every instinct in your body screams and protests against it — why would you trust food from a non-human creature that had just abducted you? Further, you’re put off by the sudden smoothness in the creature’s voice — so different from the raspy, gritted words he had uttered while held captive. 

Despite that, your stomach gives another desperate pang of hunger. The creature’s extended hand stays in place, almost taunting you with the sandwich. It looked normal. Smelled normal. 

Not hesitating any further, you gingerly take the plate from the creature’s hands, your chains clinking gently as they sway with your movements. You don’t eat it straight away, staring down at it for a moment before regarding the figure in front of you. It’s staring right back at you, almost curious about your actions. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” you ask bluntly, hoping that if you were to get any answers to your questions, this would be one of them. “Back at the lab. Why am I here?” 

The creature lets out a sigh that’s between a chuckle and a growl. It comes closer, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning towards you. The crunchy mattress dips beneath the creature’s weight, your body starting to slide towards the divot, towards the creature. “Why’re you asking, little thing? Would you have preferred that?” 

Despite the fact that the mask separated its face from yours, you could practically feel its warm breath washing over your face, hot and metallic. You shiver, shaking your head. Suddenly, it becomes very apparent that this is the first time the roles are reversed between the two of you — now, you were inside the cage. And it was the one studying you. 

The creature plants both hands on either side of your head, its calloused palms colliding with the wobbly wood of the headboard and making you flinch from both the sensation and the sound. It’s hovering over you now, your legs trapped between its knees that are rigid and stiff in place. The plate with the sandwich has been overturned, and you can faintly smell mustard and mayonnaise. 

“I took you to return the favor. After all, you were the one running plenty of those experiments behind the scenes. Not that idiot professor.” The creature croons, and it’s almost tender, the way it words the abduction like it was a favor to you. “You experimented on me, so I’ll do the same to you. That professor wanted to kill me, so I killed him. See? It’s only fair. ‘M only taking back what’s mine, and making things even.” Its voice is sickeningly sweet now, as it lays out its reasoning for you. Almost as if it expects you to be grateful for it. And in a way, you are. You weren’t lying when you said this was preferable to being brutally murdered. 

“Let’s start, shall we?” it asks, breaking you free from your ornery, self pitying thoughts. 

It doesn’t give you a chance to answer. 

You see it just before you feel it, and far before you register what it is. A flash of silver in its clawed hand, and then a sharp pain on your abdomen, beside your belly button. You have enough sense to look down, letting out a pained gasp as the sharp stinging continues. The creature is using a scalpel — the largest scalpel you’ve ever seen, mind you — to carve slits into your soft abdominal flesh. The first few are shallow, just painful enough to get your attention, which is what it wanted. Once that initial reaction had been evoked from you, the creature cuts deeper. 

With this slice, more than a thin line of red appears. Skin and meat separates cleanly from the effortless slice of the razor sharp, intricate blade. Red dribbles from the cut, and much to your horror the creature lifts its mask just above its mouth and leans down, licking the wound clean. 

The creature moans aloud, causing a ripple of fear and disturbance to wrack your body. Its free hand grips at the flesh of your hip, squeezing as it sucks at the wound roughly, making you cry out in pain. 

“So sweet…” it mumbles, gripping the scalpel tightly with the other hand. Almost regretfully, the creature pulls back to look at the cut, which is already oozing more dark red blood in the absence of his consuming tongues. Said tongues are still thrashing about outside of his mouth, garbling his speech slightly as they frantically lap at his nose, his cheeks, his chin, desperate for more of the sweet nectar that is your blood. 

The creature quickly makes more slits in your flesh, and now you’ve enough sense to turn away from the gory scene unfolding before you. The pain is still there, but you’re so overwhelmed that you almost don’t recognize it until the creature returns its lips to your skin, biting this time with teeth that are just as sharp as the blade it wields. 

“Gonna savor every fuckin’ piece of you…” the creature snarls, its voice on the precipice of another moan. Grunting, the creature bites down beside the mess of sliced flesh, creating another new wound and eliciting a weak whimper from you. 

The creature resists the urge to tear your meat from your bones, unclenching its jaw and releasing its hold on your soft skin. Sharp teeth retract from where they were embedded deep in your flesh. 

“Soon…” it mumbles to itself, tongues cleaning the blood from its sharp teeth, its chapped lips. “But not yet.” 

With what seems like a Herculean amount of effort, the creature pushes itself up off of you, staggering for a moment as it backs away. One hand comes up to wipe a mixture of drool and saliva off its chin. 

“Not yet,” it repeats, seemingly more for itself than for you. Then, as rapidly as it appeared, the creature vanishes from your sight, the undeniable thunk of a heavy lock clicking into place behind it once it closes the heavy door. 

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, processing what just happened. With shaking hands, you lift up the blood soaked hem of your shirt to see several deep cuts and bite marks surrounding two initials — E J. 

EJ? 

vii.

From what you deduced after that first “experiment” that the creature — or, EJ, apparently — had performed on you, you predicted that you had approximately three days to live. Even if the experiments weren’t meant to kill you, you weren’t sure how much your fragile body could handle. You weren’t an exceptionally strong or physically capable candidate in the first place — and that first experiment had weakened you significantly, in both a mental and physical sense. 

So the next time that EJ entered your room, you prepared for the worst. Branding? Amputation? Organ removal? You had already pondered it the entire night after your initial experience as the subject of EJ’s experimentation. Anything was possible. 

But then the impossible happened. 

There had been no more experiments since. 

The next time EJ entered your room, he came with another sandwich in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. It was the morning after the first (and only) experiment. You had indeed scarfed down the remains of the first sandwich a few hours after EJ left, ignoring the fact that the ingredients had been scattered across your filthy, germ-riddled sheets, and had faced no gastrointestinal consequences. And besides that — it had been a surprisingly decent sandwich. 

Still, you flinch at the sight of him. 

If EJ notices your reaction, he doesn’t show it. He simply hands you the plate and sits down on the edge of your bed again, eyeing the crusted over portion of your shirt. 

“Can I?” he asks, surprising you once again. 

Mid-bite of your sandwich, you pause. EJ is motioning to your shirt, and holding the first aid kit in its lap. 

“What’re you gonna do?” you ask suspiciously, your grip on the sandwich unconsciously tightening and squishing the bread down. 

“What do you think?” EJ’s voice is exasperated as he holds up the first aid kit, shaking it mockingly. 

You swallow thickly, the bite of food getting lodged in your throat for a moment and making you cough. “Um… sure. Yeah, you can.” You gingerly move your arm aside, making sure that EJ has decent access to your wound. 

Carefully, he lifts the hem of your shirt to reveal the cuts, which are puffy and irritated. You look away, nauseated and concerned, but EJ doesn’t flinch. He takes out a bottle of alcohol and a clean ball of cotton, wetting the latter with the former. 

“This will sting,” he warns you, looking up to meet your gaze. 

“I know,” you murmur, gritting your teeth. “‘S fine.” 

EJ gently brushes the alcohol soaked cotton ball over your wounds, the sensation making your irritated skin feel like it’s literally sizzling. You don’t want to let EJ know that it’s really getting to you for some reason, so you clench your jaw and turn your head to hide the tears burning the backs of your eyes. 

“Sorry. It’s over now,” EJ says, sounding genuinely apologetic. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, exhaling as you look back down at the wound, at EJ. 

The navy blue mask stares back up at you, fresh black tears oozing from the eye sockets. “Sorry,” he says again, quieter. Then he looks away, turning his attention back to dressing your wound. He applies a thick ointment, slathering it all over the area generously with a cotton swab. A thick piece of gauze is pressed to the area next, and secured with a few strategic placements of medical tape. 

Once the wound is dressed, EJ stands up awkwardly, not saying anything. You don’t say anything either, looking down at the remaining crumbs on your otherwise empty plate. 

“Thanks,” you manage to say. 

“Yeah. No problem,” EJ replies, before retreating once more with both the empty plate and the first aid kit. 

— 

The system that EJ came up with for you was fairly simple. It was also fairly similar to the system that had been implemented for him whilst he was captive in the laboratory. 

First, you weren’t ever to be unchained. Even when you left the bedroom to use the bathroom, your wrists and ankles were still bound. Only when you were in the shower were you unchained, and they would be put back on immediately after you were finished. It was humiliating to slowly shuffle down the hallway — which wasn’t long or vast in any sense — rather than walk, but you supposed that you could be forced to sit in your own excrement. So it could be worse — could be a lot better too, though. 

You learned quickly how to adapt with your wrists and ankles bound together. Your shuffling grew faster, your ability to pick up food and eat it strengthened. It wasn’t the same as being free, but you adapted. 

Second, you were fed only when EJ allowed you food. Over time you were granted more access to the building — which you came to realize was some sort of cabin in the middle of the forest — including the kitchen, but EJ was strict about accompanying you nearly everywhere. 

And thirdly, EJ stressed the fact that if you tried to escape, you would be punished. He did not detail exactly what this punishment would entail, but he did insinuate that it would ensure you wouldn’t ever try again. It sent prickles up your back and a chill through your body, the way his voice dropped to a growl when he said it to you. 

All in all, you supposed it made sense. For someone being held captive, you could’ve had it worse. Especially when considering the similar structure to the laboratory’s system, you understood the choices that EJ had made and the reasoning behind it. You were a pretty understanding captive. 

At first you were restless. You dreamt about escaping in the night and finding your way back to town, getting EJ captured and killed once and for all. You’d be celebrated, praised for your story and for surviving to tell it yourself. It was an alluring fantasy, but the longer you spent in the cabin, the more that dream lost its luster. 

You think about the illegal and inhumane ways that were normal to practice in Dr. Hellström’s lab. The paperwork and the documentation that proved just how many rules the two of you broke during your experimentation — even with the mice, disregarding EJ. You think about the proof in the office about the cover-up of Alex’s death, and the undergraduate student from the year before. You think about how Dr. Hellström escaped consequences for his actions through death, but if you were to return you’d have to face them. Not only the consequences for your actions, but for your professor’s. 

You were just as guilty as he was. Maybe even more so — EJ was right, you were the one doing a lot of the paperwork behind the experiments. 

Going back would only ensure the death of your career, the abandonment from peers and family and friends alike — not that you had many in the first place. Was there anything to go back to, at this point? 

Besides that — you weren’t sure you wanted EJ to be captured and killed. Even after all of this. 

Perhaps it was the monotony of the endless identical days that drove you to this conclusion. But at some point, you realized that you didn’t want to go back. You didn’t especially want to stay with EJ, but you couldn’t return to your old life. Not now, and not ever. 

EJ himself became less mysterious by the day. Though it was obvious that there were certain things you’d likely never know about him, there was plenty that you gleaned merely by existing alongside him in the cabin. 

He was a man, just as well as a creature. The only thing he liked to consume besides organs and flesh was liquor, and one night he got tipsy enough on cheap vodka to tell you that this was the only thing he remembers enjoying from his life before. He didn’t elaborate on what he meant by “before,” and you didn’t ask. You just nodded, and asked if he wanted a beer from the fridge too. 

At times it felt more like a roommate situation, than a captive one. After EJ granted you access to the rest of the cabin, you found yourself preferring the main room, not minding his company as the two of you watched old reruns of soap operas mindlessly, or sat on opposite ends of the room reading different novels. 

You also find that EJ tends to read memoirs, often written by tortured minds that have long since passed on. There are quite a few littered around the cabin, and whenever the two of you are reading in the same room you take a peek at what he has. It’s always something along the same vein. 

His interest in human stories, paired with his vague mention of a “life before,” makes you wonder. He has an extensive knowledge about medical practices as well, but you’d been under the assumption it was because of his taste for organ meat. After his dressing of your wounds and seeing the various medical textbooks alongside the memoirs, you start to piece together what kind of person EJ is, not just what kind of creature he is. 

It becomes second nature to consider him as a fellow human, as a roommate, rather than a monster and your kidnapper. You settle into a routine so easily that you almost miss your chance to escape. 

It begins just like any other morning. EJ unlocks your cuffs with a skeleton key that he keeps on his person at all times, once you’re in the bathroom. There aren’t any windows inside the small room, so there’s no chance of you escaping once you’re uncuffed, unless you escape the bathroom altogether. 

“Shout for me when you’re done,” he says casually, pocketing the key and turning on his heel. “I’ll be reading.” 

You hum out a response, closing and locking the door behind you. Nowadays, you prefer to shower in the mornings. The cabin has a certain chill that permeates your bones once the sun sets, and you don’t enjoy the feeling of the cold and the dampness at the same time. The shower itself is quite nice; EJ had asked you to make a list of necessities and he brings you more every time your supply runs out. Despite the grunginess of the bathroom as a whole, cleaning it up a bit and having your own preferred products spruced it up quite a bit. The same went for the rest of the cabin. 

Once you’re done and dressed in fresh clothing (also picked up by EJ at some point, from your old apartment), you unlock the door and open it just a crack. You expect EJ to be there waiting — you’ve never had to call for him before, he always hears the water shut off and comes over to wait for you. You know it’s to make sure you don’t run off, but you’ve come to enjoy his constant company regardless. It’s almost comforting, in a way. 

However, this time, he isn’t there. 

In fact, the entire cabin feels eerily silent and still. 

“EJ?” you call out, your voice sounding thin and afraid in the suddenly vast silence. “I… I’m ready.” 

There isn’t a response to your feeble call. 

Part of you wants to call out for him again, but another part of you stops yourself before you do. You fool, you murmur to yourself in your mind, this is your chance, don’t you see? He’s gone for now. Which means it’s your chance to escape. 

You’re torn, wanting to escape and wanting to stay at the same time. What was waiting for you on the other side of the forest’s edge? Was there anything to return to? Yet, the thought of staying here with EJ forever gave you a peculiar feeling in your gut — not one specifically of fear, but of something much more complex. 

You choose to run. 

You don’t wait for EJ to come back. You book it, bare feet pattering against the hardwood floor as you approach the large window in the kitchen. It’s the biggest one in the entire cabin, and you’re almost certain that it locks from the inside — meaning you can get out. 

The window comes into your view, and still no one comes to interrupt your escape. Your heart hammering in your chest, you scramble onto the countertop and reach for the lock on the window. It’s there, you were right! Your fingers fumble with the lock, unfamiliar with its specific mechanisms, but you get it after a few moments of confused scrambling. The glass slides aside with ease, and suddenly you’re faced with the forest beyond the cabin, bright and cheery from the morning sunlight. The chirps of the morning songbirds and the whooshing of the wind is so much louder now that there’s no walls separating you from it — you’d forgotten just how beautifully loud nature could be sometimes. 

You begin to lean out the window, breathing in the fresh air. Your front half is now entirely outside, the warm rays of sun cascading down and gently caressing your vitamin deficient skin. You can taste your freedom. 

And then you can literally taste blood. 

You’re yanked back inside violently, a large hand closing around your throat roughly and making you choke on your own breath. 

“Three fucking rules! I gave you three rules to follow!” EJ’s voice bellows. He releases his grip on your throat only briefly, to reposition his grasp. He makes you face him before grabbing you by your neck again, slightly looser this time. His mask is askew, pushed to the side and exposing his face. You haven’t seen his face since you were back at the lab, and it makes you pause your struggling for a moment. His expression is one of anger and concern, his thick brows knitted together with worry and his mouth curled into a wounded snarl. 

“EJ…” you whimper, scrabbling at his grip on your neck. Even though he’d loosened it, you could still feel your face flushing from the lack of oxygen. 

Much to your surprise, EJ loosens his grip more — completely. He lets go of you, turning to shut and lock the window before looking at you once more. 

“Tell me you weren’t trying to leave,” he says, his voice as hurt as his expression. He approaches you, his massive form towering over you. With each step he takes toward you, you take one back, until your backside hits the counter and you’re forced to let EJ come as close as he wants. 

“I wasn’t,” you lie hurriedly, “I… I just needed some fresh air.” It sounds stupid, even as you say it out loud. You look away, ashamed. 

“You know, it’s rude to lie. I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth here,” EJ says, annoyance flickering in his voice. 

“I’m not!” you protest, your own anger flaring up in defense. It cools as soon as EJ presses you against the counter, igniting something else within you. Something you’d never expect — something you thought died long ago, when you dedicated your life to your studies and your work and nothing more.  

“You’re lying again.” One of EJ’s hands grabs your chin and tilts your face upwards to force you to stare at him. His grip is tight — but in a different way this time. It’s more dominating and firm, rather than violent and desperate. “Tell me the truth. Now.” 

You swallow hard, unable to look away. You stare at EJ’s face — once so monstrous, now so familiar and as human as could be. 

“I… I initially was going to try and leave,” you mutter, your gaze finally flickering away from his face. You can’t handle the way his lips are trembling, the way one of his tongues darts out to wet the chapped skin in eager desperation. “but… then I really did just enjoy the fresh air. Promise.” 

EJ doesn’t respond for a moment, but his thumb gently strokes your chin. His other hand grabs your hip, and you’re suddenly extremely aware of the fact that your body is pressed up against his. You can feel the heat of his flesh through all the layers of clothing that separated you from him, and it was making that fire inside you burn brighter by the second. 

“Promise?” he asks, and the tone of his voice tells you that he won’t take another lie for an answer. 

“Promise,” you say back, after the briefest of hesitations. 

You don’t look away — you can’t look away now. 

Something in EJ’s demeanor shifts slightly, and he lets out a low groan as he leans down to bury his face in your neck, resisting the urge to sink his teeth into your flesh again. 

It makes you realize what he was murmuring to himself about the first time you woke up in the cabin. The way he assured himself that it would be “soon, but not yet.” He growls softly as his hand on your hip moves lower yet, claws catching on the hem of your shirt. 

“Can I?” he asks again — with a very different meaning this time. 

“Yeah, you can,” you hear yourself saying. 

And you mean it. 

EJ’s clawed hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, one of his fingers tracing over the scars of his initials. The wound had healed a while ago now, but the knotted flesh was still sensitive. The sensation of his gentle, feather light touch makes you shiver, squirming beneath him. 

“… Cute,” he mumbles, before releasing his grip on you, only to scoop you up in his arms right after. You let out a surprised yelp, clinging to his shoulder tightly. Muscle ripples beneath his clothing, beneath your touch, and it makes another wave of arousal and attraction pass through your body. EJ seems to sense this; he groans and hurries his pace out of the kitchen and down the hallway. 

You’re flustered, but not so much that you aren’t paying attention to your surroundings. EJ isn’t taking you back to your room — he’s taking you to the room that he always disappears to — presumably his bedroom. 

Able to balance your weight with one arm, EJ shifts you to one side as he fumbles with the doorknob, managing to kick open the door and throw you onto the bed. You land on a soft mattress, and you take a moment to look around. 

EJ’s room is slightly cleaner than the rest of the cabin. The walls aren’t stained with nicotine and water damage, and there was a common theme of navy blue around the room. More books, both medical textbooks and memoirs, littered the desk and the several shelves against the far wall. A small window is behind the headboard of the bed, with no curtains to shield either of you from the incoming sunlight. It washes over both of you, highlighting you in honeyed rays. It only makes EJ look more enticing to you, especially as he throws his mask aside, exposing his face fully. 

It’s surprising that you once found it monstrous. In the pure golden light, each one of his features looks perfect. He looks… beautiful, as he hovers over you and leans down to capture your lips in a heated, rough kiss. 

His lips are chapped and his teeth are incredibly sharp — not the best combination, especially when paired with an inexperienced owner. EJ wasn’t exactly inexperienced, but it had certainly been a while since he’d cared about the creature he was fucking. Upon your first pained groan as one of his razor sharp teeth grazes your lower lip, he pulls back slightly, one of his tongues entering your mouth instead. The long appendage tangles with your own, and you can taste stale liquor and a hint of cigarettes. You try not to think about the lingering metallic taste as he moans against your lips, knowing it’s the blood of another. 

His hands are on you again suddenly, pulling at your shirt roughly, impatiently — until he loses all of his patience at once and slices through the fabric with a single claw, making you squeak and cover your bra clad breasts with your arms. EJ lets out a chuckle, gently grabbing your wrists and pressing more kisses to your swollen lips. Wordlessly, he tells you to stop hesitating — to let him in, to let go of your fear. He moves your arms aside, leaning down to inhale the scent of your sweet skin. Naturally, he can’t help but taste you too, with how delectable you smell. One of his tongues darts out from between his lips once more, this time lapping greedily at the valley between your plump breasts. He lets one of his teeth graze your supple skin a few times, the small droplets of blood only making the taste even more irresistible. 

“Fuck…” he growls, pulling your bra down just enough to free your tits, his hands leaving your wrists and coming down to squeeze your chest. A shuddery moan escapes you as his rough thumbs start playing with your hardening nipples, your back arching into his touch. “That’s right, come here…” he croons, reattaching his lips to your neck, shaking from the effort of holding back his more violent tendencies. Still, he nips you a few times, just enough to make you squirm and bleed a little, not enough to actually hurt you. 

“EJ…” you whine, the heat between your legs only growing harder to resist as he teases your sensitive tits. You can feel yourself leaking, soaking the fabric of your panties. 

“I know, little thing… but be patient for me, hm? I wanna take my time with you.” He chuckles, almost cruelly, amused by your whimper of protest. To compensate, he slots a meaty thigh between your legs, pressing up against that aching center of your needy cunt. 

The relief — and the need for more — is immediate. You let out a moan, your hips grinding and moving of their own accord, your body desperate for any satiation. EJ grins toothily, inhaling deeply — he can smell your desperation, your arousal — and he’s obsessed with it. 

“So fuckin’ wet already, can’t believe it,” he coos, pressing his knee harder against your sopping cunt. He can feel the heat of your folds, the dampness of your juices, beginning to soak through your shorts as well as your panties. He doesn’t waste any more time, his own patience growing thin and overwhelming his amusement at teasing you. 

His touch leaves your body, and you feel like you’ve lost him entirely. The warmth fades, and you breathily call out for EJ, despite the fact that he hasn’t really left at all. He’s preoccupied, shedding his hoodie and jeans, kicking the items of clothing aside before turning back to you. You, however, are now extremely focused on EJ’s nearly naked form. 

He’s muscular but a little soft at the same time, the softness mostly centered around his thighs and gut. There’s still clearly muscle, however — you watch with great interest as his thighs clench and ripple as he walks towards you. 

He grabs you by the waist, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of both your shorts and panties, pulling them off in one go. Your face flushes with heat; now you were the one being ogled. 

EJ lets out a grunt of approval as you reach back to unclip your bra, gripping your thigh as he sits back down on the bed. He doesn’t give you any time to think about being embarrassed, nor does he ask before he wedges your thighs apart to reveal your glistening folds. He gets into position between your legs, his lips parting slighting to let one of his tongues free. He licks at your inner thigh, his nostrils flaring as he inhales the scent of your arousal. 

“EJ, please…” you beg, wiggling your hips impatiently as he kisses and licks at your inner thigh. He lets out a low rumble, tightening his grip on your thighs. 

“I told you, be patient,” he scolds, letting his teeth sink into the tender flesh of your thigh as a warning. You moan as he laps up the blood, starting to kiss closer and closer to your aching center. 

Finally, his tongue licks a long stripe up your slit to your throbbing clit, eliciting a shaky moan from your trembling frame. EJ’s eye sockets narrow with lust and focus; one of his hands comes up to gently part your folds before he attaches his lips to your clit and starts sucking hard. 

“E-EJ!” you cry out, hands reaching down to tangle in his messy nest of brown hair. The rough, desperate tugging only spurs EJ on further, as he sucks harder on your clit he starts teasing your leaking entrance with the pad of his calloused thumb. 

He releases your swollen clit with a pop, admiring his work for a moment before one of his tongues curls around the bud, squeezing and rubbing it as his other two tongues begin to prod at your entrance. You mewl and grind against EJ’s face, your mind a haze of pleasure and need. The tongue around your clit increases its pace, and before you can properly react you feel a sudden pleasurable fullness as the other two appendages enter your tight cavern. You and EJ moan in unison; you at the feeling of a tongue prodding at your cervix and g-spot simultaneously, him at the taste of your sweet nectar coating all of his tongues at once. 

You can feel your orgasm approaching steadily, unable to form proper words past babbling, as EJ works each one of your sensitive spots expertly. He lets out muffled moans and grunts, joining the cacophony of your babbles and mewls, and the lewd slick sounds of your pussy as he devours you. He tightens his grip on your thighs, holding you down against the mattress as you start to buck and twitch more erratically. 

“I… f-fuck, I-I’m—” you stutter, choking on your own words as you cum before you can give EJ any sort of warning. 

You sob loudly, tears burning your eyes as you cum harder than you have in years, shaking uncontrollably against EJ’s solid form. He doesn’t stop, his tongues working you through your orgasm until you’re kicking and breathlessly trying to say his name, the pleasure turning to overstimulating pain. 

He pulls away reluctantly, and your form slumps against the mattress tiredly as he lets go of you. You can’t help but let out a sheepish giggle as you see the state of EJ’s lower face; completely drenched in your juices. His hair is messier than before and sticking in every possible direction, from your pulling and grabbing. 

“You can take more, can’t you?” he asks, his voice edged with a growl. He presses his crotch against yours, and you can feel his cock throbbing through his pants. You’d nearly forgotten about that, in your own selfish, pleasurable haze. 

You nod, not trusting your voice at the moment. You do trust your body however, grinding up against EJ’s fat bulge. 

God, he’s so fucking big. You’re a little terrified to see what’s underneath the thin fabric of those boxer briefs, but you’d be lying if you said you were hesitating at all. You wanted him. You needed him. 

EJ — either able to sense your desperation, or just impatient himself, pushes down his boxers and kicks them aside, allowing you to get a clear view of what was between his legs. 

Just like the rest of him, his cock is enormous. Thick and meaty, with dark bruise-y veins running up the girthy shaft. Naturally, it’s the same shade of gray as the rest of his body, the mushroom tip slightly darker and slick with pearly pre. He wraps a hand around his shaft, his lithe fingers closing around himself as he moans, thrusting into his own fist. You whimper, wanting to feel him thrust inside of you instead. 

EJ clicks his tongue in mock disapproval, nudging your thighs further apart and on second thought, guiding your legs to loosely wrap around his waist. Suddenly, meanly, he presses his pulsing length against your weeping slit, chuckling with glee and enjoyment as you helplessly grind against him, covering his cock in your slick. “God, you’re impatient. Guess I shouldn’t make you wait any longer, hm? That’d just be mean. Downright cruel.” 

He does exactly that, a fitting cruel smirk on his face as he drags his hot, hard cock up and down the length of your pussy, taking extra care to apply more pressure as his tip passes over your swollen clit. 

“EJ, f-fuck!” you cry out with frustration, as his blunt tip catches on your fluttering hole for what seems like the millionth time. “P-please!” 

He pauses, and you do too, waiting for his response. “Please, what?” 

So this was the game he wanted to play. This was what he wanted from you this entire time. 

“You asshole, fuck me! Please, fuck me!” you snap, frustrated and more aroused than ever. 

His hips suddenly snap forward, burying at least a third of his length inside of your tight heat — stretching you beyond imagination. The pain is searing, burning hot; only tolerable because of the faintest hint of pleasure beneath it all. You scream, the sound between a moan and a cry, as you reach for EJ, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him on top of you. 

He isn’t faring much better than you — he’s lost in the pleasure, jaw clenched and teeth gritting against each other as he resists the urge to bury himself inside you completely. It would tear you apart, and he simply couldn’t have that. No, he needed to be gentle with you. Hard enough to rough you up, have his way — but gentle enough to ensure that you wouldn’t endure any lasting damage. 

But you’re just so fucking tight. 

And hot. And you’re squeezing his cock like a vice, practically sucking him in. He lets out a strangled gasp, apologetic words tumbling from his lips as his hips thrust forward again. 

A majority of his cock is inside you now, and it’s undeniably painful. You sob, tears and snot and spit wetting his neck as you shudder against him, your pussy stretched to its limit around his monstrous girth. “G-God, I can’t… f-fuck, I can’t…!” you babble, your nails digging into EJ’s flesh, holding him close and trying to push him away at the same time. “It hu-urts, EJ!” 

He shushes you immediately, soft and crooning and sweet as one of his hands cradles the back of your head, the other gently scooping you up effortlessly by your waist. He murmurs soft nothings in your ear, all while guiding you the rest of the way down onto his cock. “Mm, just like that, little one, just like that… you’re doing so good for me.” 

Finally, finally, he bottoms out, and it feels like he’s in your lungs. You gasp, one hand finally releasing EJ’s shoulder, leaving behind tiny bloodied crescent moons from where your nails cut through flesh. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, for he’s too focused on the feeling of your walls completely surrounding his aching length. His mind is spinning, his hands clammy and numb as he holds your body flush against his. He can feel every pulse, every clench, every drip from your hole as he starts slowly grinding against your cervix, your moans joining together once more. 

“I’m sorry, c-can’t hold back any more. N-need… need to fuck, need to cum… need to breed…” he whines, the protective hands on the back of your head and the small of your waist suddenly leaving,  reappearing as a bruisingly tight grip on your hips. He starts thrusting fast and hard, hammering into your cervix, his girthy tip dragging against your g-spot with each snap of his powerful hips. His head dips down close to your chest, his lips suddenly attaching to one of your sensitive nipples, suckling and pulling as he rapidly fucks into you. 

Lewd squelches and slaps reverberate around the room, but your own moans are all that you can hear. You can’t seem to stop, each roll of EJ’s hips practically forcing a mewl or a gasp from between your lips. 

His balls tighten up, swollen and full. You can feel the heat of it against your ass, as he bottoms out inside you and moves his hips in a circle, pressing into you as deep as possible. One of your hands flies up to press against your own stomach, keening as you feel the bulge of his cock moving deep inside you. “Oh, fuck, Eej…” you moan, pressing against it slightly, making EJ’s hips stutter. He suddenly starts thrusting faster and harder, making you squeal as he pushes your legs above your head, practically folding you in half as he hammers into you harder and faster. 

“Fuckin’ tease… such a fuckin’ tease…” he pants, grunting as he feels your slick starting to dribble down his sensitive balls. He can feel how much you like being manhandled by him, how much it turns you on as he handles you like a fuck toy, like a doll. 

Just as you were unable to warn him of your first orgasm, neither of you can find words as you orgasm together. You cum first, thrashing underneath him as you scream his name and dribble copious amounts of fluid, soaking his crotch and the navy sheets beneath the two of you. Not that he wouldn’t have cum without that, though — he was so close this entire time, he was surprised that he lasted long enough to make you cum again. Before your own orgasm is through, you’re gasping and shuddering under EJ as you feel heat flooding your cunt, filling you to the brim and starting to spill out, further soiling the bed. 

EJ moans lowly, grinding his hips into yours again, the feeling of his tip rubbing against your cervix elongating his pleasurable orgasm. He releases his grip on you, allowing you to lazily, loosely wrap your legs around his waist once more, while laying flat on your back. You shiver, overstimulation starting to settle in once again as your orgasm fades. As that fades, however, something else begins to grow. You can feel a mass of some sort at your entrance, growing and throbbing against your sore folds. You shift, furrowing your brow as you feel EJ starting to try and grind that against your slippery entrance. 

“EJ… what… what is that?” you murmur, your voice hoarse and feeble. The ball is bigger now, and EJ is pressing harder, his breathing ragged and uneven. He mutters something under his breath. “What? What did you say?” 

“Take it… fuckin’ take it…” he repeats, louder now. He lifts his face from your breasts, his hollow sockets boring deep into your eyes. 

You whimper, feeling EJ starting to press that mass — his knot — against your entrance with much more force now, one hand traveling down to try and help ease it inside. “E-EJ…” you moan, clenching around him tightly unconsciously. 

“Stop clenching,” he grits out, “f-fuck, gonna knot you so good… breed you full…” 

With an effortful grunt, his knot pops inside of you, making you cry out and arch against him, the burning sensation almost unbearable initially. You can feel more spurts of cum — albeit much weaker now — pumping into your womb, trapped inside by his girthy knot. He moans with satisfaction, lapping up the sweat and tears from your precious face. 

The pain slowly lessens, and you eventually don’t mind the fullness. When his knot finally deflates enough for his softened cock to slip out of your abused hole, he seems to return to his normal self more than before. He looks almost sorrowful, as he takes in your bruised and battered state. 

“… Sorry,” he mumbles, hesitating but eventually pulling you into an embrace. Suddenly, he sounds just like the awkward, sheepish man that asked to clean your wound. 

“Don’t be.” Your voice is muffled, as your face is pressed into his chest, but he swears on what he heard. His own heart starts racing, and he holds you even closer, afraid that if he lets go your battered body might shatter into a million unfixable, unchaseable pieces. 

“EJ,” you prompt. “EJ, please look at me.” 

“Jack,” is all he says. “My name is Jack, not EJ.”

viii.

Your second chance to escape comes much sooner than you think. After messing up so badly the last time, you assumed that Jack would tighten things up and lock you away again. 

Jack, however, has done the opposite. 

You’d been learning about the sort of person he was, slowly. You’ve seen things from the surface level; his interests and passions, his habits and talents. You’ve also seen his vices, heard tidbits about his seemingly troubled past, and witnessed him in his most… “monstrous” states. Feeding, butchering, killing. 

And now… you’ve seen his intimate side. You’ve seen him completely bare in the physical sense, though it hasn’t happened again since that afternoon. You sort of want it to, but you hesitate to instigate — unsure of where Jack stands with you. It seems like he’s becoming more vulnerable — quite literally — but there’s still something that makes you feel somewhat distant and disconnected from him. No matter how close you get to him, no matter if every inch of your skin is pressed against his, you have an inkling that it won’t be resolved until he chooses to resolve it himself. 

Tonight, the second opportunity for freedom, is a peculiar night. 

It’s nearly mid autumn now, but summer is still hanging on by its claws. It’s warm and muggy out, a little humid. The few fireflies that are left blink yellow in sparse groups. This year’s summer had been mild, most nights cooler than tonight was. In turn, autumn had been exceptionally lackluster. 

It still felt like summer too, and Jack had given up on keeping all of the windows closed. The kitchen window that had once held your complicated hopes of escaping was now wide open, letting in the warm breeze of the evening. The window in the main room was open too, and you stared out into the darkness behind the cabin from your seat on the couch. Jack is sitting on the far end of the same couch, holding a book open in his lap but not really paying attention to it, instead focused on the television that’s playing a stupid advertisement for a new flavor of gum. The drone of the overly cheerful infomercial adds to the sleepy lull of the warm night, and your eyelids grow heavy as you start to nod off. 

An odd shriek pierces the once peaceful night, waking you from your half asleep state immediately. By the time you jump to your feet, wobbling a little as the blood rushes to your head, Jack is already up and looking out the open window, a low rumble sounding from his chest as he surveys the area. 

“Jack?” you whisper, finding the courage to creep up beside him, clutching the sleeve of his hoodie. “What was that?” 

Thoughts of the various creatures from Jack’s tales come to mind; was it the Operator? The Rake? Surely, it couldn’t be Jeff, or perhaps worse one of the Proxies. All of these names were merely that to you, names. You had vague pictures in your mind that you pieced together from Jack’s descriptions, but all you really knew was what they did to the unfortunate souls that happened across their path. 

Jack sniffs the air, narrowing his eye sockets in a squint before looking down at you. “It sounds like the Rake,” he says lowly, cocking his head to the side slightly. “But it doesn’t smell like the Rake.” 

“What — who, does it smell like?” you ask timidly, unsure if Jack has an answer and simultaneously unsure if you want that answer. 

Jack is silent. He sniffs again, before shaking his head and retracting himself back inside. He closes the window, locking it securely and sliding the blackout curtains into place. He glances at you, taking you by the wrist as he stalks over to the kitchen window and doing the same. His lack of response paired with his quick actions makes you queasy with sick curiosity and fear. 

“Jack…” you pry again, anxiety creeping up on you too, making it unbearable to stay in the unknown. 

“I don’t know,” he says shortly, his response not satisfactory to you in the slightest. He starts toward his bedroom, and you follow for a few steps before stopping, watching him disappear down the dark hallway. He reappears momentarily, clutching his scalpel and wearing his mask. 

“Stay here. If it’s the Rake, I’m gonna go find an offering for it, make sure it stays out of my territory. It should know better.” His voice is strained, and you can tell he’s concerned. 

“What if it’s… something else?” 

Jack shakes his head again. “I don’t know why an unfamiliar being would approach these woods, let alone enter ‘em. I doubt…” he trails off, going quiet again. His grip on the scalpel tightens, and he starts towards the front door. “Stay here,” he repeats, before exiting without giving you a chance to respond. 

You stand there for a second, unsure what to do. Then you go back over to the couch and sit down on the edge of it, a peculiar feeling washing over you now. You knew for sure that Jack was gone, and wouldn’t be back for a while. You knew how to escape from the cabin from several exits. And — you look down at your wrists and ankles — you weren’t chained up at the moment. 

You’d taken a shower late that evening, simply by coincidence. After spending the afternoon cleaning your bedroom and rearranging the few pieces of furniture, you wanted to bathe. 

And Jack hadn’t put the cuffs back on after. 

You’d been wearing them less and less these days anyway — especially after that night. He’d let the breaks between last longer and longer, and tonight… well, in his hurry, he’d left without ensuring that you were properly captive. 

You glance at the curtain covered window just beyond your reach on the near wall. Then you look over at the kitchen window. You nearly choose the latter window, but then realize that nothing’s stopping you from literally walking out the front door. 

So you do. 

The outside world seems so vast to you. You’d been used to it once, but now it was so foreign to be able to look up and see sky and land surrounding everything in your line of vision. 

Stars twinkle down at you, guiding you and serving as a sliver of hope within the inky blackness of the never ending sky. Long, lush, unkept grass brushes against your waist, blowing in the gentle night breeze and tickling your exposed skin. Beneath your feet, you can feel the soles of your shoes sinking into the moist earth, mud caking the once pristine fabric. 

You cast one last look at the cabin behind you before you break into an unsteady run, your legs not used to this sort of exercise any more. Your shoes make squelching sounds as they sink into the mud, trampling the grass in your path. You’re not sure when you’re running to — not particularly trying to find your way back to town, and not particularly trying to find help either. Just a stupid idiot, drunk on freedom and solitude. 

Soon, you find yourself surrounded by trees. All sorts, with differently shaped leaves and trunks with juxtaposing textures. Old and young, tall and short, dead and alive. Despite all of these differences, you find it difficult to remember where you came from and which direction you want to keep going in. Every tree starts to blur together slowly as you wander through the thick, lush foliage. 

You’re maneuvering around a dip in the pathway, scooting down a large rock rather than climbing down the rough patch of terrain, when another shriek pierces the night — much louder this time. 

A chill runs up your spine, and the sound of your own breathing fills your ears as you whip around to make sure nothing is following. 

The pathway is indeed empty behind you, eliciting a sigh of relief from your sore lungs. You continue on your path, breaking into a light jog to keep a quicker pace while also maintaining some semblance of stamina. 

Each squish of your shoes and exhale from your lungs makes you sweat with dread; would this be the sound that gets you caught? Would this be the last word you utter before you’re killed? 

The further you go, the more you regret your decision. Just like last time, you begin to wonder if there’s anything to return to, if you were to go back to town — if you should go back to town, if that. You’d brought it up to Jack once, laughing it off but curious of his reaction. He’d been firm; there was absolutely nothing to return to, and you were better off staying with him unless you wanted to be turned over to another resident of the woods. One that would be much more inclined to hurt you, he’d insisted. 

Panting, you slow to a halt when you reach an old, gnarled tree stump. Using it a makeshift chair, you sit down on the edge of it and catch your breath. 

Instead of a shriek that rips through the night, this time it’s a strangled shout — one that sounds eerily like Jack. It seems to come from the direction you were heading away from, and you find yourself turning around and running back, heart pounding in your ears as you will Jack to make another sound, one that’ll continue to point you in the direction towards him. You’re consumed with the question of what happened to him, and if he was okay — rather than figuring out how the hell to escape this maze of a forest, once and for all. Suddenly, your purpose for leaving the cabin becomes clear. You really weren’t trying to escape Jack, you were chasing your sense of freedom, and shockingly — staying with Jack was giving you that. Your freedom from the monotony of everyday life, your savior from your professor, was at risk the moment he left your side, left the cabin. 

You needed to find him. If not because you’d come to care for the man himself, then for your own selfish thirst for freedom. 

“Jack?” you whisper shout, arriving at a clearing that you definitely hadn’t been at before — telling you that you were way off course again. 

Squinting and staring across the clearing, you swear you can see something white standing out against the dark wood of all of the trees. As you get closer and closer, it becomes apparent that it’s a piece of paper, attached to the trunk of one of the many trees surrounding the clearing. 

You look around one last time before you reach the tree, murmuring to yourself as you read out the one repeating word scrawled messily across the note. 

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO — 

A sharp, high pitched ringing surrounds you, enveloping your senses entirely as the sound alone warps your vision and makes you smell and taste blood. The sudden, violent tinnitus forces you to your knees, your legs suddenly feeling incredibly unstable. As you collapse feebly, weakly, there’s only one clear thing in your line of vision — that dreaded note, with a crude depiction of the exact creature that had showed up in your sleep paralysis months ago. 

Monstrously tall, impossibly thin and spindly. Long, black tendrils emerging from its suit clad abdomen. 

A completely smooth, blank white face. 

The ringing suddenly increases sharply in pitch, the squealing making you let out a guttural gasp of pain as you feel something warm and wet dribbling down your neck. You might not have enough strength to stand on your own two feet at the moment, but you’re able to shakily bring a hand up to swipe across the front of your neck. It comes away streaked in red. 

Your hearing is slightly muffled, and you can feel the wetness of blood dripping from your earlobes. So that was where the blood was coming from — it made sense. 

What can only be described as static further degrades your vision, finally the paper note on the tree becoming blurred and distorted with fuzziness like the rest of your vision. Warm wetness starts leaking from other orifices; you can feel it wetting your upper lip, dribbling down your chin, coating your cheekbones and making your eyelashes sticky. 

Somewhere in the distance, you think you can hear Jack’s voice. Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. You’re unable to run to him now, anyway. 

Your mind drifts to pleasant memories with Jack from the past few months, after things had taken a turn for the better. The meals you shared, the films and novels consumed and discussed both together and alongside one another. The all consuming, undeniable attraction that blossomed once you both let it happen. 

Jack was so different than EJ, and EJ so different from the creature. As you kneel here in the rain soaked earth, choking on your own blood, you think about how it’s impossible that you once thought Jack a monster. How stupid you really were, and how this time it cost you everything. Just as you’d begun to figure out your complicated feelings about it all, too. 

There was nothing to return to now, not at the laboratory, not at your own apartment, and certainly not at the cabin. Not if Jack wasn’t there. 

Completely overwhelmed, you succumb to the torture and collapse fully on the forest floor. 

ix. 

There was one night that far overshadowed your other happy memories with Jack, one that both added to and resolved your conflicting feelings about the situation and the man himself. 

It happened not so long after that other night. You remember because you were still sore and bruised, and Jack had been tending to your wounds silently as the sun went down. The windows were open just a crack, just enough to let in the warm breeze, and you were unchained. 

Instead of staring out the window, or being lost in thought, you were focused on Jack. His large hands so gently cradling your leg; one hand carefully cradling the underside of your leg where it bends as the other scrupulously wipes at a healing gash on the top of your knee. His maskless face had a hardened expression, the same one he wore whenever he apologized. And he had been apologizing a lot lately, mostly for things he had done at the beginning of your stay with him. Regret was more of a proper word to describe the emotion etched into his tired features. 

He hadn’t even caused this wound; you had done so yourself when kneeing the corner of a table accidentally, the sharp edge slicing through your sensitive flesh. Still, you can tell that there’s an air of guilt as his touch hesitates over healing bruises that he had indeed caused. 

“I don’t like how fragile you are,” he says finally, breaking the soft silence between the two of you. “Most humans aren’t this susceptible to injury.” 

You shrug. “Clumsiness?” you say nonchalantly, examining your newly dressed wound as Jack slowly removes his hands from you. 

“Stupidity,” he says bluntly, his answer making you scowl. 

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, prodding. 

“It’s… stupid that you can tolerate being around me. After what I’ve done to you. After what you’ve done to me.” He lets out a listless chuckle. “I just — I don’t get why you seem to be content here.” 

“Because it’s more fun to keep me around and torture me?” 

Jack lets out another hollow laugh, bringing a hand up to ruffle his own hair in disbelief. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re so content with this fucked up situation.” 

You almost shrug again but stop yourself, instead thinking about it more. It was a fucked up situation, undeniably — he’d laid it out for you. You were each other’s victims and captives, a reversible symbiotic relationship of predator and prey. You knew it was toxic — for lack of a better term — but you liked the rush. And it didn’t help that you liked Jack, too. 

“So… just kill me then. Get rid of me.” 

“No!” Jack sounds irritated now, but his tone confirms what you need to hear. He likes it just as much as you do. He’s keeping you around for a reason after all. 

He pulls himself to his feet, sitting on the couch beside you. One hand gently grabs your neck, tracing over the fading bruises from where he’d both strangled and choked you, as the other guides your legs to drape over his lap. He didn’t say it aloud, but you could tell that he liked that queasy feeling of uncertainty and closeness too. 

He hadn’t felt anything in a long, long time. 

And he was addicted to feeling all of these things with you — never mind that they weren’t really all healthy feelings. It was enough. 

— 

“Breathe. Breathe, you dumbass, breathe!” 

Everything is so dark. It hurts so much. I feel like I’m drowning, even though I’m not underwater. 

“Fucking dumbass.” 

“Never listens to what I—”

“I said, breathe!” 

Everything is too bright now. It hurts more. 

“Jesus, there’s so much bl—”

“Can you hear me?”

“Dumbass.” 

It smells like Jack. Smells like home. 

“If I wanted you dead—”

“—would’ve killed you myself—”

“—I didn’t want this, stupid, stupid idiot—”

—

The sheets are soft, and you remember them though you spent only one night tangled in them. 

You can’t help but smile when you realize where you are. 

“Stop smiling. Open your eyes before you get all smug.” 

You listen, of course. Just hearing his voice made your heart sing with hope. 

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking wearier and thinner than you’ve ever seen him before. Your smile fades a little when you register the state he’s in. You’d never seen him look this frail and small — not even when you recall the days in the laboratory, chained up in the dog kennel. 

“What happened to you?” you ask, chuckling softly. “Suddenly growing a soft spot for all humans? Can’t kill any more?” 

Jack scowls, but he still moves closer to you. “No. Obviously I’ve been holed up here, taking care of your stupid ass.” He collects himself, sighing. “And obviously… I’ve been worried about you too.” 

“So you have a soft spot for one human.” 

“You still sound smug.” 

“Can’t I be smug if that one human is me?” You sit up, wincing a little and making Jack rush in to hold you, his hands knowingly avoiding your sore spots. 

“Don’t try to sit up yet.” He sucks in a worried breath, brows knitted with concern. 

“I’m okay. Just sore,” you grunt, adjusting to the new position. “Anyway… I didn’t think you’d come for me. I thought the Rake got me.” 

“That was the Operator,” Jack says, sternly. “The Rake ended up being… uninvolved, miles off.” He shakes his head a little. “He thought… well… I guess he knew you. He wanted you gone, though. Didn’t like that I was keeping you around, in the forest.” 

“So… he spared me? Why?” 

“I asked him to. He isn’t my boss, I don’t have to obey his exact orders. I just stay out of his way.” Jack looks a little uncomfortable, giving you a lot of information he never thought he’d have to divulge to anyone. “But… that’s partially why you weren’t supposed to leave the cabin. Especially not alone.” 

“And I was being held captive,” you remind him, as if it were something he could forget. 

He doesn’t laugh, instead seems to bite his tongue as he looks down at the floor. “If you want to leave, you can. I… I feel weird about keeping you here after everything that happened. It’s a lot, and I’ve started acting in ways that I don’t recognize.” He cringes, again having unveiled a little too much unnecessary information — this time emotional. “If… if anything, we’re even now.” He references his initial reasoning for taking you, instead of killing you back at the lab. To get back at you for keeping him captive. 

You look out the window. It’s a beautiful, crisp autumn day. The leaves are finally changing color, with the first few beginning to loosen from the branches and fall to the ground in brown, crunchy droves. If you were back in town, there would be pumpkins for sale at the farmer’s market and the local farms themselves would be inviting the community to come apple picking. Your favorite coffee shop probably had their seasonal drinks back, and if you remembered correctly there was a book release you were looking forward to that was supposed to come out around this time. 

Then you look back at Jack. He isn’t looking down at the floor any more, he’s looking at you. There’s a wistful, hopeful expression on his handsome face — and it looks like home, more than pumpkin spice lattes and book releases. 

You could have those things anywhere. 

You shake your head, a small, hopeful smile on your own face. “Nah. You can’t get rid of me that easy.” 

This time, Jack lets himself chuckle a little at your stupidity. 

epilogue. 

Despite the fact that it was late autumn, when the leaves were long dead and the chill of winter was beginning to seep its icy claws into his very bones, there was an unfamiliar but welcome warmth inside the once lonely cabin in the woods this year. 

With all of that ice and snow surrounding him, Jack was glad he had something to come home to. 

It had taken time, and plenty of brutal honesty between the two of you before things felt remotely normal — and even then, it was a new normal that you settled into. The shared understanding and acceptance that this was an odd and probably realistically illogical relationship helped soothe any doubts. The two of you were just happy in the moment, away from the chaos of the rest of the world. 

A fire roars in the once dusty and abandoned fireplace, the brick scrubbed clean and the surrounding walls cleaned and re-wallpapered. No longer was there a lingering stench of nicotine and rot, now a warm smell of firewood and pine. 

Jack sits on the couch, one arm around you as the two of you stare out the window. The first snowfall is coming, tiny snowflakes swirling in the chilly breeze. Neither of you feel the chill, warm and content inside the solid walls of the cabin, wrapped in each other’s embrace. He looks outside — not as a captive, not as an experiment — but as a free man, a free monster, with his human that chose to stay and is watching the window alongside him, just as free as he is. 

For the first time in many, many years, Jack felt his old human self sighing with contentment, melding with acceptance to his new self. 

The last thing he hears before he closes his eyes, drifting into a comfortable sleep, is your soft snuffles of sleep and the crackle of the fire. 

petrichor-han 2026. do not translate or repost without my permission.

please consider reblogging and/or leaving a few kind words if you enjoyed this fic :) tumblr posts revolve around reblogs, and i'd appreciate the gesture!!

divider credits: @pixopix @kthice // photo credit: @leech-mother

[rosequartz-archive]

Pairing 🩸 Vampire Jun x Human Female OC

Synopsis 🩸 Your boss is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in your life, it's like he glows from within and brightens your day. But one evening after work you find him doing something that's about to change your life forever. That is, if he lets it.

Genre 🩸 Supernatural/Vampire au, angst, smut, fluff

Plot warnings 🩸everyone works in publishing, Vernon almost joins a cult (he's barely in it, but when he is, he's a menace), a brief reference to weed (Vernon), mentions of alcohol, Wonwoo being the annoying bestie is just canon in all my fics at this point, lots of references to blood (drinking it, blood play), threat (she's scared in the moment but gets over it pretty quickly), lots of literary references (Junhui, it turns out, has basically had everything to do with almost every famous literary work), I've tried to make his life historically accurate but he's almost 2000 years old so he's seen a lot, they're in love but he's refusing to accept that, heavy angst for a little while because Jun is an idiot, arguing/ bickering, Wonwoo is unhelpful (again, it's canon in every fic I write and he's in it), everything works out for them (without giving anything away), mentions of Seungkwan, Jeonghan, Joshua and Soonyoung being vampires too but we only meet Seungkwan, a car accident (mild injuries),

Smut warnings 🩸making out, fang play? (she's into the idea of him biting her), biting (with fangs), slight blood play (he tastes her), body worship, a lot of skinship? they just want to feel each other, oral f.recieving, vaginal fingering, nipple play, it's all very romantic but he does call her a pervert,

Word count 🩸 27.7k

a/n 🩸 this has been a labour of love and honestly could've been about 60k words, vampire Junhui is literally the perfect man (vampire) and I hope you like him!!

You can describe a lot of things in this world as beautiful. The view of the sun rising across the ocean, particularly old buildings which leave your mind reeling at how anyone could build something so grand hundreds of years ago, even the sight of a star filled night. But the one thing that you think might be the single most beautiful thing you’ve ever had the privilege of seeing?

That’s simple.

Wen Junhui.

You’re not even exaggerating, there’s something about him that means the only word you can truly describe him as is beautiful.

Even now as you sit in a staff meeting and he’s trying to hammer home to you all that you need to find new writers who bring something fresh and not the same old same old, he seems to glow in his beauty. You’re certain it can’t just be you that realises it, every other editor and member of staff must be able to see it too. Although maybe they just manage to tune it out, you have always been attracted to the shiny things in life and the way he seems to almost shimmer as he floats through the room means you can’t take your eyes off him for a single second.

“You’re drooling again.”

“Shut up Wonwoo.” You whisper through gritted teeth, although make a conscious effort to divert your attention away from the beauty that stands before you.

“You know you should….”

But Wonwoo doesn’t get to finish his sentence, Junhui’s attention turns to you both and even Wonwoo, who is generally unaffected by even the most disastrous of circumstances, sits up straight like a child who's just been caught doing something they absolutely shouldn’t be doing.

“Was that something you wanted to share Wonwoo?”

God, even the way he talks is like something from the past, it holds that same reverence of people centuries ago who used to speak properly and with authority, rather than the abbreviations and slang that everyone uses today. You’d once written lol (by accident) in an email to him and you’re certain you saw him getting a dictionary off his bookshelf to see what this strange word you’d emailed him meant. It’s just every single facet of him demands respect, be it his beauty or the way he holds himself, he’s a monolith in a world of pebbles and you can’t help being drawn in by him.

“Oh! Er…” Wonwoo frantically looks around the room hoping something might jump out at him, because he really can’t tell his boss that he was about to say ‘You know you should just fuck him in his office’, “_____! She has a couple of manuscripts by new authors that she hasn’t shut up about for weeks!”

Fuck you Jeon Wonwoo.

But then Junhui turns his attention to you and you’re presented with a hopeful smile that in all seriousness, you would enter a battle for.

“Is that true?”

You’re certain his skin is actually shimmering, not in that fresh glow you get when you’ve been in the sun or the mirror like hue you get after a particularly amazing facial, but it just shimmers like he’s glowing from within. You’re not even sure skincare could achieve it, it’s surely…..

“_____?”

Shit. The whole publishing department is waiting on your answer and you’re sitting deciding whether it’s moisturiser or genetics that causes your boss to be fucking ethereal.

“Sorry!” You blush, picking at the skin near your thumb nail, “I do have a couple that I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, but I wasn’t sure they’d be what you were looking for.”

“To be honest,” damn his smile for making it so hard to concentrate on a word he’s saying, “I don’t know what I’m looking for. We need something fresh yet…timeless, I suppose. We need something to shake up the industry, like…..”

“Like 1984 but perhaps a little less true to life?”

You’ve done it. Your life has peaked. You have made Junhui laugh, you’ve seen the wide smile that forms on that stoic face and now you’ll never get over it. And it isn’t that he’s unpleasant, he smiles to you all and wishes you a good morning, but you’ve never seen him laugh. And now you have and you think you want to have the privilege of hearing it every day for eternity.

“That’s exactly it _____, yes. If you have time this week, drop by my office and we’ll check out those manuscripts.”

Breathe _____. He’s asked you to stop by his office for work. The way your heart just leaped, you’d think he’d just gotten down on one knee and asked you to be his wife.

“O-okay,” you nod, fumbling with your notebook and pen, whilst you desperately try to play it cool.

“Very smooth.” Wonwoo murmurs as he watches Junhui start talking about publishing deadlines.

“Fuck. Off.” You poke him with your pen, enjoying the way he tries to pretend it didn’t affect him.

The rest of Thursday, after the meeting, had been derailed by Vernon. One of the writers you look after as his editor and a man so annoying that in a few years, it wouldn’t surprise you if you were doing jail time for murdering him.

He’d called you in a panic, saying his creative spark had fizzled out and he was going to join a new “collective” of artists in Nepal, where he’d smoke weed and take part in group activities that would allow his creative juices to flow freely again. So, when you’d arrived at his house by the beach and discovered exactly what these “activities” included, you informed Vernon what he was actually planning on joining was a cult.

You then had to spend forty minutes with a frantic Vernon looking over your shoulder, coming down from his last high with a whole cake on a plate because of his munchies, as you checked every email from this “collective” and rang his bank to make sure they hadn’t already taken any payments. When the leader of the cult called him, not that you realised they used phones, you always thought cult leaders would have some sort of edgy system of communication, Vernon threw the phone to you in a blind panic.

Two hours. Two whole hours of your day wasted by talking to a man named Supreme Leader John the Second (presumably Supreme Leader John the First was the first cult leader) who was adamant that now Vernon was in the collective, he couldn’t leave.

It was only when you listed just how high maintenance Vernon was (he will only eat fish on Wednesdays or every third Saturday of the month, he likes to use a mixture of mouth washes and has specific measurements for said mixing and he will only eat cookies with even numbers of chocolate chips in them because odd numbers “encourage the world’s evils”) that Super Leader John decided that Vernon probably wasn’t suited to their collective and they’d actually quite prefer it if he never contacted them again.

So, Thursday had been a write off. And for most of Friday, Junhui had been in meetings with various higher ups that didn’t concern editors like yourself. But now most of the office had gone home and you were left with two manuscripts that had landed on your desk months ago, and that you’d fallen in love with as soon as you read them. They’re by unknown authors and aren’t the usual sort of thing that this company is used to publishing. All you can do is hope that Junhui likes them, if not, you’ve got yourself all worked up over the simple act of visiting his office, for nothing.

His office sits at the end of the large open plan work area, you can’t see in it as there’s a small corridor that leads into the actual office itself, but once you’re in there it’s like a dream. You’ve only been in a couple of times but each time you’ve been awestruck by the floor to ceiling bookshelves, full of books that you can tell he’s read from how well thumbed they are, and that don’t even look out of place in such a modern building. He even had special protective films installed on the windows so the sunlight coming through the glass building wouldn't harm any of his tomes, he is literally the man of your bookish dreams.

You take a deep breath, the excitement of getting to spend one on one time with Junhui mixing with the nerves of spending one on one time with him, and knock on the door.

You don’t get an answer, maybe he’s out? Maybe he’s gone home already? It is Friday after all and a man like him must have a wealth of options of things to occupy his time with.

You risk one more knock and if you get no answer, you’ll leave the manuscripts on his desk with a little note saying that you hope he likes them.

The second knock brings no response and so you slowly enter his office, the manuscripts bearing the brunt of your nerves as the paper slightly crumples from how hard you’re gripping them.

What you find though, makes your blood run cold.

“OH!” Junhui looks at you in horror, quickly hiding the cut crystal glass he’d been drinking from and trying to wipe his mouth, “I didn’t hear you knock _____! Sorry!”

You don’t reply. You can’t reply. You just stare at the man in the fine cut three piece suit, who would look as beautiful as ever if not for the red smears around his lips, that he’s desperately trying to wipe away with a handkerchief, with wide eyes.

Your heart is pounding in your ears, you’ve never felt fear like it. Every fibre of your being is telling you to flee, to get away from him and whatever he was just doing and yet you can’t.

It’s like you’re frozen to the spot, nothing but fear pumping through you but your legs are cemented to the spot halfway between his desk and your way out of this nightmare.

“W-was,” you swallow, trying to collect your thoughts, “was t-that…..in that glass…..was it?”

You don’t finish your sentence, the reality of what it was he was drinking makes you feel like you want to vomit and if what he was drinking is what you think it is, you need to get as far away from this freak as quick as you can.

You drop the manuscripts and run, ignoring Junhui shouting after you to come back and let him explain. Explain what exactly? Why he was sitting at his desk, quite happily sipping on a glass of fucking blood like it was a fine wine to be savoured? For the first couple of seconds, you wondered if it was tomato juice or a Bloody Mary but Bloody Marys don’t leave a stain on your skin like that. Because when Junhui tried to wipe away the residue on his mouth, it smeared and stained. It smeared and stained exactly like blood.

You know you’re going to have to answer the door. You’ve seen vampire movies, nobody just sees a vampire drinking blood and goes happily about their life afterwards. And from the way Junhui has been knocking at your apartment door for the past ten minutes, your life isn’t going on happily at all.

On your drive home, which you just hope you didn’t hit any old ladies or drive through any red lights whilst you weren’t paying any attention, you did toy with the idea that he’s just a weirdo. He’s just a weirdo that drinks blood and that might’ve been something you could deal with. But then you thought about it, really thought about it. The shimmer to his skin, the way he talks like he’s from another time, literally everything about him completely juxtaposes everything that the modern man is. And you know it’s far reaching and anyone would call you insane if you tried to tell them, but you just know it, it’s the only thing that makes sense. Wen Junhui is a vampire.

He’s been gently knocking on your door, desperately pleading with you to let him explain but you’re not an idiot. You know once you open that door, you’re dead. You’ve always had good veins, every nurse that’s ever taken a blood sample has commented how wonderful your veins are and so he won’t waste any time in feasting on you. You’re certain of it.

You did try to google what wards off a vampire, but the first one was sunlight and given he’s chosen to work in a glass building, even if his office does have protection for his books, sunlight doesn’t seem to be a problem. And what is more, you’re not religious so why the fuck would you just have a crucifix around the apartment?

Yes. You have garlic but it’s surely not enough to ward off a whole vampire, there’s probably some equation whereby each foot in height equals ten bulbs of garlic and you’ve only got two bulbs, it’s not going to be enough. And sadly for you, you’re clean out of wooden stakes. So do you just resign yourself to being a sacrificial lamb to the hot vampire who you work for? Perhaps you could fight him off? You did self defence classes for like three weeks and you once made Wonwoo’s nose bleed when you accidentally punched him fighting off a bee, you have some fighting skills.

“LET ME IN OR I WILL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN.” Junhui gets tired of trying to be nice and shouts through the door instead.

Shit. He probably could too, why he hasn’t already is a mystery to you.

You gather your things, hoping they’ll at least ward him off for a few seconds and walk slowly to the door, your hands shaking and wondering how long it’ll take someone to find you. That’s if he even leaves any of you, maybe you’ll be so delicious that he’ll just eat every last bit of you. Do vampires even eat people? Or are they zombies? He’s surely not a zombie, not with that haircut.

“Stand back!” You’d have been proud of yourself for that if your voice hadn’t broken a little.

He doesn’t say anything but then what are you expecting him to even say? He’s going to kill you either way, all you’ve done by asking him to stand back is give him a little run up to the killing. Fucking idiot.

You open the door and hold your hands in the air, hoping your choice of repellents work at least a little.

But Junhui just stands there, eyes flitting between your hands and the traces of a smirk on his lips.

“What are you holding?”

“DON’T COME NEAR ME! I MEAN IT!!!!!” You waggle your hands at him frantically.

“_____,” he bites his lips to hide his smile, “the whole crucifix and garlic thing is bullshit.”

“SO, YOU ARE A VAMPIRE?!” You jump back, your arms still outstretched. Part of you was hoping he was going to say you’ve got an overactive imagination and he’s on some sort of detox that rich people do.  

“Can…” he looks around the empty hallway, “can we talk about this inside?”

Your arms fall to your sides, you didn’t prepare for this, you thought he’d pounce but he’s treating this more like a business meeting.

What’s the point in saying no? He’s a vampire, he won’t take no for an answer anyway, you’re lying to yourself if you think you have a single thread of authority in anything going on here.

“Ok, but only if you stay right by the door. I want a good six foot buffer zone,” you wave your arms around yourself, showing him exactly where he can’t go, “do not come in this buffer area.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says smoothly and walks into your apartment.

Damn for a man who drinks blood, he really does smell fantastic, it’s like cedar with a mix of rosemary. It’s otherworldly, like nothing you’ve ever smelt before. But now isn’t the time to falter, you have an actual vampire in your apartment, it really shouldn’t matter that he smells nice.

“What do you want?”

“What did you think those were going to do?” he gestures to what you’re holding.

“Well. Garlic,” you gesture to him like it’s a given that garlic would help you ward him off, “and,” you glance down at the book you’re holding, “I’m not religious so don’t have a crucifix or bible or anything, this is the closest I had.”

“You think Mr Tumnus is going to help you fight off a vampire?” he smirks.

“The Chronicles of Narnia are based on the Bible,” you falter a little when you realise how fucking ridiculous that sounds, “it might’ve helped.”

He has just admitted that he is a vampire though, so you haven’t really got time to worry about your choice in defensive books.

“If you’re going to kill me, I won’t make it easy. I've got lots of salt.”

“You’re going to make sure you’re perfectly seasoned?” He raises an intrigued brow at you.

Fuck. So, the whole salt thing is a myth then.

“Salt doesn’t work either?”

He shakes his head, fighting off a smile.

“Oh, well then I give in,” you throw yourself on the sofa, “if it helps, my emergency contact is down as Wonwoo because he’s my oldest friend in the city, but don’t call him tonight. He has puzzle club with the old men in the neighbourhood and he hates being disturbed. You think you’re scary, you haven’t been on the receiving end of one of his lectures.”

Why can’t you just shut your damn mouth? Always have to drone on and on when you’re in a panic, like bamboozling whoever is scaring you would stop them from hurting you.

“I don’t want to kill you ______,”

“Oh please, don’t use the whole I don’t want to do this, I need to do this. I’ve read Dracula.”

“No,” he sits on your coffee table, chuckling at the ancient copy of ‘The Chronicles of Narnia’ that you thought would help and very much ignoring your six foot buffer zone, “I don’t need to kill you either. I just need to know you won’t tell anyone.”

“Like anyone would believe me if I told them my boss was a vampire.”

“You seem quite calm considering you’ve just found out your boss is a vampire.” He narrows his eyes at you.

You’re not calm. You’ve no idea what you are. All you know is that you’re having to come to terms with the fact that not only do vampires appear to exist. But the boss you’ve been crushing on for god knows how long, is one.

“There’s not much I can do. You’ll either kill me or I’ll have to keep it secret. I’m not being sectioned because you’re a vampire.” You say indignantly, desperately trying to get some kind of upper hand here.

“I don’t want to kill you _____. I’ve said that. But I need to know you’ll keep this secret. If not, I have to move on and you’ll all lose your jobs.”

Oh great. So now the job of every person who works for one of the biggest publishers in the country, relies on your ability to keep a secret. Something which famously, you’re terrible at. You’ve told your mom every secret you’ve ever been told and Wonwoo seems to have some sort of sixth sense for when you’re hiding something. He’ll sniff it out before you even enter the office.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you sigh, leaning back into the sofa, “I can’t be responsible for everyone losing their jobs. But…..can I have those manuscripts back?”

“Why?” he smirks.

Shit. He’s already them. Or one of them at least.

“I didn’t know…..I wouldn’t have…..oh god,” you groan, ignoring the little laugh that comes from Junhui.

“You wouldn’t have brought a manuscript about a vampire to your boss that happens to be a vampire?”

“How did you read it already? It’s been like an hour?”

“I can read pretty quickly.” He shrugs like it’s nothing.

You should probably ask him to leave but you’re nothing if not nosey and if you’re never going to talk about this with him again, you want to ask him what life as a vampire is really like.

“Go on.” He smiles.

Can he? Oh fuck you hope he can’t read minds. He’s being very calm for someone that will have been subjected to some pretty explicit daydreams you’ve managed to conjure up, if he can read minds.

“Can you?” you ask quietly, “read minds?”

“No,” he snorts, “you just look like you have questions and to be honest, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“Thank god for that!” your eyes widen, “I mean not that I’ve been thinking of anything weird. You know, just worried about stranger danger I guess,” you trail off.

“Could I?” He gestures to the spot on the sofa next to you.

“Oh! Sure! Do you want a drink? Although….” What the hell do vampires drink? Thinking about it now, you’re not sure you ever have seen him drink, other than the blood he was drinking earlier.

“Any b negative?” you freeze on your way to the kitchen, “I was joking _____. I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

“Mint tea?”

“Perfect.”

He stands up to take his jacket off and you desperately try not to think too much into the fact that you’re spending time in your apartment, with your hot boss who you’ve been pining after for ages. The fact he’s a vampire should make you want to run and bang on your neighbour’s door for help, but you feel oddly at ease with him. He doesn’t seem to mean any harm to you and the fact that if you told someone, he said his reaction would be to leave, rather than hurt you, shows he truly has no intentions of hurting you.

“Here you go,” you mumble as you hand him the steaming mug of tea and sit down on the sofa next to him.

“Thank you. You’ve quite the collection of books.” He smiles and nods over to your messy bookshelves which have far too many books than the old shelves should be holding.

“Hm,” you hum, swallowing your sip of tea, “I’m running out of space for them. I know everything is going digital and people say print is dying, but I don’t know. I just like having the physical copy, I like seeing what I’ve read and the characters I’ve known.”

You turn back to him, shocked to find a fond smile on his lips.

“What?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself. That’s what I’m always trying to hammer home to the execs, people want the physical copies of books. I understand the ease of digital things, but I still think there’s hope for published books. It isn’t the write off they think it is.”

“Can I….Do you mind if I……”

“Ask me whatever you want ______.”

Even the way he says your name makes your body tingle and heart leap. You shouldn’t still be having this reaction to him now you know he’s basically a monster.

“How old are you?”

“1941 years old.”

“That would mean you were born in….” you try to work it out, “85? Like the year 85?”

“If you’re using the current way of counting, yes. Although I was born hundreds of years before that system came into practice, before that we just used the eras of the current rulers and things.”

“So,” You cross your legs and get comfy on the sofa facing him, not realising just how softly he’s looking at you, “where were you born? Like does that country still exist?”

“It’s still China.” He nods, “But it’s very different from when I was born there. If you’d have told four year old Junhui he’d be moving around the earth in a metal box he’d have never believed you. Or known what metal was.”

You can’t imagine what that must be like. To have seen history with your own eyes.

“Did you always live in China? Or did you just recently move?”

“Recently to you and recently to me are two very different things ______.”

“Right,” you nod, a little embarrassed.

“I’ve lived all over the world,” you look up at him through your lashes, “I’ve seen the fall of Rome, I saw people say ‘Oh Shakespeare? He’s just a phase, he’ll be forgotten in a few years’ and I’ve seen some of the worst things mankind has ever done. You tend to have to move around every few decades or so, people grow old and when you don’t,” he smiles, though you note it doesn’t seem quite as happy as he wants it to, “you need to move on, so you’re not caught out.”

“That must be lonely.”

You sip your tea and wait for an answer, but when you look at him, he’s just staring at you with an emotion you can’t quite make out.

“No-one, not that many people have ever found out about me, but no-one has ever said anything like that. Or even thought about how it must feel to live like I do. It’s not a bad thing!” He rushes to say when he sees you looking a little worried you’d said the wrong thing.

You just nod and go back to your tea.

“Do you like the Chronicles of Narnia?” He averts his eyes to your well-read copy on the coffee table.

“It was my favourite books growing up. I think I've read them all a hundred times.”

“You know,” he sips his tea like he’s saying something totally normal, “it was me that came up with the name for Aslan.”

“What?! You’re just making that up!”

“I’m not!” he laughs, putting his tea down and picking up your book, “I was studying at Oxford University, I met Clive,” you scoff at him casually calling the author of your favourite childhood book Clive, like he’s friends with him, “at a local pub by chance. I told him I was a literary scholar, and he told me about the book he was writing and how the main hero was a lion and what he represented. But he was struggling with a name, so I suggested Aslan. I’d recently been in Turkey and Aslan is Turkish for Lion. Anyway, Clive loved it and so, Aslan was born.”

You blink at him. For someone that always has so much to say, you’re utterly speechless.

“What was he going to be called before that?”

“Mr Lion.”

You throw your head back in laughter much to the joy of the vampire sat beside you.

“H-he,” you hiccup out another laugh, “he was going to call him Mr Lion?”

“Well he did have form for it. Those poor beavers never got names did they? Just Mr and Mrs Beaver.”

You freeze. He’s actually telling the truth. You thought with a response like Mr Lion, he was just joking to calm your nerves.

“You’re being serious?”

“Yes! I named Aslan!”

“That’s fucking wild.” You shake your head.

“I have a first edition, if you wanted to see it?”

“Really? I’d love that! I love old books, I’ve never dreamt of owning any, or even seeing any, but I love the history of them. How they’ve been passed down and where they’ve been to get where they are now.”

If you could read Junhui’s mind you’d know that for the first time in a very long time, possibly ever, he feels completely captivated by you. He’s had romances through his life and people he thought he loved, but he’d never told anyone else about his “condition”, and thankfully, he’d never been found out, except for a few close shaves.

Suddenly though, he’s in a situation where someone knows his secret and that someone just happens to be one of the most beautiful and endearing women he’s ever met in his long life on this earth. It’s selfish to indulge you, and he tells himself he’s only offering to show you because you seem so interested in it, but a part of him, quite a big part is selfishly doing this because he can’t help wanting to spend more time with you.

“I’ve collected quite a few interesting pieces over the years. I could pick you up tomorrow? That’s if you don’t mind coming to my place?”

“Oh.” You sit up, a little shocked. “I-I’d really like that. You don’t mind showing them to me?”

“_____, in this life I don’t get to show many people, or anyone, this part of my life. People would ask way too many questions about where I found these things. So it’d be nice to share them with someone, particularly someone who seems to hold the same reverence for these things as me.”

“Then, yes. I’d love to come to your place.”

“Perfect,” he finishes his tea and even heads to the kitchen to clean his mug, “I’ll pick you up at 10? Or is that too early?”

“No, that’s fine!” You say excitedly, showing him to your door.

“Great,” he pauses like he was going to hug you, but instead sends you a small smile and sort or taps your arm before he heads through your front door, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Bye.” You grin and wave him off.

As the door closes, your back hits it and you can’t help the huge grin on your face. You’re spending your Saturday with your hot boss, at his apartment no less. Fuck, finding out he’s an ancient vampire might’ve been the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

You’d slept pretty well for someone who’d just found out that her boss is a blood drinking vampire, but you put that down to the fact that in the excitement of the prospect of spending time with him, you’d somehow completely blocked out that he is, in fact, a vampire. And that just yesterday you walked into his office to find him casually drinking a glass full of blood.

But now you’re waiting for him to pick you up, having been ready to go for the past hour because your nerves were kicking your ass, and you can’t help but think how incredibly stupid you’ve been to get yourself into this situation. Sure, he didn’t seem like he meant you any harm. And surely if he was going to kill you, he’d have done it last night, it makes no sense to keep you alive and give you the opportunity to tell someone what you’d found out. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t been frantically pacing your apartment since seven this morning and wondering whether this was all some kind of trap.

This could all be a ruse to lure you to his place and keep you there. Perhaps that what vampires do, they don’t kill people straight away, they do it slowly. He might be intending to just keep you locked away somewhere in his home and feast on your blood whenever the mood takes him. And yet. You still felt oddly safe being near him last night, he didn’t speak to you with any threat, he didn’t seem to want to threaten you at all. And, if it had been a date or something, you’d have been pretty pleased with how easily you both got on, the chat flowed freely and he’d even made you laugh. Which is better than the last three first dates you’ve been on.

You check your watch, it’s only been a minute since you’d last checked it but other than picking the skin near your thumb nail, a habit your mom said would get you into trouble one day, you haven’t got much else to do. Five minutes. Just another five minutes and he’ll be knocking on your door, and you’ll be going to an actual vampire’s house. That is, if he’s on time. But you’re certain vampires generally are on time, they just have that vibe around them that they’d probably be punctual. Not that you’ve met many vampires. Although you have now met one, which considerably more than most people.

A gentle knock on the door breaks you out of your thoughts and you take a deep breath before you stand up. You’re excited, you can’t deny that, but it’s like the fear you feel before a first date has quadrupled because you have absolutely no idea what to expect from this. And it isn’t even that you can call it a date, he’s just asked you if you want to see his book collection because he never gets to share it with anyone. It’s more just your boss showing you something he knows you’ll like, rather than a first date with the potential for it to lead anywhere.

“Hi,” he says softly when you open the door.

“Hello”

You’re not sure why, but you were expecting him to be wearing a suit. He just always is in a suit. You certainly weren’t expecting the 1941 year old vampire to be sweats but you can’t say you’re mad about it. He looks warm. Like he’d give really great hugs and keep you safe. Shit you need to stop this, he is literally a vampire.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure,” you close your door and walk along the corridor with him towards the elevator.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” you ponder, “a lot better than you’d think I would after yesterday.”

“Panic only set in this morning?” he smiles. How the hell can he read you so well? It’s not like you’ve spent a huge amount of time with him and yet this is the second time that it feels like he knows what you’re thinking.

“Sort of,” you admit, “you don’t scare me, not really. I think my imagination is scaring me a lot more than you.”

“I swear to you, I don’t mean you any harm. And,” he presses the button to the elevator, “you can ask me whatever you want to, I don’t mind. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

You just smile softly and nod, both of you entering the elevator and heading down to his car. You have questions. You have a lot of questions, but you’re probably better off waiting until you’re in private. The last thing you need is for any nosey neighbours to hear you ask where he gets his blood from and if he actually feeds off real people.

When Junhui parks in the underground parking lot of a large, luxurious apartment complex, you can’t help but feel a little stupid. You heard vampire and just presumed an old, pretty scary, mansion in the woods. Not modern luxurious apartments in the most affluent part of the city. This goes to show that all your over thinking is pointless, you’ve no real idea of what to expect from all of this other than your boss has shown you nothing but kindness since you found out this secret and you’ve spent the whole morning making assumptions about how he lives. 

Before you can even open the door, Junhui has rushed around from the driver’s side of the car and opened it for you. 

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.” 

“My mother taught me manners and I’ve never forgotten them.” 

“Your mother taught you to open a car door for people?” You challenge, hoping he sees you’re joking. 

“Well,” he grins, ushering you towards a private elevator for the penthouse complex, “no, she taught me to always let ladies walk through doors first. But I’ve adapted with the times.” 

“Is your mother still alive? Is she…..like you?” 

He pauses as he presses the button to close the door to the elevator and you worry that you’ve been too forward. Of course he doesn’t want to tell you everything about his life, he was probably just saying you could ask anything to make you less panicked. 

“She died a long long time ago now. She wasn’t like me, she never knew I became like this.” 

“I’m sorry,” you play with your sleeves, “I shouldn’t have asked something so personal.” 

You try to avert your eyes, taking a particular interest in the ceiling off the elevator but he interrupts your feeble attempts to ignore the awkwardness. 

“I said you could ask me anything you wanted. And I rarely get a chance to even acknowledge what I am, let alone speak about it. I have to lie and say my parents are back home, or they died, or whatever my current story is for the last few decades I’m in any one place.” 

“That must be tough, living so many different lives.” You nod. You struggle with dealing with one life sometimes, let alone multiple. 

“It is,” the elevator bongs and he ushers you into a large entryway, “but it’s amazing in parts. I’ve seen and done things that most people with even the wildest imagination couldn’t dream up.” 

“Like naming legendary lions?” You smile at him, handing him your coat and him hanging it up with his. 

“Exactly.” He says proudly. 

It’s only when you wait for him to put a door code in that you realise just how big this place is, just the entry way is bigger than most apartments and it’s decorated beautifully. There are a couple of modern works of art on the walls and on either side of the door are large ornate vases that are about half your height. The only other thing is an old school coat stand and shoes rack, no doubt something he bought on his travels. If you asked him about them he’d probably say something ridiculous like they belonged to an old european monarch or something. So instead you just keep your mouth shut and will yourself not to fall for the seemingly perfect vampire who’s invited you over to look at his book collection. 

“Shoes.” He looks down at your feet like your mother would if you forgot to take your shoes off in your grandma’s house. 

“Oh!” You quickly launch your sneakers off your feet, “Sorry! Do you have those like foot cover things?” 

“This is my home _____, not a museum. I just don't like shoes in the house. You don't need foot protectors and you don’t need a full hazmat suit either.” he smirks. 

“I was just checking,” you grumble, taking an active interest in the vase near the door rather than his smug face. 

He opens the door and gestures for you to go through first, his mom’s manners still at the forefront, and you slowly walk into the apartment. It’s huge, open plan and designed like something out of an architecture magazine. The walls are simple, white and clean and numerous works of art and prints line the walls. A glass staircase leads up to the second floor and you’re certain it continues up to another level after that. You’re not surprised it’s grand, he’s been alive thousands of years, he must have amassed a huge amount of wealth with that. But on the whole it just feels……..

“You don’t like it?” He must’ve noticed your slight disappointment. 

“It’s just very……normal? I-I mean not normal,” you panic, “I just mean, it looks how I thought it would before I knew what you were. Not that I think you’re any different now, I’m not prejudiced ....”

“______. Although I think this little ramble is very cute,” fuck your cheeks must be bright pink at that, “I understand what you mean. You were expecting something out of a horror movie? Or some dark dungeon where the sunlight couldn’t get me?” 

“I guess,” you shrug, “is that whole no sunlight thing not true then?” 

“None of those old myths are true. Apart from the stake through the heart, that would kill anyone. It’s pointless anyway, I can move quicker than most people can think. It’d take a miracle to actually be in the position to run a stake through a vampire's heart.”

“How quick?” You narrow your eyes at him but before you can even finish your sentence he’s gone, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

You spin around trying to find him, just to hear a cough coming from above you. You look up to find Junhui leaning against a grand piano positioned in front of the large windows on the floor above you, looking very pleased with himself. 

“H-how? What? I didn’t even see you move!!” 

In the blink of an eye he’s back beside you and again, you’d hardly seen it. It was like when you walk into a room and a spider or mouse quickly darts into a safe place. You know you’ve seen something but you can’t be sure. 

“So you can see why the whole stake through the heart is tricky.” 

“Damn, there’s not much point in me taking my stake out of my bag then.” you sigh dramatically. 

“I don’t think you’d ever kill me.” He says happily, moving over to the kitchen. 

“Why?” You ask, following him and trying not to get distracted by the fact he seems to have every kitchen appliance of your dreams. 

“You just said you weren’t prejudiced. Like insulting a vampire for their stereotypes was the same as insulting any human for the stereotypes they may have about where they’re from or what they do. Nobody that kind would kill anyone.” 

“Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome,” he chuckles, “do you want a drink?” 

“It depends what it is.” 

Yes, you’re not prejudiced. But you’re entirely sure you could stomach seeing him drink blood without throwing up all over his kitchen. 

“Take your pick.” He says as he throws open the door to a fridge the size of your whole bedroom. Ok, maybe not that big but it is the biggest fridge you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Why do you have all this if you can’t have it?” You ask as you try to decide what the hell you want to drink. Which isn’t easy when he seems to be stocking more options than your local convenience store. 

“Who says I can’t have any of it?” 

“I saw you drinking blood Junhui…” Your eyes widen, “I mean Mr……”

“Junhui is fine.” He smiles fondly at you. “And you also saw me drinking mint tea.” 

“So you can eat and drink like a human? But you still need blood?” You settle on an orange juice and close the fridge door, trying not to look at how good he looks leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded. 

“Exactly,” he nods, “I can eat and drink whatever I want, but I need a little blood each day.” 

“Do you go to the toilet then?” 

Fuck. You didn’t mean to actually ask that. How fucking embarrasing. 

“Most people would be more interested in the blood,” he beams at you once he’s stopped laughing, “but yes, I go to the toilet.” 

“Good,” you nod, taking a sip of your orange juice and wishing your brain would develop at least some kind of filter, “and the blood? You don’t……I mean it’s none of my business if you do……but do you? Feed off people?” 

“No,” he says kindly, “There are only a handful of us left in the world. Luckily my friend Seungkwan works for one of the top hospitals in the country. We move together generally although we don't see each other much. He supplies us both with blood from the hospitals he works in. In the early days,” he sighs, gesturing for you to sit on one of the stools near him, “when I’d first been changed, I did feed on humans. I couldn’t help myself, I resented what I’d been turned into. I hated humans because I still longed to be one. But, after those first few years, I realised I couldn’t change what had happened to me. And a whole generation had passed, it wasn’t the fault of the humans any more than it was mine. And so I found new methods, now it’s simple to avoid feeding on humans.” 

“How did you become like this?” Now you’ve started, you want to know as much as possible about him. 

“When I was growing up, we didn’t really have legends of vampires. There were stories of the undead living off humans to survive but nothing of actual vampires. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was coming back from a night of drinking with my friends and before I knew what had happened, I was attacked. I think they meant to kill me, to feed off me completely, but something spooked them and they fled. I was unconscious for days because of the amount of blood they’d taken but there was enough of their DNA in me that I was fine. Better than fine, I felt unstoppable. But I hated what I’d become, I hated that they took my life from me.”

“How did you know you’d become a vampire though? If you’d never heard of them? You could’ve just gotten better?” 

“Seungkwan found me. If I’m honest I think it was him who stopped me being killed but he’d never admit that. He’s always hated vampires who use their power to cause fear or hurt people. He’d been hunting down the last truly evil vampire, the one who turned me, for years. It took him another century until he did finally stop him. But Seungkwan explained everything. And then he disappeared. If he hadn’t…..If he’d have guided me in those first few years. It might’ve saved the people I hurt.” 

“It’s not your fault you reacted like that. You can’t blame yourself for what you did because of something you never asked for. That’s not fair, Junhui.” 

He stares at you with an unreadable look on his face and you worry you’ve been too forward, acted too friendly or something when he is still your boss and you do barely know each other. It just feels so unjust though, for him to have never asked to be a vampire and it’s not like he could help the fact he needed blood to survive. It’s like holding it against a baby that they need milk or an adult human for needing water. He needed blood to survive. 

“Sorry. You don’t need me to tell you that.” 

“Actually,” he smiles, “I did. Thank you.” 

It feels like if you speak now, you’ll ruin the moment. But is it even a moment? You feel like it is, the way he’s staring into your soul feels like it is. But maybe this is just him, maybe he’s always been kind and reserved and you’re only just now getting to know him. 

“So,” you break eye contact, hoping that might stop your heart hammering, “there’s only two of you?” 

“No,” he shakes his head, his smile broadening, “there’s six vampires left in total. Me and Seungkwan tend to stick together. Joshua and Jeonghan keep to themselves mostly, they’re living somewhere in the south of France and spend their time lounging around their pool and sleeping with whoever they please, masking it all behind being wealthy art dealers. And then there’s Soonyoung and Pearl….” 

“Pearl?” You squint at him, confused by the sudden name change.

“Hm,” he hums, smiling to himself, “Soonyoung’s wife. She recently decided that a truly organic way of life is the way forward and now they live in a yurt somewhere in South America. Her name changes every few decades, she’s happy I suppose, and that’s all that matters. They went through a lot together, she got changed into a vampire by the same bastard who created me. It took Soonyoung years to convince her to change him. They’d been childhood sweet hearts and were only a week off getting married when she changed. She agreed eventually, but she hated doing it.” 

“It’s romantic,” 

“It’s barbaric,” He says harshly, “to willingly change the person you love, to sentence them to eternity. I understand why she did it but I don’t condone it. It’s like giving someone hundreds of life sentences.” 

“S-sorry.” You mumble, a little taken aback by how his attitude changed. 

You’re sorry you upset him but honestly, it doesn’t seem that bad. He’s seen all the wonders of the world, he’s lived through history and he seems to have done it all with people he would consider his friends. You’re struggling to see what could be so bad, other than the whole drinking blood thing. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes, “it’s just it seems great and everything but you’ve no idea how lonely it is. Sure you make friends but they either die or you have to move away before they realise they’re aging and you aren’t.”

“Did you never meet anyone you loved?” The idea leaves a sour taste on your tongue but you’re not expecting a man who is nearly two thousand years old to never have been in love. You’re only thirty and you’ve got more ex’s than you’d care to admit to. 

“I did,” he says somewhat shyly, “and it isn’t like I live like a nun, I sleep with people,” you try not to grimace at that admission, “but I always have to hold myself back, I can’t be myself around them and so it never lasts.” 

“You’ve never told any of them?” Why you feel a little smug about that, you don’t know. It’s not like he’s willingly told you, you literally walked in on him drinking blood. He could hardly deny it. 

“Nope,” he says standing up, “only you. Now, do you want to see all my cool stuff?” He says, raising his brows like he’s trying to entice you into something but all you’re trying to do is forget the ‘only you’ he tacked onto the end of his last answer, and tell yourself that it doesn’t make you special. 

“I’d love to” you recover. 

“Great, follow me.” 

“This is all,” you stare at the portrait of Junhui, standing beside who he tells you is DaVinci, “I don’t even know what to say.” 

You stare around the room in wonderment. The whole top floor of his penthouse is dedicated to everything he’s collected over the years. He had to put in about four sets of codes to open the door. Not that it looks peculiar from the outside, it looks like the top floor of any other fancy home would, perfectly painted walls, ornate furniture and large wooden doors. But it’s all just a facade, only one of the doors is real and behind the real one is treasures that you’d never thought you or anyone would ever see. 

So far he’s shown you Ernest Hemingway’s lost suitcase which he swears he had nothing to do with actually stealing, he just happened to be at a bar in Paris when the man who had stolen it was boasting about it and how that man had then very sadly lost it. When Junhui had tracked down Earnest, as he called him because obviously he seems to know everyone personally, Earnest had said he didn’t want it back, it added an air of mystery to his name that would help his name and works be remembered far more than just the literature he’d had published. And so he forgot Junhui had ever told him he’d found it and Junhui now holds one of the most looked for mysteries in modern literature. 

He has Shakespeare manuscripts, which apparently “Will” had given Junhui himself as thanks for helping him get home in time for his wife’s birthday. The way he spoke about him like he was just some friend that he’d lost touch with, chuckling to himself as he told you stories about how they’d meet up after performances and argue about which actor made the best Hamlet or whether the Globe was looking a bit shabby. 

Looking through his bookcases was like looking through history, like seeing every character you’ve ever loved and known in their earliest form. No editing or altering that may have happened over the years. Your bookcases when you get home will look pretty shit when you walk in and you’re confronted with your battered copies of all his treasures. 

“You’ve seen history. Like, you’ve seen words being created. Shakespeare invented almost 2000 words you know, or at least made them popular. And you were there, it’s just so……I don’t know…..big?” you look up at a bookshelf, eyes widening when you see what looks like an ancient, probably original written copy of Journey to The West. 

You’ve spent the past hour, when you weren’t listening to Junhui telling you the stories of his life, wandering round the large room like it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever seen. And it is the greatest thing you’ve ever seen. But Junhui, he’s seen a lot of great things. But he thinks the greatest thing he’s ever seen in his whole long life is you in this room. The way you get excited when you spot something that you can’t believe you’re seeing, or the way your eyes widen every time he mentions someone in history that always sounded more like another book character than a real person. 

He’d always thought you were beautiful, your whole aura lights up even the most boring of meetings and on the few occasions he’d spoken to you, he thought you were completely endearing. He did wonder whether there was something going on between you and Wonwoo. But then he saw Wonwoo put you in a headlock one day when you were arguing over who got the last piece of the brownie you’d bought, and that put the end to that idea. There was nothing romantic in that headlock. Or the way you bit his arm to get out of it. It didn’t matter anyway. Junhui made the decision long ago that he would never start a relationship with anyone, too many people get hurt. And he knew if he started something with you, it wouldn’t and couldn’t be a one time thing like so many of the flings he’s had over the past few centuries. 

But then you caught him drinking blood and when he’d found you (having found your address by hacking the HR records he knows he shouldn’t have been looking in), the way you’d tried to fight him only warmed his heart. He saw your books, he felt how kind and warm you were with someone that you should’ve been scared of and he couldn’t help himself. He told himself this was just because he knew you’d appreciate everything he’d collected over the centuries, and that he was just excited to show someone everything, that wasn’t Seungkwan. Who had as much interest in this stuff as a bollard. 

But he was playing with fire. And he knew it. 

“He invented most of the words he’s credited for.” 

He waits for you to realise what he’s said. And like clock work you freeze and whip around to face him. 

“You didn’t invent words,” you scoff, “did you?” you ask slowly.  

“Radiance.” 

You stare at him. He invented a whole fucking word and he says it like it’s nothing? Sure, people have invented new terms before when new things are invented. But radiance is just an everyday word. Everyone knows it and everyone uses it. 

“You invented the word radiance?” 

“Mm-mm,” he nods, “Will wanted a word in All’s Well That Ends Well to describe the beauty of someone, and I thought about the fact it brings light when you’re around someone you love. Anyway, radius is Latin for beam. But you’re radius sounds almost insulting. So I suggested radiance and all’s well that ends well.” He shrugs, laughing at his own joke. 

“Who were you thinking of when you invented it?” It’s none of your business, you don’t know why you’re asking, but you can’t help wanting to know and your mouth moves quicker than your head. 

“No-one in particular. I didn’t think I’d ever meet someone who made me feel that way.”

“Didn’t?” You glance at his lips. 

“Yeah. Didn’t.” He glances down at yours. 

The air suddenly feels like you can’t breathe, there’s something drawing you to him even though you know you should be scared of him. But he must feel it too, he hasn’t moved away or broken the moment and yet neither of you move closer. It’s like you’re stuck in your place but wishing that he’d take the initiative and do what you want him to. You daren’t, you don’t know whether it would spark something fearsome in him. Although the idea of him biting you makes you weirdly excited but you try to push that thought to the back of your mind. 

The sound of the buzzer for his elevator breaks you out of the moment, both of you jumping at the sound and crashing back down to reality. 

“That’ll be the food,” he rushes off, “you take your time up here, I’ll get the food and plates. I’ll shout you when it’s all sorted.” 

“Ok.” you say quietly, watching his back as he rushes off out of the room. 

He felt it. You’re sure he did. But you don’t want to bring it up and ruin whatever this is and so you go back to pursuing his bookshelves. Every other find makes you more shocked than the last but you can’t shake what just happened and the moment you just shared. Because you are certain it was shared. It can’t have just been you that felt it. 

About ten minutes later and you hear him bellowing from two floors below you. Clearly he’s not just got it in him to be quick but also damn loud too. 

“That copy of To Kill A Mockingbird,” you start as you hop down the last two steps, feeling weirdly at home in this penthouse you’d never been in until today, “it’s not actually signed is it? Harper Lee barely signed any copies. If you were in Europe, how do you have a signed copy?” 

He beams at you from the sofa as you wander over, your stomach growling at the sight of the noodles he’d ordered. He’s set it up on the coffee table so you can both sit on the floor to eat just like you would at home. It’s pretty easy to forget he’s a blood drinking vampire when he acts like any other person you know. 

“I’ve lived in every country in the world at some point _____. And I met Harper when I was working at NASA. I went to Alabama to visit a friend, who happened to be friends with her and she was kind enough to sign a copy for me when I said I collected literature.” 

You gawk at him, the drink he’d poured you half way to your mouth. But to be perfectly honest, you’re just pleased you haven’t dropped it all over yourself. 

“N-nasa……..you met…..WHAT?!” 

He tries not to laugh at you, if he’s honest he just wants to squeeze your cheeks because you’re so fucking cute, but he doesn’t. 

“I was helping with the dimensions and initial plans for the rocket. Leonardo,” you huff at how he just references DaVinci like an old friend, “had a keen interest in aviation and he told me about some screw that could withstand high amounts of pressure, hundreds of years ago. I wrote to NASA, obviously not telling them where I'd learnt it, and they asked for my help for a month or so.” 

“I thought I was cool because I went to school with a girl who has ten million followers on Instagram but shit,” you lean back against his sofa staring at the noodles. 

“Hey, things change and what’s cool changes.” he shrugs, moving your noodles in front of you. 

“Oh please, I bet you don’t even know what Instagram is and working on a rocket that went to the moon beats followers every day of the week.” 

“I do know what it is, thank you very much,” he smiles as you both pick up your chopsticks, “and I will admit. The rocket is pretty cool.” 

“And yet you didn’t know lol when I put it in that email?” You challenge playfully. 

“Yeah, you did catch me off guard with that. How did you know?” 

“Oh!” Shit. You can’t tell him that a large part of your day is spent watching him. And another large part is spent fantasising about what you’d do if you ever found yourself alone with him, “I just happened to look over as you checked the email on your phone, that’s all.” 

You shove the noodles in your mouth as quickly as you can, trying to ignore how he seems to be watching you as you do, clearly not believing a word you said but he lets it go. 

“Did you see the Austen?” 

“Oh my god,” you wipe your mouth, hurriedly swallowing the food you were chewing, “yes! I can’t believe you have that! I never thought I’d see that, all three volumes of Pride and Prejudice. Well. First Impressions.” You pause, thinking about what you’ve just said, “if you’re about to tell me that it was you that made her change the name I think I will actually explode or something.” 

“I’m not,” he laughs, taking a sip of his drink, “but I did meet her once.”

“What was she like?” You ask excitedly.

“She was headstrong,” he nods fondly, “but. She was sad, mostly. She seemed like she never really got what she wanted in life, like she was living through the women in her stories. But she was kind and clever, and told Seungkwan to stop being so moody when his horse had eaten his hat, so she’ll always be a hero in my eyes.” 

“I’m pleased she was kind.” you sigh, “I always loved her books.I’m not sure I’d cope if I found out she was this awful human being that everyone hated,” 

“Do you know who was a weirdo?” 

“Who?” you ask, like he’s about to tell you some juicy gossip. 

“Mary Shelley. Have you ever heard the story of…….”

“That she lost her virginity on her mother’s grave. Yeah, I've heard it but it can’t be……” Your words trail off when you see his face. “NO?!” 

“Yep,” he nods, like he hates talking about it but loves it at the same time, “it’s true.”

“It wasn’t……you?” 

“NO!!” He looks horrified, “It was Percy! Thank god they married each other. Pair of odd bods.” he shivers like the memory of them disgusts him. 

“What the hell possessed them to do that?” You grimace. 

“Fuck knows but they were pretty proud of it. He was married at the time too. Which in my opinion just makes it all so much worse. Those two caused chaos.”

“You don’t have Frankenstein then?” You chuckle, going back to your noodles. 

“Oh I do, it’s a first edition, signed and everything. But it’s right up at the top where I don’t have to see it and be reminded of how much she scared me.” 

“A vampire? Scared of a normal woman?” 

“She was weird ok!” He laughs defensively. 

You eat pretty quietly after that. Both of you quite content in each other’s company. The rest of the day is spent looking through more of his collection, him showing you coins and little treasures from every country and era he’s lived through, even describing exactly what it was like when they finally finished the great wall of China after centuries of work. But you don’t remember much after he awkwardly asked you if you wanted to watch a film, neither of you wanting to say goodbye just yet, because you fell asleep. Not a care in the world for the fact that you’d managed to well and truly fluster Junhui, when your head landed on his shoulder, for the first time in almost two thousand years. 

The sound of pots and pans clanging around stir you awake from an absolutely bizarre dream in which you had to stop Wonwoo from fleeing with Jane Austen because she’d already said she’d marry you, even though gay marriage was hundreds of years off being made legal. It had ended pretty abruptly when presumably Junhui had moved a pan pretty heavily. But in your dream you’d pushed Wonwoo in front of a moving carriage because there was no well in hell he was taking your girlfriend. 

You’ve no idea how and when you made it into this overly comfortable bed but you admit you’re in no rush to get out of it. Even in your clothes you’d arrived in yesterday, it’s still the most comfortable you think you’ve ever been in your whole life. But the smell of bacon draws you from your need to stay in the cocoon you’ve made for yourself and you begrudgingly get out of the bed.

Before you can even start to worry about the fact you’re imposing on his hospitality, not that you’d intentionally fallen asleep on him and presumably, if he was uncomfortable, he’d have woken you up and said it was time for you to go, you find a set of folded clothes, a note and even some toiletries. 

Good morning! Or good night, depending on when you wake up. When you’re ready, I’ll cook us some breakfast. I’ve left some comfy clothes and some stuff to freshen up with (if you want to of course). Hope you slept well. 

Junhui

Fuck, you really want to not read too much into the fact he’s lending you clothes and he doesn’t seem mad that you’d taken up one of his spare rooms, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel all giggly because he seems quite happy to have you here. 

You shower and brush your teeth with what he's left you, not surprised that he’s left you only the best products on the market and quickly dry your hair once you’re in his sweat pants and t-shirt, noting that the t-shirt reads ‘I love books and I tolerate you’, and rush down the stairs. You get the impression you could spend years with Junhui and still not know everything about his life but damn you’ve enjoyed getting to know him. And even when he asked about your life, he seemed genuinely interested, like what you were telling him wasn’t the same old story he’s probably heard a thousand times before. 

It takes you a second to get your bearings but you find the stairs pretty quickly and speed down them, slowing slightly at the bottom then he doesn’t think you’re over eager. You find him in the kitchen, where you presumed he was from the smell of bacon and clattering of pans, this time in shorts and hoody and once again looking like he’d give the best, most snuggly hugs. Not what most people would think of if they were spending time with a vampire but there’s just something about Junhui that seems to scream comfort to you. 

“Good morning.” You say quietly, suddenly feeling a little nervous. 

“Hey!” He smiles, spinning round with the pan, “I hope I didn’t wake you. All these years on the planet and I’ve still not mastered cooking really. Many have tried but I’ve still burnt the bacon.” he frowns into the pan. 

“It’s fine. I like crispy bacon,” you grin at him, sitting on one of the stools when he tells you to sit down and it shouldn’t be long, “thank you for leaving these clothes out. And I’m sorry I fell asleep, I hope I’m not intruding. I will be out of your hair soon and I’ll wash these and bring them to work tomorrow.” You say happily, pouring yourself some apple juice he’d decanted into a jug.” 

“Are you in a rush to get home?” He winces when rather dark bacon lands on the plate in front of you.

“Not really,” you shrug, “but I’m sure you have plans and I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” 

“I do have plans,” he mumbles as he sits down next to you, “but I wondered if you wanted to come with me?” 

“Sure.” you say, trying to eat the bacon without him noticing just how hard it is to chew. 

“You don’t want to ask what we’re doing?” He jokes. 

Shit. Now he thinks you’re over eager. But do you even care? You like him, he seems to like you, why shouldn’t you show him that you enjoy spending time with him? 

“Sorry, sure, what were your plans?” 

“There’s an exhibition of ancient Chinese literature at one of the galleries, I was hoping to check it out.” 

“Compare your ancient Chinese literature with theirs?” You smirk knowingly. 

“Exactly. And we could get dinner? If you’re not bored of me of course.” 

“Junhui, I think if I found the hot vampire boss boring, then there’s no hope for me.” 

You go back to buttering a slice of toast before you even realise what you’ve just said but when you do, your horror stricken eyes meet his wide smile. 

“I-I didn’t mean…….wait no I’m not saying you’re not hot……oh god” you groan, hiding your head in your arm. 

“Hey, I’ll take it. It’s not every day a sexy older woman calls you hot.” 

You drop your toast. One because Junhui just called you sexy. But mainly because, what the hell does he mean ‘older woman'?! 

“Older woman? You’re almost two thousand years old!” 

“Yeah but when I was changed I was only 28. So technically you’re a cougar.” 

“That would suggest this is something more than friends?” 

He freezes, like he hadn’t thought this through but you just put that down to the fact that he’s not used to this. He said he’s only used to one night stands and things, maybe the beginnings of a relationship are odd to him after all this time. 

“You done?” He stands up, taking his plate over to the dishwasher. 

“I am,” you smile happily following him over and helping him clean up, “could we stop by my place so I can get changed?” 

“You don’t want to go out in my t-shirt?” he smirks at you, “I’m insulted _____.” 

You giggle, like joking and eating breakfast with Junhui is the most natural thing in the world. You could get used to this, and now you’ve made it clear that you like him, and he seems to like you too all you feel is excitement for what’s to come. The day passes in a blur of laughter and Junhui being very smug that some of the “ancient relics” were actually reprints that no-one has noticed, before you have dinner under the stars at an open top restaurant and he drops you home. Now having the courage to hug you, not just awkwardly pat your arm like he did two days prior. And you go to sleep full of happiness and excitement for this flourishing relationship. 

For the past month you’ve spent every weekend with Junhui. Even at the office you message each other and on a couple of occasions he’s eaten lunch with you and Wonwoo. They both discovered they have a shared interest in comic books and you started to worry that Junhui would kick you to the curb and decide Wonwoo was the one for him. 

Wonwoo nearly fell to his knees and proposed when he visited Junhui’s apartment one night after work and he saw he has every edition of his favourite series. Junhui hasn’t told him he’s a vampire and thankfully the comic books are in his TV room, so Wonwoo just thinks the top floor is more bedrooms and has no idea that Junhui is hoarding some of the world’s greatest treasures up there. You're certain Wonwoo genuinely wouldn't care if Junhui casually told him he was a vampire, he's the most laid back man you've ever met. It’d be a quick “cool, about those comic books" and he'd never mention it again. 

But up until you Junhui had never told anyone. And he only told you because he had to. So you don't want to push it. 

You did worry that you were spending too much time with him, that you were over staying your welcome whenever you went over to his place. But it was almost like he was actively finding reasons for you to stay and, most of the time, he was messaging you first and finding more and more reasons to talk to you. Not that you minded. You could spend every waking second of the day with him and never get bored. 

But there was one thing that was playing on your mind. You didn’t know what this all was. It felt like the beginnings of a relationship, at times it felt like it was a relationship, he would always make sure you’d eaten and wish you good morning or good night, you felt like you were going on dates. 

They definitely felt like dates. But then he’d never even held your hand or made any attempt to kiss you or anything. Though you’re certain he wants more, every time you find yourself saying goodbye to each other, he spends more time looking at your lips than he does looking you in the eye. It cannot just be friends. You can't have gotten it so wrong that he thinks this is just friendship. 

It’s annoying you but you’re trying to be understanding. There’s presumably so many different things he has to think about to even be around humans the way he is. He must always feel a constant urge to bite, to taste blood and you don’t want to make that worse for him. And so at the moment you’re content to just see where this goes, you love spending time with him and he seems to love spending time with you, what more do you even need right now? 

A message flashes up on your screen as you’re editing, the sight of Vernon’s name making your stomach drop.

Vernon: OH MY GOD WE ARE GOING TO HAVE SO MUCH FUN 

You: What are you talking about? I’ve told you Vernon, I’m not getting high with you 

Vernon: Not that. The book retreat!! I can’t believe you agreed to it, honestly your bosses seemed dubious but Junhui just told me!! Thank you for saying yes, me and my creative juices need this. Fuck three months in Peru!!!! Get packing bestie!!!!!!

You stare at your screen. What the fuck is he talking about? He’s high. He must be. Because there’s no way the company would allow that long an extension for him or his juices. And three months? Away from home? And what the hell is in Peru that’s going to make him write anymore than his creative trip to Thailand or Alaska. 

This whole thing seems like bullshit but the one thing that’s making it worse? “Junhui just told me”. Does he agree with this? He wants you gone for three months? But you were just sat daydreaming about the date he has planned for the weekend. He was going to take you to see some gardens that he’d found years ago that have the rarest flowers in Asia. And yet now you find out he’s shipping you off to Peru? 

This isn’t right. Before you can even re-read the messages again to make sure what you’ve read is right, you’re carried through the office on a wave of anger and hurt, and within seconds you’re knocking on the door to Junhui’s office. You don’t even wait for him to say come in, what’s the point, it’s not like you can find him doing anything worse than the last time walked into his office. 

You find him reading through a manuscript but he puts it down pretty quickly when he sees you. 

“Hey! I didn’t hear you knock, sorry I was miles away in this……”

“I knocked.” You interrupt, not liking him insinuating that you hadn’t. 

“I didn’t say you didn’t knock _____.” He frowns, he's never seen you pissed off. It doesn't suit and he doesn't know what he's done to cause it, but he hates it. 

“You’re sending me away?”

Junhui stands up, not having realised Vernon would open his big mouth already. 

“I’m not sending you. Vernon asked could you go with him, he said he needed you to keep him out of trouble.” 

“So you’re sending me away?” You press again. 

“_____ this is your job.” He sighs, walking around his desk and leaning against it in front of you. 

“He’s been on hundreds of writer’s retreats and I’ve never had to go then! Why do I have to go now? I’d be gone for three months! You’d be ok with that?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be ok with that?” 

You stare at him, the only thing you feel is your heart cracking and your finger frantically picking the skin near your thumb nail, because at the moment, it’s the only thing reminding you that this isn’t all a nightmare. And sadly is your reality. 

“Because we’re…….we’re,” you want to say because we’re a couple but now you just feel fucking stupid for even letting yourself think that. 

“We’re friends _____. Friends can go three months without seeing each other.” 

“Friends? We call everything over the past month being friends?!” 

“Nothing’s happened between us _____. I’ve never given any inclination that it was more.” He says it kindly, too kindly. Like he’s rehearsed this or something. 

But all you feel is panic. You can’t have gotten this so wrong? You know what you felt and you know that he felt it too! You’ve seen him speak to multiple women in this office, he never talks to their fucking lips, he doesn’t even spend time with them more than he actually has to. 

But then has all this just been because you know about him? That you’re the only person who’s ever found out he’s a vampire and he’s felt like he had to be kind to you to make sure you didn’t tell anyone? He’s just been tolerating you because he didn’t want you to blow his secret. It cannot be that. You can't fake how happy he was when you were together. 

“That’s not true,” you say quietly, staring anywhere but at him, though maybe if you did you’d see the pain in his eyes, “I know what I feel Junhui. Has this all been a lie? You don’t even like spending time with me?” You look at him, his heart breaking when he sees tears welling in your eyes. 

“I do like spending time with you _____. Like I would any other friend. STOP DOING THAT!” He makes you jump when his voice suddenly raises and there’s an anger in it you didn’t think you’d ever hear from him. 

You glance down at where his eyes are fixed but all that’s there is your hand. You weren’t doing anything to warrant that outburst. 

“So you want me to go? For three months?” You ignore his anger and demand an answer. 

“I want you to do your job,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead, “he needs to get this novel finished and you’re going with him. End of discussion.” 

“You can’t just do that! You’d throw this away, you’d…….”

But before you can finish your sentence you feel like all the air has been knocked out of you as your back hits the office wall, Junhui painfully close to you caging you in. You say Junhui, this isn’t your Junhui, it’s not the man that two weeks ago tried to make you cupcakes and failed spectacularly. 

No, this Junhui could only be described as a monster. His face is so close to yours but you feel no warmth, his breath is like ice and when you focus on his face, your blood turns as cold as he is. His eyes are blood red, almost shimmering in their sockets, his skin pale and with fangs that send a wave of horror through your body. 

His breath is ragged and even though you try to wiggle out of his hold, whimpering slightly at how the man you thought you were falling for has turned into something from your nightmares, he stops you, his body rigid against yours like a tonne weight, not a normal man. 

“J-junhui, please,” you whimper, trying to push him off but he just stays staring at you like you’re his next victim, “you said you d-didn’t do this. This i-isn’t you Junhui.” 

“You don’t know who I am,” he spits, no care in his voice, not like there used to be, “I told you to stop fucking doing that, why can’t you listen?!” 

You glance down at your hand, every inch of your skin prickling and yet a numbness over takes you when you see what he's talking about. 

Blood. 

Your blood. 

Where you’d been frantically picking at the skin near your thumb, a habit your mom always said you should stop and now it’s going to be the thing that drives Junhui to do something he hasn’t done in centuries. You get the sudden urge to run, to bolt out of this office and never look back and yet it’s like your feet are cemented to the spot. It’s not like you could move anyway, he’s got you trapped. 

He’s got you trapped as blood trickles down your thumb and you get the impression that he’s not going to be able to hold back much longer. 

“I’m sorry,” you cry softly, trying to wipe your thumb on your skirt, “I didn’t m-mean to. Please Junhui, this is me, it’s _____, you can’t do this. You haven't hurt anyone in years! You said you regretted ever hurting anyone!”

“But they,” he takes a deep breath, almost thriving off the scent of your fresh blood, causing you to whimper and try to cling to the wall, “didn’t walk in here demanding things and not doing as they were told.” 

The way he’s speaking, the way he’s leering at you, it’s like being in the worst horror film you’ve seen. Only normally when Wonwoo makes you watch those, you can cover your eyes and pretend you’re not there. But you are here. And you can’t get away from the monster in front of you. 

“I-I didn’t demand. I got it wrong, I was wrong. I’ll go to Peru. I’ll go wherever you want me to. Just please Junhui, let me go.” You plead, tears streaming and body shaking. 

“You’ve ruined everything you know,” he hisses with his head in your neck, his lips just millimeters away from him getting everything he needs and you never taking another breath, “I was happy. Or as happy as I could be and then you,” his teeth graze your skin, “you come barging in here and fuck my life up. And now you try to tell me this isn’t me?” his teeth stop, the tips of fangs weighing on your skin, “This is why you shouldn’t be here. I can’t be in a relationship, I can’t give you what you think you want, this is me _____. This is my reality the second I let you in too far and you suddenly hurt yourself or fall and graze your knee. This,” his teeth scrape down your skin as you sob and try to lean away from him, “is the reality of your life if you don’t fucking leave me alone.” 

You can’t even speak, your breathing is heavy, your body is quivering in fear. It would only take a second and he’d taste you, he’d kill you. 

“Get out, get out of the office. Out of the fucking building. Just don’t come back in before you leave with Vernon.” 

He turns away from you and your heart breaks. You caused this. He told you to stop and you didn’t. 

“I-I’m sorry Junhui, please………”

“GET OUT!!!”

You flinch and rush off out of the office. Ignoring the confused stares from your co-workers and how Wonwoo is already making his way over to you. You just grab your coat and bag and sprint out of the building not even able to decide if you’re more hurt by him dismissing the past month or relieved that you’ve managed to get away from him before he did something that he’d regret and you wouldn’t have survived. 

Junhui can’t concentrate. Even with heightened senses and rocket-like reflexes, he’s been reading the same manuscript for three days and not a single word is making any sense to him. He’s never felt like this, sure he’s probably felt like this but if he has, he doesn’t remember it. He’s had hundreds of people in his life die, it’s just the circle of life, people are born and people die. When his mother died, he was distraught but even that didn’t feel like this. She was old and it was her time and although it broke him, he could make sense of it. 

But he can’t make sense of what he’s feeling at the moment. 

It’s been three days since he told you to leave the office and not come back until you’d been away with Vernon. And for three days he’s felt pain like he’s never felt before. His chest aches and he hasn't eaten, even Seungkwan dropped by yesterday when Junhui hadn’t been to collect his usual supply of blood. Seungkwan was expecting a lot of things when he made it to Junhui’s apartment but his friend of almost two thousand years, crying and watching sad movies was definitely not one of them. He told him everything, poured his heart out and Seungkwan’s response? “You’re a fucking idiot.” 

But that’s easy for him to say, he seems to be able to have relationships for a few years and then carry on like nothing ever happened. Junhui couldn’t do that. Not with you. In the month you’d be in his life fully, not just as an employee, he’d fallen in love with you. He knew he had because he’d never felt like this in his life. He just wanted to be around you all the time, the sound of your laugh made even his cold heart warm and when you talked about what you loved, it just made him hope that one day, you’d look like that when you spoke about him too. 

A week ago he nearly kissed you. You’d been at his place, not even doing anything exciting, just sitting on his sofa, your feet tucked under his leg as you both sat reading. He’d noticed you had a habit of telling him the little excerpts of what you were reading that had made you laugh or meant something to you and, in his opinion, that was one of the most intimate things you could do. To want to share even the smallest of things that made you feel even the smallest emotion showed him just how much you cared about his opinion but also showing him that you want him to see what’s important to you, even if it’s the littlest of things. 

The sun setting behind you as you giggled quoting the line of your book, you just looked so radiant that it took everything in him to not throw caution to the wind and finally kiss you, just like he’d wanted to do when you were trying to fight him off with The Chronicles of Narnia. 

But that night served as a warning. He couldn’t let it happen. He couldn’t let himself be tempted no matter how much he felt like he needed you. How would he go on for eternity when you’d gone? He wasn’t scared of stopping loving you when you grew old, he knew he’d love you no matter how old you got, you’d still be you. But what would happen to Junhui? Once he’d given you everything and he had to go on forever knowing his one true love would never be with him again. 

So when Vernon was moaning about writing retreats he saw an opportunity to get you away from him for a while. The idea hurt him, it is hurting him, but it would hurt more in the long run and it would give you a chance to meet someone else, to live your life without having to deal with everything that comes with him being a vampire. You deserved to live and to be happy and he knew at some point, he’d end up hurting you. 

Though he’s not sure any of that would even matter anymore, you’d surely never want to see him again even after you’ve come back in a few months time. The fear in your eyes when you saw the worst side of him will stay with him forever more, the tears and way you flinched away from him broke him. He’s not even sure why his reaction was so visceral. He can be around blood, over the centuries he’s perfected his self restraint meaning that he can be around even the worst injuries. But that one small tear on your skin triggered something in him that he hasn’t experienced in over a thousand years. Seungkwan said it was probably how the mixture of needing to send you away, the reality of sending you away and how the confusion he was feeling at loving someone, truly loving someone, was playing with his emotions. That one drop of blood was the straw that broke the camel’s back and the end result was him terrifying the last person on earth he’d want to hurt. 

You’d tried to call him. Though he’s no idea why. He’s no idea why you even said sorry to him before you ran out of his office. It was him who should’ve been apologising, not you.

A knock on his office door shakes him from his thoughts and for a few hopeful seconds he thinks it’s you, that you’ve resorted to barging into his office again just like last time because he’s ignoring your calls. But who is he kidding? You won’t want to be in the same room as him again. Not now. 

“Come in!” He didn’t think anyone was left in the office, let alone needing to speak to him. 

“What the fuck have you done to her?!” 

“Wonwoo? What? Done to who?” Junhui stands up and marches round his desk as Wonwoo storms into his office. 

“Oh come on, you know who. Last time I saw her she was running out of here, crying and fucking terrified! And now she won’t answer her phone, she won’t open her door. That isn’t _____!! What the fuck did you do?! I swear if you’ve hurt so much as a hair on her head, I’ll fucking kill you!!”

“I wouldn’t hurt her!” 

Wonwoo scoffs, so close to Junhui that he can feel his breath against his skin, fists clenched like he’s ready to fight. 

“Oh so it’s just a coincidence that she runs out of your office and now she won’t talk to anyone? You’ve done something. I know you have. I really thought you were better than this, all those fucking months she’s been hoping something would happen and you’ve broken her!!”

So you’d liked him longer than he even knew? Fuck that just makes him feel even worse. You liked him and even when you found out the worst secret you could, it still didn’t change your opinion on him. All it does is confirm you’re everything he thought you were and more, to not let even something like what’s wrong with him affect your opinion of him, just shows what a remarkable woman you are. He just hopes Wonwoo isn’t right. He hopes he hasn’t broken you. 

He racks his brain for how to get out of this but all he can think to do is tell the truth. It would mean telling someone else and someone else knowing his secret, another chance that his life as he knows it would come crashing down. But Wonwoo isn’t going to let this go and the last thing he needs is someone saying he in some way is a man who would harm a woman, or anyone for that matter. 

“Sit down.” 

“Fuck off. What did you do to my friend?!” 

“Wonwoo!! Sit. Down.” 

Wonwoo must sense some sort of danger in Junhui’s eyes because he actually does as he’s told and sits down. For once in his life. 

“I don’t know how to start.” Junhui sighs, hoping the ceiling might have some answers. 

“I don’t care where you start, just get to the part where you hurt _____ and then I can try and fix it.”

“When she came to show me the manuscripts that you’d mentioned in the meeting…..”

“That was ages ago,” Wonwoo interrupts angrily, “I want to know what’s happened now!”

“You will! Just listen to me! Please!” 

Wonwoo just glares, his arms folded and waiting to hear what any of this could have to do with what’s wrong with you. 

“When she came in, I didn’t hear her knocking. When she found me I was,” he sighs, knowing with every admission of what he is, he risks a little more of his safety, “I was drinking blood.” 

Wonwoo just stares at him and Junhui wonders if he actually said it out loud. It sounded like he said it outloud. But Junhui imagined a lot of reactions. Wonwoo just having a blank face was not one of them and it’s unsettling him to be honest. 

“Did you…..”

“I heard you,” Wonwoo booms with nothing but disdain, “what does that have to do with what happened three days ago?” 

“You’re not going to ask why I was drinking it?” 

“To be honest, I don’t give a flying fuck. I want to know what it has to do with _____.” 

“I’m a vampire.” He says bluntly. 

“Well I would hope so if you’re drinking blood. At least it means you’re not a weirdo.” 

Junhui just stares at him. How can one man be so indifferent to finding out that not only do vampires exist, his boss and new found friend is one? Junhui could only dream of being that easy going. You’d told him that Wonwoo was a chill guy. But there’s being a chill guy and then whatever the fuck Wonwoo is.

“That’s all you have to say?” 

“What do you want me to say? I don’t care what you are, man, I just want to know what’s happened to my best friend!” 

“I said she needed to go with Vernon for three months to Peru.”

“As what? Punishment for her finding out? You only started hanging out after she found out, why has something happened now?”

“Fuck, it’s better starting from the beginning,” Junhui sighs, throwing himself on the sofa next to Wonwoo, “she ran off when she saw me and when I got to her place, she tried to fight me off with garlic and The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.” Junhui smiles fondly at the memory. 

“That woman,” Wonwoo shakes his head with a look of either disdain or disbelief, possibly a mixture of both Junhui thinks, “she has no fight or flight skills. She did self defence for like two weeks and decided she’d just negotiate out of a dangerous situation and that fighting wasn’t for her.” 

Junhui can’t help but smile to himself, even through the pain. He can imagine you in the classes, deciding there and then that it wasn’t for you, even remembering how you’d tried to negotiate a safety buffer between the two of you when he’d first entered your apartment. Fuck he’s way too down bad for you. This is all too much. 

“Even after she found out, after the initial shock, she still managed to empathise with what it must be like, to be two thousand years old and everything that comes with it.” 

“Huh,” Wonwoo huffs, glaring out the corner of his eye. 

“What” Junhui frowns.  

“Two thousand, it’s just not that impressive,” he shrugs, “I thought you’d be older.”

Junhui blinks at him. If he’s honest he’s pretty fucking pissed that out of the two people he’s told, one had messed with his heart more than anyone ever has and the other has basically just said that he’s disappointing! 

“But that doesn’t explain what happened the other day, unless…….Did you try to bite her?!”

“No! I mean, fuck!” he wipes his face his hands, “I love her. I love her like I’ve never loved anyone but I can’t be with her, I can’t ruin her life and I can’t live for an eternity without her, when she’s gone. So I acted like we were just friends, even when she was trying to tell me it was more and that she couldn’t be away for three months. I thought hurting her now was better than hurting her more later on. But she kept picking her fucking thumb even when I told her to stop and she made it bleed and I lost control. For the first time in centuries I wanted to bite someone. I didn’t. But I wanted to. And she saw me how I never wanted her to, I was seconds away from biting her Wonwoo.” 

“But you didn’t?” He needs to check and Junhui gets that. 

“I didn’t,” he shakes his head, “but I scared her, she was fucking trembling and pleading and still all I wanted to do was bite her.”

“If you love her, could you not just turn her into what you are?” 

“You think it’s that easy?” Junhui looks at Wonwoo incredulously, “I’d be taking away her life Wonwoo, I’d be sentencing her to a life never ending.” 

“But,” Wonwoo frowns, “surely if you have a life of eternity together then it’s not so bad. Plus you could turn me too, I’m a hoot!” 

For the first time in days, Junhui laughs a little. Not a lot. But a little is better than nothing. It passes too quickly though, the reality of what turning someone into a vampire actually means, stopping any small amount of joy he might feel even for the briefest moment. 

“It’s like murder Wonwoo. I haven’t fed off people since I was four hundred or so years old. I wouldn’t even know if I could stop once I’d started. I couldn’t cope with that, if I couldn’t help myself and I ended up losing her.” 

“So your solution was to send her away for three months? What was that even going to achieve Junhui?” 

“She might’ve met someone,” Junhui shrugs, not even believing what he’s saying. 

“You’ve met _____,” Wonwoo looks at him dubiously, “she isn’t the kind of person to just fall out of love with someone. She loves with her whole heart and she’s been wanting you for a lot longer than you know. If her finding out this,” he gestures his hands at Junhui, “didn’t scare her off, why would being away from you for three months do anything?” 

“It was the only thing I could think of. I can’t do it Wonwoo. To her or me.”

“Fucking idiot.” He scoffs and shakes his head. 

Junhui just wishes people would see what he’s trying to say, why the fuck does everyone think its so easy?! To just take the life out of someone?! 

“You know it’s not tha……….” But Wonwoo’s phone ringing cuts him off. 

“Hello?” 

Wonwoo’s face changes from indifference to horror and Junhui is immediately filled with a feeling of dread. Because if Wonwoo shows so much indifference when being confronted with an actual vampire, nothing good could’ve gotten that reaction from him. 

“Come on,” he rushes when he hangs up his phone and runs to the office door. 

“Why?” 

“It’s _____. Just hurry the fuck up, we need to get to the hospital now.”

To say your head is throbbing would be an understatement, it feels like someone’s using your head as a bass drum and you’re not even sure you can open your eyes. But the sound of someone repeatedly saying your name makes you panic, had you drunkenly called Wonwoo? Perhaps keeping your eyes closed would be the better option, you don’t need one of his lectures about how he wasn’t put on this earth to be your nurse maid. Something he refuses to listen to when he has a cold and you insist on giving him the same speech. 

You don’t even remember coming back from the store, you remember going to the store. You’d just finished packing for three long months in the depths of hell with Vernon and decided what the fuck, you don’t have anything to do for the two days until you have to leave. You were going to get drunk, watch Twilight and berate Bella for even going near a vampire, but then at least her vampire admitted his feelings. Perhaps if you find a nice werewolf, he might be more inclined to not try and gaslight you into thinking that you’re just friends. 

All you want to do is stew in your hangover and yet some prick just will not stop saying your name……..

“______ can you hear me?! Fuck, where the hell is that doctor?!” 

Doctor? For a hangover. That seems somewhat extreme, even for a drinking lightweight like you. 

“Wh…..” you try to speak but even trying makes your head hurt, “Jun……” What are you thinking of? Of course it’s not Junhui, that’s just your fantasies talking. 

“Oh that’s very nice,” 

You know that voice. You’d sadly know Wonwoo’s voice anywhere but you just can’t seem to come round enough to give him a piece of your mind. 

“_____? Can you hear me?” 

That is a voice you don’t recognise. What the hell has Wonwoo done? He’s surely not invited a group of people round to deal with your drunken ass?

“_____ try to open your eyes for me.” Well that seems to be easier said than done, because it feels like your eyelids are being weighed down by bricks. “Take it slow and open them,”

You don’t know who this demanding ass is but can he not see you’re trying to open your eyes?! Fucking bossy. God knows where Wonwoo has found him but he can damn well leave your apartment as soon as you can hurl yourself out of bed. 

You manage to open them, the lights far brighter than you remember your bedroom lights being. And in fact you don’t remember your ceiling looking like the one you’re blinking into focus at all. 

A massive head looms over you and you flinch, the last face you had so close was that of a monster that up until a few days ago you’d have sworn you loved. Though you’re still fairly certain you do. Hence the need to drink and shout at Bella Swan to get as far away from Edward as possible. 

“Can you hear me?” 

Why is this man treating you like you’re an idiot? 

“Obviously.” You rasp and hear Wonwoo snort. But when you try to move your head and glare at him, it feels like you’ve been surgically attached to whatever you’re lying on. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I’m not twelve,” you croak out, your voice sounding much weaker than you remember. 

To his credit, the man looming over you chuckles, but holds his hand up again. 

“I’m a doctor. You’ve been unconscious for two days, could you help me out and tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” 

Unconscious?! And for two days?! Fuck you need to find Vernon, you need to catch your flight. Or maybe you have caught your flight, perhaps Vernon had finally persuaded you to get high with him and now you’ve embarrassingly over done it and this nice Peruvian doctor is trying to help you. But then why would Wonwoo be here? If they’ve made him come and get you all the way from Peru, you’ll never here the fucking end of it. 

“Three.” 

“Good. I’m just going to shine a light in your eye, if you could follow my finger for me?” 

You do as he says, hoping the quicker he’s done, the quicker you can find out what the hell happened. 

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“I went to the convenience store down the street and now I’m here. Wherever here is.” You say slowly, barely even hearing yourself from how hoarse your voice is.

“Ok,” he nods, looking you over, “we’ve done scans and we don’t think there’s any lasting damage. We were a little worried about your hearing but clearly, that’s fine. We need to keep you in for a couple more days and then you’ll need constant supervision for a week or so after that. But if you have no problems whilst you’re still here, I’ll be happy to discharge you in two days..” 

“What happened though?” You try to sit up, but note once again that you can’t.

“Oh,” the doctor leans towards you, “you have a neck brace on, as I say you don’t have any lasting damage and no broken bones so if you can promise to make no sudden movements, I can take that off.”

“Take it off please.” You can’t stand feeling like you’re trapped. 

“No problem,” he gently undoes it, “do you want the bed up a little?” 

“Please,” 

He presses the button on your bed and you slowly rise. But it’s as you’re edging further up, the room coming into view, you feel like someone's knocked all the air out of your lungs and you’d actually rather be lowered back down again. The last person you need to see is him. Dealing with Wonwoo will be bad enough. 

“Do I have to sit up?” you try to ignore the two men sitting looking panicked, “I think actually I’d be better fully reclined,” you try to reach for the button but your arm feels like lead and you just wince, “don’t you think I’d be better lying down? Perhaps some sedatives to knock me out again? My head feels like it’s been hit by a bus.” 

“It was a car.” Wonwoo says as he marches over to you, looking more pissed than you’ve ever seen him, “Don’t you ever fucking worry me like that again!” 

He launches himself around you, your whole body aching from the impact of it and all you can do is pat his back gently, never having had a hug from Wonwoo. Apart from when his childhood cat died but he’d insisted that wasn’t a hug, it was just he needed a little help standing up. 

“This is weird.” you mumble, still awkwardly patting his back. 

“I don’t care. I thought you were dead, you moron.” 

“Charming.” It's only then though that you realise what he said, “wait, I was hit by a car? I wasn’t drunk?”

“Why would you be drunk?” He pulls back, eyebrows knitted in confusion. 

“I was going to the convenience store. I was going to watch a film and get drunk,” 

“Very classy.” He smirks, perching on the side of your bed. “You must’ve been on your way there though, you didn’t have anything with you as far as the paramedics were aware. The guy was speeding, the cops have arrested him but you don’t have to worry about that now. We came straight here when the emergency room called.”

“We?” 

“Er,” Wonwoo stands up and shows you that the other man sitting in the corner of the room wasn’t a figment of your imagination. “Yeah, I was in Junhui’s office when I got the call. We both came straight here.” 

“Why are you here?” You try to say it like his presence doesn’t bother you, like the last time you’d seen him hadn’t broken your heart. 

“I wanted to check if you were ok.” 

Hearing his voice makes you feel like it’s repairing a little of your broken body, just by how much comfort it brings you. But he said you were wrong, that this was all one sided and so you will yourself to stay strong. 

“Well I am. You can go now.” 

“_____.” Wonwoo says softly, “he’s not even been home since we got here two days ago. Even when I went to change and shower at home, he stayed with you.”

“I don’t care Wonwoo. You wouldn’t get it.”

“I know he’s a vampire.” He says bluntly.

You stare at him, your head now not only throbbing, but spinning. 

“H-how? I mean,” you panic remembering the doctor who definitely shouldn’t be hearing this, “h-he doesn’t mean vampire. He’s not well, he’s a bit odd really, he just makes things up for……..”

“You don’t have to cover for him or Junhui. I’m Seungkwan.” He offers you his hand to shake. 

And you do shake his hand, not that you can speak, your expression is more like a fish than anything else. Your mouth opening and closing with no clue of what to say now you’re confronted with yet another vampire. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Good.” You say stupidly, your brain really not firing on all cylinders, and thankfully Seungkwan just chuckles and takes a seat next to Junhui. 

“How do you know he's a vampire?” You rush to ask. 

“I went to ask……”

“Demand.” Junhui interrupts, smirking a little at the glare Wonwoo sends him. 

“I went to ask what the hell had happened to you. He was the last one who’d seen you and you looked so upset when you left the office that day. And you’re so fucking stubborn, there’s no way you didn’t hear me banging on your door.” He scolds you. 

“I wanted some alone time,” you sniff, “am I not allowed that?” 

“You don’t have to cover for me. They both know what happened, how I lost control.” Junhui interrupts. 

“I don’t care about you losing control. And I don’t want you here. I have enough friends, I don’t need another one.” The recollection of him telling you that this whole thing had been nothing more than friendship still leaves a sting in your heart and him being here just makes you feel fucking stupid all over again. 

“_____ please,”

“I don’t understand why you’re here. Friends can go three months without seeing each other,” you try to mimic his voice even though yours is still croaky, “why even bother coming to the hospital?” 

“Because I thought I’d lost you!” He stands up, voice pleading and tears threatening to fall. 

“Have I shown you my espresso machine in my office Wonwoo?” Seungkwan gets up from his seat quickly. 

“Er,” Wonwoo looks between you and Junhui, “no! But I’d love to see it! I love coffee!”

“Don’t you dare!” You try to shout after him as they both rush to the door, “Wonwoo come back here! You can’t just leave me like this!” 

But it’s no use. They’ve gone. So much for caring about you, if they know how he lost control then it’s pretty shitty behaviour to leave your bruised body in his care. Though you’re not scared of him, not really. He couldn’t help his reaction to the blood and even though, yes you were terrified when you got home, that subsided pretty quickly. The only thing you really felt was embarrassed that he clearly didn’t feel the same as you. That you’d thought it safe that you were both on the same page and instead he just fobbed you off with that friends bullshit. 

“I won’t hurt you.” 

“Not physically maybe.” You try to avoid looking at him. “I’m alive. You can ease whatever guilty conscience you might’ve had and go home.” 

“I’m sorry for what happened.”

You just hum and nod, not looking at him and sniffling as tears start to cascade slowly down your cheeks. 

“I’m not normally like that around blood, I can normally control myself.” 

“So this is somehow my blood’s fault?!” 

“What? No! I was just trying to say that doesn’t normally happen, I’m not a……threat….like that, I guess.” 

“I never thought you were. And I still don’t. So you can go. Tell Vernon I’ll get the first flight I can.” 

“I’ve already sent someone else with him, not that he really needs anyone,”

“Right,” you scoff, “now I’ll be no trouble from my death bed, he conveniently doesn’t need anyone to babysit him.” You try to fold your arms but everything aches, which just makes you want to cry even more. 

“I hate seeing you cry.” He says it before he can even stop himself, you can tell that much from the way he slightly panics that he’s said it. He’s always so certain in what he says, something you suppose comes from years of simply being alive and knowledge that comes with that.  

“I’m trying not to.” You sniffle, trying to remain stoic but failing miserably. 

This feels like the worst break up you’ve ever been through and yet it’s completely one sided according to him, just a friendship that technically doesn’t have to end. But you couldn’t keep spending time with him, every second you’ve already spent with him has taken a little of your heart as the clock ticked by. It would just hurt too much. You know it would. 

“Please just go Junhui. I feel humiliated enough as it is and now I’ve literally been hit by a car, I don’t think I could get any more pathetic.” You pick at a stray piece of cotton on the blanket covering you, hoping he’ll just go quietly. 

“I can’t,” he looks almost sheepish and you narrow your eyes at him, “you’re staying at my place for the week you need to be supervised.” 

“WHAT?!” You try to sit up but your woozy head stops you and before you know it Junhui has you in his arms and he’s making sure you settle back on the bed. “You can’t,” you try to get your breath because somehow moving even the smallest amount has winded you, “you can’t just decide that.”

“I didn’t. Not on my own anyway. I mean, I suggested it and Seungkwan and Wonwoo agreed.” 

“Oh well you should’ve said that sooner! You’ll let me know who I need to vote for in the next election and how you’d like me to have my hair cut won’t you! Chauvinistic shit heads.” You huff. 

He scowls at you but you don’t care. How dare they just make decisions for you! 

“Wonwoo says that Mingyu?” he checks the name of Wonwoo’s roommate with you, you begrudgingly nodding, “has taken up DJing so you couldn’t go there, him blasting music is hardly going to help a head injury. All your other friends, he said you’d hate staying with. And I’m told,” he smirks a little, “that you’d throw a fit if we told you that you had to go and stay with your parents.”

“No, I'm not having them fussing over me. Once they had me, they’d never let me leave. I love them but they would hyperventilate at the idea of having their baby back home, as they’d say. No.” You shake your head adamantly, ignoring the way it hurts, “I can’t go there.” 

“Then sadly, the only option is my place.” 

“Sadly? Fuck,” you huff sadly, “just let me go home. I’ll call Wonwoo if there’s any problems.” 

“No,” he rushes to correct you, “I didn’t mean sadly for me. I meant for you. It was my idea for you to come to my place, even before Wonwoo gave us other options.” 

“But you’ll be at work anyway. I may as well just go home. And I don’t want to be around you.”

You ignore the way his face drops at that. 

“I swear I don’t usually lose control like that _____!” 

“I don’t care if you show your fangs or threaten to bite me, I don’t give a fuck about that. I like you Junhui,” there’s no sense of beating about the bush, not in the circumstances, “and I think you know I do. And I get that you don’t see me as more than a friend but I don’t think I can be around you knowing that this whole thing has been so one sided. I was certain, so certain you felt the same and I feel like an idiot.” Your voice gets quieter as you trail off, your stomach in knots of embarrassment. 

Junhui just wants to shake you and tell you that you’re like no woman he’s ever met, that he thinks, no he knows, you’re the love of his life. It’s breaking him that you think he doesn’t feel the same as you, but it’s the safest option for both of you. He knows it is. 

“We don’t really have an option. You need someone to watch you, I’ve already told the office I won’t be in and I’ll stay out of your way if you want. I’ll give you a bell or something to ring in emergencies but other than that, I’ll leave you to it.” 

“Or I could just go home.” You press again. 

“Seungkwan won’t discharge you if he thinks you’ll be on your own. So unless you want to stay in the hospital, where I’ll be staying anyway if you’re here,” he says sternly, “then you’re staying at my place.” 

“Fucking ridiculous.” You turn away and miss Junhui’s little smile when he realises you’ve given up the fight and he’ll be able to make sure you’re safe and cared for. Much to your disgust.

You knew you could be stubborn. In fact you were certain there were few people in this world more stubborn than you. But it turns out there is someone much more stubborn than you. Junhui. Because no matter how much you ignored him and no matter how much you pleaded with Wonwoo and even Seungkwan, who you didn’t even know, to come and stay at your place, then you wouldn’t need to go to Junhui’s, he still refused to leave your bedside. Even when he had to use the bathroom, he used the one supplied in your private room (the perks of knowing one of the top doctors in the hospital is a vampire) and whenever it came to food, he’d already ordered something to be delivered to the hospital. 

Wonwoo would turn up around the time the food had been delivered and you all ate together like one big, slightly dysfunctional family. Junhui would try to talk to you, you’d insist on talking passively aggressively through Wonwoo who would then try and ignore you, and Seungkwan would simply sit and enjoy the drama of it all. 

But now you’re two days into your stay at Junhui’s penthouse and your resolve is crumbling along with your heart. Because he truly is the most caring man you’ve ever met. Each morning before you wake up he creeps into your room and leaves your pain medication and a glass of water by your bed, makes sure you’ve got clean perfectly folded clothes to put on, takes your worn clothes and puts them in the laundry and he even brushed and dried your hair when it was too much for you to do. Even though you’d declared to him that you didn’t want his help and you’d happily got to bed with wet hair, he refused to leave the room until he knew it was done and you had no risk of catching a cold by going to bed with your hair wet. 

He told you he’d stay out of your way and it seems he meant it. Because after he’s made sure you have everything you need and you’re safe, he heads to his home office and you don’t see him again until it’s time for your next meal or round of medication. 

Which you guess is what you wanted. You told him you wanted nothing to do with him. But he’s so close and you find yourself pining for his attention, that you know he’d willingly give you if you hadn’t repeatedly told him you didn’t want him near you. It’s like there’s an invisible string between you, that you know isn’t broken, it’s holding on by a thread but it's not broken, and that’s what's making it so hard for you now. 

By your third day at his apartment, you decide to swallow your pride and head to find him. You’re allowed to get out of bed, you’re not ill, but you just can’t do anything strenuous. Although, maybe putting your bruised ego to the side for the sake of being near the man you love would be classed as doing something somewhat strenuous. 

You wander down the stairs, smiling at the slightly messy kitchen where he’d been trying to make you eggs this morning and move towards his office rehearsing what you’re going to say. Perhaps you could say you need something to read? But that won’t work, he’d left a pile of books by your bed along with his iPad in case there was anything you wanted to watch on it. He’d literally thought of everything you might need during your stay, proving once again that he’s nothing like the monster you saw the last time that you were in his actual office at work.  

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t realise you’ve been standing in his office doorway for a good thirty seconds until his worried voice breaks you out of your thoughts. 

“Is everything ok?” He panics, you never having actively sought him out in the three days you’ve been here. 

“Er, yeah. I’m….” he looks you over like he’s worried you’re in pain or something, “I’m lonely?”

“Oh,” he stands up straight, looking round for his phone, “do you want me to call Wonwoo? Or someone else?” 

Fuck you feel horrible. You’ve made it so clear you don’t want him near you that now he doesn’t even think you would possibly mean that you want to spend time with him. 

“No,” you shake your head, your voice quiet, “I could’ve just rung him myself. I wondered…..well I wondered if you wanted to watch a movie or something? Of course if you’re busy it’s fine.”

“I’d er,” he scratches his neck, “I’d like that. But before that……something came in yesterday that I had been meaning to show you. I had it shipped from my storage unit in Europe before we…..well before everything happened. I didn’t show you yesterday because I didn’t want to overstep but now you’re here, I’d really like to show you.” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s upstairs. I could show you now?” He asks softly, like he doesn’t want to make a mistake and scare you off. 

You just nod and follow him quietly up the stairs. In the time you’ve spent together you’d never really had a quiet moment, from the second he entered your world it was like you both wanted to tell each other everything about your lives, no matter how big or small it was. And now there’s a void and you still don’t truly understand what caused it. One second it was the fine and the next he was sending you away. 

He punches the codes in and you feel a warm feeling washes over, like being back in this room full of treasures somehow feels like home. It isn’t even the artefacts and tomes that make you feel that way, it’s being surrounded by Junhui’s life, everything that he treasures, just makes you feel closer to him than you could ever dream to be. 

He leads you over to the large table in the centre of the room, papers scattered over it but a large metal box and book stand catch your eye. 

“Please,” he gestures to the chair next to the one he’s just sat in, “sit down.” 

“What is it?” You stare at the metal box as you sit next to him, not noticing how Junhui moves his chair just a little closer to yours. 

“I’ve had these for about nine hundred years, it took me centuries to track them down but I finally did. I don’t look at them often because I don’t want to risk anything happening to them. But I wanted you to see them, she,” he smiles at the box, “she reminds me of you a little.” 

“Who?” You narrow your eyes at him. 

“You’ll see.” he smiles softly. 

He opens the large metal box and you peer inside. You were expecting something large or impressive from the size of the box, maybe even a small bust of whoever it is that reminds him of you. But it’s just papers. Well. Parchments, ancient ones, but parchments none the less. 

“Parcements?” You ask, confused how “she” can be on parchment paper. 

“Have you ever heard of Sappho?” He smiles at the parchments as he gently takes them out of the box and places them on the book stand. 

You rack your brain but short of a few short mentions at university, you really couldn’t say you’d heard of her. 

“Vaguely,” you shake your head, marvelling at how old the pieces look in front of you, “but not really.” 

He just nods, sending you another gentle smile and looks at the parchments you’re already lost in. 

“She was a poet in Ancient Greece, hardly any of her writing survives, there’s probably about a hundred museums that would shoot me to get hold of these,” he chuckles, “but I always found her to be the most fascinating of all the ancient writers or poets.” 

“Why?” You frown, wondering how she can be so much better than any of the ancient greats everyone in the world has heard of. 

“Well, she’s a woman for one. Which in those times was unheard of for great poets or writers. But,” he sighs, leaning back in his seat, watching you and not looking at one of his most priced possessions. “She didn’t rely on myths or legends for her work. She lived in the real world, she wrote about love and feelings and what it was like to be passionately in love. By all accounts she was one of the strongest, most determined women of her time too.”

You stare at the parchment, you can’t read it, the writing is completely foreign to you but that doesn’t matter. The writing in front of you was by a woman in Ancient Greece. This parchment predates the whole modern era. Junhui had shown you a lot of things that would be considered old by anyone’s standards but this? Well this is on a completely different level to anything you could’ve ever dreamed of seeing with your own eyes. 

“But?” You turn to him, dragging your eyes away from Sappho’s writing, “Why does she remind you of me?” 

He doesn’t look at you, he now takes your place in staring at the parchment. 

“She broke the mold. She lived a life of love and without prejudice. You know,” he smiles sadly, “she was married to a man who she loved with her whole heart and yet still explored the idea of being attracted to women in her poems. I’m not saying you are obviously, not that it’d matter if you were” he corrects himself, “but she didn’t hold prejudice against those who were attracted to the same sex. She didn’t hold prejudice against anyone from what I’m told, she was accepting and understanding. For a woman to be so forward thinking and to be heard was so underheard of,” he shakes his head completely lost in his own thoughts, “I guess you sort of reminded me of that. You found out about me, most people would have called me a freak or monster, and you were so accepting, so ready to give me a chance and see past what I am. Even in the hospital, although I’d already asked for these to be shipped, I don’t even think you realised you did it but even after I treated you so terribly, you still tried to cover for me when Wonwoo just blurted out that I’m a vampire.” 

“Thank……” But you don’t get a chance to finish, it seems Junhui is so lost in thoughts that his subconscious is free flowing and nowhere near stopping. 

“And if anything,” he smiles sadly as Sappho’s lost poems, “you remind me even more of her now. These poems, they’re about love. About how you feel when you’re in love, how your heart races, how you feel like you’re almost falling ill with something when you’re around the person you love so violently that your heart hurts. She celebrated love.” He nods to himself, “And she was brave enough to celebrate love. In all forms. No matter who it was. And that’s what you did, that day in my office when I tried to send you away. You were brave enough, just like Sappho, to stand there and tell me I was wrong and that you knew it was something way stronger than friendship.” A stray tear falls down his cheek as you desperately try to keep your composure, “You’re just like her. You’re strong and you’re a trailblazer who I’ve no doubt could run that company if they’d just let you. But you’re caring, you’re so willing to love, and love fully that you stood there in a room full of coldness and told a vampire that he was wrong to dismiss what was happening as friendship.” 

Your heart is in your throat, feeling just how he’s just told you Sappho felt about love. 

“A-are,” you swallow, trying to blink away tears, “are you saying I was right? That it wasn’t one sided?” 

“I’ve lived almost two thousand years on this earth _____,” his eyes slowly find yours, “and I never felt this pull to someone. The need to be around someone all the time. I’ve loved people,” he nods, choosing to be honest, “but I’ve never felt like this. I thought I was doing the right thing, I thought I was saving you by sending you away. But all I was doing was being fucking selfish.” 

“What do you mean?” You frown, wanting to hold his hand but choosing to stay still, you don’t want to unsettle him further. 

“I told myself it was for you. Because I’m a danger to you. But me denying my feelings was the only thing that put you in danger. Seungkwan thinks that’s what caused me to turn on you,” he clarifies, “the mixture of feelings I’d never had before and then that one drop of blood tipped it over the edge.”

“But how does that make you selfish?” 

“If we did this. If we had a relationship. You’d grow old, it’s just the way the world is,” he shrugs, “and I don’t doubt I’d love you till your dying breath. I’d want you till your dying breath no matter how old you got. But what do I do then? When you’ve gone? I’d have to live for the rest of eternity knowing that I’d never see you again. Even if afterlives exist, I never die, I’d never see you there. I couldn’t cope with that _____. I couldn’t live knowing that I’d known the love of my life but only had her for a fraction of it.” 

Your tears fall freely, his admission both fixing and breaking your heart all over again. He loves you, just as much as you love him. Or probably more. You’ve only lived thirty years and never left like this, he’s lived for thousands and says the same thing. Something you can’t quite get your head around but makes you feel more loved than you ever have. You know what you want to say, you want to say that he’s being ridiculous and he could simply change you. Which you know is reckless and ill thought out but you want nothing more than to spend an eternity with him. 

“Does it not hurt more to throw it away when you know you have at least a chance to be with someone you love, even for a short time? If you walked away from this now, you’d always have what ifs, for the rest of time. If you gave us a chance, you’d have memories of the happy times at least? Surely that’s better?” 

He stares at you, eyes shining from tears. 

“I can’t throw it away now.” He tries to take a deep breath in a bid to stop his tears, “Even if you told me to fuck off, I don’t think I could. When Wonwoo got that phone call. I couldn’t cope, I couldn't leave you. I couldn’t lose you without you knowing that I love you with my whole heart. And when you came round all I could think about was how I didn’t want to waste a single second of your life on trying to push you away and ignore what you were brave enough to say was happening here all along.”

“So you’re saying?” You ask quietly. He’s been pretty clear but this is still the same man who told you that he’d never shown you any inclination it was more than friendship, he can’t blame you for checking. 

“I’m saying,” he sniffles, wiping his cheek, “if you want to. I want to be with you. I want to know what it feels like to be in love. To freely love just like Sappho did. How you tried to before I stopped you.”

Your breath hitches with tears. Thank fuck you went to his office. 

“I’d like that,” You smile through your tears, “I’d like that a lot.” 

He reaches forward, his fingers gently moving your hair behind your ear and eyes searching yours. 

“Thank you,” he whispers as his lips meet yours for the first time. 

They’re cold, not like any other kiss that you’ve ever experienced but yet there’s a heat that comes with it, like kissing the person you love more than anyone is making you feel warmer than you ever have. It’s slow and heavy, like he’s showing you he’s got all the time in the world to love you. Your hands move to hold his cheeks and deepen the kiss but Junhui seems to be one stop ahead of you, he pulls you chair even closer and more or less pulls you onto him so you’re straddling his legs, your lips never stopping as you get your first proper taste of him. His tongue is warm unlike his lips and you can’t help but hold each other closer as your tongues explore each other’s mouths. You already know that you could never get bored of this feeling and thankfully Junhui has no intention of letting you go now he’s got you. 

He does break the kiss though, smiling as he leans his forehand against yours, his hands holding your waist. 

“I didn’t mean to do it like this. But once again you led the way when you came into my office. I’ve been sitting at that desk for days trying to figure out how to tell you.” 

“I think Ancient Greek poetry was a pretty impressive way to declare you love me to be honest.” You tease, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Being a vampire has some perks,” he smiles at you, his fingers drawing patterns on your waist. “I meant what I said though. You’re like no-one I’ve ever met and I can’t promise we won’t have our struggles but knowing we’ll face them together means the world to me. And I need you to know that what happened that day in my office hasn’t happened in centuries and I hope it’ll never happen again. I’m fine around blood normally I swear.” 

“I figured,” you shrug, “my period started yesterday and I’m still alive.” 

The way you feel his laughter as well as see it sends a thrill through you. You’d always said Junhui was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen but now you need to correct that. Because Junhui laughing whilst he holds you close to him is definitely the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life. In this room full of treasures, he’s definitely the most precious you’ve had the honour to see. 

The rest of your time spent recuperating at Junhui’s place passed by in a wave of him fussing over you trying to do too much every time you tried to put him out of his cooking misery, and gentle touches and promises of how you’d never let anything like this happen again. When he felt like it was all getting too much, or he felt like he was going to lose his cool, he’d tell you and you could find a way to work through it. 

He also made it quite clear that he knew your period was starting the day before it actually started, apparently he can smell the change in your hormones or something and when it started, he could smell the blood. Something which made you panic that the smell was bad or in some way problematic for him. But he quickly put an end to that spiral though by asking did you think you were the only woman on her period he’d ever been around, which you suppose makes sense, he must sense every woman in the office’s period you suppose. 

As the days passed, you just fell even more for your vampire boyfriend. He’d shyly asked you if you wanted to stay in his room with him, rather than his spare room. Neither of you were ready for anything more to happen than kissing or just simply holding each other, but he just wanted you close and you felt exactly the same way. On the first night in his room, he said he wanted to read you something. You presumed it was going to be some kind of romantic poem or excerpt from another lost ancient writer. But instead he confidently stood in front of the bed and began dramatically reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe to you, strange voices for all of the characters and everything. 

It was only after he’d finished reading the first three chapters that he threw himself onto the bed with you and said that he just wanted to hear your laugh. That almost week of not hearing it, he said, had been the worst time of his life and he just wanted to hear it properly, before you both spent your first night holding each other. Something that made you want to giggle and kick your feet, but you remained composed. Sort of. 

The whole time staying at his apartment felt like a dream and you’d think being back in your own apartment would feel like crashing back down to earth. And yet, it doesn’t. Because even as he helped you get settled back at your place, constantly saying that if you didn’t feel ready then he’d happily let you stay at his as long as you wanted, you knew that you’d never feel as low as you did when you ran out of the office. You had your whole future to look forward to and there was no sense in rushing things. You knew you loved each other and that was more than enough. 

Two years later. 

“It’s just a taste really, I don’t think you’d even really register any difference as long as you’ve had your blood for the day.” Seungkwan says casually as he fills up all your glasses. 

“Just a taste?” Junhui scoffs at you, Seungkwan and Wonwoo as you all nod knowingly, “Why are you two nodding? Neither of you are vampires!” 

“Because I’ve listened to Seungkwan and he knows these things.” You say, like Seungkwan is the wisest person you’ve ever met. “And Wonwoo has also listened. He’s great at listening, why do you think his ears are so big?” 

“Hey fuck you!”

“You won’t be saying that to me when I’m a vampire.” You say matter of factly. 

“And you won’t be becoming one if you use your advantage like that.” 

You gawk at your boyfriend, disgusted that he’d say that to you, particularly in front of Wonwoo who’s looking more smug than you’ve ever seen him. 

“I mean it _____,” Junhui says, taking a sip of his drink, “I’m already going against everything I believe in, if you’re going to use it over people, I won’t do it.” 

“He’s not people, he’s Wonwoo,” you say, like it’s obvious. “And you know I’m not like that. We’ve been through this.” 

“I know,” he sighs, scratching his eyebrow, “I’m just……..I still don’t know if I should do it. Maybe we should get Joshua to come over and do it. He’s the oldest. He’s turned people before. We could call him and he’ll be on a flight before we know it.” 

“NO!” You interrupt, making Seungkwan jump and drop his food off his chopsticks, “I don’t want someone else to bite me. I want you to do it.” 

“Oh this is disgusting, do I have to be here for this?” Wonwoo asks Seungkwan. 

“Yes. You need to hear this as much as _____. You’re the one who’s insistent you want to become one too.”

“Childish.” You mumble to Wonwoo. 

“Why should you get to see everything in the future and not me?” 

“Because I fell in love with a vampire,” you narrow your eyes at him. 

“I think you’ll find he loves me just as much. I’m like your brother, aren’t I Junhui?” He looks at your boyfriend hopefully, Junhui looking slightly panicked. 

“I wouldn’t object to having you around.” He concedes much to your disgust. The last thing Wonwoo needs is his ego boosting. 

“Oh well why don’t you spend eternity with him then,” you throw your napkin on the table dramatically, all of them knowing you’re joking. You’re too excited to be truly angry. 

“Because,” he leans towards you, “I fell in love with you and you’ve somehow become so important that I can’t imagine any future without you. So sadly, you’re going to be stuck with me. Forever.” 

“Dis-gusting.” Wonwoo says flatly as Junhui peppers tiny kisses on your lips and you giggle into them. 

“So it’s just a taste,” Seungkwan carries on once he’s given your sickly pda enough time to come to an end, “you need to take enough blood that her blood sort of panics, in simple terms, her body needs to panic and take on your dna to keep itself alive. It’s a fine line and it’ll be quick, a bite and you only need a couple of mouth fulls for it to be done. Anymore and…….”

“Anymore,” Junhui interrupts, “and I kill the love of my life.” 

The table falls quiet at that. 

About a month ago when you turned 32, you brought up the subject of Junhui changing you, you wanted him to do it and you wanted him to do it whilst you still looked like you. It may be vain but you don’t want to be an old lady and he finally decides to do it. 

It wasn’t a shock to him and to be honest, he’d been thinking about the same thing. Your two years together had shown you two things, that you loved each other like you didn’t think was possible and that Junhui was going to struggle to go on once you’d left this world. You’d gotten the impression he was thinking about it when he spent hours talking to Pearl and Soonyoung on the phone. They’re the only other vampires alive that had been through this and you couldn’t see any other reason that he’d be talking to them so much more than normal. 

You hadn’t gone into it blindly. You knew you’d have to distance yourself from your parents a little as you got older but Junhui said with skincare and things the way they are now, you could probably get away with not cutting them out completely. They wouldn’t really be able to tell you weren’t aging all that much. And you’d have to move around every few decades but that didn’t matter, as long as you were together. You couldn’t see any logical reason for him to not turn you. 

Junhui had resisted doing it himself, even when he’d gotten his head around the fact that in taking your mortal life, he was giving you both an eternal life together. He’d stopped seeing it as murder, like he’d spent a lot of his life doing, because he knew that you’d still be you. You’d still have the same personality, the same looks, even the same preferences in food and literature, you’d just have reflexes like the speed of light and everything else that came with being a vampire. 

Seungkwan and Junhui had been meticulous in their research and planning for the days after he’d turned you. They found enough evidence to suggest that if they doubled the amount of blood that they both have daily, your thirst should be satiated enough that you won’t have the urge to bite anybody. They’d both taken two weeks off work and they were going to monitor you, gradually allowing you near more and more people the more your body adjusted to the change, until you were able to function normally in society just like them. 

It didn’t stop Junhui’s worries though but you loved that he was up front about them. He didn’t want to hide any part of himself from you and that included the uncomfortable truth, that the main thing he was scared of was killing you. It wasn’t that he didn’t drink enough blood daily, it was more that he hasn’t had that thrill of fresh blood from the source in centuries. And, if their research is anything to go by, the blood of someone you love tastes even sweeter than that of any other human being. He knew he could resist, he’d realised in your time together that you’re one of the clumsiest people he’s ever met, he’s cleaned up cuts and grazes and never had an issue. But drinking it? When you’re willingly giving it? He was scared. And you all knew it. 

“You’ve got this Junhui. I know you have. As you do it, just think of the fact that you never have to say goodbye, that if you don’t stop when you need to, you lose everything. That should be all you need to not lose yourself.” Seungkwan says kindly. 

“And let's not forget _____’s self defence classes, she’ll fight you off.” Wonwoo jokes, knowing exactly how to bring everyone back from worrying. 

“Hey. I have a mean right hook.” You say, flexing your nonexistent muscles. 

“It’ll be fine Junhui. And I’ll come by first thing in the morning with the blood.” 

“When do I get turned?” 

“When I can be bothered.” Seungkwan dismisses Wonwoo and goes back to finishing his dinner. 

You and Junhui smile at each other as your friends bicker, knowing that after tonight, you’ll never have to worry about losing each other ever again.

“I thought,” you mumble against Junhui’s lips as he keeps kissing you, “that you were turning me.” 

“I am,” he says against your skin as his lips move down your neck, “but I just wanted to show human _____ how much I love her, one last time.”

His soft lips travel down your body, kissing every bit of skin they come into contact with, like he wants to make sure he’s touched every miniscule part of you before he finally grants your wish. Every tiny peck makes your body feel like it’s on fire and all you can do is lie back on your shared bed, both of you naked, and relish the way he’s worshipping your body. 

“How are you so perfect?” He whispers as he takes your nipple gently into his mouth, humming around it as he sucks gently. 

You’d had sex. You’ve had a lot of sex in your two years together. But this feels different, this feels like you’re giving yourselves to each other, to be naked and bare to each other as he takes your mortal life away and renews it with his unkillable DNA feels like a new birth. It’s possibly the most intimate you’ve ever felt, you’re just two people about to do something that will change your lives for eternity. In all the years you’ll spend with each other after this, no matter how the world changes and whatever life throws at you, this will always stay the same. How it all started, both of you feeling each other in your purest most honest forms, will always feel like this. You’ll always have each other, you’ll always be able to have each other like this. 

His lips leave your nipple, his tongue licking a soft line between the valley of your breasts until he finds your untouched nipple, his lips wrapping around it softly and savouring the feeling of it in his mouth just as much as he had done your other one. Your hands run through his hair, your eyes closed in pleasure as you sigh at the feeling over him sucking your pebbled nipple. No-one has ever made you feel like this, so beautiful, so wanted. He’s seen hundreds of bodies in his life and yet every time he sees, or feels or tastes yours, it’s like he’s in awe of you, like he can’t get over how stunning you are and that you love him as much as he loves you. 

“I love you,” he hums as his lips move lower and lower, trailing down your stomach, even stopping at your belly button and giving that a little kiss because he knows the ticklish feeling would make you giggle. 

“I love you too,” you giggle as his lips travel painfully close to your pussy. 

You can’t even be annoyed when he bypasses it entirely, you know once he gets a taste of you, he won’t be able to stop. The man has spent hours with his head between your thighs and you both know that he doesn’t stop until you physically can’t take anymore. So he can’t get sidetracked by your perfect pussy because he’s not finished showing the rest of your body the same amount of love as he’s already shown your upper half. His kisses turn wet as he kisses your thighs, your body twitching a little when his hair brushes past your pussy when he kisses the inside of your thighs. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles as his lips move down your legs, kissing every where he comes into contact with, “how I got so lucky to find someone as fucking exquisite as you after all this time.” 

He dodges your feet after he places a gentle kiss on one and you laugh, almost ruining his little monologue. Not that he minds, your laugh has become his favourite sound in the world and one that he can’t wait to hear forever more. But clearly your feet are out of bounds if he doesn’t want you rolling around laughing and so he makes his way back up your legs, savouring the way your soft skin feels against his lips, his tongue occasionally popping out too because any part of you tastes divine to him and he can’t resist.

Junhui glances up at you as he reaches your pussy once again but instead of moving back up your body, he dots featherlight kisses all over you, over your folds, over the inside of your thighs, everywhere he can to show you just how much he loves you. His left hand takes yours in his whilst his other hand gently opens you up for him, his eyes shining in love as he kisses your clit, the feeling making you moan a little as his lips kiss their way down to your leaking entrance. 

“So pretty,” he kitten licks your hole, tasting you straight from the source, “I can’t believe I get to spend eternity with you. All mine, to taste, to savour, to worship.” He licks a long stripe back up to your clit, your hand squeezing his from how good it feels. 

His lips suck gently on your clit, your hips bucking a little from the pleasure it sends shooting through your body. 

“Do you think every part of you tastes good darling?” He must feel the way you twitch at that because you feel his smirk disrupt his sucking on your clit he’d gone back to doing. 

You’d told him just how much the idea of him biting you excited you, you’ve no idea why, you think it’s because it’s something nobody has ever done. It’s something so forbidden that for him to do it, to bite you and to taste your blood, it makes this whole thing even more erotic. You’d spoken about tonight, you’d told him that you wanted to feel him bite you just once before he actually bites you properly. You know you’re risking a lot and you’re amazed he agreed, if Seungkwan found out, he’d be furious. “Just one bite and just a taste.” But you want to know how good the pain feels and see the effect your blood has on him before you’re too lost in changing into a vampire that you don’t see anything at all. 

“You’re such a dirty girl ______. It’s pretty perverse to want to see the effect you have on me like that. But,” he licks your pussy again, humming at the taste of your fresh wave of arousal, “I’d give you anything darling, I’d give you the whole fucking world if I could.” 

He licks one more time before his tongue carries on up along your stomach and wraps around one of your nipples again. 

“Fuck!” He makes you jump when suddenly drops your nipple and shouts, “I love you so fucking much.” He says through gritted teeth, your heart pounding and pussy clenching when, for the first time in two years, he looks up at you and you see those red eyes and pearlescent fangs that you saw once before in his office. 

“You think you can just tell me that you want me to taste you, all of you, and I wouldn’t say yes?” his teeth scratch along your skin softly, just above where your heart is pounding. 

You try your best not to squirm but you can’t help it, you’re not doing it out of fear, you’re doing it because of the threat of him sinking his teeth into you at any given moment. The thrill of that expectant pain only makes you drip more than you ever have for him. 

His fingers trail down your stomach as his teeth pause in their scratching, weighing just a little heavier on your skin and making your body pause in anticipation. But he doesn’t do anything with his teeth. His fingers however plunge into your aching hole, making you arch in pleasure at the sudden stretch of his two fingers and your skin, that his teeth were already resting on, ripple the skin, perilously close to breaking it but somehow not. 

“Look how wet you are just at the thought of me tasting your blood, I never knew you were such a pervert darling,” he mutters against your skin, his fingers dragging against your gummy walls and hitting your g spot tantalisingly.

You can’t respond to him, you’re too lost in pleasure and the idea that you’re totally in his care. Your whole body is his to do with as he pleases and if one thing goes wrong, you’re done for. You trust him, you trust him with your life or what you’ll have left of it after this, but it’s the temptation that he’ll have and danger that comes with it. It’s warped, but the idea that he is going to be so drunk on you when he tastes you, that you’ll be giving him so much pleasure in ways no other woman ever has during sex, is sending you a little crazy. 

His fingers hammer in and out of you, the sounds of your sopping pussy and moans that your body doesn’t seem to want to fully release as you wait for him to taste you, filling the room. You’re close, you’re so close and he knows it. He knows your body like the back of his hand, he knows every twitch and every tiny response you have to him and so he knows from the little pattern of clenches your pussy is making around his long fingers, that it won’t be long until you come undone around them. 

It’s because he knows you so well, knows what you want from him, that just as your high is about to it, he sinks his fangs into you just enough that it punctures your skin. 

“Fuck,” you cry, your pussy trembling around his fingers just as much as the rest of your body is as the pain of him biting you and drawing blood mixes with the pleasure coursing through your body from the greatest orgasm of your life. You feel like you’re floating, your whole body filled with electricity as you writhe and cry beneath him, gripping his body and riding his fingers to see you through your orgasm. 

When you open your eyes and blink Junhui into focus, the sight makes your blood run cold. Yet you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make your pussy clench painfully in overstimulation. 

He stares at you, eyes glistening red and fangs dripping in your blood. The bite has already healed, the dull pain of it and your blood in his mouth being the only reminder that he’d bitten you, as he takes his fingers from inside you and licks your essence off them, the taste of your blood and your cum mixing together and creating something that Junhui has never experienced in all his years of living. It’s like the ultimate delicacy and it stirs something almost animalistic in him. You’re his. You are totally and utterly his and that taste just solidifies it. It’s like it's imprinted something in him that you won’t ever be able to take away, not that he’d ever want you to. 

The blood drips from his fangs onto your breasts and you both look down at it, knowing exactly what he’s going to do even as more blood drips down onto the purity of your skin. His tongue darts out and he licks every last drop that’s fallen, his tongue getting more and more frantic the more he tastes. And you’ve never felt more desired, more totally beholding to someone than you have in your entire life. He hums into the taste and if you couldn’t feel his fangs drag against your nipple as he was licking your blood from your breasts, you’d think he was back to your usual caring Junhui. 

But when he’s cleaned everything off you, your skin a little pink from how he’s spread the remains of blood over you when he licked it off, and he looks into your eyes. Reality hits you. He looks at your untarnished neck, his red eyes shining a little brighter at the prospect of what’s about to happen and you know that this is it. Your mortal life is going to end and you’ll have the privilege that every other person doesn’t get, you’ll get to spend eternity with the man you love. Both of you seeing the wonders the world has to offer now and the wonders that are yet to come. 

You know your Junhui is still there, he isn’t so lost in the taste of you or his desires that he’s totally left you, because he nods just a little, silently asking you if you’re ready for this. 

“I love you Junhui. I want forever with you.” 

His breath hitches, he takes in your naked body and moves to hover over you, his body resting against yours, skin to skin as he holds your hands above your head. 

He places one last gentle kiss to your mortal lips, whispering a gentle “I love you too.” against them before he moves his lips down along your jaw and onto your neck. 

His lips stop and it’s like your world stops with it. You take one last deep breath in and as you breathe out, you feel his fangs sink into your neck much harder than they had during that first bite. It hurts. It’s the most painful thing you’ve ever experienced but Junhui’s hands squeeze yours letting you know he’s still yours, he hasn’t become the monster that could kill you as he gently sucks on your neck. It isn’t like when someone sucks a love bite onto your neck, with each tiny suck it sinks his fangs even further into your skin and makes you sob just that little harder from the added pain. 

But the pain is the last thing on your mind. You feel his DNA running through your veins, overtaking the DNA that makes you human and changing you into something colder, something more primal. You feel cold, colder than you ever have and yet you feel more alive than ever. Like as more of his DNA courses through you, the stronger your body feels like it’s getting, like you could take on a whole stampede of rhinos and come out the victor. 

He yanks himself away from you, his body shaking and convulsing like everything in him is telling him to carry on, to get his fill of you until you’re dead. But he can’t do that. He won’t. You’re his _____ and he knows if he doesn’t stop now, he never will. He kneels back, still holding one of your hands but drawing away enough to allow the bite enough time to heal and the temptation to keep biting to heal along with it. He strokes your waist with his free hand and waits for you to come round, hoping he hasn’t drawn too much blood from you, as you gasp for breath and shake a little on the bed, your body trying to fight his DNA off yet cling to it to keep you alive. 

“Come on _____,” he whispers, looking at you with wide eyes that are now completely devoid of any red, your Junhui well and truly back. But he just wants to make sure that you’re back and to be honest, he’s starting to panic. “Please darling, come on. We’ve got this, we can do this,” 

His hand keeps stroking your waist and if he was a little less panicked he’d feel that you’re squeezing his hand, trying to show him that you’re still there and your body is just trying to catch up with what’s happened. 

“My love?” He lunges forward when your eyes blink open, the wound on your neck healing completely as you do. “_____ are you with me?” 

He startles a little when you open your eyes and red ones stare back at him. 

“What?” You mumble, not liking the look of slight horror on his face. 

“Nothing,” he shakes off the shock, “I just forgot your eyes would be red until you have your first blood, that’s all. Are you ok? You feel ok?” 

“I feel fantastic,” you smile, “like I could fight someone and actually win.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “that’ll wear off in an hour or so. Come on, let's get you washed and changed then you can sleep it off before Seungkwan comes with the blood.” 

“Hold on,” you pull his hand as you sit up, both of you face to face, “thank you for doing this. I know it took a lot and I know you hated it. Just….thank you. And I love you.” 

“I love you too.” he says, kissing your lips and noting it doesn’t feel much different from kissing your human lips. “Come on,” he stands up and scoops you into his arms, smiling at how you laugh at his antics and realising this has really changed nothing other than you get to spend your whole life together. 

“There was one more thing I needed to tell you about all this.” 

“What,” you frown as he places you on the bathroom counter and sets the bath running, “if you’re about to tell me some awful thing about being a vampire that you kept to yourself, I’ll kill you Junhui.” 

“Yeah, I’d like to see you try newbie.” You quirks his brow at you. “And it’s not that. You know how Wonwoo wanted turning too?” 

“Yeah?” You say slowly, not really liking where this is going. 

“Well. When Seungkwan brings the blood in the morning. He’s also bringing Wonwoo. Because you’ll both be needing that blood……..” he waits for you to realise what this means. 

“I HAVE TO SPEND TWO WEEKS LOCKED IN THIS APARTMENT WITH FUCKING WONWOO?!” 

He dodges the toilet roll you aim at his head, though only just now your reflexes match his, but can’t help but laugh as you berate him. All he can think as he adds bubbles to your bath is how lucky he is that you walked into his office and caught him drinking blood. If you hadn’t, he’d never be here now. Being shouted at by the love of his life and looking forward to an eternity of this chaos that he’s grown to love so much.

[97latte]

older bf!joshua

➼ shua…nicknamed “gentle man” IS a gentle man

➼ you finish work early? he’s already waiting for you in his flashy new car outside

➼ you have a shit day? he’s already ran you a bath filled with rose petals and your favourite bath bomb

➼ he would take you to his celebrity-only parties and dinners, buying you a new dress and a pair of heels that match each time

➼ he’s buying every single plushie you want too

➼ “here, let me carry that for you baby”

➼ loves how you fold at the simple things like his hand on your thigh or around your waist

➼ definitely the type to place his hands on your thigh under the table, inching his fingers towards the hem of your skirt just to watch you squirm

➼ fucks you in the restaurant bathroom with his hand covering your mouth to muffle the moans that escape your lips

➼ “i bet you’ve always fantasised about me fucking you in public sweetheart”

➼ always pays for dinner because his “(my) pretty girl should never have to pay for anything”

➼ you would always want to pay him back by getting on your knees for him, but he’s very strict about him pleasuring you instead

➼ “babygirl, you don’t have to do that…but you could sit on my face so i can have my dessert”

➼ the first time you actually convince him to let you suck his cock, he nearly blacks out from how innocent you look - his length in your mouth, the outline of his cock protruding from your cheek, your teary eyes fixating on his facial expression to see if he likes it…he has to fight every muscle in his body to not face fuck you right there and then

➼ “mmm, yeah, just like that sweetheart—that’s it babygirl, use your tongue for me..”

a/n: this has been in my drafts for so long and i just finished it!! if u requested this ages ago, i am so sorry :(( i am going to attempt to switch between posting for skz and svt!!

[mingyusgfr]

thinking about seungcheol having to wake up way earlier than he wants to. the alarm goes off and he immediately groans, reaching for you before he even opens his eyes properly. one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against his chest when you try to sit up. "five more minutes," he mumbles into your shoulder. except five minutes pass and he's saying it again. and again. eventually you manage to get him out of bed, but barely. he's sitting at the kitchen counter in an oversized hoodie, hood pulled over his messy hair, staring down at his coffee like it personally offended him. every time you walk past, he catches the sleeve of your sweater between his fingers without looking up. not enough to stop you. just enough to make sure you're still there. "baby, i have to get ready." he hums. "cheol." another hum. you glance down and find him pouting into his folded arms. when you finally step between his knees to fix his hair, he immediately folds forward, burying his face against your stomach. no warning. just gives up all at once and melts into you. his arms circle your waist, warm and heavy. "don't wanna go," he mutters. you laugh, running your fingers through the back of his hair. "you have to." he only squeezes you tighter. and for a second, standing there with his face hidden against you and his hoodie half falling over his eyes, he doesn't look like the leader everyone knows. he just looks like your sleepy boyfriend who got dragged out of bed too early and thinks you should be suffering through it with him.

© mingyusgfr

[coupsalchemy]

Cat & Mouse

Requests - Hey!! I’m not sure if i can still request but if i can, could you please write a tooth rotting fluff for Woozi?? Please don’t change the au just idol au. With prompt 5 and 9 mix please. Could you also make woozi persona like the one from your woozi fic??? Specifically the teasing part to reader.😗😗I really enjoyed reading it. I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense. It’s actually my first time requesting. Thank uu.

Tags: Woozi x f.reader, fluff, friends to lovers, idol au

Warnings: swearing, some physical affection (??)

Word Count: 2.6k

C's note: - Anon, I am so sorry for taking so long, and i couldn't think of the way to incorporate the prompt 9. im sorrryyyy!!! this was written in december (so you can see that it has some christmas vibes going on) but i was hating it and now i tweaked it a little but still unsatisfied with it. but i hope you like it. Happy reading everyone!! Please leave your thoughts in comments/asks/reblogs.

Prompts are from @/celestialwrites.

“In the kitchen!” Your mom shouts.

Pulling on the oven mitts, you square your shoulder looking at the puffed up cookies through the oven glass. Your father breathes down your neck, patiently waiting for you to take his favorite cookies out.  

“A little space, please.” You glare over your shoulder, annoyed at the lack of personal space. “I promised you that you are going to be the first one to taste them even when you shouldn’t,” you hiss only to his ears, checking over your mother who is busily setting the table and missing the secret dealings between father and daughter. 

He stretches, finally moving away with a broad smile and a happy whistle, spotting someone and excitedly pushes through your mother, your brother and drops a kiss over your grandma’s head before tackling the newcomer in a bear hug. 

You smile to yourself, opening the oven door, carefully balancing the heavy tray with a single hand, quickly depositing it on top of the counter with a loud thud and sending cutlery down from its holder. 

Your mom hits your shoulder passing by, “pick it up.” She rushes to the guest, peeling her husband off the poor man. “I’m sorry, Jihoonie. You know how he is.”

The chocochips on the cookies melted the right way, watering your mouth, you throw the mitten over the spilled cutlery and carefully pick up one cookie only to drop it back, huffing at your burnt fingers. The entire room clicks their tongue, shaking their heads, muttering typical. 

Jihoon is standing between your two what-is-personal-space parents, nodding his head to whatever your mom is biting his ear off. A review on his recent album. The same album that has been playing since the start of dinner preparations. 

You suck your finger leaning against the counter watching him watching you. The signs for help are as bright as sun, the twitch of the lip corner, his hands curled into fists, and the constant shifting of his weight from one leg to another. He would have been saved, no, he would have never been in that tight spot, you would have swooped in and be his knight if only he replied to your texts. 

Your grandma, ever the observant of her surroundings, quickly catches on to the secret communication between you and your friend. She chuckles to herself, shaking her head and goes back to her knitting. You push yourself off the counter, walking towards the small crowd, dropping a kiss onto your grandma’s head, and join your parents. “Mom, he said the last review you gave him is unhelpful. Spare the poor child, please.”

Red fills your mom’s cheeks feeling betrayed by her favorite child whom she is willing to swap you with. Jihoon’s jaws slack at how easily you threw him under the bus. Your father lets out a hearty laugh looking at his wife, and jumping in to pull her leg. 

“That’s not true, mom.” Jihoon tries to do damage control, “it was really helpful. She is lying. I would never,” he closes his eyes as he shakes his head once, putting a hand over his heart, “say that.” 

She melts at the puppy eyes, and his sincere words. You and your father snicker under your breaths, exchanging a knowing look. 

“I’m forgiving you only because you came home after six months,” your mom gently pulls his ear, “you are only a star outside this house. I need you here for every celebratory dinner.”

Your father silently sneaks off to the lonely tray of baking goods. You gesture for him to eat only a small bite. Forgoing all of your words he gobbles up one entire cookie, and you rush towards him, chastising, trying to pull out the remnants of cookies out of his hands. 

A head pops up to your left, Jihoon casually leans over, his hair brushing into your face, tickling your nose and lips, he grabs one of your cookies, biting into it and moans as he straightens up. Crumbles stick to his lips, his tongue coming out to swipe them, failing miserably. Another bite, he closes his eyes in bliss, groaning. 

“Who gave Nana a cookie?” Your mom thunders slamming a pot onto the table. 

You snap your attention from your best friend to the culprits. Your father buries his nose into a newspaper sitting on the table while your grandma chews onto the sweet snack. One minute you are distracted and your family is already in chaos. 

Jihoon chuckles beside you. “Missed them.” 

“Only them?” 

He throws his head back, humming under his breath thinking, “yeah. Only them.” 

You glare at him, shoving him and grab a seat next to your brother. “I’m disowning Lee Jihoon and you all should too.” 

The chatter at the table calms down for a second, your family blinks at your words and goes back to arguing how no one in this house should be allowed to eat sweets for the sake of their health. 

Jihoon taps on your brother’s shoulder who gives an unimpressed look and stands up with his plate, grumbling under his breath. “No respect for the youngest in this house.” 

Jihoon grins at your scowl like he just won an award. He steals the food from your plate, “Nana, love the sweater.” 

Your grandma perks up at the praise, one thing about your family is you love praises as much as your sweets, she shows him the key points of the sweater, pointing towards the little heart patterns. 

“I’ll make you the exact same one.” She reaches over patting the table instead of his hand due to the distance. “You two can have a couple sweaters then for this winter.” 

“With him?” You retch. “Why don’t you make one for his friend, Jeonghan? I can match with that beautiful person.” 

Jihoon is now scowling at your words, the small smile dropping. A frown line appears between his eyebrows. You ignore it, he deserves these snide remarks. How can he expect you to take him back easily after one month of painful silence. You were losing your mind, obsessively checking up on his news to know his whereabouts. He used to text you detailing about the next stop of his concert, how his album preparations are going, heck, he even texts about his gym workouts that grossed you out. Who wants to know about how sweaty his shirt became after just an hour of workout? The visuals still haunt you. 

“Cat and mouse.” Your grandma chuckles under her breath. “Cat and mouse.” Affection curls her words, and it warms your heart. 

She knows you the best, if not, more than you. Her adoring your best friend since childhood makes you love Jihoon a little more. If she loves him then he must be the best man in the entire world. Every other man, your ex boyfriends, are always met with a frown and a snarky remark. You stopped bringing them home after one of them actually cried. 

“Hyung, need five tickets for your next concert.” Your brother looks up from his phone, “this time I need better seats. Last time I couldn’t even see you properly.” 

“Why five?” You cross your arms across your chest. 

“There’s this girl,” he starts, and the whole house stops, he rolls his eyes, “I’m not going to bring her home. Remember the time I brought one? You guys pounced on her. Poor girl. She must be having nightmares till now.” 

“I just asked about her well being!” Your mother jumps straight into defence mode. This time, your father joins in support. “I can’t with this generation of kids. So sensitive to everything.” 

“Five tickets.” Your brother points his hand to your baffled friend and goes back to his phone. 

You shove the crispy potato into your mouth enjoying the distress emitting from Jihoon. His social battery is already in the red zone. 

He knocks his knees against yours under the table. Your heart skips a beat, and you try to suppress your giddiness. You know the signs, next comes his begging. 

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” 

“Very.” 

He sneaks a glance at your mother before dumping half of his food onto your plate. He bargains before any protest leaves your mouth, “I’ll do anything. Anything.”  

His eyes widen seeing the sparkle in your eyes. “Anything that’s legal and not morally corrupt.” 

“Why, Jihoon, when did I ever lead you astray?” 

“Drop the act. No one believes you. Especially not me.” 

In contrast to his biting words, his eyes hold tenderness, soft smile and his press of leg into yours. You rest your arm on the back of his chair, crowding him, he inclines back, maintaining two centimetres of gap. 

“Why did you ignore me?” You tilt your head, looking at his face as he tries to move away from you. “Just because you got a girl doesn’t mean you can forget the only human who put up with all your phases. Hm? Should I remind you of the time you threw up at the head of our department? Or the time when you lost your tooth and I have to—” 

He nudges you back by his finger against your forehead. “I’m not ignoring you. And I don’t have a girl. If I did, she would have been sitting right next to me.” 

“I definitely saw your pics with a girl in a gossip article.” You narrow your eyebrows, remembering the picture, he did have his arm around a pretty girl, and she was all cozy in his arms as they walked down the street. He would never allow anyone into his arms, just like he shoved you away now. That only means, you gasp, “you nasty piece of shit. How can you get photographed with your fuck buddy.”

Your grandma mirrors your gasp, dropping the sweater and glaring at Jihoon. “Pass me the salt.” She orders your mom, and starts throwing salt at Jihoon, “be gone, demon. Leave my sweet boy alone.” 

“What? What happened?” Your father finally drops the newspaper, trying to catch the gossip between you, Jihoon and your grandma. “Tell me.” 

You mumble a sorry to Jihoon. “Nana, stop. You are adding too much salt to the dishes. Mom is going to cry at this rate.” 

On cue your mom realises that grandma, indeed, is throwing salt more to the dishes rather than at Jihoon. She scurries to her and grabs the shaker. “I spent five hours in the damn kitchen!”

“Language.” Whole house choruses. 

You grab Jihoon’s hand, dragging him away from the table. He lets out a long breath, finally, you are saving him from your family. You forgive him a little after your slipup. 

You climb up the stairs, the wood squeaking under your each step. The wall full of your family pictures pass through a blur, your childhood family trips, graduation photos and Jihoon throwing a peace sign while you throw your arm around him smiling brightly. He is part of your family and you don’t want it any other way. 

“This picture is old now.” You turn around to Jihoon, pointing at the photo frame. He snaps his eyes away from your ass to said photo frame. You slap his face gently, “pervert. Didn’t you have fun just a few days ago?” 

He cups your mouth, pressing your head to his chest. “You already ruined my reputation. Shut up, please.” 

You grumble under his hand, he shoves you into your room, shutting the door behind him. 

“Oh,” you turn around, caging him in, “brought me to the darkness, what are your wicked plans baby boy?” You press your body against his, his breath hitting your cheek, “I’m not that kind of girl,” you lower your voice, “need a ring before you do any—”

He flicks the light switch on, his lips pressed into a thin line, unimpressed. “Shut up and move.” 

You stick your tongue out, his eyes are quick to track the motion, a smile adorning his lips, you flick his nose before giving him the space he asked for. 

The bed bounces beneath you as you plop down on it. Jihoon is still at the entrance of your room, eyes on you, his finger on his nose. You give a cheshire smile, succeeding in making him speechless, yet again. 

“Come here, my good good fuck boy,” you pat the bed next to you, the smile slowly fades seeing the change in his demeanour. A familiar yet unfamiliar darkness oozes from him, it’s not the first time you have seen it, always sneaking up during the moments you two are confined in a room, just like now, or in a bar when the table gets loud and everyone’s in their own world, you sense him, and he will always be looking at you. 

Jihoon pushes himself off the door, the strange tension licks up your neck, his eyes never leave yours, something dark brewing beneath them. Air knocks out of your lungs, as he nears, climbing onto the bed, taking his rightful place beside you, slipping under the covers. 

You turn away to the ceiling, wondering—he always makes you wonder, what if you two didn’t have the boundary titled friends keeping you apart. 

His hand circles around your waist, pulling you closer to him. This. It doesn’t add up. You are adult enough to know this isn’t how a friend behaves, not even if they are your best friend. 

He shouldn’t be pulling you to his chest when you are trying to wiggle away, his nose brushing yours, and those lips an inch away. 

“You were saying.” His voice is rough, like the video he sent you of him doing pushups, the grunts and the rough edges. 

You gulp, intertwining your legs with his, and the inch gap closes, but his lips land on top of your head as you snuggle into his chest. You love being in his arms, the warmth he provides, the tough muscles making you want to bury in his chest. 

The boundary fades as his hand slips beneath your sweater, his fingertips tickling your skin with its light touch. But he has girls outside of you. He has relationships, you are not sure if that’s what it’s called, sexual relationships maybe, and you know they will and has given him an experience he could never forget. Who are you in front of them? 

You pull away your leg that is squashed between his’, you nuzzle into his chest one last time before completely pulling away from him. You are a nobody. Just a friend. 

Jihoon lets out a disgruntled sound, his hand slips from your waist to your ass, squeezing it once, his eyes dilating at your surprised gasp, he pulls you back into his arms. 

“Jihoon?” Your voice is a squeak, still surprised, still shaking from the gesture he just did. “What—what are you—what are we?”

Jihoon lowers his face so he is staring right at you, wets his lips before saying, “we could be whatever you want.” 

“Friends?” 

The frown on his face sends a shiver down your spine, he growls spitting, “no. Friends don’t touch, sweetheart, friends don’t fly from the other side of the world just to spend one night in your bed. I want to be your boyfriend,” he rests his leg over yours, crowding your entire being with his body, “and your friend. I want you.” 

You find yourself nodding, and he doesn’t waste a second as he is already kissing you, taking out the years of pining in one night. 

—

“Cat and mouse.” Your grandma smiles to herself, weaving a heart pattern. She glances at her husband’s picture on the mantel, missing him a little more after seeing the two kids dancing around each other. Just like they used to.

[wonwootattoo]

pixelated kisses | xu minghao

🎤 pairing: idol!situationship!minghao x fem!reader 🎤 genre: ANGST 🎤 summary: minghao can't deal with the emotions he feels for you and decides to take matters into his own hands. 🎤 now playing: pixelated kisses by joji 🎤 a/n: i want to start off by saying SORRY in advance. this originally was supposed to have a happy ending, idk what happened. I'm happy to share that this WILL have a part 2 so don't fret!!! writing this hurt my feelings! 🎤 thank u to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!!

Minghao is grateful for this life he has. 

But he hates the corners he has to cut in his personal life. He thinks of you across the globe, oceans away. Do you wait for his call? Do you wonder what he’s doing every hour? Do you watch his performances?

10:06 AM. At least 14 more hours until he can call you. 

He stares into his reflection on the screen. Is this really all he’ll have of you? Months and months of building a relationship digitally? 

It’s worth mentioning that the two of you aren’t actually dating. It’s so shitty of him, but he cannot find it in himself to fully commit to you with the hectic schedules he has in both Korea and China. He’s home maybe six times in a month.

Some of his bandmates are in the same predicament as him, but they make it work. Seungcheol has been with his girlfriend for six years. Wonwoo’s been with his girlfriend for five. It’s possible to make the distance work. But is it worth it? To only see the person you love through a screen? To have only two guaranteed months of complete free time? 

It would be terrible. It would be painful to be with you and not be with you. It’s what he tells himself over and over and over again. 

But he knows himself. He’s in love with you. He’d marry you on the spot, he’d give you anything you’d ever ask for. He loves you.

He wonders if there’s a day you won’t pick up. When you’ll walk away from him. 

Can you read him? Can you tell how much he wants you? Can you sense the desperation that reeks from him even though he’ll never express it out loud?

I miss you

He turns off his phone after hitting send, bracing himself for a day full of rehearsals, wardrobe, makeup, and of course, the concert itself.

“I missed you,” Minghao whispers quietly, the second you open your door to let him in. He takes your hand and intertwines your fingers. He doesn’t make any other moves. He doesn’t pull you closer, pressing his pelvis into your hips. He doesn’t nose along your neck, whispering dirty things in your ear. He just looks at you earnestly for the first time in all the years you’ve been messing around with him. 

You press a long kiss to his cheek, standing on your tiptoes to deliver it perfectly.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your neck, a few hours later, as he’s laying on top of you. The two of you are warm and toasty under your thick duvet and soft pillows. Your hands are softly running through his long brown hair, sometimes making their way to his bare back.

He hasn’t fucked you like he normally would. Instead, he had asked to just lay with you, exist with you, be with you.

“For what, my love?”

He lifts himself up so he can look at your face, elbows on either side of your head. Before speaking, he brushes a hand through your hair and drinks you in. You’re beautiful. Your dimple, your smile lines, your long lashes, the mole under your eye. 

It’s always been you. 

And you don’t deserve half of his heart or half of his commitment. 

“I… am in love with you,” Minghao admits softly, making sure he maintains eye contact. “But, I am afraid I can’t give you all of me with the career that I have.”

“I’m afraid making things official will ruin us. Can you imagine the distance, more FaceTimes than actually seeing you in person? I jus-,” he starts going on a tangent, fiddling with the bottom of your hoodie.

“Hey, I love you too,” you interrupt, sitting up on your elbows to plant a kiss on his chin.

He closes his eyes, relishing your kiss and the serenity you bring to his life. 

“Whatever you’ll give me, I’ll take it. You don’t need to give me all of yourself to show me you love me,” you tell him with a hand on his chest.

“But you give all of yourself to me. What if I’m not capable of doing the same? I’m not used to settling down. I feel like I’m always on the move, always thinking about what’s next.”

“How will you know if you never take the risk?” you counter back.

“I don’t want to take a risk that could potentially hurt you.”

Minghao removes your hand from his chest to press a kiss to your knuckles.

“I feel like I’ll hurt you either way,” he says sadly. 

You have a feeling this is his way of breaking up with you. He’s right in front of you, touching you, yet you feel even more disconnected from him than when he’s a million miles away on a FaceTime call. He’s battling what his heart wants from what his brain is telling him is more reasonable.

It seems like he’s already made up his mind.

The silence is deafening after that. 

Minghao practices the choreography from 5 in the morning til 10 when the other members come pouring in. Everyone notices he’s being harder on himself, but no one knows why. 

After his 18th time of running through the dance, Minghao excuses himself to throw up his guts in the bathroom. He’s sweating all over, palms pressed flat on the floor. 

I deserve this he tells himself. I deserve this for not trying hard enough. For not pushing myself to love openly. For being selfish. For putting my career over my heart. For cutting the connection off before it was even close to dying. 

It’s been three weeks.

He thinks of you, your beautiful face.

How it cracked when he left you for the last time. 

For good.

[petrichor-han]

sphere, circle, line; kwon soonyoung

PAIRING | hoshi x gn!reader (co-worker!joshua x gn!reader towards the end)

CAST | kwon soonyoung, joshua hong, mentions of wen junhui

WC | 5.5k

GENRE | established relationship, break-up, angst, fluff, bittersweet ending

WARNINGS | explicit language, allusions to sex but no explicit smut, crying, break-up, emotional affair, arguing

SYNOPSIS | with every row you knit, another metaphorical mile grew between you and soonyoung, fueling the beginning of the end of your love. (inspired by the sweater curse.)

A/N | i tried that stylistic thing where there’s no dialogue again, just wanted to try something different. :) please let me know if this shows up in the tags, even if you don’t read it!! 🤍

request to be added to current and future taglists HERE! 

MASTERLIST

You said you loved him. 

And you meant it, with all your heart. And so did he as he said it back, tackling you onto the freshly made bed, and all you could smell was laundry detergent and his cologne as he hugged you close to his chest as the two of you laughed. He was silly—silly in the way that made you cackle like you never could around anyone else, and it wasn’t like you specifically wanted anyone to hear that side of you anyways. Soonyoung included. In fact, Soonyoung especially. 

But he had this thing about him—there was something that just made you want to laugh. Not at him, but with him. 

And that might have been what made him fall for you. If you loved him for the way he made you laugh, he loved you for the way you never failed to make him feel on top of the world when all he had to his name were his shitty jokes and fifty-two dollars in his bank account. 

You remember those fifty-two dollars as you check out at the craft store, your skeins of yarn adding up to exactly fifty-two dollars. 

You pay with your card and leave. 

Keep reading

[jeonghunny]

— “i can't pay rent this month”, choi seungcheol.

[a/n] me when me when me when me when me wheeennnnnn 😭

jeonghan version. | junhui version. | seokmin version. | mingyu version. | vernon version.

[sluttywonwoo]

bad influence(s): jun | the bachelor

pairing: bachelor!jun x f reader

summary: it's a bachelor party, but no one's getting married. at least, not anymore.

warnings: swearing, alcohol, one night only or is it, smut (18+ ; mdni)

smut warnings: oral (m receiving), msub, protected sex, riding, good boy

word count: 3.5k

“Oh I haven’t ordered yet,” you tell the bartender as she slides a cosmo across the bar towards you. 

“It’s from the gentlemen down there,” she says, nodding in the direction of a small group of guys that look to be about your age gathered at the end of the bar. 

You give your colleague a look. She and her partner both shrug at you. “I guess I should go say thank you.”

You also thank the bartender before heading over with the drink in hand, telling the pair you were third-wheeling with to come save you if you gave the signal. 

The one you assume to be the leader, a tall blond, grins when he sees you approaching. He’s handsome, you think, until you see that he’s wearing a sash that says BACHELOR across it. You turn your attention to the others who regard you with quiet amusement. 

"Which one of you do I have to thank?" you ask. 

To your surprise, the blond one raises his hand, and you raise an eyebrow in turn. "Are you looking for trouble tonight?" 

He makes a face before registering that you're staring at his sash. "Oh, right. I forgot I was still wearing this."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He sighs. "Would you believe me if I said this wasn’t a bachelor party anymore?”

“Not without some elaboration.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking a little uncomfortable all of a sudden. “She cheated. The flights and hotel were already booked, so... here we are." 

"And the sash?"

He jerks his head at his friends. "They thought it would be funny to wear it anyway."

"Interesting..."

"Look, I'm not expecting anything out of this-” 

You scoff in disbelief but gesture for him to continue, curious to see what his explanation will be. 

“Other than maybe a conversation, if you’re interested. They’ve been telling me I should use the opportunity to put myself back out there, but as you can tell, I’m a little out of practice.”

“So you want to use me as practice?”

“No! That’s not- I am genuinely interested in getting to know you,”

“I’m giving you a hard time,” you interject finally, taking a sip of your drink to hide a smirk. It’s strong, good. Visible relief seeps into the stranger’s features. “I’d like to get to know you, too...”

“Junhui, but you can call me Jun” he blurts, offering you his hand. A couple of his friends snicker quietly as you awkwardly shake it and give him your own name. 

“Why don’t we go talk over there,” you suggest as you eye his shadows warily. “Away from any interference.”

“I’d love that.” 

“Be gentle with him!” one of the friends calls as you walk away with his hand in yours. You roll your eyes even though you know they can’t see your face. 

You lead Jun to an empty high top, out of earshot of his buddies, where you can set your drinks down. Speaking of drinks, “ a cosmo, huh? Why’d you pick that?”

He shrugs and smiles shyly. “I like that they’re pink. I thought, pretty girl, pretty drink. But if you don’t like it, I can order you something else.”

You shield your glass protectively. “No, I like it.”

He laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “It’s yours! I’m not going to take it from you!”

“What are you having?”

“A Moscow mule. Do you want to try it?”

You accept the copper mug from his hands and lift it to your lips. He watches intently, his gaze fixed on your mouth. 

“Refreshing,” you hum. 

“They’ve been making me drink beer all weekend,” he groans. “I needed something less filling.”

You pick your glass up by the stem and offer it to him. “Your turn, do you want to try mine? You did pay for it, after all.”

He takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours. 

“Oh, watch out. My lip gloss is all over that side.”

Jun sips from that side anyway, his lips coming away tinged pink. He gives you a goofy grin. 

“Now it’s kinda like we kissed, right?” 

Time slips by easily as you and Jun learn more about each other. Conversation flows naturally. He’s good at making you feel comfortable in his company and he’s just as good a listener as he is a storyteller. 

You learn that he and his ex-fiancée were together for almost a decade, that he did love her but really proposed out of a sense of obligation, that she had been sleeping with her boss for over a year before that. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you. I’m sure a guy rambling about his ex is the biggest turn-off ever.” 

“I mean, that’s why I’m practice, right?” 

“Oh my god, will you let that go? I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll stop. For now.” He narrows his eyes at you as you wink. “No, but it actually helps.”

“What helps?”

“Hearing about her. I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe you at first, to be honest. Too many people are all too willing to lie their way into a girl’s bed.”

“Right, I guess as a dude it’s easy to forget how shitty we can be.”

“You have no idea.”

You spend the next hour or so regaling him with horror stories of your own, half to try and make him feel better, half because they’re just funny. 

The house lights flicker for last call before either of you realizes how late it is. You lock eyes, smiling sheepishly at each other. 

“I guess that’s our cue,” Jun says, gathering all of the empty glasses you’d accumulated throughout the night to return to the bar. 

“I guess so...”

You follow him back to the bar where he deposits the glasses and cashes out his tab. He hesitates as he takes the receipt and slips his credit card back into his wallet. 

“I don’t want to stop talking to you,” he admits with a breathy laugh. 

“I don’t suppose you’d want to come back to my hotel room with me?” you offer. 

His eyes light up. “I’d love to. I would have offered mine but I’m currently bunking with a bunch of assholes.” 

“Don’t want an audience?” you tease. 

“I don’t really feel like sharing you tonight,” he murmurs, biting his lip again as he looks you up and down.

It’s drizzling outside where you wait for a cab together. You try to huddle under one of the nearby building’s awnings, but everyone else seems to have had the same idea. All of the dry real estate is spoken for, and you end up standing in the rain anyway. 

Jun offers you his coat and you wear it over your shoulders all the way to the hotel, even once you’re safely out of the rain in the sleek, black town car, watching the lights of the city pass you by. 

The ride is quiet. Jun holds your hand, his thumb softly circling the back of it. His calming presence along with the rain and the soothing thrum of the car would be enough to put you to sleep on an ordinary evening, but you’re too amped up thinking about where the night may lead to feel even the tiniest bit sleepy. 

You’re thankful you didn’t leave your hotel room a disaster like you usually do on business trips. All of your clothes and toiletries are neatly tucked away for once. 

“Can I make you a drink?” you ask, holding the door open for him to pass through. It shuts gently behind him with a click. “I will say that I’m limited to whatever’s in that minibar.”

Jun shakes his head. “I want to make sure I remember everything about tonight.”

He approaches you with a newfound air of confidence, using his taller frame to cage you in against the wall. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. 

“Please do.”

It’s something you’ve been thinking about for the better part of the night, a thought that kept distracting you when you were trying to listen to Jun talk. Every time he took a sip of his drink, every time he laughed or grinned, your attention was drawn to his lips- to the curve of his cupid’s bow, to the sticky pink texture of your lip gloss after he drank from your glass. It was embarrassing, the way you kept asking him to repeat himself only to drift off in a daze again when he did. 

The first kiss is soft, timid almost. His lips barely brush against yours. You’re tempted to chase him when he pulls away, but you let him take the lead. The second kiss is more self-assured. He leans into you further and tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, making you gasp. 

He moans into your mouth in response, releasing your lip so he can slip his tongue between them instead. You both taste faintly of alcohol and something sweet, probably your lip gloss. 

You behave yourself for as long as you can stand it, resisting the urge to grab his ass or slide a hand down his pants until his hands start to roam. 

Just like with kissing, he takes his time exploring your body too. His fingers dance delicately up the curve of your spine over your shirt, pausing to move your hair out of the way so that he can kiss your neck. Then his hands go back to your waist before swiftly gliding over the curve of your ass. 

It’s all still a little too respectful. You can tell he’s holding back. 

It has been a while since he’s been with anyone new, you remind yourself. Maybe he just needs a refresher. 

One thing he definitely needs is to relax. You know exactly how to help him do that. 

You press your palms to his chest and push gently. Jun is quick to back off, stiff with panic until you sink to your knees before him. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, staring up at him with big doe eyes. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he gulps and nods. You tease him by slowly undoing his belt and zipper, drinking in his reactions with barely contained excitement.

Your smirk almost falls when you finally pull his cock out. Jun’s a pretty tall guy so you figured he’d be fairly big, but you weren’t accounting for how thick he’d be too. You recover before he notices, acting like it’s no big deal, that he has a perfectly normal, not-at-all-gigantic dick that you are more than capable of sucking. Your mouth waters at the mere sight of it hard and twitching for you.   

“Are you sure about this?” he asks. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you assure him. “But obviously if you don’t want me to…”

”Are you kidding?” He laughs, his dick bouncing slightly with the movement of his shoulders, “I absolutely want you to. I just didn’t want you to feel like it’s something you had to do.”

You kiss the tip and give him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be down here if I didn’t want to be.”

He just nods like he doesn’t trust himself to speak as you go from kissing the tip to taking it between your lips. 

It isn’t that you’ve sucked a lot of guys off but you do consider yourself to be pretty good at it so you aren’t surprised at all when you feel Jun shudder before you’ve gotten even half of him in your mouth.

He curses and reaches forward to steady himself against the wall. His other hand gathers your hair in a makeshift ponytail to keep it out of your face. Muscle memory, perhaps. 

You take him as deep as you can, until he hits the back of your throat and you gag a little. 

“Shit, sorry.”

What you mutter in response is incomprehensible, but it’s meant to communicate it’s okay. He must get the idea because he does relax, going as far as to let his eyes flutter shut for brief moments. 

You can tell he’s still holding back, though, both physically and verbally. He’s trying so hard to keep himself in check, to be a gentleman. 

The notion is ridiculous given that you have his fucking cock in your mouth, but why else would he be standing so still or trying so hard to muffle his moans?

You relish in the sounds of pleasure that do escape him, eager to get him to spill more. 

You take him to the back of your throat a few more times, doing your best to suppress your gag reflex and ignoring the way your eyes tear up.

It works, punching a gasp out of him that’s followed by a quiet whimper. 

Oh. You need to get him to do that again. 

But before you can, he tugs on your hair to get your attention.

“Fuck, you have to stop,” he urges, gently pulling you off. 

You pout.

“I’ll cum if you keep going.”

”And that’s a bad thing because…?”

He sighs. ”I’d rather cum… doing something else.”

“You can’t go twice?” you tease.

”I usually can, but it’s been a while. I’d rather not test it.”

You hum in understanding, unable to stop yourself from leaning back in and collecting the last drop of his precum on your tongue. His thighs tense to the point of trembling at that as a strained noise claws its way out of his throat.

“God, you’re evil,” he pants. 

You grin as you rise to your feet. Jun pulls you in for a kiss, groaning at the taste of himself on you. 

“Let me return the favor,” he murmurs.

You shake your head. “Maybe later, if you still have the energy.”

”For you? I’ll stay awake all night.” 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you warn, pushing him away from you again.

With your hand on his chest, every step forward forces Jun to take a step backward in kind until the backs of his calves hit the bed and he tumbles onto the mattress. 

He props himself up on his elbows as he watches you approach the bed, his gaze clouded with lust. His eyes track your every movement, pupils dilating even further when your hands move to the buttons of your blouse. 

By the time you climb onto the bed with him, you’re almost naked. You’ve left your bra and panties on to give yourself the upper hand and to allow him the honor of undressing you himself if he wants to. 

“Take off your shirt,” you tell him. 

He obeys immediately, and you stroke his thigh fondly as he fumbles with the buttons. 

“Wanna help me with mine?” 

“Mhm.”

He sits up and reaches around you in search of your bra clasp while you push his shirt off his shoulders. You’re impressed that he gets it on the first try. 

Your panties are the last to go and then you’re completely bare before each other. The moment is a bit more reverent than what a typical hookup calls for; you both silently take each other in, admiring the details of your bodies in the dim glow of the hotel reading lights. 

“Do you have a condom?” you ask, breaking the spell. 

Jun shakes his head sheepishly. “I seriously didn’t think I’d need them any time soon.”

“That’s okay. I grabbed a couple from the front desk in the lobby. I just hope they’ll fit you.”

You stand to grab the pants you’d discarded and fish the condoms out of the front pocket. You splay them between your fingers like they’re playing cards and rejoin him on the bed so that you can deal him in. 

“Take your pick.”

He chuckles at your antics and plucks one from the selection with his eyes closed, reading the label before tearing open the foil packet and rolling it on.

“How do you want me?”

“Lie back.”

He does, and you straddle him, running a hand down his torso just to see him shiver as you settle on his lap. 

“How’s this? You think this’ll feel good?”

He swallows harshly and nods. “Y-yes, I think it’ll feel really good.”

“Only one way to find out, right?”

You both moan as you lift yourself and sink back down, this time with his cock inside of you. It takes a few bounces to take all of him. It doesn’t matter that you’re already soaked, he’s just so goddamn big and you didn’t let him prep you at all... 

So you’re ambitious, sue you.  

Once your bodies are flush, you give both Jun and yourself a few beats to adjust. He seems thankful for the respite. That is, until you lean down and begin to kiss him at the same time you start grinding your hips into his. 

He makes a sound of surprise against your lips, his hands flying to your waist. He doesn’t attempt to control your movements, though; he just holds you, his fingertips periodically digging into your sides like a cat making biscuits. 

He’s even harder inside of you than he was in your mouth. You wonder what’s turning him on the most. Is it the heat of your pussy, the way you pulse around him? The way you moan his name into his mouth? 

When you press a hand to his chest to steady yourself as you sit back up, you think you have your answer. His eyes widen at the sight of you, his gaze flitting between your self-satisfied smirk and your tits bouncing in his face. 

He’s so fucking pretty. His lips are still stained pink, even more so now from all the biting and sucking you’ve done to them, and his cheeks are now flushed to match. Slack-jawed and a little sweaty, he looks further and further gone from the polite gentleman you met at the bar. 

“Harder,” he chokes out. “You can go harder. I won’t break.”

“You sure about that?”

He nods frantically. 

Your thighs aren’t killing you yet, so you indulge him, riding him harder and faster until his grip on your hips does become controlling and he uses his strength to hold you in place on top of him.  

“Slow d-down or I won’t last,” he whines. 

You pretend to pout as you catch your own breath. “I thought you said you could take it.”

“I thought I could. But you feel too good.”

“You control the pace then.”

His expression screws up into one of confusion. “What?”

“You’re already holding me up, just fuck up into me like this.”

You see it click for him, and after gathering all of his self-control, he does just that. Like much of tonight, he’s hesitant at first. It’s as if he’s trying to see if you’re testing him, but when he feels how pliant and reactive you are to his motions, he gains the confidence he needs to fuck you properly. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head almost instantly, and it takes everything in you not to let your body go completely limp. 

“There we go, good boy,” you praise. “Such a good listener.”

Your voice is shaky, but it still gets Jun to whimper. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Like what? Good boy?”

He answers with an even more pathetic whimper and pulls you into another kiss to keep you from saying anything else. 

Somehow, it feels even deeper when he’s the one in control, and you find yourself on the edge just as quickly as he had. You know that if you just rub your clit, you’ll be cumming all over him in no time, so you break the kiss to tell him. 

He brushes your hand out of the way so that he can be the one to rub your clit. “Together, we’ll cum together.”

-

Your ears are still ringing when your vision returns. You have no idea how much time has passed, but Jun’s cock is twitching inside of you with the final spurts of cum. You do your best to help him ride it out, very aware that you’re also still pulsing around him with the aftershocks of your orgasm. With one last kiss, you roll off of him and flop beside him on the mattress. 

The sound of heavy breathing fills the silence as you both lie there and attempt to recover.

“We should rinse off in the shower,” you suggest. 

“Yeah, we should. Maybe I could finally repay the favor from earlier, if you’re not too sensitive.”

You hum in agreement. “I’d like that.”

Another long stretch of comfortable quiet lapses between you. Then, Jun turns on his side to face you. You can only see him in your periphery, but you can tell that he’s grinning.  

“Do you go on a lot of business trips?” he asks. 

You furrow your brows and turn to face him. “A good few, why?”

“I don’t suppose they ever take you to Shenzen, do they?”

[vernonverse]

BAMBI EYES ✶ Chwe Vernon

SYNOPSIS. Slowly falling in love with your plug.

PARING. Plug!Vernon x F!Reader.

GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non-idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut.

WC. 14.9k+

RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).

WARNINGS. Reader is dealing with anxiety, insomnia, mental health struggles, and here nobody believes in seeking medical help (apparently), just the plug, mentions of food, Scream (1996) spoilers (in case you never saw it), drug purchase, smoking, drug use, drug use before sexual activities, shotgunning, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, pussy eating, cum eating, multiple orgasms, blowjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk, hand kink, pulling out, cum-shot.

AN. I literally just brought this to another format, with a few small changes. And now I’m actually, actually back. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! <3

🎧 SOUNDTRACK. chocolate - the 1975, ojitos lindos - bad bunny, junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks, like real people do - hozier, disconnected - 5 seconds of summer, don’t come down - the maine, satellite - harry styles, fallin' for you - colbie caillat, drop dead - olivia rodrigo.

The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.

9:14 PM.

A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.

Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.

You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”

“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”

“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.

It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.

Which is what brought here.

Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”

“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”

He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”

Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.

He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.

“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”

“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”

“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”

“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”

The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.

Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.

“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”

As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.

“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.

“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”

As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.

“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”

You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?

And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.

Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.

Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”

You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.

“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”

You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.

“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”

Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”

The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.

“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”

You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”

A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.

“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”

He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.

The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.

For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.

Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.

“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.

Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.

You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.

Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.

Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.

It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.

Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.

It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.

Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.

The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.

But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.

The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.

A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.

Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.

Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.

“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.

“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”

He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.

You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”

Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.

“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”

He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”

You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.

“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”

“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.

“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”

You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.

“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”

“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”

Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”

He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”

“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”

You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.

“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”

Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”

You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.

“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”

He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”

“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”

“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”

He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.

“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”

As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.

Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.

On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.

Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.

Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.

He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.

Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.

On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.

The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.

Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.

About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.

After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.

Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.

“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.

“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”

You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”

“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”

He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.

“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”

You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”

“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”

“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”

Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”

You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.

“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”

The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.

It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.

“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”

The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.

“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.

You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”

He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”

The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.

But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.

“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”

He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.

“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”

Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.

“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”

Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”

You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.

“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.

A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”

You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.

“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.

“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime, Bambi.”

You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”

“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”

The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.

“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.

Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.

Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.

When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.

He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.

You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.

“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.

“But I only paid for one.”

“I know. The other one is on me.”

You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”

“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”

He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.

“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”

You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”

You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”

“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”

Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”

“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.

A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.

He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.

“Hansol!”

He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”

“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”

He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”

The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.

“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.

“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”

“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”

“And would you?”

The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.

“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”

You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”

“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.

The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.

When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.

He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.

Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.

Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.

“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.

“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.

You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.

After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.

Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.

“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”

You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”

“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”

He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”

You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.

After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.

Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.

“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.

“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”

“Well, I was tired.”

“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”

You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”

“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”

You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.

“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.

Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.

He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.

A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.

He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.

There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.

Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.

You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.

When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.

“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.

You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.

When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.

You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.

“Feeling it?”

“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”

Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.

You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.

Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.

Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”

A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.

You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.

All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.

You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”

He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.

Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.

“C’mere, Bambi.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.

Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.

The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.

Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.

“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.

Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.

“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”

And you believe him.

Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.

You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.

Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.

Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.

You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.

Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.

You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.

When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.

“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.

You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.

He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt

Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.

He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.

There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.

“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.

“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”

Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.

For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.

His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.

“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Kiss me. Please.”

The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.

Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.

You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.

When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.

It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.

His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.

Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.

The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.

The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.

“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.

You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.

You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”

Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”

Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”

He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”

“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.

His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”

You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.

You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.

When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.

“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”

He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”

A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”

He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.

“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”

His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”

“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.

With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.

He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.

As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.

You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.

The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.

The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.

“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.

“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.

A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”

Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”

You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.

His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.

A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.

His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.

“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.

“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.

He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.

“I know what you need, Bambi.”

Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.

The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.

You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”

Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.

The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.

If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.

You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.

“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”

If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.

He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.

“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.

And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.

Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.

A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.

“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”

You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.

The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.

“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”

He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.

You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”

He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.

Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.

Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.

He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.

When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.

He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”

You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.

“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.

He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.

He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.

You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.

Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.

“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.

You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.

He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.

“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”

His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.

Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”

Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.

Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.

The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”

He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.

That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.

“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.

“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”

He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”

You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.

And then Hansol pushes forward.

The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”

The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.

He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”

He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.

The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.

“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”

You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.

“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.

“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”

That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.

You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.

Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.

A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.

He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.

The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.

But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”

The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.

“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”

Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.

“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”

“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”

You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.

Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.

“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @chromequette @codeinebelle @paradiseoflosers @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @nerdycheol @christinewithluv @jesauiin @ughokmyg @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv @coupsarchive

© VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[vernonverse]

📲 SLOWLY FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOUR PLUG ✶ Chwe Vernon

ⓘ content info ⸺ paring. plug!vernon x f!reader. genre | tags. smau, fake texts, one-shot, strangers to lovers, fluff. warnings. weed consumption (the plot lol), reader is dealing with anxiety.

ʚ A/N: Today’s kind of a big deal for me… and since you don’t know why, let me just say it: it’s my birthday 👉🏻👈🏻 I kinda treated myself with this one ‘cause I’ve always wanted to read something like it and could never find one… Hope you guys have just as much fun reading it as i did making it. mwah 💋

# NAVIGATION | MAIN MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri, @chromequette, @codeinebelle, @starlight-constellation, @paradiseoflosers, @tinyelfperson, @dcrlingyou, @my-atiny-kookie-rkive, @theidontknowmehn, @haaruki, @bath1lda, @hoshstruck, @wubbz05, @jihoonsbbygirl, @smiileflower, @tastyluvr, @nerdycheol, @christinewithluv, @jesauiin, @bookyeom, @ughokmyg, @raggedypansexual, @caratcak3, @ateez-atiny380, @meowchella, @jeonsfries, @whoisbaek15, @damnedangel98, @sumzysworld, @mingyuuulover, @andreethier, @sarabencze, @brishti007, @weepingsweep, @minhui896.

©VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[sailorsoons]

Holy (h.js)

PAIRING: Devil!Joshua x Angel!Reader SUMMARY: You've never been able to follow anyone but Joshua - even if it means falling from Heaven for him. Even if it means being kept in a gilded cage. WC: 5,393 AU: Supernatural, Angels/Demons GENRE: PWP RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: This is sacrilegious as fuck. Like genuinely VERY much sacrilegious. Reader is absolutely obsessed with Joshua and cries a lot and misses him all the time. She's pathetic but in a longing, aching, hollow kind of way. Joshua is literally Lucifer/Satan, power play, implied sub reader/dom Joshua, lots of crying and some licking of tears, explicit language, explicit sexual content including begging, oral (m. and f. receiving), unprotected sex in multiple positions, a lot of spit and cum and drool, kind of mess overall, very worshipful sex, mentions of pain/inflicting mild pain during sex, possessiveness, biting, scratching, looooots of allusions/religious imagery during the sex scenes, reader essentially just really fucking worships Joshua and vice versa SMUT NOTICE: This entire fic is centered around smut and cannot be read while skipping it. If you don't like smut, skip this fic. A/N: I really wanted to try out a writing exercise of writing super super descriptive smut paired with a lot of like... imagery and some prose I guess I don't know so this is my attempt at that. I also wanted to make up for posting late for @joshujin's birthday in April so she gets two fics. A/N 2: This is not beta read sorry :/

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YOU HATE WAKING UP ALONE. You blink the sleep from your eyes, staring up into ceilings that soar several stories overhead, disappearing into the shadows. Light streams through stained glass windows, casting the room in a prism of colors. You turn your head to look at them, eyes tracing each piece of colored glass that depict angels among the clouds, their wings stretched across vast expanses of midnight blue, their faces soft, turned toward the sun.

You don't feel like that kind of angel. You never have. You don't really remember what it's like to be that kind of angel. You'd never been given the chance, barely out of adolescence when the Fall began.

Hundreds of candles fill the room, burning in crystal sconces mounted along the walls, their reflections multiplying in the stained glass windows. Thick rugs woven from fabrics of impossible colors cover the floors - a personal gift from Joshua because despite this room being in Hell, the floors are always too cold for your feet.

Sitting up, you feel the emptiness eat away at you immediately. Being along in such a big room feels overwhelming. Even the bed is too big, sitting on top of a raise platform of black marble, surrounded by ivory curtains that drift with a breeze you can never quite pinpoint.

The heavy scent of incense clings to you and the soft, woody smell of Joshua. You lean over and breathe in the sheets deeply, his scent lingering there but not as strongly as you'd like, which means you've been sleeping alone for a while. The thought makes your stomach flip nervously, and you glance toward the heavy double doors.

You're not really supposed to leave his chambers. He'd banished anyone from this wing of the palace for you anyway, but he prefers you to stay in the room. The room has everything you need anyways - books, painting supplies, food, bathing chambers, pencils and parchment for drawing. And if there's anything you want, anything you need, Joshua will get it for you.

Usually, anyway. If he's in the right mood, which he often is.

If you want him to remain in a good mood today, you ought to stay in the bedroom. Still, you already feel an empty hollow without him here, a nervousness that you can't quite get rid of whenever he's gone.

Instead of falling into temptation and wandering the halls, you wander the room. You already know every corner of these rooms, but you explore anyways, keeping to the carpets to warm your feet as you trail your fingers over shelves filled with paintings and fresh flowers, golden bird cages with no birds, jewelry boxes overflowing with necklaces and earrings.

A grand piano sits in the middle of a small alcove, your favorite place to curl up on the bench when Joshua plays. Right now it sits empty, the fallboard closed. You pass the piano, fingers dragging along it's edge as you pass to an enclosed garden full of orchids and climbing wisteria, the grass soft and damp under your feet.

Every part of the room is meticulous. Perfect. A sanctuary built for you. While you could appreciate the dedication, what you really wanted was Joshua to be here with you. For him to never leave - or for him to take you elsewhere, so long as you were with him.

The thought of being here alone without him makes you want to cry. You feel the way your throat tightens, your fingers wrapping in your nightgown as you stare at one of the stained glass windows, the depiction of the Morning Star falling from Heaven. It's your favorite, because it was the first time you'd followed him, but Joshua hates to be reminded of it.

Still, for you, he keeps it here, an ode to how willing he is to provide. To protect.

Your bare feet whisper across the rugs, past the candles and past the bed draped in silks and ivory where he's taken you apart so many times you've lost count. The marble is cool beneath your knees when you sink down in front of the stained glass, tilting your head back to take it in.

Your Morning Star, his wings spread wide and beautiful and terrible, plummeting through a sky that bleeds from gold to red to black. Other stars fall behind him, small and barely there, and though you know you are one of them, you've never been sure which one.

You'd hardly understood what you were doing when you fell with him, only that you couldn't bare to be anywhere he wasn't, that the light of Heaven felt cold and empty without the heat of his presence, the fire that lit you up from within.

The ache returns like it always does, starting in your chest before it spreads outward like cracks in fracturing glass. You miss him. You miss him so much that sometimes it feels like dying, and right now you're sure you're going to die, your hands curling against your thighs, nails biting into the soft skin until you draw blood.

You try to breathe through it like he's asked, but the hollow, gnawing thing that lives inside of your ribs is becoming too much and it swells and swells and swells until it spills out your raw insides, a sound that's half-sob, half-gasp.

The tears come hot and fast, burning like acid. You don't know why your tears burn - they hadn't done it before the fall, but they do now, stinging and burning and hissing as they spill down your neck. You curl inward, arms wrapped around your middle as though you can stop the ache from spilling out, like maybe if you squeeze hard enough, you can miss him less.

It doesn't work. It never does. You need him and he's not here and you don't know where he is or when he's coming back, and the not-knowing is worse than anything else in the world. It could be minutes, it could be hours, it could be days, but it never matters how long because any increment of time feels just as terrible as the next, an inexorable stretch of misery.

You're trembling now, your entire body shaking with the force of your crying and no matter what, you can't stop, can't breath, can't think past the overwhelming need for him to be here, to feel him against you, for him to whisper that he loves you, that he loves your sin and that he'll never stop loving you-

The door opens but you don't hear it at first over your crying. You don't register it until you hear him coo, the sound tugging at you like a marrionette. Your head jerks in his direction and you see him through your mess of tears, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed.

Joshua.

He's dressed head to toe in white, pristine and so bright that it should wash him out, but instead it makes him look like something carved from the darkness. His suit jacket clings to his shoulders and chest, the lean lines of his body visible because there's no shirt beneath. You focus on the hollow of his throat, the softness there that you've bitten time and time again, mapping his flesh in sin colored the same red as Eve's first bite of the apple.

Even through your tears, even with your vision swimming, he's so beautiful it hurts to look at him. It always hurts to look at him. His face, sharp jaw and full lips that curl in cruelty and tenderness in equal measure, balanced between the light and the shadow, a perfect angel and perfect demon. Dark hair falls across his forehead, slightly disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. And his eyes. Those eyes that see everything, that stripped you bare the first time they found you and have never stopped looking since.

You cry harder now, relieved that he's here. You move toward him, half falling over, half crawling, unable to find the strength to get up to your feet and go to him properly. He stops a few feet away, and for a moment there's only silence except for your ragged breathing.

The candlelight catches in his hair and halos him in gold, and when you look up at him with tears swimming in your eyes, you can't look away. It feels like staring into the sun, and even though every second you stare up at him makes you more aware of how small and broken you are on the floor, you don't care, unwilling to look away.

"Why are you crying, angel?" He asks, voice low and gentle in a way that makes your heart twist.

The endearment nearly destroys you. You try to answer but all that comes out is another sob, and you press your hands harder against your face, ashamed and relieved and so overwhelmingly grateful that he's here you can barely stand it.

Joshua's footsteps click on the marble as he approaches you, slow and deliberate until he's close enough that you can smell him, cedar and smoke and something darker that makes your mouth water through the tears.

His hand finds your chin, fingers cool and firm as they tilt your face even higher toward him. You blink hard to clear your vision, desperate to see him without the tears and when you finally do, you want to stop breathing.

Joshua looks down at you with something so soft in his eyes that makes you want to crawl out of your skin, makes you want to press yourself into him until there's no space left between you, until you cannot tell where you end and he begins.

"There she is," he murmurs, smiling. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, tugging it down. "There's my sweet girl, hmm?"

You try to say his name but it comes out broken and he makes a soft sound, pouting at you while his thumb presses forward, slipping past your lips and into your mouth. The taste of him floods your senses, salt and skin and something faintly metallic. You close your eyes, your entire body shuddering as you instinctively close your lips around him, sucking gently.

"That's it," he coos. His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye where the tears are still wet on your skin. "That's my good angel. Always so eager for me, aren't you?"

You whimper around his thumb, nodding as much as you can with his hand holding your face. Your hands come up to grip his legs, fingers digging into the white fabric of his trousers, anchoring yourself to him.

"Why haven't you learned yet?" he asks softly, pressing his thumb deeper, making you gag just slightly before he eases back. "Hmm? Why haven't you learned that I always come back to you?"

You can't answer. Can't do anything but suck on his thumb and stare up at him with tear-blurred eyes, feeling yourself slip into that space, warm and hazy where nothing exists except him, his voice, his touch, and the weight of his presence filling every empty corner inside of you.

"I always come back," he repeats, his voice dropping lower, more hypnotic. "You're mine, angel. Where else would I go?"

The words land soft and addictive. Your eyes flutter, half-closing, and you feel yourself swaying slightly, held upright only by his hand on your face and your iron grip on his legs. He presses his thumb firmer on your tongue - firm enough that it hurts and you melt into it, lashes fluttering.

The stained glass behind you casts colored light across his white clothes, turning him crimson and gold, bathed in the colors of a saint, like something holy standing over you as you kneel in benediction.

Joshua is the only god you've ever needed.

Your hands slide up his thighs, trembling and desperate as you pull at his pants with clumsy fingers, tugging at the fabric. He watches you with dark, amused eyes, not helping as you struggle. When you finally get them open and free his heavy cock, your mouth falls open automatically, a prayer without words.

"Look at you," Joshua breathes, and there's something like wonder in his voice beneath the hunger. "My devoted little angel. So desperate to worship, so fucking desperate for communion."

He pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet sound that makes you whimper, and then his hand is in your hair, gripping tight, guiding you forward. You go willingly, your tongue reaching for him before he's even close enough.

When he finally slides his cock into your mouth, you moan, the taste of him overwhelming. Salt and musk and something uniquely him that drives you mad as you swallow him eagerly. Your lips stretch around his cock, jaw aching already and it's perfect. It's everything.

"Fuck," Joshua hisses above you, his grip tightening in your hair. "That's it. Take it. Take all of me."

You do, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard, turning messy and graceless, drool already spilling from the corners of your mouth and dripping down your chin. You don't care. You don't care about anything but the weight of him on your tongue, the way he pulses against your throat, the sounds he's making - low groans and sharp intakes of breath that makes your entire body flush with heat.

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salt-slick of him, before taking him deep again. Deeper. Until he hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears wetting your eyes. You don't stop - you never stop, determined to take every inch of him, to prove that you can and that you're good for him, that this is what you were made for.

"Fuck," he snarls. His hips rock forward slightly, testing, and you moan around him in encouragement. "So fucking perfect. My perfect, filthy angel."

The stained glass window behind you catches the candlelight, throwing patterns of light across his white clothes, across the hand he has fisted in your hair, sacred and profane, holy and obscene. You're on your knees before him like a supplicate, receiving your sacrament.

This is your worship. This is what you chased from Heaven.

You pray to him with your mouth, tongue, lips and throat, sucking and licking and swallowing around him until you're a mess of spit, tears and cum, your hands gripping his thighs, nails digging in. You hope your nails leave marks, hope he carries the evidence of your devotion on his skin like the scars on Christ's hands.

"That's my girl," Joshua pants, his voice rough now, strained. "That's my good fucking girl. Look how beautiful you fucking are."

You look up at him through wet lashes, and the sight nearly undoes you. His head is tipped back slightly, throat exposed, that sharp jaw clenched with pleasure. The white of his shirt is stark against his skin, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looks like an angel himself. Like something divine experiencing the ecstasy of the flesh for the first time, and it's because of you.

You're the one on your knees, worshipping him with your mouth, your body, your complete and utter surrender. He looks down then, catching your gaze and he grins, sharp and wicked and so beautiful the tears start anew.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs, and his hips start to move in earnest now, fucking into your mouth with shallow thrusts that make you gag and moan in equal measure. "Can't get enough, can you? Could stay here forever with my cock down your throat."

You nod frantically, desperately, because yes, yes, you could. You would. You'd live on your knees for him if he asked, spend eternity with the taste of him on your tongue and the weight of him in your mouth and nothing else would matter. Nothing else would exist.

The rhythm builds. His thrusts get deeper, harder, and you relax your throat as much as you can, taking it, taking everything he gives you. Spit runs down your chin in thick strands, dripping onto your chest, onto the marble floor, and the wet, obscene sounds of it fill the chamber, echoing off the high ceilings, mixing with his groans and your muffled whimpers.

"Fuck, angel," Joshua grits out, and you can feel him getting close, can feel the way he's tensing, the way his cock is throbbing against your tongue. "Gonna come down that pretty throat. You want that?"

You moan around him, nodding as much as you can with him buried in your mouth, and your hands slide up to grip his hips, pulling him deeper, begging without words.

"Take it then," he growls, and his hand tightens almost painfully in your hair, holding you still as he thrusts deep one last time. "Take all of it. Every fucking drop."

He comes with a low, guttural sound that makes your whole body shudder. You feel him pulse on your tongue, feel the hot rush of him flooding your mouth, and you swallow immediately, greedily, not wanting to waste a single drop. It's bitter and salt and perfect, and you keep swallowing, keep sucking gently as he rides out the aftershocks, milking him for everything he has.

When he finally pulls out, you gasp for air, your lips swollen and slick, your chin wet with spit and cum. You must look wrecked, but when you look up at him with hazy, worshipful eyes, he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his thumb coming down to swipe through the mess on your chin before pressing it back into your mouth. You suck it clean without thinking, tasting yourself and him mixed together. "My perfect, ruined angel."

Joshua pulls you up suddenly, hands gripping your arms to haul you to your feet with a strength that hurts. You don't care. You'd let him hurt you over and over, let him do anything. Your legs are shaky, weak from kneeling, and you stumble into him, your hands finding his chest to steady yourself.

His mouth crashes into yours, hungry and desperate and claiming and you moan into him, opening up for him immediately. He groans as his tongue sweeps into your mouth, hand sliding into your hair to grip tight enough to hurt.

The kiss is messy and wet as Joshua licks into your mouth like he's trying to devour you, like he wants to tear through the softness of you with his bare teeth until there's nothing left. Your teeth clash and his tongue slides against yours, demanding. You give him everything, every whimper, every gasp, every desperate sound that claws its way up your throat.

His hands are everywhere, sliding down your back, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him until you can feel every hard line of his body through the thin fabric of your dress. You're still trembling, still floating in that hazy space between worship and need, and he's grounding you, anchoring you with his touch, his taste, the sheer overwhelming presence of him.

"Mine," he growls against your mouth, and it sounds like a prayer. Like a vow. "My angel."

You nod frantically, desperately, your hands fisting in his suit jacket. "Yours. Always yours."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the hunger in his eyes makes your knees weak all over again. His lips are red and swollen, wet with your kiss, and there's something almost feral in the way he's looking at you, like he wants to tear you apart and put you back together and tear you apart again.

"Bed," he says, voice rough. "Now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands slide down to grip your thighs, and then he's lifting you, hauling you up against him. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your arms looping around his neck, and he carries you across the chamber.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in, tasting the salt of his skin with your tongue, and he makes a low sound that vibrates through his chest until he presses you to the altar of your bed.

He stands over you for a moment, just looking, and you feel stripped bare under his gaze even though you're still wearing your nightgown. he candlelight catches in his dark eyes, makes them glow like embers, and the white of his clothes is stark against the shadows of the bed curtains, turning him into the avenging angel he is, something come to deliver judgement.

You're ready for his judgement, ready to be found wanting, ready to be punished and praised and consumed.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then he's on you.

Joshua's hands find the hem of your nightgown and he tears it, the fabric ripping. Cool air hits your skin and then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, trailing down your throat, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts.

"Joshua," you whine, breathy.

"Shh," he soothes, even as his teeth scrape against your skin hard enough to break skin. "Let me worship you, angel. Let me show you what devotion looks like."

His mouth closes around your nipple and you arch off the bed with a cry. He sucks hard, tongue flicking and circling, and his hand comes up to palm your other breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between his fingers until you're writhing beneath him and whining so loud that the ceiling echoes your hymn back to you.

The stained glass light falls across your stomach in blue and purple and red, turning you into one of his paintings, something sacred made to be defiled, an offering on an altar, waiting for his holy fire.

Joshua's mouth moves lower, kissing and biting and licking a burning path down your stomach to your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. No part of you is left un-worshiped as his hands grip your legs, spreading them wide. You let him, boneless and pliant, so desperate you could cry anew.

"Look at you," he breathes, and you can feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, making you shiver. "So wet for me already. So ready."

You are - Heavens you are. You can feel how slick you are, how swollen, your cunt aching and empty and needing to be filled. You try to close your legs, suddenly self-conscious, but his hands tighten, holding you open.

"Don't you fucking dare," he snaps. "Don't hide from me. I want to see all of you. Every perfect, sinful inch."

Then his mouth is on you and you nearly scream. His tongue is hot and wet, relentless as he licks through your folds and circles your clit, dipping inside you to taste you. He drinks you like communion wine and he's ready to give himself to you, to claim you as his savior. The sounds are obscene, his mouth eager and greedy and selfish as his tongue fucks into you.

"Please," you whisper, voice breaking on the word. "Joshua, oh fuck-"

He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs shake, and then he's pushing two fingers inside you, curling them just right, finding that spot that makes you see stars. His mouth stays on your clit, sucking and licking, and you're falling apart, coming undone, your hands fisting in the silk sheets as pleasure builds and builds and builds.

The stained glass light shifts across your body as you writhe. Blue across your breasts. Gold on your face. Red between your legs where his mouth is working you over, where his fingers are pumping in and out, slick and obscene. You look down and the sight nearly kills you, his dark head between your thighs, his eyes closed like he's in prayer, like he's the one worshipping now.

"Come for me," he commands, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are wet, glistening with you, and his fingers don't stop, don't slow. "Come on my tongue, angel. Let me taste your sin."

You come with a broken cry, your back arching off the bed, your whole body shaking with the force of it. Pleasure crashes through you in waves, drowning you, and Joshua works you through it, his tongue lapping at you, his fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing it out until you're sobbing with oversensitivity.

When you finally come down, gasping and trembling, he pulls back and looks at you with dark, satisfied eyes. His mouth is wet with you, his chin glistening, and he licks his lips slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring the taste.

"You taste like heaven," he hums. Then he shakes his head. "No, you taste better. Have a taste."

He kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. You can feel his cock, hard and hot against your thigh, and you reach down between your bodies to grip him, stroking slowly.

He hisses, his hips jerking forward into your touch. "Fuck, angel."

"Please," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Joshua. I need you. Need you inside me."

"Yeah?" His hand comes down to cover yours, guiding your movements, making you squeeze tighter. "Need my cock filling that pretty cunt?"

"Yes. Yes."

He pulls your hand away and kicks off the rest of his clothes, revealing the gold lines of his body, each part of him a masterpiece of God's creation. He is the most beautiful thing God ever made, perfect in every way, his favorite, rebellious son, the Morning Star.

Joshua positions himself at your entrance, the had of his cock sliding through your wetness, teasing. You whimper and try to shift your hips to force him in but he holds you still with a hand on your hip, grinning.

"Beg," he says, and there's something dark in his voice. "Beg me to fuck you."

"Please," you gasp immediately, no hesitation, no shame. "Please fuck me. Please, Joshua, I need it, need you, please please please-"

He slams into you in a single brutal thrust and you choke. The stretch is overwhelming, perfect and painful and so fucking good you stop breathing. He's thick and long, splitting you open while your nails dig into his shoulders, drawing blood as you claw down his back. He groans low and deep, dropping his forehead to yours, panting, breaths mingling.

"Fuck," he grits out. "So tight, fucking heavenly."

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls out almost completely and slams back in, setting a brutal pace that has you crying out with every thrust. You wrap your legs tighter around him, taking him deeper, and the angle makes him hit something inside you that sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. You're babbling now, incoherent, just his name and please and yes and more, and he gives it to you, fucks into you harder, faster, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust.

Each window of stained glass watches you. The Fall. The Temptation. The Corruption. You see them in the shadowed corners of your vision, and you wonder if a stained glass will be made of you, the devil and the angel locked together in sin and worship, something that transcends both.

"Look at you," Joshua pants, his voice strained. "Taking my cock so well. Who else would love you like this, hm? Who else could understand the sin inside of you, the need to let go? Only me - only I love you this way."

"Only you," you gasp. "Only you."

"That's right."

He shifts, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, and the new angle makes you sob. He fucks you like he's trying to prove it, like he's trying to brand himself into your skin, your bones, your shoulder. Every thrust is claiming and possessive and you give yourself over to him completely, let him take and take and take until there's nothing left.

Your second orgasm builds fast, coiling tight in your belly, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, slicker, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. He feels it too and groans, dropping his head to your neck where he bites down hard enough to break your skin, blood filling his mouth.

"Come on my cock," he commands, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit. "Come for me, angel. Show me how good I make you feel."

His fingers circle your clit in tight, perfect circles, and combined with the relentless thrust of his cock, it's too much. You come with a wail, your whole body seizing, clamping down around him so hard he curses. Pleasure whites out your vision, makes you shake and sob and cling to him like he's the only solid thing in the universe.

He fucks you through it, doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps pounding into you until you're oversensitive and writhing and begging for mercy you don't really want.

"One more," he growls. "Give me one more. I know you can."

He pulls out suddenly and you whimper at the loss, but then he's flipping you over, pulling your hips up so you're on your hands and knees so he can slam back into you. Your arms give out, your face pressing into the silk sheets. He grips your hips hard enough to hurt, and you can hear him panting behind you, can hear the wet slap of his hips against your ass.

"So fucking beautiful," he groans. "Love watching my cock disappear into your cunt. Love seeing you take it. Love how desperate you are for it."

You are desperate - mindless with it, even. You push back to meet his thrusts, fucking yourself on his cock to chase enother orgasm even if you're not sure you'll survive it. You wonder if this is what it feels like to be offered up to a dark god, willing and eager and grateful for the honor.

Joshua's hand slides up your spine, into your hair, and he pulls, forcing your back to arch, your head to lift. The position makes him hit even deeper and you sob, tears streaming down your face from the overwhelming pleasure-pain of it.

"That's it," he croons, licking your tears. "Cry for me."

His other hand comes around to your clit again and you nearly scream. You're so sensitive, so overstimulated, but he doesn't care, just rubs tight circles until you're shaking, until you're coming again, a third orgasm ripping through you so hard you think you might actually die from it.

You clench around him, milking his cock, and he groans long and low, his rhythm faltering. He curses, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of pain, and then he's slamming into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the hot rush of his cum filling you, and it makes you whimper, makes you clench around him again.

He collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you can feel his heart pounding against your back, can feel his breath hot and ragged against your neck. You're both shaking, both wrecked, and for a long moment neither of you moves.

Then, slowly, carefully, he pulls out. You whimper at the loss, at the feeling of his cum starting to leak out of you, but then he's gathering you up, turning you over, pulling you into his arms.

You curl into him instinctively, your face pressed to his chest, and he wraps himself around you like he's trying to shield you from the world. His hand strokes through your hair, gentle now, soothing, and you can hear his heartbeat starting to slow beneath your ear.

"I love you," Joshua murmurs into your hair, and his voice is rough, raw.

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks, and press closer to him. "I love you too. So much it hurts."

"I know," he says softly. "I know, angel. I know."

In his arms and colored in the stained glass light of angels, you've never felt more holy.

[jeonghunny]

— “i can't pay rent this month”, wen junhui.

[a/n] not my best work but a huge thank you to @wenjunehui for being such a lovely friend to have and for always being a loyal supporter of jeonghunny 😽🫶🏻

jeonghan version. | seokmin version. | mingyu version. | vernon version.

[jeonghunny]

— “i can't pay rent this month”, kim mingyu.

[a/n] i'm gna be real guys... idrk how i feel about this one 🫠

jeonghan version. | seokmin version. | vernon version.

[nonranghaes]

"you know, you do make a really pretty model."

the heat rises to jun's cheeks, and all he can do is just stand there, trying not to smile, as you make adjustments to his outfit. there's something intimate about the two of you in your studio alone right now, even though it's only because you had to send minghao on an errand since one of the other outfits you have lined up for him needs a quick patch job, and mingyu lives on the other side of the city. he told you it'd be a quick fix, that minghao would be back within the hour, but there's still something electric as your fingers brush the back of his neck as you adjust his collar. like the two of you are getting away with something, even though your relationship is common knowledge to people within your circles.

and you laugh a little to yourself as you go to retrieve your camera, all because you caught a glimpse of his flushed cheeks. "sorry," you say softly. "couldn't help myself."

he wants to move toward you, to steal a kiss since there's no one there to tease or complain. but he doesn't. not now, at least. not when there's still more photos to take, and more outfits for him to change into. this one's long and flowing, and the whole reason you picked him was because of his dance background. he genuinely can't wait until you show him everything once the entire process is done... and until he gets to see them in an actual exhibition soon.

"it's okay," he says, swaying a little in an attempt to get rid of his nerves. he shouldn't be nervous with you, but all it takes is that smile for his heart to be set alight. "what do you need me to do next?"

and there it is again. you told him once that you adore how he's always all in for jobs like this, and it shows in the way he'll let your flirtations wash off his back for the moment. he'll make you swoon later, and maybe he'll steal a kiss before he goes to change, but he's already settled back into the mindset both of you need to be.

but there's this moment after you've explained the motion you want to capture that you meet his gaze and smile, and all he does is smile back like you're the one who guides the sun and moon each day, carefully hanging each star the same way you set your scenes. adoration at it's purest.

[chwerio]

content: angst, arranged marriage, prince seokmin yayyy!!!

seokmin wears his heart on his sleeve. he always did.

there was no reason as to why he wouldn't do so--if it felt right to him, he should act on it. and that was just his character, a man full of compassion and empathy, who the people viewed as the next son on the throne. he was more than perfect for it; that reserved title awaited him especially.

but even the strongest hearts, he learned, has its doubts.

it’s known to everyone in the kingdom that seokmin was unofficially betrothed to another noble for as long as you both have been alive. yet, that didn't stop him from talking to you. he barely knew the other woman, anyway, and his heart longed for you.

his only weak spot was his family. he couldn't deny the duties and expectations they put on him, because one day, he would be king. not that he didn't want to be king--oh no, he's honoured to wear the shoes of his father. but knowing that the plan did not include you made him reluctant about his coronation. he didn't want to bear the memory of the horrific faces they'd make when he'd tell them that, no, i can't marry this woman because i'm in love with another. he doesn't want reality to be them stripping him of the king title, disappointed that he'd give it all up for a commoner.

that's why he stands, hands interlocked with another, over the crowds of happy civilians and bouquets all around. and even with the pastel greeneries and the light of day, seokmin can't help but only see greys leak in his vision. until he sees you.

even from afar, you can see the guilt he holds in his eyes. you can see how his fingers lay limp with hers. how is heart will weigh heavier than his soon to be crown. and it makes you wonder why. why did you have to be the person he’s too afraid to love? why did he have to be so ashamed to have you on the stage instead of her? and why couldn’t he have followed his heart this time?

when he looks away from you, he gives his attention to his now wife, eyes brimming with tears. to everyone else, he’s their king, shedding happy tears as a newlywed. to you, he’s your seokmin, full of regret.