I < 3 U

angels inside my head.

[shr1k3s]

✴    𝐬𝐡𝐫1𝐤3𝐬    ;    penned by kit ( she/they, 25+, mdt ) ... independent, multi-muse, writes canon & original characters. little rhyme or reason, slapdash some would say, but above all else tended to with love and enthusiasm.

[   ⚠️   ]   ―   BLANKET TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR SUBJECTS & THEMES YOU MIGHT FIND ON THIS BLOG: violence, death, sexual content, descriptions of gore, and descriptions of physical (non-sexual) & psychological abuse usually through the lens of horror and the supernatural. none of this is depicted using images, only writing. please heed these warnings as i don't tag individual triggers at the moment.

ACTIVITY LEVELS HEAVILY WIBBLE AND WOBBLE, feel free to dm / follow if you stumble upon me in the wild tumblrscape and i'd be happy to exchange discord handles. brief guidelines below:

heyo! real quick! i only RP with writers who are 21 and older, though preferably older (25+). 

i don’t have any triggers but i usually like to check in during plotting to ensure we're both comfortable with what we're writing or planning to write.

i enjoy writing darker themes in general so i must stress that my personal thoughts and beliefs do not necessarily reflect those of my characters!!

i’m as open to shipping as i am to any other type of connection: platonic, familial, and from extreme antagonism to borderline loving obsession, so don’t hesitate to approach with any kind of idea. 

i’m fine with writing smut or fading to black. neither is a strong preference. 

i love exchanging headcanons and discussing plots ooc, and generally find that easier than assuming connections. that said, if you prefer to start off with assumed connections, that’s totally fine too. i might just message you on the side to establish a few basic things first.

my activity is heavily dependent on my muse, so i might reply within a few hours or take weeks. regardless, i’m always available to chat through discord. 

feel absolutely free to drop threads. i don’t mind scraping what’s not working and starting something new. 

and finally, i ideally want to write with every mutual, so i tend to unfollow folks who i don’t interact with at all (whether in ic threads or just ooc hangs) just ‘cause i like to catch up on my dash & read through friend’s posts and threads :o]

[apricxty]

Jaerim's unblinking stare was unsettling, and the longer it held, the greater his discomfort grew. Seyoon's finger shifted onto the trigger, but still he waited.

Because he hoped.

Then finally, the vampire turned. As he hauled the twitching mess on the ground into the darkness, Seyoon allowed the tension in his shoulders to ease. He blinked, the first time after what felt like forever, bringing some relief to his eyes. They were dry enough to sting by this point, tight and red-rimmed, watering at the edges because, unfortunately, human eyeballs had limits.

Jaerim returned, the other monster's head in tow. Seyoon forced himself to have a look to confirm the target's death before shifting his slightly blurry gaze back to Jaerim's pale face.

He shook his head regarding the other vampire's body because to be honest, at this present moment, Seyoon would not want to move from his relatively speaking safer spot and go into that space between two metal containers where he could be easily trapped and made to join the carnage that was undoubtedly splattered all over the ground.

"Is that what you did with the hoodie I gave you too?" Seyoon asked, watching Jaerim wrap up his prize with expertise. He imagined his cute lil sunflower-yellow hoodie, swinging around bloody, and felt the urge to laugh hysterically again.

But he couldn't, could he? Couldn't just go nuts yet because the crisis wasn't quite over. Jaerim's expression was better, but he still didn't look human enough for Seyoon to pretend that all was well.

The vampire was trying, though. Still committing to his long con or whatever the fuck this was, and the only good play Seyoon saw was to go along with it.

He should get into character, which would be himself but back in funny mode. Relax a bit more. Put down the shotgun. Turn this crouching position into sitting because his muscles were aching anyway, and he needed to choose between that or eventually collapsing. He could crack a couple of jokes, pretend everything went exactly according to plan, and maybe throw a little dig that Jaerim should be thanking him for helping out.

Yeah.

Well, that didn't happen.

"I dunno, were you going to kill me?" Seyoon did sit down on his ass as planned, but the words that came out of his mouth were not the ones he came up with in his brain. He also did not let go of his shotgun. "Cuz for a second there, you looked feral, and it was fucking scary, but my finger still stayed off the trigger because I am clearly a dumbass. Are you gonna appreciate my amazing self-control for half a second or make me regret it?"

Why were we going down the honesty route? Hello? This wasn't the agreed-upon approach.

"This is, like, a nightmare scenario. You are bloody all over. Your buddy crawled around like a possessed demon spider. I wish I wasn't here right now, but instead on vacation in Hawaii with my hard-earned money. Piña colada in hand, under the hot sun, dancing in a grass skirt next to a guy twice as hot as you."

He sucked in a deep breath to recover at the end of that long sentence.

"You know what? This is too much. Can you just go?" Seyoon asked, voice strained. "Like, don't blink and zoom off with your vampiric superpower - just fucking walk off so I can see you leave and feel safer."

[shr1k3s]

               “YOUR—WHAT? NO,” Jaerim huffs, lips curling upward for the first time in hours. “I still have it.”

He knows which condemned textile factory he left the obnoxiously yellow hoodie in, more like. Jaerim doesn’t have a home, so he avoids belongings except for clothes he can fit into a backpack. Having nowhere to display or store things in, what few items he’s accumulated over the years have ended up strewn across empty warehouses and abandoned industrial factories throughout the city. Seyoon's hoodie resides within a small locker inside a former break room for production line workers. One day, Jaerim plans to do something with it. He doesn’t know what yet. It’s not anything he’d wear; he just knows he’d like to keep it. 

His expression flickers as Seyoon answers his question, gradually sinking into rigid, brooding silence the longer he goes on. All the while, Seyoon hasn’t let go of his gun. Why hasn’t he? Annoyance and shame wash over Jaerim. He’s seized by the strong desire to crawl to the top of the container and show Seyoon how harmless he is—that what he just did to the Malkavian, he would never do to him—but is that true?

He frowns, eyes dulling. 

Jaerim hasn’t forgotten how fragile mortal bodies are; he’s confronted by their weakness every time he feeds on them. He would never throw Seyoon against a wall using all of his strength, would never snap his neck or stand by while he pleads for his life. He would never treat his suffering so callously…

But he wants to hurt him.

When Seyoon is going on about how far away from him he’d rather be, he wants to pull him down, sink his fangs into his neck, and remind him he didn’t plan a date night out of decapitating some runaway idiot. Seyoon isn’t supposed to be here; Jaerim told him to leave. Now he’s bringing up the sun and an imaginary man he’d replace him with. 

That comment aggravates him above the rest, striking a discordant chord in his chest. The hot sun.

Yet, despite all of this turmoil and anger, Jaerim stays rooted where he stands, knowing where he went wrong. He showed Seyoon a side of himself that the mortal isn’t ready to receive, that he might reject him altogether for. 

It’s in moments like these that Jaerim feels the stillness of his heart; that useless, cold, and bloodless organ sitting inside his rib cage like a corpse in a casket. It would make no difference if he ripped it out.

As if reading his fears, Seyoon asks him to leave in a worn voice. Jaerim blinks in surprise. Was he expecting something different from the mortal? Why did he think he would stick around while the Malkavian's head putrefied in his hand? Was he envisioning that Seyoon would wipe the blood off his face with tender fingers, that he’d laugh all of this away? 

Why? 

His gaze empties before he lowers his head, blankly scanning the ground. He’s been nothing but a beast; of course he scared Seyoon. It’s not like coming into happier circumstances changes what’s innate. Jaerim is still a dead man under the boot of another dead man.

“Mn,” he nods faintly, dark brows knitted together. “Yeah, I have to.” Jaerim lifts the Malkavian’s head with a small motion. Elias is expecting him before dawn; he needs to meet him anyway. Jaerim merely forgot about his bitter reality for a moment. That's the whole crux of this obsession with Seyoon, isn't it? It's the effect the mortal has on him.

Once his eyes drop, he doesn’t bother to look back up. Jaerim absentmindedly wipes blood from under his chin with the back of his hand as he steps out into the open, casting a solitary figure while he treads over dim moonlight and dark bloodstains. Eventually, he disappears around the exit.

END. 

[acatalepsii]

jiwon does not want to be here. 

he’s still furious over the fact that sangil, like a hypocrite, went behind his back in order to reclaim his position (even though he knows it’s ultimately his father’s decision). 

he’s still embarrassed about failing to take down a newborn lycan and getting absolutely wrecked in the process (even though that blame should fall on sky for distracting and betraying him). 

and besides that, he’s still hurt, tired, frustrated, annoyed, and simply not in the mood to deal with anyone at all—least of all sangil and his group of idiots. 

it’s not that jiwon has never crossed paths with these people before; among the hunters, there isn’t anyone whose name he doesn’t know. if he plans on following in his father’s footsteps one day, that’s about the very least he should start with. he’ll need to know who he’s dealing with and what their strengths are, and whether their ideals truly align with the ideals of the clan. besides, as with sangil, he doesn’t quite trust their loyalty enough to disregard them completely. 

jiwon’s been on hunts with kev before, back when sangil and him would still train together. a valuable asset on their prolonged hunting trips, he’d concede, but only because he remembers never having to go hungry. a feat that had seemed far more impressive back when they were children and those meals had been the highlight of their stakeouts. at present, jiwon would urge kev to focus on improving his hunting skills, rather than his cooking skills. 

he remembers jacob, too, but only because of how unremarkable the man had been. quiet, boring, always sticking to himself. if the man’s ever had an opinion of his own, jiwon does not recall him voicing it out loud. rika doesn’t either, but she must be the only one in sangil’s squad he’d even consider bringing along. not because of her pleasant disposition, but because rika knows how to get things done quickly, quietly and effectively. 

the last addition— already getting on his nerves as soon as she greets him— she must be the one who annoys him the most. bright, eager and young— as young as his own little sister, and equally as enthusiastic. there’s no reason for her to be joining any hunts whatsoever, especially not with someone who commits to nothing and half-asses everything. like jiyeon, petra should be spending her time helping out at the hospital, not putting herself in life-threatening situations. sangil’s clearly just accepted whomever offered to join his squad, and jiwon has to refrain from not immediately ordering her to fall back. 

not his hunt, not his decision to make. just for today, he’ll have to remember that first. 

but even a simple task (keeping his mouth shut) is proving to be difficult, when his cousin is already (still?) half-asleep in his chair, probably sleeping off yet another hangover. carelessly leaning on just two legs of the chair (and inviting jiwon to kick those out from under him as well). 

but he can’t. he can’t disrespect the leader of their hunt. even if his name is kang jiwon, and even if he really, really wants to. 

his eyes must betray him after having stared at the chair so intensely; the young female seems to read his mind before jiwon can speak up for himself. “don’t worry— he’s not sleeping!”  

jiwon makes a face at her in turn, as if to say: who asked? who cares? if he'd chosen to give in to his urges and wake sangil up the hard way, that would've been entirely his prerogative.

he can’t get himself to properly greet sangil or anyone else, nor does he bother to hide the disdain in his voice. 

“there’s rain expected in the afternoon. unless you want another trail washed out by a mudslide, i suggest we get going.”

[shr1k3s]

               SANGIL’S RESPONSE DOESN’T COME FOR A LONG TIME, long enough that Petra starts squirming in her chair as her eyes dart between them uncomfortably. Then, when it seems like he really might have fallen asleep, he lazily sits upright while removing the cloak from over his head. He smiles at Jiwon amicably, eyes full of warm and tender mirth. 

“You’re eager today,” Sangil observes in lieu of greeting. The sarcasm is hidden so deep in his pleasant tone that even Petra is drawn forward excitedly, fooled by his smile as she takes up one of her own.

The older cousin eyes the younger's humorless face for a second. In conclusion, “You must’ve been looking forward to this!” 

Sangil stands, pleased with his remarks, then nods towards Jiwon as he walks past him. “And don’t worry, that won’t happen to us again. Right, Petra?”

“Aye, aye!” She calls back, hurriedly tucking their chairs in before bounding up behind him. 

Sangil shouldn’t spring this up on Jiwon—he should’ve let him know days ago when the weather started turning against them, but he can’t deny himself the satisfaction of looking upon his face as he says, “That’s why it’s been extended to a two day hunt.”

He exits the armory with a loud and happy exhale, stretching his arms lazily over his head. With a final yawn, he looks to his squad proudly as they line up facing him. 

“Jacob?” He calls when he notes the young man missing. 

“At the gate with the horses,” Kev calls back. Sangil nods.

“Rika, you’ll ride ahead with him taking up the right wing. Kev and Petra are together on the left. Jiwon,” he turns to glance back at his cousin; they were all expecting this, but Sangil still sees mild looks of sympathy in his squad’s gazes as they politely stand at attention. 

“Jiwon and I are together in center. We’ll regroup in four hours when we get to the foot of Mount Gillem. East post, remember. Kev and Petra are set to arrive first—I need you two to ride ahead and set up camp. We’ll check parameter once the rest of us arrive.” 

They nod. Sangil continues, “Today’s about ensuring the right trail. We have the vicinity but Gillem is ridden with caves. Our goal is to corner the beast which means we’ll be working in pitch darkness after that.”

As he speaks, his gaze slowly moves across his squad’s serious and attentive faces. He’s not worried about Kev or Rika, those two are used to hunting in caves. Kev is practically an expert—he loves foraging for mushrooms in the riskiest places. And Rika is Rika, she’d hunt a demon down in hell. It’s Jacob and Petra who lack experience. 

“The good news? Most of the caves are shallow, usually no deeper than forty to fifty feet.” They’ll be lucky to find the lycan prowling inside one of those, but Sangil needs to keep morale up even if it’s founded on nothing but a shaky platform of hope. “The bad news is that we’re sitting ducks once we’re inside. That’s why only four of us will go in at a time. I’ll provide the details when we’re there. For now, I need you all to protect your gear from the rain—we’ll be hunting with fire.” 

With a final nod, Sangil dismisses them. He catches up to Rika as they walk out of the courtyard, glancing down at her impassive face. 

“You’ll relay the information?” He asks. She nods without turning to look at him, but Sangil continues with an annoying grin, “Repeat it back to me, I don’t think you got even half of that.” This earns him a death stare so potent that he falls back immediately, letting the others walk ahead of him. 

“Alright, alright,” he relents, clicking his tongue.

As soon as he gets away from one pair of glaring eyes, he’s met with another. Sangil meets Jiwon’s gaze as his playfulness fizzles out, falling into step with him. Predictably, he doesn’t stay quiet for long. His voice lifts into the air again after a brief lapse of silence.

“Remember Mount Gillem?” He asks hopefully.

There’s an air of fond reminiscence about him as he looks off into the middle distance. “I nearly shit my heart out when we saw that lion."

He’d taken Jiwon on a hunt there when he was a child barely half his height. He shouldn’t have taken him hunting mountain lions that age, but Jiwon was a quick study, and Sangil has always been a little careless so long as it'll result in a good story. And to be completely fair to him, he didn’t intend to hunt the wild cat down. It just happened to be there, and he thought it’d be a good idea to go after it because he wanted to impress Jiwon.

“To tell you the truth, we weren’t out there to hunt it. We just happened to run into it.” 

Sangil doesn’t know why he’s revealing this so many years after the fact. They were there because he was getting Jiwon out of the estate to avoid his uncle for a few days, but he isn’t sure if Jiwon has ever come to understand what prompted half of the hunts Sangil took him on.

“I thought I’d have to explain to your father how a mountain lion ate you,” he shudders. “But then you got a lucky shot on its hind leg, remember? It’s how we managed to track it down.” He looks at Jiwon with a small smile. “I still have the pelt, you know.”

Ahead of them, no one in his squad speaks. They walk on in silence as if they can’t hear, letting them have this rare conversation in peace. Sangil even spots Petra peeking back at them with a tiny smile before she hurries off to keep up with Kev, granting them further privacy.

Sangil isn’t entirely sure about this, either; maybe revealing a small part of the truth is his effort to make the upcoming hunt bearable, hoping to get back on speaking terms with Jiwon.

[apricxty]

Jaerim disappeared from his side, too fast, and too silent.

Seyoon whipped out a mirror from his pocket and pressed his back into the metal container closer to the commotion. He observed the battle with narrowed eyes, and each groan of steel and crack of concrete was a knock against his heart, trying to unlock the place that held all of his fears.

It was a chilly night, just like this. People flew in the darkness, and bodies hit the ground with grunts and haunting cries.

Seyoon put away the mirror and retrieved his backpack. A shotgun lay hidden beneath cheerful yellow canvas, and having it in his hands felt more grounding than the deep breaths he'd been taking. He had another look with the mirror before reloading the shells, having decided to change the order of his bullets.

Gloved hands reached for the corner of the shipping container, feeling about until they found the steel fittings. Seyoon placed one foot carefully, then another. In three controlled movements, he hauled himself onto the roof with grace and silence granted by years of practice.

There was no rush, because from this point on, he could not afford any wasted motion.

Seyoon settled into a crouch at the edge of the container, shotgun shouldered. Goosebumps pebbled his arms as he heard the vampire's pleas. Please, please, he said.

Which they also did. So many times.

Below, the vampire's eyes found him. When Seyoon met its gaze, he felt it was rather like staring into the abyss. Depth without end. Hunger without limit. The sight made his pulse spike and sent chills down his back. His brain whispered the oldest warning humanity has ever known for him to run, but something else had a stronger grip, and it screamed in rage and kept the steel in his eyes.

So he waited. Even as it crawled on all fours in his direction, he held his shot until he knew it was time to let the shell loose.

Buckshot ripped into the creature's shoulder. It tore flesh and spun the monster sideways.

Jaerim was fast, and that should have been enough of a distraction for him to make a move. But just in case, Seyoon gave him another bullet and loaded Dragon's Breath third in the tube. Earlier him remembered he had an ally, you see, and knew that fire would be the type of threat that would also affect friendly vampires.

But now, in this moment, Seyoon questioned his earlier call.

As he sent a second shot to the enemy vampire's chest, he briefly lifted his gaze to Jaerim.

He remembered their first meeting all of a sudden. And how, through alcohol-blurred vision, he saw Jaerim's face, softly basked in moonlight. Now that same creature stood, but bloody, wild-eyed, and animalistic. He resembled a hound from hell much more than Seyoon's beautiful angel from above.

Maybe a vampire cannot ever be considered friendly. A voice urged, and Seyoon shifted subtly so his shotgun pointed in the direction of both vampires.

But his finger stayed off the trigger.

[shr1k3s]

               THE MALKAVIAN LANDS WITH A THUD. Jaerim is already standing five paces from the container when Seyoon lands the second shot. He observes the quivering body quietly, noting the careful placements of both bullet wounds as the Malk curls into a fetal position and clutches his chest with trembling hands. Jaerim can’t relax yet. Dark, viscous blood begins to trickle from his forehead, leaving thin and tendril-like trails down his temples and between his eyes. 

When he glances up, his gaze snaps to the barrel of the gun first. Though his face hardly shows any reaction, his bloody fingers twitch at his sides. Jaerim’s nerves are so taut they’re close to snapping. He goes eerily still, lifting his louring eyes to Seyoon’s face. 

The Malkavian’s weak and quiet sobs fill the space between them as several moments pass. The longer he stares unblinkingly, the more distorted his face becomes; it melds with the dark, like a black veil of shadows coming down to obscure him.

For a split second, it seems like he’s about to pounce on Seyoon. 

Then Jaerim rips his gaze away with clenched teeth. 

He grabs the Malkavian by his hair again before dragging him away towards the containers on the opposite end of the warehouse.

Leaving his back open to Seyoon feels like lying down before a pack of rabid dogs with the absurd hope they won’t tear him limb from limb, but it’s a recklessly deliberate choice. He wills each foot in front of the other while Elias’ voice rings in his ears. It’s almost tender, if Jaerim didn’t recognize the glint of a dagger hiding behind each wretched word. 

I’ll kill him if you don’t. 

He separates the rusting containers that got knocked into each other with a bleeding hand, then disappears between them with the Malkavian dragging behind him. Jaerim drops him halfway through, watching him impassively. The Malk continues to plead through quiet cries and tremors. He's weeping blood. Jaerim can’t tell who he’s begging to anymore. Him? Some god he still believes is out there, listening? 

“Shut up,” he spits venomously. “I’m not taking you alive.”

“PLEASE—!” 

Jaerim has the delicate features of a stunning young man frozen forever in time, but his eyes have witnessed too much cruelty since his embrace; they’re lightless and devoid of emotion in the wake of another death. That pitiful final wail only pulls his pretty lips into a sneer as he snaps the vampire’s neck, rendering him speechless and immobile. With vitae pooling in his palms, he rips the Malkavian’s head off his limp body. Jaerim sets it aside, then drinks from the exposed arteries until he’s no longer shaking. 

In his unlife, he’s learned not to display too much genuine emotion when the monster inside of him is silent. If he's not snarling, he’s always subdued, knowing that even a wayward glance could be taken the wrong way depending on which one of his foul moods his sire is in. Jaerim self-modulates before appearing in front of Seyoon after a handful of minutes, wiping cold vitae off his paper pale skin now that the slow flow of blood stopped. He schools his expression into the calm face the hunter is used to. 

Though he’s approaching with a head dangling from his hand, Jaerim looks gentle—as gentle as he can with blood staining every exposed part of his body like black liquor. 

“The body’s back there, if you want it.” His voice holds none of the enmity he spoke with earlier. It travels between them in his typical dulcet tone, as if the guttural groans came from someone else entirely. 

Jaerim leans down when he finds his hoodie discarded in a pile of fabric on the ground, using it to wrap around the head like he’d done back at the cemetery. He’s losing count of how many he’s lost to stray heads like this, but it gets the job done.

Finally satisfied, he peers up at Seyoon atop the container with a curious glint in his inky black eyes, almost hungry.

“Were you going to shoot me?”

[apricxty]

Jaerim was always so full of shit. Maybe it was time to call him out on it.

Seyoon rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to do exactly that, only to have his words blocked by a hand.

Great. Absolutely fantastic-

Oh. Wait. The target was here.

Seyoon's eyes narrowed, and he held his breath to listen. Clearly, Jaerim could feel this vampire's presence too, and now he felt less special over having his ability.

At Jaerim's question, he offered his best bombastic side-eye because, hello asshole, you have a hand over my face. How did you want me to communicate this information, huh? Should I mime? Do an interpretative dance in this limited space?

Besides, why should he share his information with Jaerim when this guy was always telling him either nothing or poor quality lies?

Seyoon parted his lips against the cool skin of Jaerim's palm, his warm breath the only warning before his teeth sank in. It was not a gentle nibble, though there was a hint of playfulness wrapping the aggression. He stared at Jaerim, unblinking, as he applied more pressure. Hard enough that it would have hurt a regular mortal. To the point that Seyoon's canines might actually break skin if he wanted them to.

Anyway, the answer was no. He traced the word against the vampire's palm with the tip of his tongue. Slowly, lazily - extra irritatingly.

"You are really fucking this up for me," Seyoon eventually mumbled when he was done being a menace, tilting his face to give himself the space he needed to speak. "It's already an uphill battle for us, going after vampires." Even if everything went exactly according to plan, his chances were still lousy. Such was life. The odds were rarely in a Hunter's favor.

"I needed the element of surprise, and now I don't have that. But I am not going home unless that lunatic is dead." Seyoon's voice lost some of its teasing edge. "This isn't what my boss wants - it's what I want." And he would absolutely still go for it even if he was working with a 2% chance of success. He didn't say that, but Jaerim could probably figure it out.

"So yeah, I am not leaving, but I can stay here if you really insist. Between these fucking containers." He kept his voice a whisper despite his annoyance with the current situation. "Go kill the guy. You get your 'bounty'." He put air quotes around that word to show he was not buying Jaerim's shit, but whatever. "And I get my mission completed once I see the dead body."

Oh look, he was attempting to compromise.

"And if you are not fast enough with your murder attempt, then I am gonna have to shoot my shot."

[shr1k3s]

                HIS BROWS KNIT TOGETHER WHEN SEYOON BITES DOWN. Jaerim meets his gaze with a sharp look, his eyelashes fanning up and down as he lowers his lids to the flash of teeth then lifts them to the mortal’s taunting stare. He becomes still with an inscrutable look; instead of being annoyed, he seems frozen in deep thought. The harder Seyoon bites down, the darker his gaze grows. 

The warm residue of saliva on his palm starts cooling immediately after he relents and frees Seyoon’s mouth. It leaves him closing and opening his hand away from view as the strangely obscene sensation becomes fainter and fainter. Somewhat lost in thought, Jaerim levels the mortal with a small frown that deepens the longer he listens to him speak. 

Ever since he died, his ego and pride have swelled to degrees he never felt as a mortal. Elias’ blood is like an ever-burning flame inside of him while his bones are made of flint. A small spark is enough to set him ablaze, and hearing Seyoon boss him around irks him more than getting bitten. 

Regardless of his feelings about his sire’s revolting philosophy and the trauma of his embrace, Jaerim still has his pride as a kindred. Seyoon’s words strike him wrong, casting him into irritated silence. 

He shouldn’t have let him open his mouth but now isn’t the time. He’ll get back at him for this later. 

With a final sullen glare, he turns his head toward the end of the containers. No sooner does a face peak through the darkness that Jaerim disappears from Seyoon’s side and reappears fifty feet away, violently throwing the Malkavian into an empty container with a deafening bang that sends clouds of dust airborne. 

The container is knocked against a row of others and bends inward to absorb the impact force as the kindred gets lodged into it. Another slam follows when Jaerim strikes with a closed fist. The Malk barely manages to dodge. He moves his head out of the way in the nick of time. Jaerim only grazes him, but it’s enough to tear his cheek open from the sheer blunt force of his attack. 

They come face to face. The Malk flashes his fangs. He uses the lapse to dominate Jaerim the second their eyes meet. 

“Stop,” the word is uttered viciously through bloody spittle. Jaerim’s will is sapped in an instant. He goes uncharacteristically still, doing nothing to defend himself when the other vampire leaps at him and sinks his fangs into his shoulder. 

What?

He could’ve done anything else. Ran, plunged his hand through his chest, went straight for his head. 

A bite?

Jaerim lets out a guttural groan as they tumble to the ground in a thrashing tangle of limbs, snapping out of the daze with a wild start. Like a frenzied animal, he rips the vampire off him with a buckle and a hand around his throat. He digs his nails in, tearing skin as the Malkavian chokes and gurgles on his blood. 

What the fuck is going on?

Jaerim grapples him onto his back. His torn shirt hangs down his arm as dark, molasses-like blood slowly drips from his shoulder. The Malkavian thrashes and struggles beneath him. Jaerim starts to panic as his eyes dart from the vampire’s bloody mouth to his hand dug firmly around his throat. His hunger beckons him like a siren’s alluring song ringing sweetly and cutting through all the chaos, telling him to drink. 

Not from the monster underneath him. No, from…

Jaerim grabs the Malk’s shoulders and tosses him violently against the container. Another loud crash fills the dark warehouse, followed by a series of cries and grunts and loud thunks as Jaerim angrily kicks the vampire’s head in against the rusting metal. Blood spews and squelches under his boot but no bones crack.

Growing frustrated as the Malkavian attempts to block and prevent his attacks, Jaerim grabs him by a fistful of hair and drags him out. 

“Please, don’t take me…” This silent plea echoes off the walls over and over. Jaerim’s blood runs hot in a sudden roiling wave. 

“Please, please, please don’t take me back,” the Malk begins to beg, shuddering violently as he’s dragged across the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind. “Tell—” 

Before he gets to finish, he lets out a fierce and pained cry when Jaerim suddenly slams his face into the concrete with a shaking hand. If he talks again, he’ll rip his fucking tongue out. 

As if hearing his thoughts, the Malk goes eerily still. A second later, a strange, shrill wail comes from the vampire’s hidden face. It goes on for seconds, followed by another, and another. The sound is mournful and ugly, ringing in his ears like worms trying to crawl in. Jaerim lifts the vampire’s head to bash his face in again, but the body below him suddenly leaps at him with another inarticulate yowl. 

Jaerim manages to kick him away before he gets the chance to dominate him again, belatedly clutching his side after sending him ten feet away. Blood covers his hands but Jaerim doesn't feel the pain of the sharp jab right above his waistline and below his right abdomen. His adrenaline is running too high. He knows better than to get distracted.

His inky black eyes stay locked on the Malkavian, initially avoiding his gaze. But as Jaerim watches him, a retched feeling blooms in his chest. The vampire moves disjointedly, frantically getting on all fours before he starts crawling away in between the containers like a skittering spider.

The unspoken threat of being taken to Elias alive has sent him into a terror frenzy. Moreover, he's moving towards Seyoon's hiding spot.

[apricxty]

Darkness was something he was unaccustomed to, but given enough time, he'd grown comfortable in its presence.

Without a hearth, the chill in the safe house had crept through the old stones and settled into his bones. Its bite reminded Valtoris of the dagger that had tried to claim his life. The assassin had originally planned for poison, you see, and it was simply unfortunate for him that the Prince did not wish for moonberry tea that evening.

"You may enter, Virgil."

Because it couldn't be anybody else.

There was nobody else.

He'd typically greeted his childhood friend with a smile, but tonight, Valtoris's gaze held something far from joy.

"I killed a man, you know," he said without turning, mind still trapped in the night where he was expected to meet his end. The assassin made his move, and the blade found itself buried in a hastily snatched pillow. Valtoris had summoned the wind, only intending to push his opponent away from him, but panic and anger stirred within his chest like the beginning of a storm. He extended his hand, and his would-be killer flew. Out through the open window. Too fast for Valtoris to catch him once he realized what he had done. "And I have a feeling on this journey, I may have to do it again."

When he looked down, he saw blood. The man's eyes were glassy, vacant with death, and horribly familiar. His brother had looked at him much the same way two nights before the attack, as though something else had been looking out from behind his gaze.

Valtoris's hand shook. The left one. His storm-wielding one. Wordlessly, he covered it with his right to calm its tremors.

He knew very well he could not afford to crumble. Could not afford to wallow in guilt or fear or doubt or despair. The kingdom, his family, and all the people were in great danger, and he must do right by everyone just as his father would.

"I am sorry we are leaving," he said. "And we will be back for your loved ones." As soon as they find a way to make things right. "By the blood in my veins and the honor of House Aerendor, I swear to you."

[shr1k3s]

                HE ENTERS WITH THE WHOLE URGENT WORLD AT HIS BACK; surging winds and pelting rain bursting through with no regard for the young solemn prince inside. Virgil stops short of the threshold. He holds the world back with the firmness Valtoris has come to rely on, obdurate but stunned, standing with his breath caught in his throat.

Valtoris has never killed. He’s spent his life in the spiral library and nose-deep in his own collection studying copiously. Virgil has only witnessed him use magic inoffensively to stir soft winds across towering blades of grass or to produce soothing music, always tenderly and at peace.  

Killing is Virgil’s preoccupation. A dark portent has hung over his head since he received orders from the Prince Regent to vacate his post and join the war efforts among the vanguard like a stormy cloud. He felt ashamed to wondered if he was sent to his untimely death through malicious premeditation or if the dagger was aimed at Valtoris’ throat, but doubt and suspicion colored the tincture of the glass he saw Darlaren through since the King fell ill.

They meant to separate them. He’s certain of it now.

Virgil finally takes a breath and removes his hood. He can’t tell of his emotions on the matter. It’s undeniable that Valtoris’ resolve to kill soothes Virgil in a strange way, but he regrets the stains on his soul. Had he never left his side, would this have happened? No, no… He shouldn’t think of it that way. Valtoris’ premonition is precise: whether Virgil is standing beside him or not, he may have to kill again. It’s useless to promise him otherwise. 

The mention of his family keeps his mouth firmly shut. Virgil doesn’t speak—cannot speak—or else his anger will undoubtedly cast itself venomously through his mouth and sink its claws into an undeserving victim. 

Still, the words compel him to stand at attention. Broad shouldered, hands clasped behind his back, head lowered to the wooden boards. Dark strands of wet hair cling to his cheeks as his lashes tremble minutely while the floorboards swirl beneath him.

For a long moment the weight of the words hang suspended in the air between them. Fifteen years ago, he pledged himself to Valtoris on one knee, swearing his life to him under the tip of a ceremonial sword resting upon his shoulder. He never expected this day would come. He has no words with which to receive Valtoris’ promise.

“Your highness,” Virgil breaks the silence after a full minute passes. His gaze remains firmly on the floor. “We mustn’t linger. Your brother arranged a merchant carriage and two retainers on standby. They’re waiting for us by the road.” 

He feels wrong for ignoring his promise as he turns to the door and steps out. Virgil is not a man of words but of action. It’s only until he listens for footsteps behind him that he stops and abruptly faces the prince, closing the space between them in a swift stride. He pulls Valtoris into an embrace, cradling the back of his head with a firm and steady hand. 

It’s been too long since their last meeting. He regrets that their reunion is happening under such severely oppressive duress.

“I’m glad you’re safe.” 

With that, he throws his cloak over his head and turns to lead them through the empty streets.

[shr1k3s]

CHARACTER HEADCANON GENERATOR.

Mark if the HC is wrong or right! ― CHARACTER: Kang Sangil / VERSE: that one verse with june.

Sangil is a bottom. ❌ (Person considering Sangil’s sex life for the first time —>) He’s a ‘whatever feels good for you’ type of lover. 

Sangil can drive. ✅ Arranging this to ‘can ride a horse / steer a carriage’ because that’s the equivalent in his verse. 

Sangil has been to prison. ❌ He’s a perfect ideological traitor, he wouldn’t be caught 🙂‍↔️

Sangil is not good with social cues. ❌ Some would spitefully argue he’s too good. 

Sangil likes board games, but no one else wants to play with them. ❌ I’m sure he gets rejected all the time simply because he keeps asking the wrong people (Jiwon), but all of his actual buddies like playing with him.

Sangil would succumb to the fog. ❌ He’s a perfect independent thinker, he wouldn’t succumb to anything 🫰

Sangil can't sit in a chair properly. ✅ He’ll figure out a way to nap on any chair. 

Sangil bites their nails. ❌ He doesn't have any obvious nervous habits.

Sangil has not showered in two and a half weeks. ❌ He enjoys a good, long bath whenever he can get one.

Sangil is a youngest child. ❌ He’s an only child.

[shr1k3s]

CHARACTER HEADCANON GENERATOR.

Mark if the HC is wrong or right! ― CHARACTER: Son Jaerim / VERSE: vtm: chicago.

Jaerim steals other people's clothes. ✅ Mugs them, knocks them out, or might even kill them before stealing their clothes if he thinks they’re wearing something decent. If you're dating, your clothes are his clothes ♡

Jaerim doesn't own a single pair of matching socks. ❌ He tries to steal them in pairs.

Jaerim is in your house. ✅ Turn around. 

If someone they knew committed a crime, Jaerim would cover for them. ✅ Evidently he only needs to have met them once to dispose of a body for them.

Jaerim is very willing to eat inedible things. ❌ He can only consume blood. I guess with iron gullet he can consume a wider variety like cold or rancid blood, but Jaerim doesn’t go out of his way to do so.

Jaerim got hit by a bus once. ❌ No but he’s probably been launched into a stationary bus with equal force.

Jaerim does intricate and expensive cosplays. ❌ This man doesn’t have normal hobbies.

Jaerim was dropped out of a window as a child. ❌ He’s been dropped out of a lot of windows, but not as a child. 

Jaerim has chronic nightmares. ❌ I’d say he has a single recurring nightmare afflicted by the trauma of his embrace, but it’s not chronic. 

Jaerim cannot drive. ❌ He’s a serviceable driver.

TAGGED BY: @blanksweats ♡ TAGGING: @drownedhymns ♪

[blanksweats]

" 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 ..." on impulse , mika finds himself wringing his hands , thumb pressing firmly against the scar that paints his palm and disappears beneath the cuff of his sleeve. he supposes there are worse fates -- a fleeting thought he'll surely scold himself for having alter. he ponders if it is better to carry such an ailment ( as he has with many others ) , rather than to wear the curse of his own condition. though the physician seems none the wiser of it now. if he had any indication mika could only imagine his fate would be much worse than an eternity between these four walls...

" i suppose i am in no position to make judgement on what one considers a kindness ... nor quantify it. it is just -- " his thought is interrupted by the sound of a crash and scuffling feet from the kitchen. mika stiffens in place. who knew what sir thomas had done now , but there was no need to lead another innocent bystander into it. " ah ... rats? dreadful things ... a real problem these days."

it seems diversions were not his strong suit ( never were , if he were to ask sir thomas who was busy doing all but announcing their scheme ). he takes another step forward , peering into a new door. "how long have you minded these patients , doctor? surely , you grow weary of watching over those that may never be cured?"

@shr1k3s

[shr1k3s]

               “ONE DOES GROW WEARY, YES...” Percy would feel too ridiculous to put on the air of a witless fool lacking in common awareness, perhaps to the point where 'stupid' would not be spoken as opinion but as a fact of his character. If the uninvited visitor had not eagerly offered an excuse about the noises coming from the kitchen—much too raucous to be considered rats, he might add—or even if he had not been so keen in disregarding the sudden crash, then Percy could conceivably continue excusing his presence in the hallway. As it is, the conversational fellow has yet to announce his purpose in being present.

“Pardon me, kind sir,” he forcibly changes the direction of their discussion with a certain embarrassment. “But I must insist once more that you vacate upstairs.”

Although Percy’s disposition is of the gentle sort, which, given to the softness of his features, highlight him with a strange mark of beauty and meekness, there’s the matter of his deformed eye that supersedes his appearance with a solemn and raw-like quality. His gaze, once locked onto another, is laden with careful and over-serious attention, though it's unclear whether he's staring through both eyes or just the healthy one.

He makes a motion toward the spiral staircase from which he descended, offering to lead the intruding gentleman upstairs personally and forthwith. “I would be esteemed to continue our discussion in the appropriate location, you see, so long as you’re willing to excuse me for a moment so that I may tend to my duties down here first.” 

Though he goes without mentioning the noise in the kitchen, it’s evident where his attention lies.

[apricxty]

Jaerim moved way faster than he expected, which was why Seyoon's what the fuck ended up muffled in the hoodie.

He bit back the rest after that, limiting his outrage to sharp, well-timed kicks. Just enough to make his displeasure known, not enough to ruin the mission that he was still, thank you very much, trying to complete.

"I am gonna kill you," he whispered in agitation as soon as he had the opportunity. "What the hell, Jaerim? You can't just grab me like that. What if I freaked out for real?" Seyoon pressed closer to the vampire, as if their bodies weren't already jammed together in this tiny little space. A part of him would have rather enjoyed this, by the way, if he wasn't working, because he quite liked being held suffocatingly tight-

Anyway.

"I am on the job, bro. This means dressed for the task and equipped for it." Jaerim should be able to feel the stake by now, drawn smoothly despite the earlier struggle and held steady in Seyoon's grip. Its sharp tip was dulled by the thick fabric of the hoodie, and the weapon was angled down toward the vampire's abdomen. These were deliberate choices Seyoon made, for both of their sakes.

"Now you go home." Seyoon's eyes darted from side to side. Of course, between the fucking metal container and Jaerim he couldn't see much, but his hunter senses suggested they were still alone. Which meant he could continue with this bullshit a little longer. "And I am gonna kill the guy." He pulled his hand back, easing the pressure off the stake.

"Why do you keep walking in on me working? Are you stalking me?" He inquired, eyes narrowing slightly. "Once is an accident, but this is twice." Seyoon tried to make sense of the situation. "You can't possibly be doing this out of empathy for your fellow vampires, right? Trying to prevent me from killing your buddies or something?" He considered this, but then shook his head. Nah, Jaerim was too much of an asshole to care that much. "Or is this another vampire bounty thing?"

[shr1k3s]

                “DRESSED—?” His eyes sweep over Seyoon’s figure with a tilt of his head. Within that brief second, a dark shadow settles over his gaze. “Dressed for what? You look—” 

As if by magic command, Jaerim’s lips clamp shut and twist into a frown. The empty corner suddenly seems a lot more interesting than making any eye-contact with Seyoon. 

Jaerim’s not a stupid man. It instantly dawns on him what Seyoon means by ‘dressed for the task’. His jealousy is doused with oil; the flames licking up the pit of his stomach become a living inferno. It doesn’t matter what Seyoon’s intentions are when he’s parading himself around like a full-course meal. All Jaerim can focus on are the monstrous thoughts that go through a vampire’s mind the second their hungry gaze latches onto the mortal. Goddamn leeches.

No wonder he smells so good tonight. There isn’t a hint of product covering up his natural scent. Now that he knows why, he’s locked into a single train of thought. It takes full possession of him even as he feels something solid and no doubt wooden press against his abdomen. 

Seyoon’s a hunter worth his salt, yet it annoys Jaerim that these are his methods. He wants to say something, to reprove him aloud. Why put on a show when he could just shoot their brains out? Surely Seyoon can’t be that starved for attention. No, not when he merely needs to exist to capture any vampire’s rapt and wolfish curiosity. 

He thinks back on their last meeting, when Seyoon’s near-hysterical laughter had echoed sweetly in his ears. "I am still alive, what the heck?" 

It’s all the more likely that he’s either suicidal or starved for something else. And as far as adrenaline junkies go, Seyoon would make a rather extreme case. 

Jaerim swallows. He shouldn’t be one to speak. His fondness for the hunter is wrapped in a perverted tangle of insatiable hunger, deep yearning for connection, and wanton depravity. Not only are his thoughts about Seyoon alarmingly more perverse than those of the average impulsive idiot who can’t rein their hunger in the second they eye the honeypot, he also isn’t moving a centimeter away from the deadly weapon pressed against him.

Jaerim sharply inhales. He somehow manages to keep his eyes from rolling upward when he finally lifts his chin to look at Seyoon. He stares at him unblinkingly for a good second, feeling the pressure of the stake gradually retract.

“Yeah, a bounty,” he mutters through his teeth, voice low. Like every past lie he’s blatantly spat in Seyoon’s face, this one isn’t any less obvious. 

Without warning, an unpleasant feeling crawls up his spine like a skittering insect. Jaerim’s head turns toward the end of the containers before he becomes eerily still. His senses slowly sharpen around a third presence. The vampire is somewhere nearby, possibly already skulking within the warehouse. 

He instinctively places a hand over Seyoon’s mouth to muffle any oncoming retort, pressing closer against him until his lips are brushing over his ear.

“What information do you even have on this thing?” He whispers, his breath neither warm nor cold against the mortal’s skin. He can’t very well launch into a lecture about Malkavian bullshit right now, so he settles for another attempt at dissuading his favorite reckless idiot. 

With the presence growing stronger, Jaerim’s voice drops lower still. “Just listen to me and leave.”

[apricxty]

"Maybe we can just take the bullets out of the gun or something. That'll make me feel safer." Seyoon said after recovering some sanity, once the wave of panic passed. Because taking the guy's entire bag felt like robbery, and Seyoon was not about that life, apocalypse or not.

He tugged the backpack over, unzipped it, and took out the gun gingerly, keeping it pointed somewhere that was hopefully not either of them. Seyoon even put down the crowbar so he could use both hands for the task. Now, how would one remove the bullets from this thing? Every time he saw it in the movies, they made it look so simple...

"Actually, I dunno how to do this." He made a small noise of frustration before sagging with resignation. "Screw it, I guess I'll just trust you." Seyoon shrugged, put the gun back into the backpack, and handed Jaerim the multi-tool. "I mean, you are a guy who had a fever and is only sort of alive on cat medicine right now. I can probably take you in a fight." Seyoon, at least, was healthy and well-fed. Jaerim clearly wasn't, judging by the way he'd eaten those beans earlier.

"Honestly, life sucks anyway. If I die, I die. Getting a bullet beats getting mauled by the undead."

His fingers twitched against his knee. Okay. Enough about guns and death and all the exciting ways this could go wrong. For the first time in a week, Seyoon had another person in front of him. Surely they could manage a more entertaining conversation.

"I am Seyoon. A student at the University of Chicago." Oh look, he decided to begin their deeply questionable heart-to-heart with a proper introduction. "I was downtown, partying, when shit went down. Was really drunk, so I can't really remember how I drove out of that mess and ended up in this area." Another shrug. "Guess Jesus had the wheel. Not surprising. Everyone always called me the universe's favorite." He sat down again, back resting against the wall. "Never play card games with me." Once, during a truly miraculous game of strip poker, everyone else at the table had been naked before Seyoon even took off his socks. Yes, that was such a good time.

The thought of his friends eased the tension in Seyoon's shoulders slightly.

"What about you?" @shr1k3s

[shr1k3s]

               THERE'S ONLY THREE BULLETS LEFT IN THE MAGAZINE, ONE IN THE CHAMBER. The hunting knife came from his friend’s basement, but the pistol was looted from a police officer’s corpse that Jaerim found trampled on the second morning. Apparently, for the first twenty-four hours, the C.P.D was still trying to enforce law and order in the streets while the national guard set up check-points across the city. A valiant effort, but it all went to shit in less than forty-two hours. 

Jaerim only witnessed the aftermath. On the day of the outbreak, he…

“The safety’s on, just—” He swallows, trailing off when the stranger gives up and concludes that he’d rather be shot, if it came down to it. Jaerim snorts softly.

After another mouthful of cold beans, he chews quietly and starts cutting through the layers of duct tape using the pitifully small and dull knife from the multi-tool. He glances up when the man—Seyoon—starts introducing himself, eyeing him with a few attentive looks as his tired gaze flits between him and his ankle. 

He remains quiet throughout, even after the other’s done speaking. It’s more amusing to picture the man in front of him completely shit-faced and somehow making it out of a real-life horror movie all because he’s a pretty good drunk driver, than to think about what he was up to that night.

Jaerim snaps the tool shut and lowers his hand when he’s done cutting. He remains where he is, leaning against the wall, where he smiles faintly at the man on the opposite side of the room, mirroring his position.

“Nice to meet you Seyoon. Sounds like it was really fun.” 

Finally, his dark lashes flutter against pale, sallow skin. Jaerim looks down with a weak shrug. He sits for a long moment like he’s frozen in place, eventually trapping his bottom lip between his teeth as his gaze drifts to the corner of the room.

“Not much. I mean, unemployed, staying at a friends’,” he says slowly, as if each word is going to be put on trial, yet his tone is easy; nonchalant, just getting through the conversation. “Sleeping on a couch in his basement. I was in-between places,” he was homeless, though Jaerim doesn’t think it matters anymore. He shrugs again, looking up. “And I don’t know, I don’t really know how it happened. My friend attacked me and I ended up killing him.” 

He was this—thing. His skin was sloughing off, and his eyes, once a deep blue, were milky and white. It was like he decomposed while still living, everything about him was rotting. His teeth were falling off when he lunged to bite Jaerim, and his hands were nearly skeletal when they grappled him with horrifying strength. 

In the end, Jaerim pushed the hunting knife—the same one in his backpack—through his eye socket. Not once, not twice… He must’ve stabbed him in the face like, twenty fucking times. 

He just wouldn't die.

Jaerim lets the confession hang in the air for a poignant pause before he makes eye-contact again, and his gentle, easy smile from earlier returns to his face.

“Awkward reveal after your whole little,” Jaerim flicks his wrist lazily, “paranoid jumpscare. But I was defending myself, so,” another shrug. 

He spent the whole night digging a deep hole in the backyard to bury him in. By that point he had already checked the news and had a better inkling about why his friend since high-school tried to eat his face off. Knowing it was going on all over the city kept him from slitting his throat and slumping into the grave himself. 

After another pause, Jaerim reaches for his backpack, once more dragging it towards him.

“Anyway, wanna learn how to unload a semi?”

[apricxty]

FISHING FOR TROUBLE @shr1k3s

He took a long, relaxing shower first, humming a popular song he'd heard before on the radio. Seyoon blowdried his hair for fluffiness and sheen, diligently taming every stubborn strand until he felt presentable. He checked himself in the mirror, adjusted the fall of his bangs, then tilted his head once to inspect the line of his neck.

Was he getting ready for a date?

No, don't be silly! This was for work, and he was about to send a bloodsucker to their grave.

It was weird, Seyoon supposed, for him to be so fixated on giving 'good customer service' to his 'clients'. Was it a guilt thing? He didn't think so. There was not a single part of him that felt sorry for putting these ungodly creatures out of their misery. Guess he just felt like if he was going to be bait, he might as well be five-star premium bait, an artisanal, locally sourced, and devastatingly pretty gourmet experience.

There was no reason to feel bad anyway. His organization was not exactly huge and was more or less just a crowd with personal vendettas, backed by a couple of wealthy dudes and other influential folks. Kinda scrappy. Limited resources. So, needless to say, they only went after truly depraved vampires.

Seyoon's method of baiting and gambling on the element of surprise was heavily frowned upon, but people didn't really go out of their way to stop him. Maybe they didn't care about him enough. Or maybe they already knew he was going to do whatever he wanted, no matter what they said.

In his carefully selected 'I am harmless, come and bite me' outfit, Seyoon wandered about the warehouse area. The air smelled like rust, rainwater, and old concrete. His footsteps were soft between the buildings as he kept his eyes down, as if he were searching for something on the ground and giving anybody who might be lurking and watching a good view of his neck. No scented body wash today - he wanted to really capitalize on the natural allure of his blood.

Seyoon was hoping to get this done quickly so he could go home and watch a movie, but it took almost fifteen minutes before he felt it: cold pressure on the back of his neck, hair rising on his arms. Something dead was moving, and his hunt had officially begun.

...Except this particular vibe felt kind of familiar.

Could it be?

Seyoon whipped around, and sure enough, it was Jaerim.

"Babe, what the heck?" His expression shifted instantly from sweet, innocent, potential victim to regular Seyoon. "Okay, run along now. Daddy's working." He waved at the vampire the way one would shoo a cat off the kitchen counter. "I'll play with you later."

[shr1k3s]

               JAERIM IS SKULKING ATOP A STACK OF METAL SHIPPING CONTAINERS WHEN SEYOON NOTICES HIM. Even though he’s been trailing the hunter for a handful of minutes longer, it’s his eyes that widen with surprise when Seyoon turns around and looks up. 

He's wondering how the fuck Seyoon knew he was there when the brazen words that come out his cocky little mouth find him like a pinch to the side from someone who makes sure to twist the skin until it bruises. Within a second, Jaerim goes from a mild frown to a flat and deadpanned glare that he levels on Seyoon with barely contained outrage; the angrier he is, the more impassive the expression on his face becomes.

Jaerim doesn’t dignify the hunter with a response. All that comes from the darkness is the sharp sound of a zipper before he jumps down. He’s in front of Seyoon within a second, throwing a black hoodie over his head and grabbing him more violently than he’s done up until now. 

What is he, some kind of fucking cat he thinks he can shoo away? 

“Come here,” Jaerim grits through his teeth, dragging a blinded, kicking Seyoon in between two large containers where they’re hidden from view. Jaerim knows he shouldn’t manhandle him like he’s some defenseless mortal. He knows better than to pick a fight with a hunter. He hasn't forgotten that he found Seyoon alone in the middle of the woods calmly stargazing next to a dead vampire.

But in his rage and panic, Jaerim ends up caging him between the metal container and his body, trapping him like a possessive animal traps a meal.

With their faces inches apart, he only grows more frustrated. Seyoon’s scent slips out even if Jaerim tries to force his own on him; it’s only a matter of time before the Malkavian catches it among the stale and dusty air of the warehouse. 

“You need to leave.” His voice comes out in a low, angry whisper.

Jaerim takes a few seconds to temper himself. It doesn’t help that he was already having a bad night, that Elias is personally waiting for him to return with a corpse in tow.

It’s the second time his sire is after the same vampire Seyoon's hunting down. Once is a coincidence. Twice? Even the mere suggestion of Seyoon being on Elias' radar makes his scalp go numb.

“Tell your boss to fuck off or something,” Jaerim glances toward the other end of the containers and listens for any movement. “I’m killing the thing that’s been crawling around here, okay?" His dark, inky eyes meet Seyoon's. "Go home."

[apricxty]

Let's be honest, this was the kind of rare, highly questionable experience most normal people would have the good sense not to chase.

A stubborn part of him did briefly linger on the thought that he should not react too much lest it give this vampire a reason to be smug. They might have been engaged in an activity rather atypical of enemies, but Seyoon had not completely forgotten what they were. Yet.

But his hips jerked before he could stop them, and his fingers were in Jaerim's hair, clenching until his knuckles were pale.

If this were a regular person, he would never allow himself such a tight hold out of consideration for his partner. But Jaerim was a vampire, which meant Seyoon could loosen the reins a little and just let the pleasure pull him under, wave after wave, his death grip being the only thing that served to anchor him.

You know what, fuck it.

That was Seyoon's thought as he lifted his free hand from where it had been clamped over his mouth.

Maybe Jaerim deserved a little ego boost - just a tiny one - over this. He'd earned it.

"Goddamn, babe, can you swing by next Thursday, too?" Seyoon's breath was still ragged and uneven when Jaerim pressed a kiss against his lips later. "I have an exam that I am definitely gonna bomb and could use the cheering up." He draped an arm lazily over the vampire's shoulder and leaned forward, letting Jaerim carry his weight so he could fully relax.

Then he started laughing. Perhaps a little too loudly. Maybe slightly hysterically.

"I am still alive, what the heck?" Seyoon threw his head back and really let it loose. "Oh my god, what are we doing?"

Of all the questions he asked tonight, this was the one that really should not be answered.

He tugged at Jaerim, wordlessly indicating for the guy to join him on top of the pool table. Seyoon then rearranged them until they were in the optimal position for stargazing. Ironically enough, the scene felt almost familiar, practically a callback to their second chaotic date.

For a while, he only stared at the sky, letting their shoulders press together like they were just two dudes chilling after a good time instead of enemies with complications. The night air was cold enough for him to feel it now, and Seyoon should have been bothered. But he wasn't.

"Gonna walk me home later?"

[shr1k3s]

               JAERIM WATCHES SEYOON WITH BRIGHT AND HUNGRY EYES. His grin is gentle and subdued next to the hunter’s hysterical laughter, but with no well-behaved methods through which to find relief, he instead finds a tether within that half-incredulous, half-delirious reaction. The tension in his chest is drawn taut for a moment and then released, over and over, wishing that Seyoon’s white-knuckled grip was still secure around his hair to hold him back and keep him in place. 

“—what are we doing?”

Jaerim responds by stealing another kiss, this time grabbing Seyoon’s jaw to plant it firmly on his lips before the other man leans away and tugs at him to join him on the table.

Jaerim can’t decide if this is the worst or best kind of torture.

On one hand, Seyoon’s laughter is a salve over a wound he’d hastily covered with flimsy bandages five years ago—an embarrassing mutilation he hasn’t even glanced at because he’d rather live in denial than admit it’s there.

He avoids thinking about it even now.

On the other hand, every kiss and every touch, no matter how desperate, is tortuously unsatisfying. He could lean in and kiss him right now—could even scrape his teeth against his lips—but it’s like licking a lollipop with the wrapper still on. Jaerim wants to sink his teeth in. He wants to get inside, to seek that mind-numbing bliss.

This roiling mass of conflicting emotions simmer beneath a tempered veneer. Jaerim is tightly wound; it’s nearly imperceptible save for the occasional tension that draws his brows together when he glances away. He sits atop the table like a perfectly docile creature, staring at the expansive night sky with nothing but awful thoughts festering beneath the depths of his gaze. 

“Yeah, later…” There's a strain in his usually dulcet voice when he speaks.

In the two hours that follow, he sometimes turns to Seyoon with nothing but sweet and tender thoughts. The very next moment he imagines dragging him into the pitch dark bowling alley where no one would hear.

In the end, Jaerim does nothing at all. 

They leave the restricted parking lot after Seyoon finishes half the beers in the cooler. As they walk the distance between the abandoned bowling alley and Seyoon’s apartment, Jaerim is struck by deja vu. It’s been almost three months since they met in one of these alleyways—which one was it?—when Jaerim fell off a rooftop and Seyoon drunkenly tried to give him a band-aid for his injuries. He’d walked him home then, too. Only back then, Jaerim left the area after Seyoon found his neighbor and retreated into the lobby with no more thoughts to spare on the matter.

This time, after they kiss goodnight and Jaerim half-heartedly promises to be back with no certainty as to when, he watches Seyoon disappear into the building while the dissatisfaction from earlier rises like bile. 

Instead of leaving, he goes around the back of the building and into the alleyway. Jaerim scales up the fire escape with silent, lithe grace.

He completely ignores the stars they’d been dreamily gazing at in favor of the hole in Seyoon’s roof, where he crouches and stares through unblinkingly until dawn draws near.  

END.

[shr1k3s]

― UPWARD OVER THE MOUNTAIN.

CLOSED STARTER ― @acatalepsii.

               THE ORDAINED DAY OF THE HUNT ARRIVES WITH A RESPLENDENT CLEAR SKY. A gentle breeze welcomes Sangil when he leaves his estate, the chill of the night lifting with the dawn. His boots thud quietly against the flagstones beneath his feet, cloak billowing softly behind. His hair, still damp from a bath, is half-up, held together with a thin leather strap wrapped into a small knot at the back of his head. From it, a small silver charm hangs in the shape of an arrowhead. Morning birds chirp and sing among the susurration of the foliage as he makes his way towards the main courtyard, crossing small stone bridges where beneath a narrow river cuts across acres of land upon which the Kang territory is built, offering fresh water fish to its residents and shallow streams for household chores. 

The winding streets eventually lead him to a tall gate where two guards stand sentinel. Neither bother him as he enters the courtyard, uttering ‘good morning’ through a lazy yawn which they respond to by politely bowing. As much as Sangil tries to stay away from the central estate, he’s instantly recognized as a Kang, therefore everyone defaults to treating him with extreme decorum. Honestly, this is why he prefers the town square. 

The courtyard is wide, with an open space in the center flanked at each corner by grotesque statues of stone lions that Sangil’s always thought look a little evil; their menacing faces either grinning or roaring, he can’t tell. These statues divide the path into four like a compass, followed by thinner stone pedestals for bronze cast iron fire-pits that have since been replaced by gas lamps. A lamplighter is in the process of turning these off as the faint light of the rising sun begins illuminating the blue sky above. He turns to Sangil, once again bows politely, then goes on about his work. With a small sigh, Sangil turns down the right path when he reaches the center, going toward the armory where he’s meant to meet up with his squad. 

His squad and Jiwon. 

He honestly has to hand it to Jisung for calculating the exact scenario no one wants to be in. When he was summoned here a week ago to be briefed on the upcoming hunt by Kang Jisung himself, Sangil immediately ran to get drunk at the tavern. Forget the fact that Jiwon is barely recuperated, that he has just enough strength back to justify sending him on a hunt. It’s a cruel idea only Kang Jisung could conceive of with the express purpose of punishing his son’s shortcomings. But it’s something he’s been doing for well over a decade, now. 

It’s that he’s joining Sangil’s squad that left all of them perplexed. Sangil tried his best not to show it, but he’s certain that he looked at Kang Jisung like he was wearing his head backwards for a split second when he delivered the news. Afterwards, the meeting went on as usual, for Sangil dared not question him openly, but the look he exchanged with Jiwon filled him with exhaustion and dread for a hunt that was scheduled relatively in advance, that would’ve been no problem had it just been Sangil and his squad. It’s not his cousin’s fault for getting injured, no matter how hard Jisung tries to belittle him for it, but Jiwon—even if Sangil doesn’t hate him, even if he still holds on to the image of a young passionate boy stuck with a shitty father that he once had of him—... Jiwon is still awful to be around, and he doesn’t make it any easier for the people around him. 

The two didn’t talk afterwards, they still haven’t talked since, and they’ve been standing on such rocky waters ever since Sangil dragged a half-dead Jiwon to the Blackwood Hospital and he repaid him by telling him he wished he’d died instead of Sun, and Sun’s not even dead. That’s how tiresome Jiwon’s mental state is at the moment. Any compassion Sangil extends is met with a firm slap to the face, leaving absolutely no room for reconciliation. His cousin's paranoia has grown into a bloated, ugly mess.

So when Jisung, ever the engineer, contrived of the perfect set of circumstances to reduce them to their ranks by reminding one that his position can still be taken under his feet, and the other that he’s catching on to his intentional, subsequent fuck-ups… Well, they’re left a little dumbfounded. 

“Morning!” 

He’s dragged out of his thoughts by a bright, cheerful voice. Petra is grinning at him from beyond the threshold of the armory, poking her head out to wave at him. 

“Wow, noticed me last second. Are you sure you’re not too hungover for this?” She steps out of the way as Sangil enters. He gives her a tired smile. 

“Morning,” he mumbles, suppressing another yawn. He didn’t drink at all last night. 

Petra was the first to arrive, so Sangil discovers as he glances around inside before he takes a seat at the table in the center, nodding towards the armory keeper who bows in turn behind the tall wooden clerk desk. Petra’s already fiddling with her crossbow, carefully waxing the taut string as if the keeper doesn’t handle all of this for them when they surrender their weapons for maintenance. 

Immediately, Sangil starts to doze off with his feet propped atop the table while he leans his weight on the chair’s hind-legs, pulling his hood over his face to block out the lamplight. Petra clicks her tongue at him. Tsk, tsk. She doesn’t bother him though, used to his cat-like languidness, so she retakes her seat and moves on from her crossbow to wipe down a quiver of bolts. 

They wait for the rest of the squad to arrive in peaceful silence.

The squad and Jiwon.

Sangil keeps himself from randomly cursing out loud.

[shr1k3s]

UNDER THE COVER OF THE STORM.

CLOSED STARTER ― @apricxty.

               LIGHTNING CRACKS THE SKY AT A STEADY INTERVAL. Virgil counts the seconds that pass between an arc of bright spindly light that leaps from cloud to cloud in the far distance and the clap of thunder that follows. It rumbles across the land like a terrifying, deafening roar cried out from the throat of an angry god. It’s trying to drown everything in its wake, even the sound of the torrential downpour that’s coming down like millions of crystal pendants that explode into tiny shards against the flagstone path in heavy, ceaseless crashes. 

One, two, three, four, five, six seconds. The heart of the storm must be two kilometers away, and still the cold winds tear through the empty back alleys of Belcarra like formless dragons trying to sweep him away. Virgil holds steady. He’s clutching a bundle of cloak under his chin, making sure his hood stays in place as he ducks from alley to street, then back into alley. Valtoris is waiting for him at a safe house toward the northern edge of town, near the small lake that separates the city outskirts from the King’s vineyards; he received directions here only earlier that day, and after leaving Altair and Linor waiting by the road, he’s rushing to fetch him with his heart in his throat. 

Under the cover of the storm, Virgil appears as a poor bastard merely hurrying to get home. It’s all for the better that he can move as fast as he likes. He briefly wonders if Casius arranged their scheme on this particular night because he foresaw this downpour, but he quickly throws that thought out when he remembers that every time he’s given the prince credit for something smart and clever he thought he’d done deliberately, it always turned out to be a complete accident or coincidence. If anything, Virgil should take advantage of the upcoming voyage to learn more about that storm… That storm deity… He can’t exactly recall if they’re a Goddess or a God. Talos? Or was it Silvanus?

… Umberlee?

In any regard, that storm deity, so he can thank the right individual. 

Not that he should be thinking of this as any old voyage, but a man needs something to cling to when it feels like the dam that’s holding his life together has been burst through by a violent flood, and the rushing torrents are threatening to drown him under an unyielding, remorseless pressure. 

He arrives at a small and featureless domicile built into a row of four identical houses. All of it is abandoned, from what Casius mentioned, and said that it would be completely dark inside, as he told Valtoris to keep from sight and wouldn’t even allow him a torch inside, so Virgil should be sure to knock on the right door. Virgil didn’t say anything then, understanding where Casius was coming from. They both want nothing more than to get Valtoris out of the kingdom safely, but now that he’s standing outside the austere exterior of these tiny hovels in complete darkness, he feels a pang of guilt and worry for the young prince. 

Without wasting another moment, Virgil knocks rhythmically against one of the wooden doors. It’s a steady rhythm that would sound nonsensical to anyone else, but that his highness is intimately familiar with, as Virgil has been knocking this way to alert Valtoris of his presence, and his alone, for the full decade and a half that he's known him.