dearest.

i came to rest at the altar of stars.

[shrikcs]

✴ 𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐜𝐬 ; 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. click here for carrd.

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.

[shrikcs]

this blog is now archived! i'll be over at @shr1k3s

[shrikcs]

working on moving blogs! the new url will be posted & i'll follow all active mutuals from here over there!

[shrikcs]

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.

[apricxty]

If there were psychos out there, Seyoon hadn't met them. Even during the utter chaos that was the night before everything went to shit, he managed alright. Honestly speaking, he was so drunk that he was more or less just following the crowd. Somehow found his car and, with some serious luck, drove himself out of downtown.

He was too scared to go back to his own apartment, but remembered one of his hookups was going to be out of town and lived somewhere near where he'd ended up. He still had the key to that place, so he let himself in and stayed there for most of the week.

It was a back-facing unit, a quiet-ish residential area. Frankly, if he didn't run out of food, he wouldn't be out exploring at all.

"My name is- Hey!" Seyoon detected unexpected movement. "Don't do that!"

He'd snatched up and raised his crowbar before he even realized it was there.

"Look, don't freak out. Give me a second. My brain is trying to find the proper words right now and is having some trouble." Between the two of them, Seyoon was definitely the one freaking out more; he should probably take his own advice. "Okay, so, while you were unconscious, I looked in your bag. I had to, right? What if you had more medical supplies? Then I wouldn't have to go looking."

The hand holding the crowbar was shaking, but perhaps that made him more of a threat.

"And I saw weapons. Which, okay, zombie apocalypse, maybe that's normal. Americans have guns. People have knives." Seyoon's voice grew quieter until he was mostly mumbling to himself rather than really talking to Jaerim. "But we just met. And, fine, you look like a supermodel, but maybe that's how you get people to lower their guard before you turn out to be a gangster or a serial killer or something."

Right. So far so good.

"Anyway. Yeah. Maybe it's your turn to convince me that you're not a psycho." Seyoon gave Jaerim a careful look. "So do it. Convince me." Please.

[shrikcs]

               THE METALLIC RING OF THE CROWBAR DRAGGING ACROSS THE FLOOR REVERBERATES THROUGH THE ROOM LIKE A STRUCK MATCH, SHARP AND QUICK, BEFORE IT’S HELD ABOVE HIM AS WARNING. Jaerim freezes. He looks up with a start; his dark, tired eyes suddenly widen like a cornered cat, locking on to the stranger with anxious, knitted brows. 

Don’t freak out.

Jaerim sits perfectly still. His fingers, still trembling from nausea and starvation, remain hovering over his backpack. He watches the stranger carefully, noting his shaking hand around the steel shaft, the stress on his features as he struggles to string his thoughts together until his voice is gradually dropping to a near-whisper in the midst of his spiel. It sounds almost like the ramblings of a madman. If Jaerim didn’t know better, if he hadn’t a clue about the wretched state of the world, he’d think this guy was a total nutcase. 

But Jaerim hasn’t lived a very peaceful life. He’s used to violent people. So he knows the type. He recognizes the flash of pure malice and disregard that glints in someone's eyes when they mean to harm him, which is why he knows this is different. Normal people don’t snap from one moment to the next. If he were truly dangerous, the man in front of him would’ve just taken Jaerim’s gun to begin with. 

It almost makes him want to laugh. When this thought occurs to him, his expression slowly eases into something softer. After all, why didn’t he just do that? Why did he leave the backpack next to Jaerim when he knew what was in it? 

“Okay,” he responds calmly. Jaerim lifts his hands, palms facing forward, patiently surrendering to the stranger’s paranoia. 

“You take my bag, then.” His eyes lower to the black, worn backpack, gently urging the stranger on with a flick of his gaze. “I was just gonna grab the multi-tool in there to untie myself.” 

Jaerim is firm in his belief that the man won’t try to kill him, that he isn’t even planning on hurting him, that he’s just scared and confused, and being clumsy about protecting himself. It’s fair—he understands. It’s just that he’s starting to feel a little bit stupid with his ankle still wrapped in layers of duct-tape. 

Trying to ease the tension, he adds: “But I guess I can stay duct-taped to this armchair while we have a heart to heart.”

[apricxty]

He should panic.

Instincts should be screaming at him to run. His hands should be scrambling for a weapon.

Seyoon's heart did indeed race, but it was not with alarm.

No other vampire had ever come this close to him. Make sense, right? For a vampire hunter, being caught in a position like this meant the fight was over. Survival rates after that were not exactly impressive.

But Seyoon felt alright, falling backwards onto the pool table. He even liked Jaerim's vice-like grip on his wrists, even as the pressure felt crushing at first. Maybe a part of him simply didn't mind being held so tightly. The closeness brought a strange sense of security instead of the fear he should have felt. Not being able to escape meant he didn't have to try. Not being able to breathe meant he didn't need to think. For a moment, he could be gone, lost to passion and free from his thoughts, his duty, and his guilt.

He could just think of Jaerim.

So don't worry. The vampire wasn't the only one dealing with hunger. Except Seyoon didn't have to fight his. Instead, he let it take control, allowing it to burn through him and blaze like wildfire in his gaze.

"You bastard," he managed once he finally had the chance to catch his breath. The tug at his waist made him realize his hands were free to move again.

Seyoon wasted no time, grabbing Jaerim by the hair and yanking. "I am going to have a bruise on my back tomorrow." It won't be a pretty sight, and could absolutely ruin his hook-up potential for a week. "So." He pushed himself up and pressed his smile into the vampire's lips. "You better be really fucking good."

[shrikcs]

At that moment, neither realized how up to the challenge Jaerim would be. 

He drags Seyoon to the edge of the table, legs hanging off, before he kneels on the gravel and takes his time teasing him. It’s been half a decade since he’s found himself in this position, and instead of moving unsteadily, Jaerim is shamelessly led by the spirit of discovery. 

It took a while to realize he no longer had sexual urges. It’s not something Elias, nor anyone in the cult, told him about. He stumbled upon it by accident. It was a sad surprise, like finding a pet that ran away from its cage you were certain would keep it safe, dead between the wall and the couch three weeks after it went missing.

For him, it was five months after his embrace. He found himself in a room full of sweaty mortals pressed against each other in the hot, oppressive air of a nightclub. A beautiful woman with long dark hair saddled up to him, placed a manicured hand on his chest, and blurted out a clumsy, red-cheeked invitation to the back alley. Jaerim looked at her for a moment, and after coming to the crushing realization that he had no desire to sleep with her, shook his head solemnly before leaving to stare at the pavement, dejectedly crawling back to whatever abandoned warehouse he was staying at at the time. 

He’d been upset about the loss of his humanity, really. Something that had been a huge part of his life as mortal had been reduced to such a small, trifling detail in comparison to all of the horrors he was living through at the time, that it hadn’t even occurred to him until that night at the club.

Now, kneeling before Seyoon, he’s learning about things he can do now that he couldn’t as a living, breathing man. He takes him all the way in, keeping him in his throat without any discomfort or need to breathe, swallowing around his length and quietly moaning with each forward motion from the sheer lewdness of it. He looks up with a flutter of dark eyelashes, taking in Seyoon’s expression, his noises, and adjusts until he finds the perfect pace, the right placement of his tongue to drive him over the edge, all while firmly holding his hips in place.

If Seyoon ever wants to skull fuck him in the future, he’ll gladly let him. But right now he can’t let him finish in his mouth, and he’s too swept up by the sight of Seyoon’s exposed neck when he throws his head back to poorly stifle a moan that he doesn’t want to stop, doesn't want to interrupt to ask Seyoon not to finish yet. Jaerim might not be able to feel sexual pleasure, but his desire for proximity is impossible; he wraps his lips around Seyoon’s length greedily, not giving either a moment to think. 

He only breaks off until the last moment, finishing Seyoon off with firm strokes, instead letting him cum all over his face. If this was Jaerim from five years ago, he’d drag his thumb across his cheek and press the white, sticky fluid into his lips as a sign of pure, unadulterated adoration, laid bare in the heat of the moment. As it is, he can only look up at Seyoon and let him relish in the sight during his breathless come down. 

He didn’t think this far ahead, so after a pause, he ends up unceremoniously unzipping his hoodie and slipping it off. With one of the loose sleeves, he starts wiping off the white streaks and stands. Jaerim leans in and presses a kiss against the corner of Seyoon’s lips, returning his earlier smile.

“You were talking about a bruise?”

[apricxty]

"Uh, well. Yeah."

Seyoon looked down at the stranger's restrained ankle and gave himself an internal nod of approval at his brilliant taping job. "Just in case you were a whole liar and zombify on me, I needed to be prepared. This way," he grinned smugly. "You'd fall on your face if you tried to crawl after me, and I'd have plenty of time to ditch and lock your undead ass in."

"I mean, what else could I be tying you up for?" He crossed his arms and let loose a light hmph. "Sell your kidneys? There's no market for that right now, unfortunately. And I don't think I am hungry enough to eat you." If this were a video game, they'd be at the beginning stages where people could still find preserved peaches if they tried hard enough, so no need to start chowing down on each other.

Speaking of food.

The grocery owner hadn't put as much aside as Seyoon had hoped, but the box of damaged goods had plenty of dented cans. Seyoon didn't have time to loot properly because, again, he'd been busy, but he'd started pulling some out for a meal.

"You want? It's probably sickeningly sweet." Baked beans, his least favorite, was placed in front of the guy he helped. It was not exactly a great recovery meal, but beggars couldn't be choosers. "This brand isn't the worst, but I only like beans when my grandma makes 'em. She makes it savory, with tomatoes and pork."

Grandma...

A wave of despair hit.

Not going to lie, a part of Seyoon had been pretending this was all a giant simulation game. Every time he shut his eyes to sleep, he hoped he'd wake up to the familiar ceiling of his room, next to his radio clock and plush blankets. With each passing day, reality sank in deeper. Pretty soon, he was going to have to face this.

"What's your name?" Seyoon scrubbed at his eye, irritated to find it wet. "And start thanking me, asshole. I was scared shitless going into that vet office."

[shrikcs]

               TENSION MELTS OFF HIM LIKE WAX AND HIS SHOULDERS DROOP A LITTLE. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, finally rejoicing for his life. He does so quietly, watching the stranger place a can of baked beans in front of him. Having shed his apprehension, Jaerim no longer looks at him with a sharp glint of suspicion, but the general weariness from his passing fever persists.

"I don't know, there's a bunch of fucking psychos out there."

He reaches for the food with a still-trembling hand. He doesn’t care what it is, he’s just glad to be eating something with moisture in it. Jaerim struggles to open it, but once he peels back the metal lid, he rushes to lift it to his lips. Just then, upon glancing up, he ends up pausing mid-motion. 

There are tears clinging to the stranger’s eyes, refusing to fall, and in the next moment he’s quickly wiping them away. Jaerim’s emotionless daze is suddenly pierced through; he hadn’t really been listening, but he heard the word grandma. 

Something about the sight snaps him open. Jaerim’s witnessed more senseless death than he ever thought he’d be capable of stomaching in the past week alone. Hell has descended upon this city with hungry, ferocious undead shambling at every corner, yet he’s remained surprisingly sane. It’s like he’s living through a nightmare while completely lucid; the only sacrifice he’s made is the emotional response that should’ve crashed down on him like a wave somewhere along the line. But he hasn’t felt an ounce of grief. 

Until now, when the ache in his heart feels genuine, even though it’s such a small, faint feeling. 

“Thank you,” Jaerim looks away to grant the stranger privacy. “I thought you were going to—” leave. Leave me to die, because plenty of people already have. 

He swallows, and before the dark thoughts rush in, he throws his head back and eats a mouthful of cold beans. It’s the best food he’s had in days. 

“Jaerim,” he responds eventually. He imagines the man in front of him sneaking into the building next door and risking his life to get him medicine. The weight of gratitude blooms in his chest, fierce and tender. He even brought his backpack when he dragged Jaerim’s unconscious body here. 

Setting the can aside, Jaerim reaches for it.

[apricxty]

He had a feeling Jaerim would have taken that bet no matter what.

Just as he had a feeling that the third ball wouldn't go in.

Whatever, you'd never catch Seyoon throwing a match. And he was still going to celebrate his incredible victory against the undead properly.

The final ball dropped with a thunk, and Seyoon's smugness practically radiated across the table like heat. He kicked off his sneakers before climbing onto the pool table because, despite everything, he was still mindful of the damage his questionable footwear could leave behind. Seyoon raised his cue stick as if it were a trophy and placed down his beer can so he could offer dainty waves befitting of Royalty to his invisible audience.

"Drunken idiot, one. Sulky vampire, zero." He declared with a laugh, his ridiculous victory dance taking him dangerously close to the edge of the table.

"And yeah, Jaerim, I see that sulky look often." Both of Seyoon's feet were on the table's edge, heels hanging off the rail. "I love walking away from people." He was, after all, a lot to handle. If Seyoon could describe himself as a candy, he'd consider himself one of those lemon ones elementary school kids gave to each other as pranks. Sweet on the outside, sour on the inside. He liked to ditch people before they realized what he was truly like. And then sure, yeah, they'd sulk. Might get pissed.

But then nobody would get disappointed.

Wait a second. Thoughts about feelings? Absolutely not. Killing that immediately.

He crouched down, meeting Jaerim at eye level. "So you better take advantage while I am still here with you." He reached out and tickled the vampire under his chin with his index finger the way he might tease his neighbor's ill-tempered cat. "Told ya I'd kick your ass."

[shrikcs]

               JAERIM DOESN’T HESITATE TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF SEYOON, NOR OF HIS POSITION ATOP THE TABLE. He takes his hand and throws him off balance, pushing himself up in one swift motion, and lands on top of him with a crash of limbs. He’s like a cat leaping playfully at another feline, except for the initial force of his momentum that roughly tackles Seyoon onto his back. The cue stick he was holding clatters to the ground noisily as Jaerim pins his hands against the soft felt, spreading his knees to lock Seyoon’s hips between them. Within two seconds, Seyoon is caged below him. 

He smiles down at him. 

“You wanna walk away from me?” 

His inky black eyes glint with hunger and mischief. For a few seconds, Jaerim’s holding Seyoon down tightly, but gradually, the grip around his wrists eases until he’s using nothing but his weight.

He leans down, brushing his lips against the other’s jaw. 

“I like a chase. You better fucking sprint.” He whispers, laughs, then presses their mouths together. Jaerim kisses him deeply. He doesn’t need to breathe, so he doesn’t break off to let Seyoon catch his breath until he feels him struggling against his grasp, and only does so for a second to hear him gasp, to feel his breath against his mouth, before taking his lips again. It’s like he’s trying to steal his oxygen, to leave him shaking without it. 

Meanwhile, he begins to grind his hips, making a start on the bet he lost. Jaerim moves slowly, resisting the dark urge to sink his teeth into Seyoon’s tender skin. He starts kissing along the other’s jaw, pressing his body flush against his, and still it isn’t enough to sate the breadth of his craving. When Seyoon's warmth and scent are immediate, when he’s this close to the vulnerable parts of him—to the fragile skin on his neck, his fluttering pulse beneath it, his jugular—he’s overwhelmed with the oppressive urge to dig his sharp fangs in. 

How easy would it be to hold him down now? Even if he struggles against him, even if he tries screaming, he would smother all of that adrenaline with a single bite, and reduce the hunter to nothing but a warm, pliant body beneath him. 

Seyoon’s quickening heartbeat is loud and relentless beneath him. For a moment, it’s all he can hear. Jaerim closes his eyes tightly, searching for a moment of clarity. What the hell's wrong with him? He doesn't wanna kill him, just—

He draws in a quick, frustrated breath. Jaerim leans back, putting distance between his mouth and the place where Seyoon's pulse beats the strongest. He dislodges himself from his violent impulses like he's fighting off a parasitic, tendriled shadow that grows from his very marrow. Jaerim meets Seyoon's half-lidded gaze as he reaches down, and with slender fingers starts impatiently unbuckling his belt.

[apricxty]

Seyoon had a weakness for hot people. Always did, and likely always will. In this case, it was the reason he took his time leaving, and allowed his eyes to linger long enough to hear the man's declaration that he was not bitten.

Yeah, well, even if he was, he'd say the same, right?

The rational side of Seyoon's mind urged him to keep moving, but his feet felt glued to the ground.

Should he really leave a bleeding man to die? Could he? Love thy neighbor and all that - what would his grandmother think of him if she knew he didn't even attempt to save a life out of fear and self-preservation?

"Yeah, I have some-" The guy collapsed before Seyoon could officially make his offer. Great. Fantastic.

At least the grocery store remained quiet, and after another moment of struggle, Seyoon went to the drawer near the cash register and felt around for the hidden key. Luckily enough, it was still there, and when he tried, the owner's office door swung open. There was no window inside, but under the current circumstances, that fact made him feel safer. He put down his backpack and went back to the unconscious guy, gingerly poking him a few times with his water bottle before moving him by dragging his legs.

He picked up the guy's painkillers and fed some to him with the rest of his water. Judging by the wound, though, this man was going to need more than that.

Some hours later, when poor Jaerim finally woke, he'd find Seyoon tucking a worn seat cushion behind his head. He'd also find one of his feet duct-taped to an armchair leg.

"Oh, um. Hi." Seyoon jumped upon the realization that the guy was awake and backed into a corner to observe. When the good-looking stranger did not crawl at him with murderous intent, he took one step closer. "So I gave you the painkillers you were holding. And uh... found some antibiotics at the vet's office next door. It's for cats, but, like, humans are just large, less cute cats if you think about it hard enough." He was officially rambling. "Anyway, yeah, I just injected a bunch into your arm. I dunno, man, but if you are awake, maybe it worked."

He also made an effort to re-bandage this guy's shoulder injury with some sterile pads and vet wrap he found that had tiny paws on it. It took a bit because Seyoon was kind of scared by what he could find, but yeah, it didn't seem like a bite.

"I also had to take off your shirt because it was soaked with blood. Tried to find you another one, but couldn't." He was busy. "Maybe you can use this... black trash bag for now...?"

[shrikcs]

               JAERIM WAKES TO THE STRANGER JUMPING AWAY FROM HIM LIKE HE’D STUNG HIM. He doesn’t startle, still too drowsy and caught between sleep and wakefulness. Inertia clings to him as he tracks the other’s movement when he retreats against a corner through a half-lidded gaze. Jaerim blinks a few times, his eyelashes fanning against the dark circles beneath his eyes with a slight tremble. The stranger is speaking, rambling, and his words are slow to register as anything but noise. For a moment, it feels as if he’s between a dream, his mind muddled with sleep, lagging to grasp consciousness. 

There’s a bright, harsh light on the other end of the room; a flashlight, he thinks. Gradually, lucidity finds him. A hint of sharpness returns to his eyes as he shakily sits up, the soreness of his muscles making him groan out in pain. He feels dull, diluted; too disoriented to know what he should focus on first. 

He looks down to see he’d been lying on an old cushion. With a deep frown, he starts glancing around the room. He sees a desk, a few lockers, and an old poster on the wall that catches his eye—‘A good rule of thumb for an EMERGENCY STOCKPILE is to include goods that are: canned, dried, freeze-dried/dehydrated…’ 

It seems they’re still in the grocery store. His gaze finally locks on the stranger when he mentions injections. Frowning deeper still, Jaerim glances down at himself and realizes he’s shirtless, with baby-pink adhesive bandages wrapped neatly around his upper back. Oh. He absentmindedly runs his fingers over the paw-print vet wraps, glancing up at the guy.

He remembers calling out to him and asking for water, but nothing beyond that. As his memory returns, Jaerim starts to feel more and more annoyed. He must’ve passed out in the process. How many times does that make? If not for this guy, he’d be dead. 

He swallows with a grimace—his throat doesn't feel as dry as before—and tries to speak. Only a thin, confused sound comes out when he shifts and realizes something’s wrapped around his ankle. He tugs his foot closer. It’s stuck. He can’t.

If possible, Jaerim’s expression grows even darker in his confusion, as if a stormy cloud is passing above his head and raining all over him. He gazes at his foot with knitted brows, leaning back on his hands to push himself further up. He realizes, rather belatedly, that he’s tied to the old armchair beside him. 

With… duct tape? 

… Okay. Time to ask questions. 

Jaerim eyes the stranger carefully, eyes squinted against the bright LED flashlight. He’d given him plenty of explanations, and Jaerim’s vaguely aware that his life’s been saved, but…

“I’m tied…” He trails off apprehensively, his eyes darting to his ankle, then back to the stranger.

[unanuvola]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 🌒 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

[apricxty]

If anyone thought Seyoon was capable of playing fair, sorry to disappoint. He wasn't exactly the honorable type on an ordinary day, and tonight, he was extra motivated.

Was his distraction tactic working? Not sure, but it was likely doing something since he was still ahead in the game by the time he cracked open a second beer.

Don't worry, he wasn't actually going to prick his finger. Seyoon didn't have a lot of survival instincts, but there was still enough sense left inside his noggin to know where a line should be drawn.

"I'm gonna win, babe." He repeated his earlier declaration, still humming a tune. "Are you going to sulk hard when I do?" Seyoon straightened for a moment, studying the table briefly in deliberation of his next move before flickering his gaze back up to Jaerim. "As much as you did last time on the roof." He laughed, remembering the vampire's expression when Seyoon had gotten off him to go to work.

"I was wondering if you were, like, two hundred years old or something. But the moment I saw that look, I was like, nah, no way. This guy must be around my age."

Sounded like he was fishing for information again, but really, Seyoon was just talking. His date was the quiet type, so he was simply doing the awesome thing where he filled up the space. Honestly, Jaerim should be grateful.

Another well-intentioned strike, and a striped ball rolled into a corner pocket. It wasn't exactly the one Seyoon was aiming for, but hey, if it worked out, then that was that. Perhaps fate was helping him out, wanting him to win the bet and get what he was promised.

Right, right, Seyoon shouldn't be this happy over the situation. After all, if everything took a wrong turn, he'd be the first vampire hunter who knowingly walked into a date-trap and allowed a literal supernatural creature with very sharp, very pointy fangs to have a go at his most vulnerable area. His colleagues would be telling his disastrous story as a cautionary tale for centuries.

Okay, must have lost his focus for a second, because his next shot didn't go well.

"Guess it's your turn. Don't get it in. Lose!" He wiggled his fingers in front of Jaerim's cue stick as if he were sending over a curse. "But yeah, is that why you stayed away for so long?" Seyoon poked Jaerim's side with his beer can. "Because you were mad at me for ditching you for work?" Oh, wait, that inspired him. "I know, if you win, maybe I'll try to stop asking you questions for the rest of the night." Try was the keyword here.

[shrikcs]

               SEYOON ARRIVED AT HIS CONJECTURE THROUGH OTHER MEANS, BUT HE’S RIGHT: A TWO-HUNDRED YEAR-OLD VAMPIRE WOULDN’T BE STANDING HERE RIGHT NOW. Jaerim keeps this to himself. The hunters in the city are fewer in number, based on what Elias told him, with a more centralized organization that essentially has no peons in comparison to the Second Inquisition. Due to their considerably fewer resources, they don’t readily sacrifice their own or commit to such large-scale hunts that result in devastating collateral for the mortals in the city. Instead, each hunter is an important piece on the board. No pawns—just knights, bishops, and rooks. 

But that also means their information is severely outdated. If Seyoon had any inkling about the draconian social traditions of kindred society, he’d easily surmise that Jaerim’s bottom-rung. An older vampire has influence and connections. Jaerim has… a lock pick multi-tool and a few bucks he stole from a poor bastard to make this date happen. 

Elias did tell him that the hunters don’t differentiate between the Prince or a sewer-dwelling loner. At least Jaerim can pretend for an hour or two that he’s not trapped in a cult, so long as he avoids the topic altogether. 

He stands by as Seyoon scores another point, lazily leaning on his cue stick. 

“Is that a look you see often?” He asks, casually, realizing at the same time that Seyoon seemed non-pulsed about making out with someone potentially centuries old. But, well, it’s a little too late to be afraid that Seyoon’s gonna have any hangups about the fact he’s a vampire, so he’s not particularly surprised by it at this point. 

Seyoon misses, and Jaerim gives him a small side-glare before he counts the remaining balls on the table. Only eight left. Seyoon has a three-point lead. If he can sink four this turn, then he’ll break ahead. Jaerim positions the cue stick, leaning down to eyeball the shot. The first one goes in, and he stares at the table for a moment while he picks his next shot. Meanwhile, Seyoon’s questions keep coming in. 

“Yeah,” Jaerim gets into position, thrusts the cue stick forward, and another ball goes in. Two more.

If Seyoon knew the real reason Jaerim stayed away for so long, he might try to stake him with the cue stick, if only to take him out of his misery like a sorry animal.

“Let’s go with that.” 

To be honest, he’d rather lose. The opportunity to take Seyoon’s pants off is hanging above his head like a carrot on a stick. There’s no doubt that Seyoon’s victory lap is going to be annoying, that’s simply inevitable, but he’ll have him pinned and moaning in no time. 

Considering this, Jaerim spares a glance at his opponent and makes up his mind. He fails to sink in a third ball, and his turn ends. 

“I don’t really believe you,” he hums, scratches the back of his head as he examines the position of the remaining balls, then steps off to the side. “But I'm wondering if you're really capable of that, so sure, I'll take that bet.”

[apricxty]

@shrikcs

So the world had gone to shit.

Officially.

Seyoon was downtown, getting drunk on a beautiful Saturday night. He had called his buddy, who was running an hour late, only to find out the guy hadn't even managed to leave work. Jeremiah said a whole bunch of people kept on coming in. Apparently, there was some sort of strange fever, and it was making people act a bit funny.

And that was the last time they spoke.

Now, about a week later, Seyoon was carefully sneaking out of an apartment that didn't belong to him, in search of food in a city that looked nothing like it did before.

He had a crowbar, which, according to many video games, was supposed to be the best zombie apocalypse weapon. So far, he hadn't needed to use it for anything other than breaking a window so he could crawl into a mini mart, but it did make him feel safer.

Seyoon planned on heading to a local grocery store. It might already be picked clean by now, but he chatted with the owner often and knew the guy liked keeping some extra inventory in his back office. The spare key to that room should be taped inside one of the drawers near the cash register.

He was mentally going over his plan when he noticed something moving out of the corner of his eye. Seyoon raised the crowbar instinctively, but it wasn't one of the creatures. Not yet, at least. This man seemed to be stuck in the totally miserable fever stage before the end.

Could it be a normal fever, too? Sure. But these days, Seyoon had learned he should not wait around and find out.

"Rest in peace," he said, clasping his hands together like a prayer toward the dude and bowing as if he were looking at a corpse already.

A shame, honestly. Because this one was quite a looker. If they met during more normal circumstances, Seyoon would have said hello.

[shrikcs]

               IT’S BEEN TWELVE HOURS OF PASSIVELY DRIFTING IN AND OUT OF CONSCIOUSNESS. Every time he wakes, he blinks blearily at the watch strapped to his backpack, attempts to get up, then gets so shaky he nearly vomits and ends up falling into restless, fitful sleep. It’s the accumulation of exhaustion, malnutrition, dehydration, and to top it all off, increasingly severe blood loss, all wrapped neatly into the worst fever he’s ever had. His dark, disheveled hair sticks to his pale skin, ghastly with a glossy sheen of sweat. 

He can do nothing but curse himself. This wouldn’t be going half as bad if he hadn’t chosen the wrong house to break into. But he messed up. He hedged his bets about the noises coming from the attic, and then a corpse fell through the fucking ceiling, and then it tried to eat him. In his mad scramble to escape, Jaerim ended up tearing his shoulder blade on jagged edges when he smashed through a glass door with nothing but his body weight. 

Now, he impotently half-sits on a grocery store’s dirty floor—the first empty building he found—barely conjuring up the awareness to pray he doesn’t die. Jaerim is leaning against what used to be the beer coolers, now completely looted, when he hears approaching footsteps. He lifts his head long enough to see a figure walk into view, and a faint spark of hope lights up through his tenuous grip on reality when he realizes it’s a healthy, non-infected guy. His chest rises and falls unevenly as he takes in a breath to speak, only to be cut off by a dark omen that completely baffles him when he hears it. 

“Rest in peace.”

What the hell? It’s not like his doom is set in stone. Help me, goddamn it—... oh, right. The fevers. It starts with terrible fevers. 

A clatter is heard through the aisle when Jaerim gathers enough strength to move and the bottle of painkillers he’d been clutching, now forgotten on his lap, rolls away from him along with a small roll of bandages. The stranger couldn’t have seen this with his brief acknowledgement, but Jaerim did a poor job of bandaging his shoulder, and now blood is seeping all the way through the back of his shirt. He feels absolutely miserable as he attempts to call out, nearly falling into a crawl. 

“Wait,” his voice is hoarse with dryness and shortness of breath. He hopes the man hasn’t walked too far away to hear him. “I’m not bitten.”

Jaerim's eyelids start drooping closed, his vision blurs. He feels bile rising at his throat. After another shaky breath, he leans back, having exhausted himself with such few motions. His eyes close as a wave of pain washes over him, the migraine nearly blinding. After a moment, he speaks again, completely clueless as to whether anyone’s still listening. 

“Do—Do you have water? I can trade.” He swallows. Three aisles away, a small puddle of his vomit is drying into the glossy floor. “I have—” 

As he’s about to list his meager consumables, he drifts off and falls unconscious again.

[shrikcs]

― 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, his 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 restricted, winding streets eventually lead him to a tall, open 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, and therefore everyone defaults to treating him with extreme decorum. Honestly, this is why he prefers the town square. 

The courtyard is large, with a huge, 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.

[shrikcs]

i've been searching for a trail to follow again... take me back to the night we met.

The ever-cursed Sun & Jiwon from our evil, evil hearts. @acatalepsii.

[apricxty]

Boo, all these mysteries.

Seyoon had already told this guy ten things about himself, while Mr. I-Am-Too-Good-For-Small-Talk had revealed basically nothing. Like, he already knew Jaerim was a vampire, therefore a monster and a killer, and had literally witnessed him feeding on a dude. That was the big secret out of the bag, so the guy might as well stop worrying about the rest? Like, come on.

"Well, okay, dodge my question, but just know that I am not gonna be nobody's bitch." Seyoon insisted as he bumped Jaerim back, with greater force than necessary. "I do low commitment, short distance, and casual situationships only." He kept on following, though. "Like, if I can't even be convinced to be this hot forty-year-old's sugar baby, I definitely cannot deal with- whoa."

He was this close to launching into a story about his latest bar adventure when he realized that they'd arrived.

Oh shit, this was a date, wasn't it?

An illegal, trespassing sort of date, but one nevertheless.

For a second, Seyoon just stared. It was dark, but his eyes were bright, almost as if they were lit from within. A flicker of amusement moved through them, like the first spark before a flame could catch.

"And you got me beer." Seyoon sighed. It was a happy sound.

He took the cue stick and cracked open a can. There was no music playing, so he started joyfully humming a tune that would have worked well as background. Guess it was always nice when a guy tried. Even though he didn't have to, because honestly, Seyoon was never that difficult when it came to real babes. Whether they were walking red flags or not.

"You think you are gonna win because you are a supernatural creature and all that, but you are about to get your ass kicked."

Was Seyoon certain he was going to win? Absolutely not. But he leaned over the table with all the confidence of a man who'd never accept defeat. He squinted at the racked triangle of balls, adjusted his grip, readjusted again for fun, then struck.

Fate could have embarrassed him, but it didn't. The cue ball shot forward, cracked into the triangle, and sent colors scattering in every direction. When a striped ball dropped clearly into the corner pocket, Seyoon was already overjoyed. So when a solid followed it into the side, he was actually gobsmacked.

He should really play it cool...

"Holy shit, did you see that?" Too late. "I am a god at this game!" He abandoned the cue stick immediately, grabbed Jaerim's arm, and started jumping up and down. "So you should call your bet instead. What do I get when I beat you?" Yes, he was acting like he'd already won, even though the game had just started and he hadn't even called his next shot.

[shrikcs]

               HE WATCHES FROM THE SIDE AS SEYOON TAKES A SWING OF BEER AND SETS UP TO TAKE THE FIRST TURN. Meanwhile, he chooses this brief lapse in conversation to half-attentively ruminate on Seyoon’s earlier declarations. He’s staring at the pool table completely lost in thought while an ambulance very faintly wails in the distance. Nearby, the hum of a passing car fills the quiet space between them. He’d done nothing but listen with a raised brow and an amused quirk at the edge of his lips, waiting to see where Seyoon’s assertions were going before he got distracted by the beer and forgot to keep going. 

But his amusement was diluted with something else; a gloomy, enshrouded feeling wrapped itself around Jaerim’s ears like a filter through which Seyoon’s words came in. “I definitely cannot deal with—” Yeah, yeah. Jaerim knows. He’s heard the rejection before, he thinks shamelessly, perhaps a dozen times. As a mortal, none of Jaerim’s relationships lasted as long as he would’ve liked. They were like hurricanes and thunderstorms: forming fast and suddenly, wreaking havoc, then leaving nothing but disaster behind. One of his exes even went as far as moving out of the city; he’d tainted everything with his manic obsession. And even six years later, and even though he’s been dead for five of those, the all-consuming obsession finds Jaerim again. 

Seyoon’s red tape means very little to him. Trespassing isn’t a cute, one-off idea he had for a date. It’s a habit. 

          His eyes snap to Seyoon’s figure when he leans over the table to strike the cue ball, breaking the rest out of formation with a series of noisy clacks. Jaerim’s gaze lingers on his hands, the red tips of his fingers as he positions the cue stick between them—up to the deep focus in his gaze, and down to the flash of exposed neck when he tilts his head to line up a shot. Whatever happens on the table is secondary, Jaerim only looks away once everything settles and Seyoon shoots upright in triumph. 

He lets him celebrate early, letting the other jostle him around by the arm in his excitement while his dark, troubled thoughts dissipate with the sound of Seyoon’s laughter. His instigation works; Jaerim’s provoked, but only enough to eventually push him away with a hand against his shoulder before he draws it back to do something else. 

          “I’ll—” Jaerim makes a vulgar motion by pressing his tongue against his cheek and pretending to push something in with his hand. 

He smiles. He does it so quickly and casually that it could’ve been a trick of the light, like striking lighting—leaving only the impression of having flashed because the eyes are too slow to adjust. Jaerim barely makes eye-contact for a second before he tilts his chin towards the table.

     “Finish your turn.” 

Seyoon does, and Jaerim starts his off rather poorly. The hunter’s immediately at work, doing his utmost to distract Jaerim while he lines his shot. Jaerim glares at him beneath his focused, furrowed brows, and ends up only managing to sink two in before he hits the velvet edge when Seyoon, while batting his eyelashes and whispering in his ear to lose, switches gears and suddenly threatens to prick his finger.

[apricxty]

"Feels nice."

It did.

Pleasantly, it reminded him of childhood - when he was truly young, wild, and free. Seyoon spent his earlier days in muddy shorts, every rip stitched and restitched until the fabric carried a map of squiggled repairs. His grandmother used different colored threads each time to make it fun, so that he'd wake up the next morning to a little surprise. Every afternoon she'd scoop him onto her lap and run her fingers through his hair like this, expertly tugging free bits of acorn and pine needles. Pieces of flowers and broken twigs he'd picked up on his adventures.

Strange how a monster's touch could remind him of that.

"This shouldn't work on me, you know." Seyoon leaned down on the hand under his chin, tilting his head until the soft padding of his cheek was pressed against unnaturally cool skin. "Your vampire mind stuff." He smiled. "You guys shouldn't be able to dazzle me, or whatever." Seyoon had not one, but two wards against those fine supernatural tricks. Last time he checked, they were both perfectly intact. Which meant, unfortunately, this was all him.

"Anyway." He tipped his chin off of Jaerim's hand and pushed himself up to stand again. "You are being really nice for a vampire."

Seyoon was back to following. To this abandoned location (also potentially his doom?) Jaerim wanted to take him.

"Is this a let-me-learn-about-hunters-through-this-idiot thing? If so, sorry to disappoint, because I legit know nothing. Fell asleep during Know Thy Enemy: Vampire 101, pissed off most of my hardworking colleagues, and got kicked out of all the juicy gossip group chats."

"Or." They were still walking, but Seyoon leaned over to peer at Jaerim with a gleam in his eyes. "Are you trying to sweet talk me into becoming your personal blood bitch?" He put a hand to his lips as if scandalized by this potential discovery. "Some of y'all have those, right? Or like, a bunch of them. How many have you got, Jaerim? Two? Six? A whole cute little rotation schedule?"

[shrikcs]

               JAERIM HAS A DECENT IDEA ABOUT WHAT SEYOON MEANS TO SAY AS HE PRESSES HIS CHEEK INTO HIS HAND. Vampires are terrible creatures. Many of them possess abilities that go beyond physical prowess; they can dominate the psyche itself, enforcing their will through the power of vitae. That means luring victims in like sirens, imbuing unsuspecting minds with crazed, nearly obsessive desires to please the vampire. Jaerim’s been on the receiving end of such dominance a handful of times; it strips you of autonomy, leaving you no better than a witless puppet at the mercy of a monster. 

It’s impossible to tell whether Seyoon’s experienced that level of heavy-handed mind fuckery, but he seems to know something about it. Even so, the hunter would never guess exactly what crosses Jaerim’s mind. 

His face would be red if he could still blush. The confidence with which he ran his fingers through Seyoon’s hair suddenly seizes gingerly within him, leaving him frozen for half a second while Seyoon smiles up at him. The moment passes quickly, and Jaerim draws his hand back by the time Seyoon stands, pressing it into his pocket once more, where he quietly digs his fingernails into his palm.

It hasn’t been long enough since he died that he’s forgotten what being a mortal is like. Hell, the embrace is burned so vividly into his mind that half of the time he still thinks of himself as a mortal. He’s drawn such a tight boundary between himself and the beast to keep it from swallowing him, and yet it’s still a part of him. It still dictates his hunger, and his hunger dictates him, and everything is so deeply intertwined that he can’t make heads or tails of it. 

He is a monster. That’s an indubitable fact. However, in spite of everything… he still has capacity for thought, for empathy, for self-awareness. Everything that makes up human consciousness, he has it. 

Jaerim rolls his shoulders. He looks upwards, gathering his thoughts. To be honest, he’d rather not think about this at all, but then Seyoon leans over with a glint of playful scrutiny behind his gaze as he examines Jaerim closely, and he can’t help but play along. 

          “Hey, Seyoon…” His lips curl into a grin around the syllables. “Why would I tell you my plans?” 

He bumps his shoulder against the other, pushing into his space with the same impish look. “You’re too impatient for surprises, aren’t you?” 

Laughter fizzles behind his lips, leaving him in a half-hearted scoff. 

          “Just walk.” 

The sad truth is that Jaerim is completely ‘bitchless’, to borrow Seyoon’s phrasing, though the vulgarism isn’t even remotely far from what he’s heard from his brothers and sisters. He isn’t ready to admit that Seyoon’s the first mortal he’s taken notice of, though; that he’s been shamelessly stalking him for the past five weeks, so he swiftly moves on from the topic as they near their destination. 

          The bowling alley’s been abandoned for the latter half of the decade, as far as Jaerim can tell, which makes it entirely possible that Seyoon hung around here before its doors abruptly closed and never reopened. It wasn’t hard to deduce that the place had been used for money laundering when Jaerim broke in a few nights ago, given that everything inside was still in place, from bowling pins to racks of shoes, and a dozen or so cabinets that were gathering dust in the arcade section. He even found bookkeeping. 

None of it is what Jaerim brought Seyoon for, though. He leads them to the back alley, where an employee parking space is fenced off by a tall, concrete partition. Jaerim jumps six-feet up with the grace and balance of a cat, turning on his heels and squatting down to pull Seyoon up, over, and onto the other side. 

          The lamppost at the edge of the property is all that illuminates the small lot, empty save for a singular pool table that sits near the back door, completely out of place. Jaerim doesn’t make a grand showing of it; he’s somewhat embarrassed of his make-shift date spot, and too reserved to even admit out loud that it’s an attempt at a date. Still, he spent a handful of hours walking around the neighborhood until he found this place. 

Since there’s no electricity, he saw no other way but to drag the pool table outside. And, for the first time in… What, years? Jaerim walked into a mini-convenience store and paid for a 12-pack of beer with money stolen from a guy’s back pocket that he ambushed for feeding… Not too far from here, actually. 

The beer’s still ice-cold in a small cooler that he found inside. Although dirty, it serves its purpose as Jaerim drags it over and leaves it next to the table for Seyoon’s discovery. It’s the same cheap beer he’d been drinking at the party.

          “Alright, call your bet.” Jaerim walks over, handing Seyoon a cue stick. “What do I get if I beat you?”

[apricxty]

"Oh, we are close enough to be taking each other places now?" Seyoon raised a brow. This sounded like a horrible idea. Very much resembled a hey, I wish to eat you in the comfort of my favorite old cabin!

So why on earth was he actually following the vampire to his potential doom? Stupidity? Oh no. At this point, it was perhaps time to be honest and acknowledge Seyoon's true weakness - his brain was fully operational, just outvoted by...something else.

At least if it was not far, Seyoon might be familiar with the place already. He wondered, casually, what tickled Jaerim's fancy. Abandoned factory? That really narrow alley between two condemned buildings? Empty underground parking garage? A dark backyard shed? Seyoon's job meant he wandered around most of the local creepy supernatural squatting spots.

Except normally, when he was out fishing in those places, he'd be dressed cuter, with his hair properly fluffed up for presentation purposes. Jaerim had shown up unexpectedly, and he had to move fast, so he still had a piece of hair sticking up in the back of his head and possibly drool tracks that had not been completely wiped clean.

"Next time, can you call or text ahead?" Seyoon continued to wrestle that stubborn strand self-consciously as they walked. "Oh, right, you don't have a phone. How do vampires even communicate, bro? Am I gonna start getting messenger pigeons? A raven? A blood-soaked handwritten letter tied to a brick?" Maybe Seyoon should stop reading vampire romance novels and pretending it was research.

"And damn straight I've been expecting you." Seyoon finally recalled the earlier question. "It's been five weeks, dude. Normally, if a guy ghosts me for that long, I'd never speak to him again. Were you too busy killing people or something?" Because what else do vampires do, right? "Anyway, where are we going? Gimme a hint, or I am done walking." Since there weren't any other people around to witness this, Seyoon actually took a seat on the ground to show his commitment.

[shrikcs]

               “I THOUGHT WE GOT PRETTY CLOSE.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets with a flirty grin that’s all but wiped off the second Seyoon mentions his lack of cellular device. Avoidance finds him again as he turns around, showing his back to Seyoon while he walks ahead for a few paces, gradually slowing down until he’s only two feet in the lead. Jaerim loudly sighs. It’s a useless physiological venture, but good for showing his shameless disregard. 

Seyoon doesn’t realize what he implies whenever he mindlessly complains, like the not-so-subtle reminder that Jaerim knows where he lives, and the fact that he sat around waiting for him, and now that he expects a ‘next time’ before he even knows where Jaerim’s taking him tonight. He can’t tell if it’s confidence or a lack of self-preservation, but it does endear him to Jaerim past the original intent to seek his blood. The strange mixture of resistance tied with willingness excites him more than he’d care to admit. 

          “Whatever,” he sulks, looking toward the street. He’d almost forgotten the ridiculous lie he told Seyoon at the cemetery. To Jaerim’s credit, it’s not entirely unlikely that the guy who fell from a rooftop could also fall into a lake. 

          “Can’t I just show up at your apartment?” 

That seems like the best solution, and whether Seyoon likes it or not, it’s the only one. If Jaerim tips off the Second Inquisition freaks because he tried sexting, he’ll be the ridicule of the entire city, and then it’ll only be a matter of time before either the Inquisition, Camarilla, and hell, even the Anarchs find and kill him. A vampire who can’t keep the Masquerade is a nuisance to all. 

Elias is teaching him all about that. 

          The hunter doesn’t wait around for explanations a second time. Jaerim walks a few paces ahead before he realizes Seyoon’s not following, and when he turns around, he finds him sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. He blinks at him once, twice, unsure what to make of the sight. In the end, Jaerim ends up walking back, staring at the crown of Seyoon’s head with a thoughtful look. His hair is still disheveled despite his efforts, and Jaerim takes the freedom to rake his fingers through the dark strands now that he’s been given the opportunity. 

          “You’re done walking anyway,” he points out, mindlessly carding his fingers through and ignoring the first half of Seyoon’s questioning. “I guess it’s possible you’ve been there before,” he offers nonetheless. “It’s a place that’s abandoned.” 

With that, Jaerim drops his hand to lift Seyoon’s chin. “There?”