“Guardianship Trials (or: why is there a billionaire in my afterlife)”
It started quietly.
Not with flyers, not with announcements—just whispers.
Old beings talking in corners. Doors in the Infinite Realms staying open a little longer than they should. Names being passed around like secrets.
The Prince pretended not to notice.
He was good at that.
He’s not a baby.
He’s not even technically young, not by ghost standards. But apparently, “young enough to be reckless” is still a category, and unfortunately, he fits.
And ever since he and his shadow-twin lost their original domain, the whispers got louder.
He needs guidance.
Structure.
Protection.
He needs a guardian.
The Prince disagrees.
Firmly.
Loudly.
Repeatedly.
The compromise?
A trial.
Not a tournament—no, that sounded too… fun.
This is something older. Stranger.
A series of tests. Of worth. Of intent.
Anyone powerful—or foolish—enough can try.
He didn’t expect humans to qualify.
Which is why the first time he sees one, he assumes it’s a mistake.
The man stands out immediately. Not because he’s loud—he’s actually very quiet—but because everything around him reacts.
The air tightens.
The ground stills.
Even the watching entities pause.
The Prince tilts his head.
“…You’re alive.”
The man nods once. “Yes.”
“That seems like a disadvantage.”
“…I manage.”
The shadow-twin likes him instantly.
Of course she does.
She circles him, curious, eyes bright with something sharp and playful.
“He’s weird,” she declares.
The Prince sighs. “That is not a qualification.”
“It should be.”
The man doesn’t try to impress.
Doesn’t boast.
Doesn’t even seem particularly concerned about the ancient beings watching his every move.
Instead, he asks questions.
Practical ones.
“Are you safe here?”
“Who enforces the outcomes of these trials?”
“What happens if no one qualifies?”
The Prince hesitates on that last one.
“…That hasn’t been decided.”
The man’s expression tightens, just slightly.
“I see.”
He doesn’t win the early trials.
Not in the obvious way.
There are beings older than stars here. Creatures made of storms and memory and hunger.
They overpower him easily.
But—
He keeps standing back up.
Keeps adapting.
Keeps watching.
And slowly, something shifts.
Not in the trials.
In the Prince.
Because this human—
This strange, stubborn, completely out-of-place human—
Summary - Lost in the woods during a storm, you stumble into the cabin of a vampire who hasn’t fed in far too long. Determined not to hurt her, he fights his instincts—until her blood proves different, stronger, impossible to ignore. As danger closes in from outside and his control begins to crack, staying alive might mean trusting the one thing that should want her dead.
Warnings - Vampire!Bucky au, dark Bucky, blood/graphic description of blood, hunger/feeding instincts, loss of control, predatory behaviour (non human), stalking/hunting, violence, physical fighting, injury (head injury/bleeding) implied sexual tension (non explicit) panic/fear, isolation/trapped in a cabin vibe, dark atmosphere, predator v protector, touch starved Bucky, mutual tension, slow burn, he’s trying not to hurt her, protective Bucky, mentions of period blood, murder.
Writers notes - No proof read or word count, this is a different type of writing for me, I don’t read Vampire fics dunno where this came from just popped in my head! It is quite long grab a snack!
The woods felt wrong the moment you stepped into them.
Too quiet. Too still. Even the air felt heavy, like it was watching you.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, glancing back the way you came—but the path was gone. Just trees. Endless, dark trees.
“Great,” you muttered under your breath. “Lost. Perfect.”
A branch snapped somewhere behind you.
You froze.
“Hello?” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to. “Is someone there?”
Silence.
Then—another sound. Closer.
Your heart started pounding as you turned slowly, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs refused to move.
A figure stepped out from between the trees.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in dark clothes that seemed to swallow what little light filtered through the canopy. His hair brushed his shoulders, damp as if he’d been standing in the rain long before it started.
His eyes caught yours—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
“Are you lost?” he asked, voice low, calm… too calm.
You swallowed. “Yeah. I—I can’t find the trail. Do you know how to get out of here?”
He studied you for a long second. Not just looking—assessing. Like he was trying to decide something.
Then he nodded. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
A strange chill crawled up your spine.
“I wasn’t planning to be,” you said, attempting a nervous laugh. “I just… wandered off.”
His gaze lingered on you again. This time, it felt sharper. Hungrier.
Before you could question it—
Thunder cracked overhead.
You flinched as the sky opened, rain pouring down in seconds, soaking you to the bone.
“Come on,” he said, already turning. “My place is nearby.”
You hesitated.
Every horror story you’d ever heard flashed through your mind.
Strange man. Woods. Isolated house.
But another crack of thunder shook the sky, and the rain turned freezing.
You didn’t really have a choice.
“Okay,” you said quickly, hurrying after him.
—
His house appeared out of nowhere.
One moment, just trees—and the next, a dark, old cabin sat between them, barely visible through the rain.
No lights.
No sound.
No sign anyone else had ever been there.
Your stomach twisted.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside without looking back. After a second, you followed.
The inside was dim. Sparse. No electricity—just candles already lit, flickering like they’d been waiting.
“How…” you started, then stopped yourself.
He moved across the room with quiet, unnatural grace, grabbing a towel and tossing it to you.
“Dry off.”
“Thanks,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
You stood there awkwardly, dripping onto the wooden floor, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.
The silence.
The darkness.
Him.
He was watching you again.
Not your face.
Lower.
Your stomach dropped.
“Um…” You tightened your grip on the towel. “Listen, I really appreciate the help, but…”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
For a second, the room went completely still.
Then—
He laughed.
It wasn’t loud. Not cruel.
But it wasn’t normal either.
“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “If I wanted to hurt you… I wouldn’t have brought you inside.”
That didn’t make you feel better.
Not even a little.
Another step.
Your breath hitched.
Something had changed.
His expression was tighter now. Controlled. Like he was holding something back.
“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly.
“What—? No, I’m not—”
But even as you said it, you realised - your period
And the way his eyes darkened—
Oh.
Oh.
You took a step back. “It’s just— it’s nothing, I—”
“I know what it is,” he said.
His voice had dropped lower now. Rougher.
Hungrier.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
“How?” you whispered.
He inhaled slowly.
Too slowly.
Like he was savoring the air.
“I can smell it.”
Your stomach flipped.
Every instinct in your body screamed at you now.
Run.
“Hey,” you said shakily, backing toward the door. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me—”
“I won’t,” he snapped.
The word came out sharper than before.
He froze, like he surprised himself.
Then he dragged a hand through his hair, turning away from you.
“You need to stay back,” he muttered. “I’m trying… not to lose control.”
Your breath came fast now. “Lose control of what?”
He didn’t answer.
Slowly, he turned his head—and when he looked at you again—
His eyes weren’t the same.
Darker.
Glinting.
Something not human flickering behind them.
And when he spoke—
“You really shouldn’t have come here.”
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“…What are you?”
A long pause.
Then, very quietly—
“A mistake.”
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room for just a second—
And you saw it.
The sharp edge of fangs.
Gone as quickly as it appeared.
You stumbled back, hitting the door. “You’re—”
“Yes.”
The word landed heavy.
Final.
Your hand fumbled for the handle behind you, but he moved faster—appearing between you and the exit before you could even blink.
You gasped, pressing yourself against the wood.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” he murmured, voice strained, like every word cost him something. “And I meant it.”
“Then let me go,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes.
For a second, you thought he might.
That maybe this was some twisted misunderstanding.
But then he inhaled again—
And his jaw clenched hard.
“You don’t understand,” he said, barely holding it together. “You’re standing in a room with something that’s starving… and you smell like—”
He cut himself off, taking a sharp step back.
Like he was afraid of himself.
“I’m trying,” he said, almost to himself.
Your fear flickered—just slightly—into something else.
He hadn’t touched you.
Hadn’t even tried.
Despite… everything.
“Then keep trying,” you said softly.
He looked at you, something conflicted flashing across his face.
“You should hate me,” he said.
“I don’t even know you.”
Another pause.
The storm raged outside, thunder shaking the walls.
Inside, the tension was worse.
Finally, he moved—slowly this time—stepping away from the door.
Giving you space.
“I’ll take you out of the woods when the storm stops,” he said quietly. “Until then… stay as far away from me as you can.”
You didn’t move.
Didn’t run.
Even though you could.
“Okay,” you said.
He nodded once, turning away again, shoulders tense like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.
And for the rest of the night, you stayed on opposite sides of the room—
Listening to the storm.
And to the sound of something dangerous…
Choosing not to be.
—
The storm didn’t let up.
If anything, it got worse.
Rain hammered against the cabin like it was trying to get in, wind howling through the cracks in the walls. The candles flickered violently, shadows stretching and twisting across the room.
And him—
He was unraveling.
He told you his name. Bucky hadn’t looked at you in what felt like forever. He stood on the far side of the cabin, one hand braced against the wall, head lowered, breathing slow and controlled—too controlled.
Like if he slipped for even a second, something bad would happen.
You tried to stay still. Quiet. Small.
But the silence between thunderclaps made everything louder.
His breathing.
Your heartbeat.
The distance.
Your fingers fidgeted nervously, picking at the skin around your nail—something to distract yourself, something to do—
Until—
“—shit,” you whispered.
A sharp sting.
A tiny bead of red welled up at your fingertip.
You didn’t even think about it.
Not at first.
But he did.
He went completely still.
Not tense.
Not strained.
Just… still.
Like the world had stopped.
Slowly—too slowly—his head lifted.
You felt it before you saw it.
That shift.
That pull.
“Don’t,” you said quickly, instinctively closing your hand.
Too late.
He inhaled.
And the sound that left him—low, unsteady—sent a chill straight down your spine.
“That’s… different,” he murmured.
His voice wasn’t the same anymore.
You swallowed. “It’s nothing. Just a cut—”
“No.” His head tilted slightly, eyes locked on you now. Darker. Focused. “No, that’s not—”
He took a step forward.
Then stopped himself like he’d hit an invisible wall.
His jaw clenched.
“Why does it smell like that?” he asked, more to himself than you.
You didn’t have an answer.
But you could feel it too now—the shift in the room.
The tension had changed.
This wasn’t just hunger anymore.
This was something sharper.
Pulling.
“You should stay back,” he said, but the words lacked the force they had before. Like he didn’t entirely mean them.
Or didn’t want to.
Your heart was racing now—but not just from fear.
You looked at your finger.
Then at him.
He hadn’t hurt you.
Hadn’t even come close.
Even now, he was fighting it.
Fighting himself.
Slowly, cautiously, you stepped forward.
“Hey,” you said softly.
His head snapped up. “Don’t.”
But you didn’t stop.
“It’s just blood,” you said, even though you both knew it wasn’t. “You’re in control, right?”
His expression twisted. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Then help me understand.”
Another step.
Now you were too close.
You could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his hands flexed like he didn’t trust them, the way his eyes kept flickering to your hand—
“I can hear your pulse,” he said quietly. “I can feel it.”
“Then don’t lose control.”
Your voice was softer now. Steadier than you felt.
You lifted your hand slightly.
Not forcing.
Just… offering.
His reaction was immediate.
He backed up a step like you’d burned him.
“No.”
But his eyes didn’t leave your finger.
“You need it,” you said.
“I don’t take from people.”
“You’re not taking,” you whispered. “I’m giving.”
The storm roared outside.
Inside, everything held still.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Then—
Slowly—
He stepped forward.
Every movement was careful. Measured. Like he was walking a line that could snap at any second.
“Last chance,” he said, voice low, rough. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t.
You just nodded once.
That was all it took.
His hand came up—hesitant at first—hovering near yours like he was afraid to touch you.
Then his fingers closed gently around your wrist.
Cold.
So cold it made you shiver.
He paused there, eyes searching yours one last time.
And then—
He leaned in.
The moment his lips brushed your skin, everything changed.
Not sharp.
Not violent.
Careful.
Controlled.
But the second he tasted your blood—
He froze.
A quiet, broken sound left him.
And then he lost ground.
Not completely—but enough.
His grip tightened just slightly, breath hitching as if something in him had snapped awake.
Like your blood wasn’t just feeding him—
It was doing something else.
“God—” he whispered against your skin.
You felt it—the shift in him. The way his control wavered, then strained back into place like it was barely holding.
It only lasted a few seconds.
Maybe less.
But when he pulled away, it was abrupt.
Like he’d forced himself to stop.
He stumbled back from you, releasing your wrist instantly, staring at you like he didn’t recognize what had just happened.
“What… was that?” he asked hoarsely.
You swallowed, your pulse still racing. “I don’t—”
“That’s not normal.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now. “That’s not— I’ve fed before, I know what it’s supposed to feel like—”
He stopped.
Looked at you again.
Something like realization—fear—settled in.
“That wasn’t just hunger.”
Your stomach dropped. “Then what was it?”
His voice came quieter now.
Worse.
“Need.”
The word hung between you.
Heavy.
Unsettling.
He shook his head immediately, like he could undo it. “No. No, that’s not—”
But even as he said it, his eyes flickered back to you.
To your hand.
To you.
And the way his expression tightened—
Horrified.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”
He backed away further, putting distance between you again like before—but now it felt different.
Not just to protect you.
To protect himself.
“Because now,” he said quietly, voice rough with something dangerously close to panic, “I don’t know if I can stop wanting it.”
The silence after his confession stretched thin.
I don’t know if I can stop wanting it.
It lingered in the air between you, heavier than the storm, heavier than the fear.
You flexed your fingers slightly, still feeling the ghost of his grip, the cold of his skin, the way he had reacted.
Not just hunger.
Something worse.
Something deeper.
And then—
A different kind of discomfort hit you.
Subtle at first.
Then not.
Your stomach tightened as reality crashed back in, grounding you in something painfully normal compared to everything else.
You shifted your weight, glancing down for a second before looking back up at him.
“…Hey,” you said, a little awkwardly.
He didn’t answer right away. He was still watching you—but more carefully now. Warier. Like you’d become something unpredictable.
“I, um…” You cleared your throat. “I need to use the bathroom.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Bathroom?” he repeated, like the word didn’t quite register.
“To—change,” you said, quieter now. “My pad.”
The reaction was immediate.
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
You blinked. “No?”
“You can’t,” he said, sharper this time.
A flicker of irritation cut through your nerves. “I can’t just not—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted, running a hand through his hair again, pacing once before stopping. “You can’t leave blood here. Not like that.”
You stared at him. “It’s not like I’m planning to redecorate your floor—”
“That’s not what I mean.” His voice dropped, strained. “I can already smell it. Every second it’s stronger. If it’s… out, if it’s—”
He cut himself off, visibly forcing the thought away.
Your stomach sank.
“Oh.”
Right.
This wasn’t just awkward.
This was dangerous.
You wrapped your arms around yourself slightly, shifting again, more uncomfortable now.
“Okay… but I don’t exactly have a choice,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m already bleeding. If I don’t change soon, it’s going to soak through my clothes.”
His eyes snapped to you again at that.
Not predatory.
Not exactly.
But intense enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re saying it’s going to get worse,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” you said bluntly. “That’s how it works.”
He looked away immediately, like that information alone was too much.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
The storm filled the silence again—rain, thunder, wind rattling the cabin.
You could practically hear him thinking.
Calculating.
Struggling.
“There’s no bathroom,” he said finally. “Not really. Just a back room.”
“Fine,” you said quickly. “That’s all I need.”
“No.” Again, firmer this time.
Frustration flared. “What do you want me to do, then?”
He hesitated.
And that hesitation told you everything.
He didn’t know.
Because every option was bad.
Let you go alone → more blood, more scent, less control.
Keep you here → same problem, just closer.
Send you outside → worse than anything in here.
You exhaled shakily. “I’m not trying to make this harder, okay? But this is happening whether we like it or not.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I know.”
“Then help me figure something out.”
He went still again.
Then, slowly, he looked at you—really looked this time. Not just as a threat.
As a problem he didn’t want to hurt.
“…I can’t let you out of my sight,” he said.
Your brows knit together. “That’s—kind of weird, given the situation.”
“It’s not about control,” he snapped. Then softer, strained, “It’s about making sure I don’t lose it if the scent spikes.”
That… made sense.
In a terrifying way.
“So what,” you said carefully, “you’re just going to stand there while I—?”
“No.” Immediate. Tense. “I won’t look.”
You let out a disbelieving breath. “That doesn’t make this less awkward.”
“I’m aware.”
Silence again.
You shifted uncomfortably, wincing slightly.
“Bucky,” you said, more serious now. “I’m not kidding. I will bleed through my clothes.”
His jaw clenched hard at that.
Like the words physically hit him.
“Then we do it fast,” he said.
You blinked. “We?”
“I’ll stay by the door,” he clarified quickly. “Back turned. You go into the back room. Keep it contained. Wrap whatever you use. Don’t let it—“
“I get it,” you cut in gently.
He stopped talking.
Breathing.
Thinking.
Then gave a short, stiff nod.
“…Okay.”
You hesitated before moving, studying him for a second.
“You’re sure you can handle that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
His eyes flicked to your hand again—where the smallest trace of blood had already set him off earlier.
Then back to your face.
“No,” he said honestly.
That made your stomach flip.
“But I don’t have a better option.”
Fair enough.
Slowly, you stepped toward the back of the cabin.
He moved immediately—positioning himself near the doorway like he said, turning his back to you, shoulders tense, head slightly lowered.
Putting distance.
Giving you space.
Trying.
You slipped into the back room, closing the door most of the way behind you.
Not fully.
Just enough.
For a few seconds, everything was quiet except the storm.
Then—
From the other side of the door—
You heard it.
His breathing change.
Sharper now.
Less controlled.
Like he could smell it already.
Your hands shook slightly as you worked quickly, trying not to think about it—about him just a few feet away, about what your blood was doing to him, about how close things already came to going wrong.
“Almost done,” you called out softly, more for his sake than yours.
No response.
Just the sound of him gripping onto control with everything he had.
When you finally finished, wrapping everything as carefully as you could, you hesitated before opening the door.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
He didn’t turn around.
“Is it contained?” he asked, voice tight.
“Yes.”
A beat.
Then another.
Slowly, carefully, he nodded.
“Good,” he said.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t relax.
And when you stepped back into the room, you realized why.
Because even like this—
Even careful.
Even controlled.
It was still affecting him.
You could see it in the way his shoulders were locked, the way his hands trembled just slightly at his sides.
And the way he refused to look at you.
Like if he did—
He might not stop himself this time.
The shift is instant.
You feel it before you hear it.
Bucky goes completely rigid.
Not tense like before—not struggling.
Still.
Predatory.
His head tilts slightly toward the door.
And then—
Knock.
Three slow, deliberate hits against the wood.
Your stomach drops.
You hadn’t heard anyone approach.
No footsteps. No branches snapping. Nothing.
Just—
There.
Bucky moves fast.
One second he’s across the room, the next he’s right in front of you, his hand gripping your arm—not rough, but firm enough to lock you in place.
“Don’t move,” he whispers.
His voice is different now.
Low.
Sharp.
Dangerously focused.
Another knock.
This one harder.
More impatient.
“Barnes,” a voice calls from the other side of the door. Male. Smooth. Wrong. “I know you’re in there.”
Your breath catches.
Bucky’s grip tightens just slightly.
“Be quiet,” he murmurs, eyes locking onto yours. “No matter what you hear.”
You nod quickly.
He releases you just as fast, stepping back—putting distance between you and the door.
Positioning himself between you and it.
Always between you and it.
A third knock.
Then—
A slow drag of something against the wood. Finger nails, maybe.
“I can smell it,” the voice says, quieter now. Almost amused. “Don’t make me knock again.”
Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s bracing himself.
Then he reaches for the handle.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“Stay behind me,” he says under his breath.
And then—
He opens the door.
The storm howls louder for a second as it swings open, rain blowing in—
And there’s a man standing there.
Tall. Pale. Dark hair slicked back, clothes untouched by the storm like it avoids him.
His eyes flick past Bucky—
And immediately try to look past him.
Bucky shifts instantly, blocking the line of sight.
“There’s nothing here,” he says flatly. “You’re mistaken.”
The other vampire smiles.
Slow.
Knowing.
“Funny,” he says. “Because I’ve been following that scent for miles.”
Your pulse spikes.
Bucky doesn’t move.
“Then you should keep following it,” he replies. “Because it doesn’t lead here.”
A pause.
The man tilts his head slightly, studying him.
Then he leans forward just a fraction—
And inhales.
Your stomach twists.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “No… it definitely leads here.”
Bucky’s posture changes.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
More grounded.
More dangerous.
“You need to leave.”
The man’s gaze sharpens, something darker flickering behind it.
“And miss out on whatever you’re hiding?” he asks. “I don’t think so.”
He shifts, trying to step past the doorway—
And Bucky blocks him immediately.
Faster than you can track.
A low, warning sound builds in his chest.
“Don’t.”
The other vampire pauses.
Then slowly looks back at him.
Really looks this time.
And something clicks.
“…You’ve already tasted it,” he says softly.
Your breath catches.
Bucky doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t need to.
The silence says enough.
The man smiles wider.
“Well,” he says, voice dropping, “that explains the territorial attitude.”
“Get. Out.”
Bucky’s tone is no longer calm.
It’s controlled violence.
Barely contained.
“You don’t get to keep something like that to yourself,” the man continues, ignoring him completely now. “Not when it smells like that.”
Your pulse hammers louder.
You can feel it.
You know they can hear it.
Both of them.
Bucky shifts again, subtly forcing you further behind him.
Shielding you completely.
“There’s nothing here for you,” he repeats.
The man laughs softly.
“You’re lying.”
“And you’re trespassing.”
Another step forward.
Another block.
Closer now.
Too close.
The air between them feels like it could snap.
“Move,” the man says, voice losing its softness.
“No.”
A beat.
Then—
“You think you can stop me?” the other vampire asks.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Certain.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
The man’s expression darkens slightly.
“You always did have a stubborn streak,” he mutters. “But this isn’t about you.”
His eyes flick again—trying to see around Bucky.
Trying to see you.
“Whoever’s back there,” he calls, louder now, voice smooth again, coaxing, “you don’t have to hide. I’m not the one keeping you locked up.”
Your chest tightens.
Bucky’s shoulders tense hard at that.
“Don’t listen to him,” he says immediately, not even turning around.
“I’m just offering options,” the man continues lightly. “Because trust me—if he’s already fed, he’s not going to stop.”
Bucky’s fist clenches.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think I do,” the man says, amused. “I know what that kind of blood does.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Charged.
Then—
A quieter, more dangerous shift.
“Last chance,” Bucky says.
The storm cracks with thunder behind them.
The man smiles again.
“Or what?”
And for the first time since you met him—
Bucky doesn’t look like he’s trying to hold himself back.
He looks like he’s about to let go.
—
The shift from tension to violence is instant.
One second they’re staring each other down—
The next—
Bucky moves.
He slams his hand into the other vampire’s chest and shoves him back off the porch, the force enough to send him skidding across the mud and gravel.
“Leave,” Bucky snarls.
The other vampire barely reacts to the impact.
He just straightens slowly… then smiles.
But it’s not amused anymore.
It’s feral.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says, voice dropping into something uglier. “Not when you’ve got something like that in there.”
His eyes flick past Bucky again—locking onto you for just a split second.
And that’s all it takes.
“I think I’ll drag her out,” he continues, almost conversationally. “Suck her dry… and make you watch every second of it.”
Your blood runs cold.
Bucky doesn’t hesitate.
“Not a chance.”
The words are sharp. Final.
And then—
The other vampire lunges.
Too fast.
Faster than before.
A blur of movement straight for the doorway—
For you.
But Bucky is already there.
He intercepts him mid-step, slamming into him with enough force to crack the wooden frame, both of them crashing into the side of the cabin.
The sound is violent.
Wood splintering.
A low, animalistic snarl tearing from both of them as they collide.
You stumble back instinctively, heart racing, trying to get out of the way—
But they’re everywhere.
Too fast.
Too strong.
The other vampire swings—Bucky blocks—grabs—slams him into the wall hard enough to shake the entire structure.
The man recovers instantly, twisting, striking back—
A blur of fists and movement you can barely track.
Then—
He breaks away.
And he’s coming straight at you.
Your breath catches—
You try to move—
But you’re too slow.
A hand shoots out—
And then—
Bucky is there again.
He grabs the other vampire mid-lunge, yanking him back, twisting his body away from you—
“Stay back!” Bucky snaps.
You stumble further away, but your foot catches on something—
The edge of a chair—
And suddenly you’re falling.
Hard.
Your head slams against the side of the table—
A sharp crack—
Pain explodes behind your eyes.
For a second, everything goes blurry.
Warmth trickles down your temple.
Blood.
The scent hits the air immediately.
And everything stops.
Not physically—
But instinctively.
The other vampire freezes for half a second.
Then his head snaps toward you.
Eyes wide.
Hungry.
“Oh, that’s—”
His voice breaks into something desperate.
“—that’s even better.”
Bucky feels it too.
You see it in the way his entire body goes rigid.
The way his breathing stutters.
The way his control—
fractures.
The other vampire lunges again.
Pure instinct.
Pure hunger.
But Bucky doesn’t block him the same way.
He doesn’t just defend.
He attacks.
There’s a crack as he grabs him mid-motion, slamming him into the floor so hard the boards groan beneath them.
“You don’t touch her!” Bucky roars.
The other vampire snarls, fighting back, teeth bared now, fully feral as the scent floods the room.
“You can’t keep that from me!” he spits. “You think you can control it? You can’t even control yourself—”
That’s it.
Something in Bucky snaps.
Not control.
Not entirely.
But restraint.
His movements change—sharper, more brutalz
He doesn’t just hold the other vampire back—
He overpowers him.
Pins him.
Hands locking around his throat with terrifying strength.
The other vampire struggles, clawing at him.
But Bucky doesn’t budge.
“You picked the wrong door,” Bucky growls.
And then—
A sickening crack.
The body goes still instantly.
Silence crashes down just as hard as the storm outside.
You’re breathing fast, vision still swimming, hand pressed weakly to your head.
Bucky stays there for a second, unmoving, like he’s making sure it’s over.
He grabs it by the collar, dragging it across the floor and out the door, tossing it into the rain like discarded trash.
Bottle it Up!
✨ a supernatural/spirit/ghost school AU ✨
| next |
This is a project ive been working on, for along time. And it's finally here!!!! :DD
It's a story about four students (the cast), a school full of secrets, things we try to hide from the "world", and from "ourselves"
Everyone in this story is bottling something:
Some of them will break
Some of them will heal
Some of them maybe won’t even make it
But all of them WILL change
Inspired by awesome works like:
TBHK, TADC, my own personal life, and intresting mysteries.
I wanted to make something with symbols emotions and it has a little uncomfrtable atmosphere (if you can find them) but still made from my heart!
A story where every single detail matters: every shadow, every number, every flower
Each cover will be in color, shaded.
Pages will be black and white, like a manga!!
You can ask questions about the story, (just click the asks button) I'll try to answer all of you guys questions, fully but without giving any details, about the actual story. You can ask about like anything, like for example some my sisters made up "why does the school look like a jail cell" "why does shadow look shy here" "why is silver where a blue bow?" and etc!
Thank you for reading.
I hope you will stay with me and this story as everything slowly starts to show.
Kicked out of your apartment and out of options, a grad student in Seoul prays at a half-forgotten mountain shrine. Something answers — a fox god with too much pride and nowhere left to go.
Bound by accident and resentment, you must learn to survive each other — and the things that feed on sorrow.
CHAPTER 1
starring ⋆ f!reader x park sunghoon
this chapters contains ⋆ no smut (sorry), infidelity, ex boyfriend jungwon, mentions of suicide,, fl and sunghoon are essentially strangers at this point, sunghoon is kind of a dick, lots of exposition
length ⋆ multi chapter ⸻ chapter 1: 8.8k words
author's note ⋆ inspired by kamisama kiss, one of my all time favorite shoujo anime's. i have adjusted the folklore to be traditionally korean as opposed to japanese. enjoy hoon as tomue, aka a gorgeous gumiho with a taste for pretty girls
On the morning of your eviction, Seoul is gray under storms. The rain comes hard—miserable, merciless—turning the air to mist and the streets to mirror. The city feels half-erased, like someone has smudged the day with a wet thumb.
Your aunt stays dry spot in the doorway, barricading you from the inside like a bouncer. Behind her, the flat—your home until this morning—already feels out of your reach. You stand in the corridor, pressed against the railing. Rainwater slides down your neck, cold enough to make you flinch.
“I’ve let you scam me for too long, girl. You’re just like your father,” she snaps. She shoves an old suitcase toward you. “Lazy. Good for nothing. A brat.”
“I’m sorry,” you manage, your gaze lowered.
“You’re twenty-three, Y/N,” she scoffs, unmoved. “Either pay up- or get out.”
You glance at the suitcase, it’s fabric darkening with water. You’d packed it weeks ago: a few shirts, two pairs of jeans, your interview outfit. One notebook. A charger. A toothbrush. The bare minimum in case you had to move suddenly.
You’ve lived under the threat of eviction for months. Now that it's finally happening, the whole thing almost feels practiced. You know what comes next. Still, the words slip out, soft and foolish. “I’ll have it by next month. Please.”
An echo. A force of habit. You remain desperate even when you know better.
“Tch,” she scoffs. “You said that last month. Spare me. Come back when you can pay, you worthless child.”
Behind her, the wallpaper curls from the damp walls. The kitchen counter holds a small TV that blares the morning news—sirens, traffic, something about a storm warning. The apartment is cramped, overheated, a little sick with age. Thick with the smell of moth balls and old fabric softener. She guards it like even this is too much of a treasure for someone like you.
You exhale.
“Fine.”
There’s nothing left to argue. You’re not losing much—just a room that smelled like mold and reheated soup. You would figure it out- you had the most practice. Surviving bad luck was the driving force of your life.
Still, as you stand there, you feel a small and stupid grief for it all—the dent in the wall where your mirror once leaned, the framed photo of your father by the door, the flicker of the TV through the thin partition. It wasn’t home, not really. But it was a place where the lock worked, and for you, that counted.
The rain swallows the city below, and for a moment, you wonder where a person goes when they’ve run out of places. Then, you begin to drag the suitcase to the stairwell. You barely register your aunt’s parting insult, or the door slamming shut behind you. It all folds into the sound of the rain—loud, relentless, swallowing everything.
You take the stairs two at a time, suitcase thudding against your leg, shoes slipping on wet concrete. Somewhere in this mess, you still have to make it to class. You’ll figure out the housing later.
When you reach Gireum Station, the card reader flashes red—Insufficient balance. You freeze, brain blank for a second, rain dripping off your sleeves onto the scanner. The machine beeps again, loud and cruel, and someone behind you sighs. Of course. Of course this would happen.
The commuter behind you sighs again, impatient—a girl that looks to be around your age, dressed in a spotless trench coat, perfectly dry. You step aside, clutching your wet suitcase handle, lips drawn into a thin line. She doesn’t look at you.
The exhaustion presses tighter, like the air itself has turned to glass around you. You can feel the panic flicker, but it’s muted, muffled—just another feeling you ignore to get through a bad day.
You check your balance: twenty won. Enough for now. You load the minimum onto your T-card, ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach. Through the gate, water dripping from your sleeves, you begin to repeat it to yourself like a mantra.
It’s fine. You’ve been here before—in the gap between what you owe and what you have. You always find a way to keep moving.
You have to.
The train feels even slower when you’re late as you are, and you hate how you must bear it. The train, crawling to a stop, every 5 minutes or so, unhurried in it’s journey towards Hyehwa Station.
By the time you reach campus, your sneakers squelch against the tile floors, leaving a trail of dark footprints behind you. You’re thirty minutes late. Maybe more.
Was it even worth coming? You’d already racked up forty absences.
Still, you go. God. Your professor was going to kill you.
When you push open the door, the noise in the lecture hall dips for half a second. The professor looks up mid-sentence—brows raised, and then lowered, followed by a tsk.
“Sit down,” he says.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sliding into a seat in the back. Your notebook clings to your wet palms, pages damp at the corners. He glances your way once before returning to the board, his voice blending with the steady hiss of rain outside.
The room is overheated, fluorescent, heavy with the smell of damp coats and old coffee. A girl beside you scrolls through her phone beneath the desk; someone coughs into a sleeve. You plug in your laptop, ungraceful.
“As I was saying,” your professor continued, turning back to the class “Folklore is a compelling cinematic tool. It allows screenwriters to define the laws of a world by borrowing from customs that have already captivated the literature."
Your filmmaking program was dense- it was difficult for you to determine where in the syllabus the class was at. Folklore- was that unit 4? 5?
"When you use a creature from mythology, you’re not just invoking fear — you are applying it’s contextual history, belief, morality. Establishing cause and consequence.”
Your professor paces slowly across the front of the room, his shoes tapping against the tile. The projector hums, light spilling over his notes.
“This is something found especially in Korean cinema,” he continues. “Western films often invent their monsters — things created to further new horror or spectacle. Norman Bates. Frankenstein. But in our stories, the monsters come from tradition. We inherit them. The gumiho, dokkaebi, imugi, gwishin — they aren’t villains so much as vessels. They carry our grief, our rage, our longing. They carry han (한).”
“Persistent national sorrow," he continues. "The emotion that never dies — only changes form.”
You should probably be taking notes, but your pen sits idle. What good would notes be at this point? If you started diligently writing down every word, you think your professor would certainly laugh at you.
Listening was enough. The topic was interesting, which helped. Persistent sorrow. That sounded a bit like your life.
Did you have feelings that unrelenting? Hard to say. You hadn’t felt much of anything lately—just the usual fatigue dressed up as purpose.
Your professor keeps talking — about The Wailing, A Tale of Two Sisters, movies using old legends to blur the line between guilt and punishment. He keeps talking, explaining how every culture’s spirits serve a purpose—some to warn, some to comfort, some to punish. In Korean stories, spirits tend to remember.
His words start to drift. You scroll through job listings on your laptop—part-time shifts, unpaid internships, “opportunities for exposure.” Occasionally, you stare at the slide of a gwishin projected on the wall: a pale woman in white, hair loose, eyes hollow.
“These myths endure because they make emotion visible. Fear. Regret. Longing. Han.”
You shift in your seat, pulling your sleeves down over your hands. The word hangs in the air a little too long, and then he clears his throat.
“If you can’t explain a myth in one line,” he says finally, gesturing toward the screen, “you don’t understand it. For example: ‘A fox who wants to be human.’ Which myth is that?”
You answer before you even think about it. “Gumiho.”
He presses his lips together. “Precisely.”
-
After class, your professor calls your name before you can reach the door.
“Y/N. Please stay."
You close your eyes, cursing your fate. The day has been long enough without this conversation.
Arms crossed, your professor takes in the sight of you. Gaze averted. “Y/N. You’ve missed several sessions in a row.”
“I know,” you start, the words tumbling out too quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry—there’s been a lot going on and—”
“One more,” he cuts in. “One more, and I’ll have to remove you from the program.”
You falter. “Wait—remove me?”
He frowns, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve already extended your attendance leniency. But the department has rules. I can’t keep excusing absences, not with the others noticing.”
“I’m passing,” you say, as if it matters. “My grades are fine. I can catch up—”
“It’s not about grades.” His tone is firm, but not cruel. “You are talented, Y/N. You have genuine talent as a screenwriter. But talent doesn’t mean anything if you stop showing up. There is nothing I can do.”
You open your mouth but words fail to materialize. The silence between you stretches thin, filled only by the hum of the projector cooling behind him.
He softens slightly. “I’m saying this so you have a chance to fix it. Don’t waste it.”
The words land with a dull thud. You nod miserably. It’s just another thing slipping out of reach, like the rest of your life lately. “Okay,” you lie. “I’ll fix it.”
He studies you for a moment, then gives a short nod before turning away. “I hope so.”
In the hallway, the fluorescent lights hum faintly above you. The air still smells like wet coats and cafeteria broth. Your stomach tightens with hunger.
You check your phone: no messages, no calls, no reply from the gym where you’d interviewed to film short videos. Just one text from Jungwon.
hey, when are you getting your stuff?
You stare at it until the screen dims.
There was a time when hearing from him might have made you feel better—given the day some shape. Now it only makes you feel like shit.
-
You met Jungwon two years ago, at a mutual friend’s party. A small apartment, too many people, music leaking from someone’s laptop speakers.
He wasn’t part of your usual crowd. An economics major surrounded, for reasons unknown, by film students. He floated easily between groups — girls, guys, anyone who laughed at his jokes. Jungwon was one of those people who seemed to know everyone, and for a while, it felt like everyone wanted to know him.
His hair was long when you met, hands always running through it to keep it out of his eyes. He was doing just that while paying attention to your half drunk ramble about a movie with a smile on his face. Someone introduced you, and you said hello without much thought.
You were mid-conversation about some must-watch picture when he started asking you questions. He listened to you that night. Really listened. Maybe that was what caught you — or what caught him. You spoke about movies like they mattered, as if cinema explained how people worked. He liked that you seemed to know what you were talking about. He liked that you knew what you wanted.
He told you later he found you fascinating. You made things feel alive, like you could see the threads running through everything — art, politics, grief, love. So different from him. Jungwon’s world was measured — graphs, boring theory, clean conclusions. Yours was subjective, inconsistent, full of theory and intuition.
He admired that. You thought admiration was enough. Too young to notice the difference between being understood and being idealized.
You’d always known Jungwon’s idea of you was dramatic, but it was easy to embrace the illusion. He saw you as brilliant, self-possessed — someone worth admiring. Being adored like that felt good, especially when it came from someone like him. Jungwon was stable, handsome, and generous. He said he’d take care of you, and maybe it was nice to believe him. Just once.
If things had lasted, of course, he wouldn’t be texting you now, asking when you planned to collect your things.
It started with the jobs. You were always working, always broke, barely keeping ahead of rent. At first, he called it admirable. Then he called it unnecessary.
He’d offer to help — paying for dinner, slipping cash into your hand “just in case.” Sometimes he’d cook for you, all confidence and charm, as if affection could replace autonomy. You’d try to refuse, but it was hard to argue when he was already at the register, or when his mouth was already on yours. He loved you. You believed that.
Still, the comments came. Light at first.
“You never let me spoil you.”
Then sharper.
“You never even offer to pay.”
It stung, but what could you say? He wasn’t wrong.
“If you can’t afford dinner,” he said once, “maybe take a semester off. Figure things out. I don’t mind helping, you know that. I just thought you’d have a plan by now.”
So you worked harder. Longer hours, smaller paychecks. You wanted to prove you could match him, that you weren’t just another problem to solve. But the harder you tried, the more distance opened between you. Soon you couldn’t keep up with his world.
Every passing week, the gap widen. On the other side were the parties, the weekend trips, the friends with internships that actually paid. Like a desert mirage, more an illusion than reality for you. He’d ask why you never came out anymore, and you’d tell him the truth: you had work.
But did that make the way things ended any less humiliating?
You only found out about the cheating by accident. Jungwon eventually became careless — caught kissing some twenty-year-old at a party. Not even discreet about it.
When you confront him, he just shrugs. “You’ve been distant,” he says, bitter. “It was going to happen.”
As if your exhaustion excused his betrayal.
You don’t cry. You just go still — like your body’s waiting for the rest of you to catch up. He isn’t even apologizing.
“You didn’t even ask if I was okay,” you say.
He looks at you for a moment, brows furrowed. “I knew you weren’t. But I couldn’t fix it. What was I supposed to do?”
That’s what breaks you. Not the cheating — the casualness. The way he frames your pain as an inconvenience.
Still, you don’t leave. Not right away. You promise breakfast tomorrow. You needed a little more time to accept that the person you loved didn’t like you anymore.
The next morning, you forget your wallet. Maybe on purpose. Maybe just to see what he'll do.
At the café counter, he sighs.
“Of course you forgot it.”
You snap before you can stop yourself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m tired,” he snaps. “Of taking care of someone who can’t get her life together.”
It goes quiet after that. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. You feel humiliated — not shocked. You’d known he was drifting toward cruelty; you just didn’t know he’d crossed the line already.
“I’ll pay you back for everything,” you tell him.
He laughs. Not kindly.
“It’s not about money,” he says. “You just drain people.”
-
You exhale- half laugh, half sobbing at the awful memory of your relationship ending. The rain has turned violent, hammering the pavement until it glitters like metal. In the glass door separating the lobby from the rain, a stranger looks back at you — eyes rimmed red, hair stringy and dark against her cheeks.
Your next class starts in fifteen minutes. Fuck it. You’re not going.
You shove the door open. The cold air hits like a slap. For a moment, you just stand there, the wind threading through your wet clothes, your breath ghosting white. Then you sit on the concrete steps, rain spilling down your back, gathering in your shoes.
It’s easier to stay still than to pretend you have somewhere to be. Class? What worth was class if you were going to get kicked out anyways?
Should I end my life? you wonder. The words arrive the way intrusive thoughts always do — dry, absurd, strangely calm. You don’t know if you’re actually considering it or not.
It would certainly be a neat solution. There would be no one to miss you. The only hurdle was your own cowardice, but that could certainly be changed over time.
A voice interrupts you. “Are you alright?”
You look up.
A man stands near the base of the hill behind the media building, close to a narrow path that disappears into the trees behind campus. He waves, as if you’re acquaintances who’ve just spotted each other in the rain.
At first, you think he’s just another student. He looks your age—or ageless, really—with the kind of beauty that makes him immediately look trustworthy. His pale skin glows under the gray sky. Hair a shade too fair to be natural, dark at the roots, damp and sticking to his forehead. His clothes are simple—white shirt, loose trousers—but they look untouched by the rain, as if the air refuses to touch him.
When he smiles, it’s small and deliberate. There’s a stillness about him, something un-modern, like he’s been standing there for a very long time and only now remembered how to move.
He tilts his head at you. “Poor thing. You look worn out. You want to be taken care of, don’t you?”
You swallow. The rain is so loud it almost drowns him out.
He smiles, faint and knowing. “Try praying. There’s a shrine up that path. Might help.”
Before you can answer, he turns and walks away, vanishing into the gray.
You stand, more out of instinct than choice, and follow the incline. The path winds behind the vending machines, slick with moss, the air thick with petrichor and something older.
The traffic fades first, then the chatter of the student, until all that’s left is the rain and the rustling of the trees. You wonder why you keep walking. Did you really believe that handsome stranger at the foot of the mountain?
No, not really. In truth, you keep walking only because going back feels worse. The idea of sitting in another class you're failing, seeing Jungwon to pick up your belongings, sleeping in some sauna like a trransient... all of these caused a familiar feeling of bile to rise in your throat. You couldn't do it. You would much rather disappear in this mountain, into the treeline forever.
Your legs ache. Your fingers are numb. You press your palms to your thighs and keep going, though the path keeps narrowing — a thin ribbon of mud winding upward through fog.
By the time the ground evens out, you’re breathing hard. The rain has softened again, a fine mist that beads on your eyelashes. The world is quiet. Too quiet. For the first time, you realize how far you’ve come.
How far below you the city must be now, how distant and unreal it feels. At the top sits a small shrine. The structure leans slightly, roof tiles glistening, offerings long washed away. Cigarette butts scatter the ground. Two fox statues guard the entrance, eyes dulled by weather.
You collapse at the steps, leaning your head against the stone.
"If there’s a god here, fix it. Fix all of it. Please," you whisper.
Thunder murmurs in response — low, like laughter caught in its throat. The rain starts again, harder this time. You have no choice but to huddle beneath the shrine’s eaves, arms wrapped tight around yourself, clothes clinging cold against your skin. You’re so tired you stop pretending otherwise. The sob catches before you even realize you’re crying. “Seriously?” you whisper — to the rain, to the gods, to no one at all. “It can’t keep getting worse. I’m so tired.”
Your words are faint, disappearing into the background of the storm.
Then, slowly—
The air changes.
A warmth flickers through the cold, faint at first — like the moment before lightning. The wind stills. The smell of incense thickens, sweet and old. You lift your head just as the shrine begins to glow.
Pale light spills from the altar, first a faint ray, then searing Blue flames flare to life, rippling along the roof beams, blinding. You stumble back, eyes wide, one hand raised against the light.
And then — silence.
When the brightness fades, a man stands at the center of the shrine.
He’s tall — taller than you expect — with strands of black hair plastered to his temples, long enough to brush the collar of his robe. The rain slicks through it, glinting like ink under the light. His skin is pale, almost luminescent against the storm. Sharp brows frame eyes that could cut glass.
Eyes. Yes, those eyes. Dark, attentive, edged with something not entirely human. Something in your mind thinks back to your professors lessons — the old stories that warned maidens never to meet a god’s gaze.
He’s beautiful — devastatingly so — like a Joseon era prince. Every line of his face carries that quiet arrogance of someone born to be obeyed.
And yet, his expression is pure irritation, like you’ve interrupted a deep slumber.
He was unmistakably inhuman. You, quite the opposite, had seemingly angered him.
“Pathetic," he seethes. A harsh emotion mars his otherwise serene beauty. "I’m summoned by tears now?”
You blink up at him.
Were you finally going crazy?
“Excuse me?” you say, still half-blinded by light.
He arches a brow. “You cried to the heavens so mournfully and expected what, a miracle? Congratulations. You’ve inconvenienced me instead.”
You stare. “I didn’t mean to 'summon' anyone.”
“How could you not summon something with such loud cries for help.” His tone drips with disdain. “I mean who can ignore thoughts like yours? I'll tell you right now, if you want to kill yourself you can’t do it here!”
Your face turns red. “I wasn’t planning on it!” you snap, forgetting how cold you were all of a sudden. “And if I knew how to not summon whoever the fuck you are, I would’ve done that instead.”
His expression hardens. The man looks away from you, scowling.
“This is my shrine. You can’t summon anyone but me.”
You glance at the flickering foxfire around him. The faint heat has dried your clothes without you noticing.
“I didn’t know." You close your eyes. You have to try again. This man had enough of a conscience to warm you. Perhaps he could see reaason.
"I thought I was just—” Your voice wavers halfway through. You swallow hard.
Your throat burns. It’s been such a long day. Too many surprises. Too much failure. All before noon- and now, even this stranger, this impossible man, looks at you like you’ve failed some invisible test. You blink hard, but the tears rise anyway.
“I'm sorry. I thought I was talking to myself.” This is all you can manage.
Something in his expression falters when he sees your eyes glisten, but neither of you moves. You press your sleeve to your face, angry at yourself for shaking, angry that this man—of all people—is the one to hear you beg for a break.
Before he can continue, the air ripples — a shimmer in the corner of your vision.
Something shifts behind him. Out of nowhere, two short creatures materialized, half-transparent in the mist. Your first thought is that they oddly resemble children—small bodies, oversized masks. One mask sports a single curved horn; the other with little curls of fire near the mouth.
You've seen masks like this before. In your screenwriting class. Were these—
Goblins?
The horned one squeals. “Master! She’s alive!”
The other goblin is more reserved. “Human, aren’t you? Hm. That’s not supposed to happen. She is the one that broke the seal?”
“Seal? What seal?” you say, voice pitching higher than you’d like. they ignore you.
“Lord Sunghoon,” the quiet one says, bowing in reverence. “We thought you were gone for good!”
“I was,” the man—Sunghoon—says flatly. His eyes cut toward you. “Until someone couldn’t keep her crying to herself.”
Your stomach twists. Heat rises in your face but you're too shocked to defend yourself.
“Master Sunghoon,” the serious one says, pointing at the man in front of you, “is the guardian spirit to the mountain god of this shrine. At least, he was the guardian spirit before the deity vanished. Master Sunghoon has been resting since the palace fell to ruin.”
The horned one nods solemnly, then looks at you. Even behind a mask, you get the sensation that they're smiling. “And you unsealed him!”
“How?”
“You’re a vessel,” the horned one says matter-of-factly. “Bridge between realms. You’d know all this if you weren’t—”
“Pathetic,” Sunghoon finishes for them. “She is a human, meaning she is useless-honestly, I don't think I'd have stirred at all if she didn't display such an extreme case of human insecurity with those wails.”
Your jaw trembles. “I didn’t wail. I—” You stop. “Fine. Let's say I did. It’s been a long day.”
He folds his arms, unimpressed. “Tragic. Next time, try journaling.”
The horned goblin coughs, earning a glare from Sunghoon. “Sorry, my lord, but regardless of the reason, she did unseal you. She is a likely candidate if she can manage that!"
“Candidate?” you say, struggling to follow along. “For what?”
“For the vessel,” the serious one offers impatiently. “How did you find your way here, if you don't even know that?”
“Um. Some guy told me to pray. Big smile. Soft looking. Around my age?" You try to remember more discerning details about the stranger, but meeting him feels like a memory from lifetimes ago. "He didn't look very human either, but nowhere near as scary as your Master.”
“Sounds like the Mountain God!” the horned one says encouragingly.
“Please," Sunghoon scoffs. "I haven’t seen him in months. I doubt a random mortal would be the one to pull him out hiding.”
“Ignore him,” the horned one says. “If you saw him and you unsealed Master, you are more than worthy of being a vessel! Allow us to explain.”
The goblins drift in lazy circles around you. “When a god’s will is dormant—"
"Dormant?"
"Gone. Weakened. The god has lost the will to perform his duty. It can happen after a tragedy," the horned one says. "Stop interrupting!"
"When a god's will is dormant," it resumes, "they have an option to return to heavens and choose a human vessel instead. Our god disappeared months ago- but it seems like some of him’s latched onto you. Lucky girl!”
You point at yourself. “You’re saying I’m—?”
“The vessel!” both goblins chorus.
Sunghoon pinches the bridge of his nose.
“All of those things are purely circumstantial evidence of the mountain god's supposed decision to use this girl as his vessel,” he says. “It’s probably all a coincidence. The universe has a sense of humor.”
“And why would any of this be funny?” you challenge.
“Look at you,” Sunghoon snorts. “You are not fit to be a vessel. You are human, weak minded, ready to end your life at the merest inconvenience. Praying to a god like you would be a fool's errand."
You throw up your hands. “Well, sorry for being available asshole!”
That gets his attention. His eyes flick toward you, sharp and silver in the half-light. “Watch your tone.”
“Why? Are you going to smite me? Do it. You heard me! I'm desperate to die, aren't I?”
He takes a step forward, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. The rain clings to his skin like glass. “You are incredibly insolent for someone who just begged the god of this shrine for help.” His voice is low. "Mind your manners."
You meet his gaze, stubborn despite the heat rising in your chest. “Yeah? Sounds like the god of this shrine isn't hear. Just you.”
The words hang there, reckless and ringing. Even the rain seems to pause. He studies you, expression complex—somewhere between anger and yes, quiet, microscopic even, but still, undeniably there.
Interest.
You are given no chance to explore further.
“You’re reckless,” he says. “And foolish. And clearly not meant for this.”
The goblins exchange glances, shifting in nervous little circles.
“Good thing she can learn!” the horned one says finally. “So that’s that, right? She’s the new vessel? Ready to talk divine contract?”
Sunghoon gives a short, cold laugh. “Hardly.”
The warmth drains from the air again, replaced by the faint scent of ozone. His eyes — bright, sharp, and faintly cruel — turn toward you.
“A mortal like you couldn’t survive a day as the mountain god's vessel. The spirit realm would overwhelm you,” he says. “You wouldn’t even last an hour.”
“I haven't even tried. Somehow I managed to conjure up the three of you. I'm sure I can figure out this spirit realm."
He looks unimpressed. “You have no power. No magic. You can’t sense the barriers between realms. You cry too easily. You’d fall apart the moment something looked at you wrong.”
You open your mouth to protest, but the words catch. The worst part is, he sounds like he believes it — not even cruelly, just as a fact. Why are you even engaging with this? Did you even want to be a vessel?
“Then what do you suggest I do?” you ask, arms crossed. “Go back to class like none of this happened?”
“That would be wise,” Sunghoon says. “Forget you ever saw me.”
He takes a single step back, and the foxfire around him brightens — flickering white, then blue. The air hums.
“Wait—”
Too late. His body dissolves into smoke, tendrils of light twisting through the air before vanishing completely. The shrine grows quiet again, the only sound the slow drip of rain from the roof.
You stare at the space where he stood. “Unbelievable.”
The horned goblin scurries forward, waving his stubby arms to appease you. “Oh, don’t worry! He's always like that. Foxes love to pretend they don’t care. Sunghoon especially.”
The fiery one huffs. “No, he means it. But he’ll come around.”
You glare. “And what makes you think that?”
“Because you’re his only option,” the fiery one says matter-of-factly. “The old contract that marked him as guardian spirit weakens daily since the mountain god vanished. Without a new vessel and a guardian, this shrine will turn into a site for demons."
"Master Sunghoon could leave," it adds, "but then he would be abandoning this place and- well, the mountain god is a dear old friend of his and gumiho's keep their promises. It is more likely for Master Sunghoon to die than abandon this shrine.”
You blink. “You’re saying he’s dying?”
“Dramatic word, dying,” the horned one says quickly. “More like… spiritually bankrupt?”
“That’s not better.”
The fiery one shakes her head “No it's not! He needs to form a divine contract! Something to root him to the living world again.”
You purse your lips. “And you really want me to do it?”
“You’re the one the bond chose,” the goblin replies simply. “We don’t question fate.”
“I do.”
“Well, maybe fate knows something you don’t!!” the horned one chirps. “This could be the answer to your prayers!”
You sit back on your heels, drenched and cold, trying to process the absurdity of it all. “This is insane.”
The horned one grins. “Oh, it’s not so bad. You’re a pretty girl. Foxes love vanity. If you find him, bat your lashes, he might even bow.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. I’ll take my chances.”
"Think of it this way!" it chirps. "As a guardian spirit with a divine contract, Sunghoon would have to obey your every command! All you would have to do is kiss him, and the contract is signed. Wouldn't that be nice?"
“Kiss him and make him obey me,” you repeat flatly. “To do...what?”
"And housing! Vessels get free housing at the Mountain God Shrine!" The fiery one drifts closer. Clearly, the more observant of the two. You cannot turn down housing after this morning's eviction. "So? Will you do it? We must hurry before he disappears again. He doesn’t like to linger in the mortal realm.”
“Fine. I’ll find him. Happy?”
The horned one beams. “Delighted!”
The fiery one looks pleased too, though their expression never quite leaves the realm of mildly annoyed. “Thank you master L/N!”
Thanks were not needed. You knew you couldn’t ignore their pleas, now that you had the additional context.
Sunghoon had a god awful personality, but the knowledge of what this shrine meant to him made it difficult for someone like you to deny helping this odd mountain family.
There was something endearing about Sunghoon caring deeply for his friendship with the mountain god, tending to his shrine so diligently. Such unwavering loyalty moved you, having never experienced anything close to it in your own life. And, well- the goblins were so cute. How could you deny them when they were asking so nicely?
“Alright now. I have located Master Sunghoon, so hold still,” the fiery one says, raising a hand. “This will feel… unpleasant.”
“Wait—what will?”
Too late.
The world ignites in blue-white foxfire. It rushes up around you like a tidal wave, swallowing air, sound, gravity. Your stomach lurches. The floor disappears. The next breath burns.
When the light fades, you’re standing somewhere entirely else.
The air is thick with the scent of incense and something sweet, cloying, unfamiliar. Everything glows—red lacquered walls, gold threads curling through silk curtains, candles dripping wax like blood. Music hums low and slow in the background, played on instruments you don’t recognize.
You realize, slowly, that you and the goblins are in a brothel.
The horned goblin claps his hands, bright as ever. “Ah, the Spirit Pavilion! Classic Master Sunghoon, that rascal! Should’ve guessed he was here!”
Ghostly courtesans drift between rooms, their movements fluid as smoke. Their faces are flawless, their laughter practiced. Mirrors line the walls, and in every reflection you catch something just slightly wrong amidst the beauty—a pair of animal ears where none should be, a tail slipping in and out of visibility, teeth a shade too sharp.
“Wow,” you murmur, dazed. “So even the spiritual realm has places like this.”
The serious goblin hisses. “Don’t speak so loud! The spirits here don’t take kindly to sarcasm, like you and Sunghoon.”
“I wasn’t mocking,” you whisper back. You are slightly humored at the idea that there is already a 'you and Sunghoon'. “Just observing, goblin.”
A woman glides by, trailing a sickly sweet perfume. Her eyes flick toward you, then widen faintly. “A human?” she whispers.
“Yes, hi,” you say, smiling. “Have you seen—”
"And a hideous one at that?" she gasps. Your dignity dives into the gutter.
“Hello Lady Spirit. Have you seen Lord Sunghoon?” the horned goblin cuts in proudly. “Guardian Spirit of the Mountain, contracted to the powerful Mountain God Kim Sunoo, sealed for three years, face like a poem—”
“Yes, yes, that one,” you interrupt. “Would you happened to know if he is here?”
The woman nods, speaking to the goblins she seems to recognize while eyeing you with suspicion. “He’s in the inner chamber. As usual.”
"Thank you!" the serious one says, bowing deeply. The woman nods, sending you one last confused stare before floating off.
The “inner chamber” turns out to be exactly what it sounds like — decadent, ridiculous, and way too warm. The door slides open with a soft click, and the scent of lotus oil hits you immediately.
There, in the center, Sunghoon lounges in a sunken bath, half submerged, steam curling around the upper half of his body in ribbons. Water beads along the curve of his adam’s apple, shining against his pale skin. His hair is spread across the floorr, where the stone meets the edge of the bath, his face sharp and languid all at once.
Beautiful handmaidens surround him, stroking his hair, pouring him tea. Sunghoon’s shoulders are loose, a relaxed smile on his face, as they bathe him.
You should look away. You don’t.
Something about him feels impossible—too composed, too luminous for this world. For no particular reason, when he glances your way through the steam, you pray he cannot see you. You press yourself against the screen door, hanging behind as the goblins enter to plead with him.
“Master Sunghoon! We found you!"
He offers nothing but a non-commital hm.
"Please, Master Sunghoon,” you hear one goblin say. “Without a contract, the shrine will continue to fade. She’s the only hope we have had in three years.”
Sunghoon doesn’t answer. His eyes remain half-lidded, handmaidens pouring water over his shoulders. Their laughter ripples across the air like stones skipped from the shore, interrupting the stillness.
“Master Sunghoon,” the other goblin tries. “It is not too late. She’s agreed to form a contract—”
“And I've denied,” he says smoothly. “I told you, I don’t need a mortal.”
“You can’t keep putting this off!”
Sunghoon exhales, long and bored. “You mistake this for indecision. I’ve made my decision. No.”
“Master,” the horned one begs. “You’ll vanish again if you don’t form a contract. Don’t you even care?”
He doesn’t respond. A handmaiden leans close to whisper something; he smirks, lazy and detached, as if the world beyond the bath doesn’t exist. The goblins wilt under the weight of it, exchanging helpless looks.
Your stomach twists. The words are cold enough to burn.You step out from behind the screen.
"Ah!" the fiery goblin says. "No! What are you doing? You'll only make him angrier!"
You ignore it. "Well," you say, voice shaking only a little, “sorry for interrupting your royal spa day.”
At that, he looks over his shoulder, surprised. He’s still infuriatingly beautiful but his selfishness now makes it easy for you to ignore it.
“I see you’ve recovered your voice,” he says. “Good. You’ll need it to scream when the spirit realm devours you whole.”
You stare flatly. “You are such an asshole."
The handmaidens giggle behind their hands. Sunghoon ignores them. “I told you to go home.”
“And I told you I don’t exactly have one.”
The horned goblin tries again. “My lord, please! Without a vessel, your power will unravel! The mountain will decay!”
“The mountain will survive,” Sunghoon says, voice cool. “Sunoo is not a weak god.”
The goblin floats closer to the bath. “You know that’s not true. The forest’s dying. The spirits can’t cross freely anymore. The balance is failing.”
He still doesn’t look at her. “What do I care? I am a gumiho.”
You sneer. “Great attitude for a guardian spirit. What do you guard even? Your own selfishness?”
His gaze cuts to you—slow, sharp, dangerous. “Careful, mortal.”
You take a step closer anyway, water glinting against the edge of the bath. “You act like I wanted any of this. Like I begged to be introduced to a gumiho with no apparent skill other than insulting people.”
He leans back, faintly amused now. “You think too highly of yourself. You’re a coincidence. A vessel because the universe ran out of options.”
The words sting but are ultimately powerless. Sunghoon's cruelty might have hurt more on a different day, but the humans around you have already said as much all morning. “So what if I am? I’m used to being people’s last resort.”
You swallow, voice soft but steady. “If you are finished, there's no need to come up with more cruel things to say.”
He doesn’t reply. The silence stretches until you break it yourself.
“You think I’m weak,” you say. “But strength isn’t pretending you don’t care. It’s what you do when no one else does.”
That earns his attention.
“You can call me mortal, pitiful, whatever makes you feel better,” you continue. “But I’m still here. With no energy to live for myself, I still came for you because these goblins said it was their duty. Because they asked, sincerely, for my help. That’s more than you did for anyone. That is more 'godly' than this.”
The air in the room changes—sharper, charged.
The horned goblin breaks the silence with a whisper. “Soooooo… contract?”
The fiery one elbows him. “Not now.”
Sunghoon stares at you. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
You lift your chin. “Maybe not. But you can't accuse me for giving up.”
-
You leave before anyone can see your face. Never mind that you don't know the way back without the goblins. It was just a mountain- you'll walk down until you saw the school.
The air outside the brothel hits cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering scent of incense. The path down the mountain gleams slick in the rain, lanterns flickering in and out of existence along the trail. You walk fast, not because you know where you’re going, but because stopping feels dangerous.
You tell yourself you don’t care. That he doesn’t deserve your anger. But your throat burns anyway.
The forest grows quieter the farther you go — too quiet. Even the rain seems to hesitate, held in the air like it’s waiting.
Then the cold changes. It isn’t weather anymore. It’s presence.
A whisper threads through the trees, faint as static. You freeze. The voice comes again, low and soft, echoing somewhere inside your head.
Poor thing. No one wanted you.
You turn, but there’s nothing—only mist, the suggestion of movement just beyond sight. The air bends around it, wrong and heavy.
Then you see it.
A shape pulling itself out of the darkness — human, almost, but cursed. Eyes hollow. Clawed. Mouth foaming.
A juryeong. Wandering grief.
It moves faster than you can think, the whisper turning into a chorus of every failure you’ve ever tried to forget. The words scrape at your skull, too familiar to deny.
You’re a burden. You drain people. You should’ve disappeared a long time ago.
You stumble back, slipping on the wet stones. The world narrows to teeth and shadow. It lunges.
And then—
Light splits the air. The juryeong’s scream rattles through the trees before dissolving into nothing. When the smoke clears, Sunghoon stands where it was.
Foxfire flickers along his hands, then dies out. The forest goes silent again.
You stare at him, trembling. “You—”
“Get out,” he says quietly. Not cruel, not loud—just tired. He flicks water from his sleeve, eyes cutting through the dark to you. “You don’t know what else is out there.”
You swallow hard. “I didn’t—”
He steps closer, close enough for you to see the faint gold ring around his pupils, the sharpness in his jaw, the glint of something half-alive behind the disdain.
“Get out,” he repeats. The words land like a slap. “Before something else comes for you.”
You don’t move. The rain hits harder.
You want to thank him. Or scream. Or ask why he came. But before you can speak, the air bends again and he’s gone.
You stand alone on the trail, chest heaving, heart loud against the storm.
-
By the next morning, you’re back in the city.
It doesn’t make sense — one minute you were still halfway down the mountain, soaked and shaking, and the next, you were standing outside your campus gate with your suitcase, your shoes leaving muddy prints on the pavement. You don’t remember the walk. You don’t remember sleeping. Somehow, it is the next day and all you have to remember your encounter is an echo of his voice: Get out.
Classes resume. The vending machines hum. The hallway smells faintly of wet paper and floor cleaner. Everything is the same, except for you.
You start realizing students have always known about the shrine, that it was only news to you because of how isolated you've become. You hear them whispering, near the courtyard, after classes, more so as the weather worsens.
“My friend said the mountain’s cursed. Her phone camera wouldn’t work near the shrine.”
“They say girls disappear their all the time."
"What's with the fox statues even?"
You keep walking.
The day passes in pieces. You move through it like someone half-awake. The lecture hall lights hum a little too loud. The world feels… thin, like something underneath is pressing against the surface.
When you pass a window, your reflection lags half a second behind. You blink, and it’s gone.
Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was a dream.
You touch your wrist absently, where a faint warmth still lingers — a mark you can’t see, but feel, like static under skin.
That night, you dream of the mountain again.
Always the same sequence—rain whispering against the trees, foxfire burning behind your eyes. You never see him, only the afterimage of his light: a glow that feels warm at first, then unbearably sad.
You wake every time just before dawn, breath caught in your throat, the shape of his voice still echoing somewhere in your chest. Get out. And yet, you can’t. Not from the dream. Not from whatever tethered itself to you that night.
By the third morning, you give in.
You head back towards the trail, ignoring how ridiculous it feels to be doing this again—to be walking the same route, soaked shoes and all, like a story refusing to end. Half-ashamed, half-determined, you climb.
The path looks different in daylight. The moss glows electric green. The trees hum with cicadas. You almost convince yourself it was all imagination—until you reach the clearing.
The shrine stands where it always has, roof sagging under the weight of time. The air smells of wet stone and incense.
You pause, heart hammering. Then:
“Hello?”
Your voice carries through the trees, soft and uncertain.
“Hello? Sunghoon?”
Nothing answers.
You try again, louder this time, stepping closer to the altar. “Hey! Goblin guys? Mr. Gumiho? Anybody?”
Only wind. Only the steady drip of rain from the roof tiles.
The place feels emptier than you remember, like something’s been drained out of it—the warmth, the noise, the trick of light. Even the fox statues look duller, their eyes clouded with moss.
For the first time, you feel the full weight of it: you might really be alone here.
You set your bag down at the steps and sit, hugging your knees. The silence presses in, thick and watchful. Somewhere deep in the woods, a crow calls, sharp and far away.
“Fine,” you mutter, voice small. “I’ll wait.”
You don’t know what you’re waiting for, the goblins, or worse, him. But the air feels charged again, like it’s listening. You are sure with enough patience, the shrine's spiritual keepers would show themselves.
Minutes pass. Then hours. The interior of the shrine darkens. You glance up, taking in the damage that has compounded over years of neglect.
The beams have begun to collapse inward, ribs of rotting wood showing through the ceiling. Dust cloaks every surface.
Then the temperature drops.
A whisper skims past your ear—thin, familiar.
Still looking for someone to save you?
You turn, and it’s there.
The juryeong, again—its shape heavier now, half-formed from the smoke seeping out of the cracks between the boards. Its eyes gleam a dim blue, its mouth stretched in something too close to human.
You stumble back. “No,” you whisper. “Come on.”
It drifts closer, feeding on your shiver. “You called me back,” it says, its voice layered with static. “So much sadness in one person. I must devour you.”
The word from class comes to mind—han. That’s what it wants. The same grief your professor lectured about. Persistent. Generational. Delicious.
Your hand shakes as you fumble through your bag, searching for anything—a charm, salt, even a pen. Instead, your fingers close around your film camera.
“Please work,” you breathe, lifting it. You glare at the juryeong. “You want light? Here.”
The flash pops, a burst of white searing through the dark. The juryeong recoils, its outline shuddering, edges melting into smoke. The light fades; it re-forms, angrier now, the whisper turning into a growl.
"Bitch," it spits at you. "I will enjoy tearing you from limb to limb after violating you. I promise, you will suffer," the juryeong smiles.
You hit the shutter again. Another flash. Another scream. The camera overheats in your grip, warning light blinking red.
You back toward the entrance, breath coming fast. “Stay away from me!”
It lunges.
You stumble, hitting the floor hard. The camera clatters beside you, its flash spent, the juryeong towering overhead—close enough that you can see the shape of your own reflection in its eyes, distorted, crying, still fighting.
You scream—the sound raw, human, desperate. The juryeong closes in. Its whisper is everywhere now—behind your eyes, in your ribs, speaking with your own voice. You always ruin things. You should have stayed gone. Filthy little whore. Pathetic little girl.
Your camera’s out of charge. The flash won’t fire. You swing it anyway, uselessly.
The thing surges forward. You think about your aunt. Jungwon. Would they miss you? Probably not you say, tears coming to your eyes.
Then, suddenly—heat.
The juryeong’s scream fractures the air. Foxfire detonates, flaring white-blue. The spirit stumbles, giving you an opening. You scramble further away, coughing, lungs burning. When your vision clears, he’s there. Just like last time.
Sunghoon.
He stands in the wreckage like something pulled out of a half-remembered dream—eyes lit from within, a faint tail of flame curling behind him, each strand of hair shimmering in the light. Power radiates off him, hot enough to warp the air.
He looks down at you, expression unreadable. “Say it.”
Your voice scrapes. “What?”
“Say you need me Y/N.”
You shake your head weakly. “You’re insane.”
He doesn't move closer, but the temperature spikes. The foxfire around him flares like it’s feeding on his anger. “You think pride will keep you alive? You called me once. You can do it again. Just ask me to help you,” he snaps
You want to—God, you want to—but you refuse to let your desperation make you worthless yet again. There had to be a way to survive, one that did not depend on you bending to yet another's person's will.
"No," you manage, through gritted teeth. "I refuse."
He closes his eyes, exhaling sharply. For the first time, his composure falters. His voice pitches high. “Stop pretending you don’t need saving. Forget your pride- anyone would require saving from a juryeong!”
You flinch. Something in you—stubborn and battered—continues to flare back. “I’ve been saving myself my whole life! I will never beg you to save me!"
“Why won’t you just—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “You’ll die if you don’t ask, you silly girl!
He’s right. You know it. You’re dizzy, blood roaring in your ears, the world thinning to light and rain.
But you can’t make yourself say it. So you do the only thing you can.
You reach for him.
The touch barely lands—your fingers ghost his sleeve—and then you kiss him. Not out of romance, not even out of faith, but because of something the goblins said. A kiss to seal a divine contract. A contract with the power to make Sunghoon obey.
For one suspended second, the world stops.
Kiss me back you think. Please kiss me back.
At first, he doesn’t move. His body goes rigid, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage. Then, almost imperceptibly, something in him breaks. Sunghoon's lips move against yours, willingly. His hand finds your jaw—not rough, certain—and he leans in further. The kiss deepens. The air burns.
Foxfire erupts from the floor, surging around you both in a spiral of light. The air hums—ancient, electric, alive. The mark of the contract burns across your chest, searing and warm, a pulse that feels both foreign and familiar. The juryeong burns away like paper, no match for the heat of Sunghoon's flames. It shrieks, form unraveling into ribbons of smoke that twist once, twice, and vanish.
You break apart, gasping. Warmth pulses under your skin, syncing with your heartbeat. You didn't realize you would feel it butt you do. Underneath your skin. In your heart. As deep as your soul maybe. The feeling is dawning and heavy: you are bound to Sunghoon. A gumiho.
Sunghoon stares at you, eyes wide with disbelief. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “You stubborn, reckless—”
“It worked," you say, still out of breath. Your chest rises and falls, like you are relearning how to breath. "Guess you’ll have to get used to it.”
The subsequent expression on his face is impossible to read—part fury, part relief, all restraint.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Fine. Master.”
The word hangs in the air, soft and bitter, both an acknowledgment and an accusation.
You stare at him, throat dry. “What did you just call me?”
His jaw tightens. He looks away, the flicker of foxfire still curling along his tail before it vanishes into mist.
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
Outside, thunder rolls low across the mountains.
"Come on," he groans. "Let us find those goblins. I am sure they can't wait to see you."
_
a/n: i'll probably edit this later but yay first chapter to a new series. my very first on tumblr. please like and reblog if you enjoyed orrr if you just love kamisama kiss like i do.
Chapters: 4/20
Fandom: The Pitt (TV), Supernatural (TV 2005)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch/Dennis Whitaker, Jack Abbot/Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Jack Abbot/Michael "Robby" Robinavitch/Dennis Whitaker, Jack Abbot/Dennis Whitaker
Characters: Dennis Whitaker, Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Trinity Santos, Dennis Whitaker's Family, Dennis Whitaker's Mother, Dennis Whitaker's Father, Dennis Whitaker's Brother(s), Victoria Javadi, Dana Evans, Melissa "Mel" King, Princess (The Pitt), Perlah (The Pitt)
Additional Tags: Supernatural AU - Freeform, As in world only, up to season three (even if that doesn't fit the actual timeline), Hunter Dennis Whitaker, Trinity Santos and Dennis Whitaker are Roommates, Dennis Whitaker Needs a Hug, Best Friends Trinity Santos & Dennis Whitaker, Gay Dennis Whitaker, I would tag gay panic but Dennis has other things to panic about, Abusive Parents, Physical Abuse, Blood and Violence, Violence, Threats of Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, not to the main characters, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, and in the chapter so that it can be skipped, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Medical Inaccuracies, Pining Dennis Whitaker, Past Child Abuse, Michael "Robby" Robinavitch is Down Bad, Werewolf Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Supernatural Elements, Pining Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Getting Together, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jack Abbot Loves Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, Jack Abbot is Down Bad (The Pitt), Protective Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance
Summary:
Dennis had fled from his abusive family and a life of hunting supernatural things to study medicine. Losing everything on the way meant starting fresh, right? So why was his attending acting so strange all of a sudden? And what will he do if his old life suddenly appears in the ER, threatening his little makeshift family?
Robby had been a werewolf for over two decades now. There wasn't much anymore that surprised him about his furry little problem, but in the aftermath of PittFest the heightened stress, newly acquired trauma and the presence of a certain MS4 seemed to derail everything he knew about himself. Will he manage to get a grip on himself, or will HR have his ass?
Jack had just settled in his chair on the balcony for a quiet afternoon of listening to the police radio, as his phone rang. Maybe keeping the status quo has made him too comfortable and all he needed was a young hunter to get him back in the game? And maybe, along the way, he will finally be able to confess some things to Robby?
---
Tags will be added as I'm writing this. Also, this fanfic is beta read! We will stay alive unilke Sam and Dean's mother in season 1!
You can find my fanart of Hunter!Dennis here
And the original post that started everything here! (Although the story will deviate from that one so it can be seen as a seperate thing xD)
Night World is searching for the members of NMIXX to rise from the ashes and join us
𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 —of the boogie-man and other Supernatural beings used to be told to keep children inline, as entertainment for adults looking for a good scare. Even romanticized as conflicting love stories between Humans and Supernaturals. But these were just stories, right?
𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒊𝒕 —Perhaps children were not the only ones needed to be kept inline. Humans as a whole, never anticipated what would happen when the Black Dawn rose. The Night World, a secret society of Supernatural beings was to be a secret no more. No more hiding, no more pretending.
𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑺𝒎𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝑾𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒔
—18+
—Supernatural Master x Pet Roleplay
—Lit/Semi-lit & Plot Driven
—Choose your Race & Status
—Monthly Events!
—MeWe Based
Dean walked into his toddler’s room after seeing her toss and turn for the last thirty minutes.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“No sleep, Dada.”
“I can see that,” he picked her up and set her on his hip.
“Moon, pease?” She looked up at his expectantly with droopy eyes.
“Fine. But don’t tell Sam. He says I get you out of your sleep schedule too much.” Dean booped her nose, and she laughed. YN snuggled into his chest and he carried her gently out the back door. “Look, there it is, sweetpea.” He kissed her cheek.
“Moon!” She raised her head and smiled. Dean took her to the porch swing and rocked her as she became sleepy. “Goodnight, moon,” she whispered. Her father grinned, knowing she was about to fall asleep.
Vampire!BIGBANG: Spying On Them and Finding Out They Are A Vampire
[A/N] another bigbang imagine, i’m sad because my favorite ever writer for some of the greatest yandere fan fictions on tumblr suddenly disappeared along with the masterlist i saved so... i’ll try to write some yandere if i have time or can be bothered.
hey sorry for not including seungri, don’t hate him but i couldn’t think of any ideas for him that could be misinterpreted ‘mocking’ his current scandal so i do apologize !!! please forgive me also for not uploading this in over a year because i couldn’t think of anything to write for him !!! curse this stupid writer’s block !!! anyway, here you go
[updated ver: march 2022]
T.O.P
You were stubborn by nature and if your boyfriend, Choi Seunghyun, refused to tell you why he would disappear for hours every week then it was up to you to find out.
With the location tracker you turned on secretly before he left, you were standing in front of one of Seoul’s most high-end clubs: DOOM DADA. The waiting list was two years long but being the girlfriend of the mysterious Choi Seunghyun had its perks.
You easily entered the club, ignoring the jealous stares of the other clubbers. The club had a strict dress code to which you were forced to adhere too and you quietly watched clubbers mingle with another dressed in elegant yet unique clothing, wearing a mask to hide their identity. Like an informal masquerade party.
Picking up a drink that was ridiculously expensive and sure to take a huge chunk out of your bank account, you floated around... looking for your boyfriend. A strange gentleman offered his assistance, “I’m looking for Choi Seunghyun. Do you know him by any chance?” you asked and the stranger nodded, pointing towards the VIP section.
He was making out with women and that made you mad. Was he cheating on you this entire time? Many questions ran through your head and you couldn’t pull yourself away from the scene, continuing to watch your boyfriend hungrily suck the neck of this woman while you watched.
Suddenly, the woman screamed. Not out of lust or euphoria but out of fear and pain. You looked at your boyfriend and that’s when you saw it. He pulled away, giving you a clear image of his true form.
Blood red eyes, mouth smeared in blood and his fangs dripping in it. You were stunned by the revelation, stumbling back in disbelief. You turned to the strange gentleman, asking him to the exit. He escorted you to the exit and even to your awaiting Uber. “What’s your name?” you questioned, getting in the car.
“Dong Youngbae but everyone calls me Taeyang,” he responded.
The ride home was antagonizing since all you could think about was that moment, the moment on constant replay. Thanking your driver, you darted to your shared apartment and kicked the door open, throwing yourself inside and slamming it shut.
You sighed, believing you were safe. Oh, how I pity you.
Turning around, there he sat in all his glory. His mouth still smeared in blood, You froze, how did he get here before you? Leaning against the couch, his eyes held no emotion as he got you, slowly approaching you.
Your body refused to move, it was frozen stuck on the floor. He never takes his eyes off you, he admires you in your attire and comes up behind you, firmly wrapping his arm around your waist, preventing you from escaping.
Leaning down to your ear, he whispers something sending chills down your spine and nibbles on your neck.
“So, Y/N... did you enjoy what you saw?”
Taeyang
From the start of your relationship, he was very particular in what you knew about him. Which wasn’t much and every time you’d ask where he disappeared to every Friday night, he either completely ignored it or made up some excuse. You finally had enough and followed him, curiosity killing you.
You turned on his location services secretly and waited until he had fully left before following him. Using Google Maps, you found yourself in front of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Gangnam. Parking your car further away, you quietly walk towards the place, passing Taeyang’s car on the way.
Finding a window, you crouched in front of it and slowly peeked into the window. Your boyfriend, Dong Youngbae but more commonly known as Taeyang, was standing over a huge pile of animal corpses. He lifts his head briefly to breathe and that’s when you saw it. His big secret.
His face was smeared in blood, his eyes glowing red as he continued devouring the blood, his clothes had stain spots of blood which came from his fangs that were dripping in blood.
You duck down, covering your mouth to prevent a scream from escaping. You took a few minutes to calm down and risked looking again, he had finished and was discarding the animal corpses. You ran off, back to your car before he saw you, and sped away.
You spent the night at a hotel, needing time to process what just happened. You couldn’t face him right now. He called you in the morning, asking why you weren’t at home and you fed him some excuse before abruptly hanging up, preventing him from asking anything more.
For an entire week, you avoided him and every time he’d ask about your whereabouts, you lied telling him you were on a last-minute work trip. You eventually returned home on Friday night, knowing he’d be out.
Racing inside and to your shared bedroom, you thought you were safe. How gullible are you, darling? As soon as you closed the door and turned around, there sat your beloved boyfriend, on your shared bed. Staring at you with a blank expression.
“Jagi! You’re home!” he says and you freeze. Fuck, what was he doing here? “Taeyang? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out?” you ask, stuttering out of pure fear.
He stood up, approaching you and before you could run away, he pinned you to the wall. “Work trip, eh? I called your work and they said you weren’t on any work trip. You lied to me.” he says.
His eyes glow red, “So tell me, Y/N...” his grip tightens on your wrist making you whimper in fear, leaning away from him as he comes closer, pressing his body against yours.
“Where were you? And don’t lie to me.”
G-Dragon
Jiyong had told you many times to not worry about where he goes every week, disappearing for hours. “It’s safer if you didn’t know.” he would always say, the answer to your questions about his whereabouts. You finally had enough and tailed him one night, determined to get the answers yourself.
He was a very successful businessman, owning some of South Korea’s most popular and famous nightclubs and art museums. Being his girlfriend meant you had VIP access to all of them which you took advantage of tonight, easily getting into his most famous nightclub: CRAYON.
According to the tracker you planted on his car, this was where he was. You obviously didn’t want him to spot you so you wore clothes you usually wouldn’t wear. Blending in with the other clubbers. You even went the extra step and dyed your hair a ridiculous color.
The things you do for your curiosity...
You searched every inch of this club and even asked others if they have seen him but nothing. You were close to giving up when you spotted him, exiting a private room: looking incredibly disheveled.
His hair was messy, clothes crooked and covered in lipstick prints. This angered you: had he been cheating on you this entire time? Was spending hours every week making out with women when he had one waiting for him at home, worried about him?!
You were about to confront him when something halted you in your tracks. With help from the club lightning, you saw that his eyes weren’t their usual warm brown but a dark red, his fangs dripping in a red substance -- which you concluded to be blood.
His entire mouth was covered in it and some had even gotten on his clothes. You were baffled by the discovery, was this the thing he never wanted you to find out? It had to be. You disappeared into the crowd as he turned towards your spot, quietly maneuvering your way out of the club.
Noticing your distress, someone offered to help you and allowed you to stay with them for the night. “What’s your name?” you asked. “Choi Seunghyun,” he replied and you both talked a lot during the car ride, discovering you shared many common interests which included chairs.
The following morning, Choi Seunghyun told you that someone was here to see you... which didn’t sit very well with you. Your beloved boyfriend, Jiyong, walked into the spare bedroom of Choi Seunghyun’s apartment and smiled at you... almost mockingly.
“Babe! Thank god, you’re okay!” he exclaimed, wrapping you in a big hug while you just remained frozen using your eyes to ask Choi Seunghyun for help or answers but he just shrugged.
“Don’t you know how worried I was when you didn’t answer your phone?” he stated and he tightens his grip, whispering something in your ear which made your blood run cold.
“I know you were there, Y/N. I felt you staring and... I found your tracker.” he holds the crushed device in front of you.
Oh shit.
Daesung
Daesung was one of the best things in your life, truly. You loved him wholeheartedly, he could turn any sad day happy instantly. But you were getting suspicious of him and where he’d disappear to for hours in a day. Anytime you’d ask him, he’d deflect it immediately. Finally, you decide to investigate the matter yourself.
Taking the risk and hiding in his messy car, covering yourself in the misellaneous crap which covered his car floor. You were really risking your life here and prayed that it would be worth it.
After what felt like hours, the car stopped moving. You waited until it was clear before crawling out of your hiding spot and unlocked his car using your keys which contained a spare key to his car... but he didn’t know about that. You tumbled out, groaning at the back pain you gained, and walked (limped) towards the building he disappeared into.
This abandoned building was bigger than it appeared and it took you a while to find out which room Daesung was in. Peeking through the small crack of the door, you saw him standing with four other people, and without hesitation, they started hungrily kissing five girls that responded just as hungry.
Your heart broke at the sight. Was Daesung, your lovely, sweet, kind, caring and teddy-bear boyfriend been cheating on you this entire time? Tears were running down your cheeks but bit your lip to prevent sobs from escaping and were just about to run away when something stopped you.
A scream emerged from the room and looked back to see something horrifying. They, including your boyfriend, Daesung, were sucking the girls clean of their blood. Once their bodies fell limp, they extract their blood-coated fangs from their necks looking real messy.
Their hair was messy, their faces covered in blood as blood also dripped from their fangs. You got out of there fast, headed to Daesung’s car, revved the engine, and drove off at an outrageous speed which would definitely get you a speeding ticket but didn’t care about that right now.
Something invisible collides with his car causing a sudden jolt to occur which left you unconscious. “Miss! You’re awake! Do you remember what happened?” a doctor questioned, the light becoming too much, painfully lifting an arm to shield your eyes as you shake your head softly. “You were in a crash,”
He explained what happened and the injuries you obtained: a few fractured ribs, a broken wrist, some internal bruising and other minor injuries but otherwise ok. “There’s someone here to see you, they’ve been waiting ever since you came to the hospital. I’m going to let them in.” the doctor said and left before you could protest.
In walks Daesung. You could see that he was not happy, he entered wearing a stoic expression and slowly approached you. “I’m very glad you’re ok, Y/N. I was really worried when I heard the news,” he says as he takes a hold of your hand.
“But how did you have my car because I took it with me? Do you know, Y/N?” he questions, looking at you but you looked away. He grabs your chin, yanking it so you were forced to look at him.
“Looks like you’ve got some explaining to do, huh?”
