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sluttywoozi · 1 year

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First Things First | Part 1 of 2

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~3.8k

Notes/Warnings: fem reader, college au, cute and clueless soccer star san, swearing, suggestiveness, alcohol, no sex in this part sry

Backstory I didn't feel like writing: everyone's on the soccer team (8 makes 1 team) and they all live in a scholarship house together plus 3 randos i guess bc there's 11 people on a soccer team apparently just fill it up w ur other favs

San’s crush on you was innocent enough, at first.

You were Wooyoung’s chem tutor last spring so you’d come around the house sometimes, always greeting him warmly with a grin and a short hug before asking how practice was going. San would battle a shiver at the way your body felt pressed against his then get halfway through a response before Woo got annoyed at sharing your attention and tugged you to the study room, leaving him behind with a defeated smile on his face and heat on the back of his neck.

Then summer came and went, the weeks passing quickly with San’s classes and off-season training, and the fall semester started up before he even had time to catch his breath. He’d walked into his first class and there you were, front and center and scribbling in your planner. The seat next to you was empty and San didn’t know anyone else, so he didn’t see any harm in sitting with you.

That doesn’t mean harm wasn’t caused, though.

Really, sitting next to you was the first in a series of mistakes that led him to where he is now: waiting to see if you’ll show up to this party and fighting to shove down the feelings bubbling up in his chest.

It used to be a lot easier but now, he’s spent too much time with you, enough to imagine how you’d feel in his arms and where you’d want to go on a date and what you’d look like in his bed, and it’s these images that flash through his mind whenever he tries to hold a conversation with you.

That’s San’s other problem - for the life of him, he cannot talk to you like a normal person. He can talk to other girls just fine, even when they’re obviously flirting with him, but you’re different. He’s always either stuttering or mumbling, speaking way too fast or not speaking at all, his every interaction with you tinged by embarrassment and self-consciousness. You’re always patient with him, your hand squeezing his arm in encouragement and your sweet smile never faltering. It’s part of why he’s so into you, just knowing you’re along for the ride whether he can get the words out or not.

San can feel his heart start to race, feel it thump in his chest like a jackrabbit when he spots you through the doorway.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. You're here. Fuck.

He’s in charge of mixing drinks tonight but he wonders if he can get another job, not feeling very effective with the way his hands are suddenly shaking. The vodka spills over the shot cup, pooling on the counter and dripping off the edge before he can throw enough paper towels down. He can hear Seonghwa scolding him in the back of his mind, telling him to at least disinfect the floor now that there’s liquor all over it, so he mops a messy trail around the kitchen and prays no one comes looking for a drink before he finishes cleaning.

He’s ducked behind the island, gathering up all of the used towels in his hands when he hears voices. Your voice, more specifically, plus another he doesn’t recognize.

Fuck, he probably reeks of vodka and now he’s got all these nasty towels in his hands and you’re here, in the kitchen, laughing at someone’s shitty joke.

You should be laughing at his shitty jokes, San laments, debating whether it would be worth it to try to army crawl away or if he should just end his misery now and show himself. Your voice grows louder and San knows he has to make a decision, can practically feel the countdown blaring in his mind as the distance between you and his hiding spot shrinks.

San pops up before it’s too late, a sheepish smile on his face and his alcohol soaked hands hidden behind his back. You’re standing by the counter with a guy he doesn’t know, tapping your fingers on the formica and looking around for the mixers. You’d jumped when he appeared, he notes with a grimace. He didn’t mean to startle you but it’s obvious he has by the wideness of your eyes and the hand over your heart.

You break into a grin before he starts to feel too guilty, jumping toward him with a shout of his name and leaning in to wrap your arms around his neck. You smell like your perfume and a bit of the wine he’s noticed you like, and you’re so warm against him, so soft he could close his eyes and fall asleep right now. He presses his cheek to your head in lieu of hugging you back, but notices the joy in your eyes is weaker as you pull away, your gaze falling to the strain of his biceps as he holds the soggy paper towels behind his back.

He’d rather embarrass himself than make you feel sad so he’s quick to reveal them, explaining with a crooked smile and bunched up shoulders that there had been a spill and he’s only just finished cleaning up. You giggle with fondness but the guy with you laughs at him the wrong way, prompting a glare from San and an elbow in the stomach from you.

“This is my roommate’s little brother, I’ll be done with babysitting duty soon,” you promise apologetically.

“I’m not a baby,” he sputters, rubbing his stomach and slinking to the other side of the kitchen. He opens coolers until he finds a White Claw, leaning against the counter and texting rapidly between sips, the dings and clicks pouring tension into San’s neck.

“Yes, he is,” you whisper once your tag-along is far enough away, “He’s been driving me nuts.”

San pouts at you sympathetically as he tosses the towels in the trash and washes his hands, turning just enough to keep you in his line of sight and asking if you want a drink. You think about it for a second before declining with a small shake of your head, your nose scrunching in a way that makes San want to do something ridiculous like kiss it and then ask you to marry him.

You chat with him while he fulfills his team-assigned duties, staring at his hands as he mixes drinks and checking your phone when someone wanders into the kitchen looking to fill their cup. He hopes you don’t feel like you have to stay with him, tries to figure out a way to let you know you can go without making you think that’s what he wants.

San wants the opposite, wants you to stay and talk to him all night, pay attention to him and no one else, but he also doesn’t want you to feel trapped. He’s nowhere close to a plan when your roommate rounds the corner, followed closely by a whining Wooyoung and a silently suffering Yeosang. San can tell by the corners of Yeo’s mouth that Woo’s been badgering him for at least fifteen minutes already and bites his lips to stifle the chuckle, knowing from the many times he’s been in Yeosang’s shoes that the last thing he needs is someone laughing at him.

Your roommate rolls her eyes and shoves a cup in Wooyoung’s gesticulating hands before telling him to shut the fuck up and take a drink, letting her focus shift to you and San once Wooyoung falls silent. He straightens up as best he can, feeling weirdly exposed as her gaze volleys between the two of you and hoping he passes whatever test she’s obviously putting him through.

He must because she moves on to her brother after a short thirty seconds of agony, shouting a goodbye and dragging him from the room with his elbow held tightly in her grasp. Yeosang had escaped in the meantime and Wooyoung ran after him as soon as he noticed his absence, which left you and San alone in the kitchen again.

The thumping music dulls to a low hum as you catch his gaze and step over, your hand resting next to his on the counter. He’s not sure what exactly you’re doing but you’re close enough for him to feel your body heat, and it’s all San can do to stay still and let you get closer. He’s blinking too much, he knows, probably has the dumbest look on his face, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

You’re only inches from him now and you smell so good and you’re so fucking pretty, and San knows he’d give anything just to feel you. The desperation is starting to claw its way up his throat as want settles deep in his stomach, his jeans tightening before he even has the chance to beg his body to stay calm.

He doesn’t think you can tell but he’s scared nonetheless, terrified that you’ll notice and think he’s a perv and never want to speak to him or see him again and he’ll get super depressed and fall behind in his classes and get kicked off the soccer team and lose his scholarsh-

“Do you wanna go up to your room? It’s getting a bit crowded down here,” you propose, your eyebrows raised and a vulnerable look in your eyes.

Up to his…? Oh, he must look sick or something. That’s much better than the alternative though, so he responds, “Yeah, um, I probably should go upstairs, I’m getting a bit tired.”

Your face falls and you step back, the vulnerability shuttering into a blankness he’s never seen before, and it occurs to San that that wasn’t what you meant at all.

“OH! Oh. Uhm, you meant us… together? Like we both go to my room? Together?” San clarifies frantically, a hand falling to cover yours on the counter before it can slip off.

“Yeah, San, I meant we should go up together,” you confirm with a small, breathy laugh.

He can feel his dimples creasing his cheeks and wishes he could smile at you with anything but the most obvious crush of all time, but he knows it’s hopeless at this point. It’s been months now, months of seeing you in class and around campus, at parties and games, and feeling the you-shaped cavity in his chest grow and grow and grow.

He’s pretty sure it’s starting to fill as you pull him up the stairs. He tries to ignore the catcalling of your shared friends, knowing you probably just want to talk or something, but his eyes catch on the movement of your hips as you climb and now all he can think about is what they’d feel like between his hands. That’s not exactly a new train of thought for San but he’s usually able to keep it under control when he’s with you, and he almost feels like he’s voluntarily walking into the lion’s den as you enter his room and he closes the door.

It’s not too messy at least, just some folded laundry on the bed and his books spread out on his desk. He’d changed his sheets yesterday morning and there’s nothing embarrassing out as far as he can see, except for his printed Overwatch stats but he’s not sure you’d recognize them anyway, so it should be fine.

Everything should be fine, so why is San’s heart trying to break out of his rib cage right now?

It only gets worse when you plop down on his bed with a bounce, folding your hands in your lap and looking up at him expectantly.

“Uh, do you want, like, a blanket or something?” San offers as he looks around the room in an effort to avoid your gaze. It doesn’t work very well - his room isn’t all that big and he can’t stop his eyes from snapping back to you every other second. You look on with a small smile, your face softening before you gently pat the spot next to you.

He surreptitiously rubs his clammy palms on his jeans, tugging them down to allow himself a little more room (just in case) and sitting carefully on the comforter beside you. He’d left over a foot of space, but his mattress sinks in the middle and he finds himself much closer to you than he’d meant to be. You don’t look like you mind, the corners of your lips perking up and one leg lifting to fold on the bed as you turn to face him.

San scrambles to figure out what to say, how to break the ice, though he has a sneaking suspicion he’s the only one who feels like there’s ice to break.

“So, how’s your studying goi-” San starts, but you cut him off.

“San, can I be honest with you? Like, really honest?” You ask, the only sign of your nervousness being the lip bitten between your teeth.

He glances down at the hand you placed on his knee, his cheeks glowing with heat as he stutters, “Y-Yeah, of course you can.”

You take a deep breath and begin, “Well, we’ve been friends for a while, right?”

He nods, opening his mouth to tell you how much your friendship means to him but closing it with a snap when you breathe out, “Hold on, please, I’ll never be able to tell you if I don’t say it all at once.”

San nods again, pointedly pursing his lips as he waits with bated breath.

You break eye contact for a second and when your eyes return to his, they’re brimming with anxious energy. He wishes he could reassure you, but you’d asked him not to speak and he’s also probably more nervous than you right now. Honestly, he kind of wants to make up some excuse and flee the room, the house, the city, because he thinks he knows what you’re about to say.

You’re about to tell him you know he’s in love with you, and that you’re sorry but you don’t feel the same way, and probably also that you have a crush on Seonghwa or Yunho. He wouldn’t blame you, they’re handsome and smooth and don’t get heart palpitations when you talk to them, and they’re not vir-

“San, are you okay? Did you hear anything I just said?” You question, pulling him out of his head and pulling his focus back to you.

“I didn’t, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Please, tell me again?”

Your face crumples before you cover it with both hands and whine, “God, I don’t know if I can do it again, once was hard enough.”

“No, no, no, please don’t cry, please, do you want me to cry? I’ll cry too, if it helps,” San begs as he wraps his fingers around your wrists and pulls, uncovering your face only to have you stubbornly tuck your chin against your shoulder.

“I’m not crying, San, I’m embarrassed.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Because I didn’t think it would be this hard to tell you I have feelings for you! I almost did it in the kitchen but you looked so nervous, and I assumed it was just the crowd so I thought, ‘Oh, maybe we should go upstairs, that should be easier’, and then it wasn’t easier! It was harder, and now I have to do it again!”

You groan in defeat and fall backwards on his bed, your eyes welling with frustrated tears and your arms crossing over your chest. San sits there, static ringing in his ears and your half-shouted confession running through his brain. It takes him longer than it should to process your words but as soon as he does, he flops down next to you like all of his strings have been cut.

San feels drunk, or high, or something, as he stares over at you open-mouthed.

“You have feelings for me? Like… romantic feelings? Are you sure?”

Your head tilts to the side, your suspicious glare shifting into an expression of incredulity as you realize he’s serious. He flinches at the soft smack you land on his shoulder but grins when you start poking and pinching at the muscle with your fingers.

“Yes, San, I’m sure I have romantic feelings for you,” you affirm with only a bit of impatience, avoiding his eyes and pressing your fingertips into his pecs.

You seem kind of dejected and it occurs to him that he hasn’t reciprocated yet, that you don’t know he feels the same way, and he could kick himself for fucking this up so badly. He doesn’t know how to fix this, what to say to make you understand why he’s so nervous, why he struggles so much with you.

Instead of something normal, San blurts out, “I’m fully in love with you.”

Oh no. Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

He clenches his eyes shut and rolls away from you with a groan, curling up as small as he can as the shame roils in his belly. The party rages downstairs, sounds floating in under the door and growing louder in the silence of his bedroom.

“We’re kind of a disaster, huh?” You giggle as you shuffle closer, one arm wrapping around his waist and your knees notching in behind his.

San tenses up before relaxing completely, turning under your arm and tugging you closer with a hand on your waist.

“Yeah, honestly, I’ve never… done this before,” he admits, forcing himself to hold your gaze as his fingers anxiously drum your side. “Are you really okay with me being in love with you?”

Your radiant smile could blind him and he instinctively mirrors you, his shy grin growing and his other arm sliding beneath you to pull you into his chest as you sigh, “Sannie, I’m more than okay with you being in love with me. I love you too, I was just being coy because I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Seriously?!”

San barely catches your nod before he’s surging forward and pressing his lips to yours, still smiling too wide for it to be much of a kiss.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I should have asked you if I could do that. I’ve just wanted to kiss you for literally months,” he exhales against your mouth, already aching to do it again.

“Don't apologize, San, you can kiss me. I want you to kiss me,” you whisper, breathing in shakily as he closes the distance.

His lips meet yours and it’s like everything inside him settles and riots at the same time. Soft, sweet affection wars with heady desire and as you deepen the kiss, the need grows. San is doing his best to contain himself, swallow the mortifying moans and gasps and whimpers that fight to escape from his mouth to yours, but it’s so difficult when this is the farthest he’s ever gone and it’s happening with you, of all people.

He breaks away with a gasp, trying to catch his breath and calm himself down before he does anything to further embarrass himself, like cumming in his pants just from a little kissing.

“You know how I said that I’ve never done this before?”

You nod with a hum, trailing kisses down his cheek and along his jawline before pressing your soft lips to his pulse and sucking gently. He hiccups in a breath, cringing slightly because he knows you can feel how fast his heart is beating, feel how nervous and exhilarated you make him.

“I meant like… I’ve never done any of this. Ever. You were kind of… my first kiss,” San whispers, embarrassment stealing his voice as your mouth freezes on his neck.

You draw back to stare at him, your eyes calculating and your brows furrowed.

“How is that even possible? You’re so sweet and smart and hot and your shoulders are so broad.”

San’s ears warm as he stumbles through his answer, “I just never had time. I had to work really hard in high school to get my scholarship and now I have to work to keep it. Plus, it didn’t seem all that important. I figured it would just happen when it happened.”

“That makes sense, you are busy most of the time,” you agree, cupping his face and tracing your thumb over his cheekbone. The contact sends tingles down his spine, his cheek instantly dropping into your palm before a question pops into his head.

“Wait, what do my shoulders have to do with this?”

“San, come on, your shoulder to waist ratio is insane, you’re like a sexy Dorito,” you respond as if it should be obvious.

“And you’re into that?” He asks, his confusion evident.

“Yes, have you ever seen yourself from the back? And when you have your jersey on and you’re all sweaty and out of breath…”

Your eyes roll back as you moan dramatically, obviously more in jest than seriousness, but it makes San’s dick twitch in his suddenly tight jeans all the same. It was almost too much just hearing that you love him too, and he’s not sure how to function now that he knows you think about him like this.

He realizes you’re pressed up against him more than he thought you were, the heat of your body radiating into his even through your clothes, which must mean you can feel the length pushing at his zipper.

Judging by your smirk, you definitely can, but before he can even think to feel ashamed, you push your hips into his and sink your free hand into his hair.

“We’ll take this at your pace. You just have to tell me how slow or fast you wanna go,” you assure him, your eyes honest, your tone serious.

San doesn’t take long to think through his response, knowing he’s been ready for this since he met you.

“Fuck slow, let’s go fast. I want as much of you as you’ll let me have,” he answers as he pushes you to lay flat on the bed with the hand on your waist. The other hand wraps around the back of your neck and pulls you up into a searing kiss, his tongue sweeping over your bottom lip with only a little insecurity.

You gasp against his mouth, the sound and sensation dizzying yet intensely gratifying. He pulls away to send you a smirk of his own and continues, “You may have to help me, though, show me what to do, how to make you feel good. Is that okay?”

Beaming up at him with whole galaxies in your eyes, you tell him, “It’s more than okay. In fact, I think you’re about to become my favorite student.”

(You're already his favorite teacher)

AN: i wrote this to hurt my bestie's feelings, i hope it works @sluttywonwoo (even tho i know you'll wait to read until i post part two

hoping to put part two up tomorrow or friday!!

im working on part two i promise 😩

PART TWO

please please please reblog or comment if you enjoyed this! feedback is my lifeblood

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0oolookitsme · 8 months

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No More Kisses

Type- One-Shoty Blurb!

Verse- Footballer!Harry x Art Director!Y/n

Word Count- 1k

Warnings- Just a few curse words here and there, and a slight hint of smut :)

A/n- Some fratrry! Hope you enjoy <3

The game's season was to begin in one month, and Harry hasn't never felt more prepared. He's ready to tackle teams and get this over with.

All of this practise has been draining him down and the fact that the college literally wouldn't give them any breaks meant that it was practise, classes, practise and finally sleep. Whether he drank water or ate his meals between the gaps didn't matter as long as he was on the top.

Even Y/n hadn't been having the time to breath, in the midst of all this mid semester chaos – let alone call and check up on him and show up during his evening practices so that they can go back to the frat house together.

He missed her, terribly.

They would talk, but only in the mornings and the nights. And even then they didn't get to have a proper conversation because they were just so tired all the time, or busy. Early mornings and late nights had always been their thing, but to not spend that extra time with each other was something new.

Hell even not spending their usual time together was new; strange.

Sitting together on the floor of one of their rooms -- usually Harry's considering Y/n's room floor was always covered in miscellaneous things, and these days even her bed was occupied by half-finished or just-started projects -- they would just swing their arms or legs over the other one and work on their laptops.

As Harry finally packs up to go back to the house, late again, he feels his phone begin to buzz in his pocket. It was Y/n he saw and immediately he was swiping his thumb across the screen to answer the call.

"Hello," he says without much exaggeration, but he knows that she knows he has a huge smile on his face as he looks at the ground, one hand on his hip as he waits for her to reply.

"Whatever happened to love or darling?"

Stifling a laugh, he swung his bag over his shoulders before giving her the greeting she wanted. "Hello my sweet, sweet darling," he greeted, weighing down on the pet name.

"Yeah fuck you too," she retorted, laughing on the other hand. "I just called to ask if I could use a very small, hear me out! – a very small space on your room's floor to lay down a project?" She sheepishly trailed off.

Y/n knew she didn't need to ask him that, but it was a topic Harry always teased her about, saying 'does being an Art Director of your club mean you can't even step in your own room, hm?' and she thought it was about time that he worried about it too.

"Y/n... No. You cannot take over my room now!"

"Pretty please, H! You know what? I'll let you take a candle of mine. How about that?" She offered, feeling smug like a winner.

Both of them knew that it was an instant offer to get Harry to do anything, just give him any one of Y/n's candles. Still he made a show of grumbling and finally muttered a 'fine'.

"Thank you! May God bless you my dear," She cackled before hanging up on him, leaving him shaking his head as he slipped his phone back in his pocket.

The drive back to the frat house was filled with Niall chattering Harry's ear off as if he hadn't been getting smacked in the face while goal-keeping this whole day.

Turning off the engine, Harry muttered something about Niall influencing Y/n under his breath when Niall jumped out of the car, made the same old-creepy-man joke and called him a 'dear'.

When Harry finally entered his room, he wasn't surprised to see Y/n sprawled on his floor but he was definitely shocked to see a candle lit on his desk.

"Can't believe you stuck to your words!" He said while deeply breathing in the scent of the candle -- it gave vanilla with a hint of the smell of soil after it had just rained, and Harry knew he was never letting her take that candle back.

"Well, I can be good sometimes," Y/n shrugged without looking up from the sheet she was working on.

"That really is a shocker coming from you, grump," Harry said, his voice getting closer to Y/n with each step he took and then his hands slipped under her armpits, pulling her up. "And, I like you bad," he stated, glancing at her lips.

Y/n supported herself by her legs despite whining at him to put her down. "First of all, you smell horrendous, second of all, what the hell was that for? And third of all, that was not hot." She ranted, a little serious but her look of suspicion made him laugh.

"Missed your mouthy ass," he mumbled before crashing his lips right onto hers, pushing her back while she shrieked, warning him not to step on that sheet.

Her hands slipped past his shoulders to fist the baby curls at the nape of his neck, playing and pulling at them gently. His hands, though, travelled all over her body. Her chest, breasts, abdomen, stomach, hips, thighs – to slipping right past where she was beginning to ache and squeezing her bum, caressing her back that had been hunched over papers all day long and finally one hand went to fist her hair, the other one slipping down and down until his fingers reached the bottom of her bum.

Wrapping her legs around his hips, Harry started to move towards the bathroom, his hold on her tightening by each minute and the moment she realized what Harry had done, water was already pouring on them and starting to soak their clothes.

"I literally hate you so much," she said as they both hurried to take off their clothes.

Chuckling, Harry asked, "no kissing tomorrow?"

"No kissing tomorrow," Y/n assured him, nodding her head and then laughing with him knowing that there was no way that rule would be put into practise.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fluff #footballer!harry #harry styles smut #dom!harry #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x fem!reader #fratrry #frat boy!harry #harry styles x reader #harry styles au #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic

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ohmyamor · 1 year

Text

Richkid!Jongho

a:/n definitely not inspired by the long expensive coats the stylists put Jongho in...

today is not your day

first, you woke up incredibly late due to your alarm failing to go off

then, there was no breakfast in your house, your parents’ note on the fridge saying that they were planning a grocery run this weekend

it’s tuesday

meaning you had to leave for school on an empty stomach

which would’ve been fine had you not skipped dinner last night for the sake of finishing your project

which, might you add, was a group project that none of your group mates participated in

fucking rich kids

long story short, you ended up arriving at school on an empty stomach, leading you to be very, very hangry

at least until your break, where you grabbed something from the vending machines

then, when it came time to present the group project, none of your group mates provided anything of substance to the presentation

they literally just stood there like morons while you presented everything

you stayed after class to talk to the teacher about possibly getting more credit for doing, you know, all the work

only for him to cut you off, saying that if you had problems, it should’ve either been brought up at the beginning of the assignment

or you could’ve talked to them yourself

but you know the only reason the teacher won’t lower the students grades is because of the hefty donation their parents make to the school every year

the perks of attending a school full of rich kids

except your family isn’t rich

they’re not poor either, your parents income settling nicely somewhere in the middle

which you should be grateful for

because it means that, for the most part, the rich students leave you alone

yeah you’re attending the school on a scholarship, but besides a few snide remarks here and there, you get left alone for the most part

but going back to your horrible day

the icing on the cake has to be right now, at this current moment

school was let out around 3, but you stayed after for a little bit to help tutor an underclassman who was struggling in a literature class you had already taken

it was pretty easy to tutor the kid, he seemed like he was really trying to do better, which always made your life much easier

but still, you can’t deny the relief you felt once the tutoring hour came to an end and you were allowed to leave

opening your car door, you haphazardly tossed your backpack into the passenger seat and buckled yourself in

you place the key in the ignition, turning it and waiting for the rumble of the engine to start up

except it never came

staring at your steering wheel, you attempt once, twice, three more times to turn the key, praying to whatever gods that were laughing at you to please just let your car start so you could get home

it seems no one answered your prayers

letting out a loud swear, you throw open your car door and step out before slamming the door behind you.

you pull out your phone to try and call your parents, but before you can even pull up your contacts, your phone’s screen turns black

it died

you think incredulously

letting out a small laugh of disbelief you toss your phone onto the hood of your car

rubbing your face over your hands, you begin to think of a plan

I think I still have some cash, I might be able to catch the bus home

I just have to ask the security guards to not tow my car, or else I’ll have to go and pay to get it back with money I certainly don’t have right now-

“Hey”

you startle, looking to your side

where a sleek, black car has now pulled up next to you

the passenger side window is rolled down, and through it, you see a familiar face

Choi Jongho

son of the people who literally own the school

You close your eyes

my day cannot get any fucking worse you think

not that you hate Jongho or anything

he’s actually quite nice

a little out of touch with reality sometimes, but pleasant enough

in the beginning of the semester, the two of you were paired up for a short project

while you initially dreaded it, as every other kid you had ever been paired up with sat back and let you do all the work

you were pleasantly surprised when Jongho insisted on splitting the work evenly with you

he even went as far dropping off assignments you missed when you had unexpectedly fallen sick

of course, once the project was finished, the two of you went your separate ways

save for the small nod of acknowledgement the two of you shared when you passed each other in the halls

you guys didn’t talk to each other

that doesn’t mean you didn’t notice how good he always looked though

with his long coats and perfectly done hair

and on occasion, the thick round glasses that nicely framed his face-

“(Y/n)?”

Blinking harshly, you’re shaken out of your thoughts when Jongho calls your name

He quirks an eyebrow

“Are you okay?”

You let out a sigh and shake your head

“My car decided today would be the best day to take a shit on me”

Jongho makes a small o shape with his mouth before reaching over to pop open the passenger door

“C’mon, I’ll take you home”

Your eyes widen and you begin shaking your head

“Nononono, it’s fine. I have money to take the bus anyways, I’ll just come back later for my car. Plus, I don’t want you to waste your gas driving me around-”

your rambling is cut short when Jongho lets out a small chuckle

“You really think I care about gas?”

You shut your mouth before shrugging

“I don’t know what you rich kids worry about in the first place,” you tease

Jongho rolls his eyes

“Just get in the car (Y/N), you shouldn’t take the bus right now anyways.”

Thinking it over for a split second, you nod your head and reach back inside your car to grab your backpack, phone and keys

quickly locking your car, you sling your backpack over your shoulder and walk over to Jongho’s car

sliding in, you can’t help but notice how nice the interior is

there’s not a speck of dust in the whole thing and it smells so good

I wonder if it’s his cologne you muse

“Same address?” Jongho asks, looking at you expectantly

god, it feels so weird to have his full gaze pinned on you

even after working with him, you don’t think you’ll ever get over the giddy feeling in your stomach you experience when Jongho rests his full attention on you

“Yup,” you swallow, nodding your head

Jongho is quick to put his car in drive and the two of you take off in a comfortable silence

“So,” Jongho starts, “what happened with your car?”

you groan, your head falling back against the headrest

“Honestly, I have no idea. It’s rarely given me any problems before this, but today, it just decided to stop turning on altogether.”

Jongho hums

“I have a close friend who’s really good with cars,” he says.

“I can ask him to take a look at yours, if you want.”

You frown slightly

If he knows Jongho then it might cost me an arm and a leg just for him to even look at my car

“It’s okay-” you start, trying to figure out how to nicely turn him down

As if reading your mind, Jongho cuts you off

“You don’t have to worry about money, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” he glances at you from the corner of his eye

“I’ll just say it’s for a friend and he won’t charge me.”

a friend?

“Plus, he owes me anyway from the last time I helped him out with his girlfriend,” Jongho rolls his eyes, but you can still hear the fondness seeping into his tone

You turn to face him

“Are you sure?” you ask hesitantly

you don’t like feeling like you owe people things

not that Jongho is one of those people

but still

his car probably costs more than your house

and you’d rather not have to experience paying him back, whatever way it may be

Jongho shrugs

“Of course. I’d rather help you with car and not worry about you getting around safely than letting you take it elsewhere.”

You feel your face warm and you have no idea what to say

meanwhile, Jongho is internally freaking the fuck out over letting his thoughts slip

yeah, okay, maybe he thinks you’re a little cute, and he really admires your work ethic, and how you treat him like a normal human being rather than just another rich kid

and maybe he thinks your nervous habit of chewing on your lip is a little bit cute and the way you confidently raise your hand to speak up in class is, like, really hot

but still

he’s supposed to be cool and collected

not whatever the fuck just happened

there’s an awkward silence while the two of you sit with those words

thankfully, Jongho turns onto your street before the silence can stretch on

“I’m surprised you still remember where I live,” you admit

Jongho tries to ignore the way his neck feels hot

“What can I say, I have a great memory”

slowly, the car pulls up to a smooth stop in front of your driveway

grabbing your backpack, you reach for the door handle

“Thank you again Jongho, I really appreciate it,”

now it’s his turn to feel flustered at your honest gaze

“anytime” is all he manages to get out

nodding slightly, you open the car door and step out, making sure to gently shut the door behind you

before you’re able to take a few steps forward, a voice stops you in your tracks

“What time should I be here tomorrow?”

You make a confused noise

“Huh?”

“Well, since you still don’t have a car and I won’t be able to have my friend look at it for another week, I’ll pick you up and drop you off.”

you shake your head

“No it’s fine! Seriously, this was more than enough, and you’re already doing so much for me-”

Jongho cuts you off again

“But I want to,” he says simply

well shit

what are you supposed to say to that?

biting your lip nervously, you eventually nod your head

“Okay fine, but I’m going to do something to return the favor,” you threaten

a beautiful gummy smile breaks out on Jongho’s face

“I can’t wait”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

i love jongho so much

#jongho x reader #choi jongho x reader #jongho x you #choi jongho #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez fic #ateez jongho #jongho fluff #richkid!jongho #jongho au

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 4 months

Text

Honey Lemon Crescendo

Pairings: Trey Clover/Vampire MC

Summary: The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you.

The days you pray for the abolishment of your abhorrent form are rare in the centuries you have lived since your family's death, and your turning. Sharpened claws and teeth, the hellfire of your gaze are concealed for your own convenience, you tell yourself, especially as you enroll into NRC. The tonic of human affairs rarely interested you, yet when you find the truly curious case of Trey Clover, someone who is made only of that plain sort, you cannot help but to promise yourself one conversation, some several hours of the thousand thousand you have lived to taste what it is like to be treated, and be human again. But you're a fool, and a hypocrite‒ you find yourself breaking that promise over, and over, and over. Your fragile resolve frays at every sunbeam smile, every ringing laughter of his.

MC is a vampire, unique magic is telepathy, being able to unconsciously hear everyone's thoughts

Notes: Once again I am alive lol. Barely. Just finished my first semester in my Master’s program so I’ve been experiencing a bit a burn out, so I apologize if this isn’t my best work. Also, every time I'm like "hm is this too much trauma?" But then I remember the child murder, kidnapping, and child endangerment that's canon in twst and I'm like ooh wait right nvm I’m good. Fits within the canon. Anyways, I would have liked to explore the concept of BPD and its allegorical connections to Vampirism more in depth, especially due to the social sigma associated with it‒ but I feel that it would be waaaay too long for a one-shot if I did so.

Also, all stand alone quotes that are in italics represent inner thoughts (with some exceptions depending on your personal interpretations)

TW: References to depression, references to religious trauma, exorcism, and cults; references to child abuse; survivors guilt; referenced to verbal abuse; anxiety; panic attacks; slight mentions of eating disorders/disordered eating (suppressing appetite); BPD

GN Terms for MC

AO3 Link Here

Masterlist

------------------------------

“There is no sin within this child. Only the devil which lives within them.”

Those were the words that had prevented your burning during the trial, among other things.

Perhaps it was also the way you would keep your claws obscured under thickset leather gloves, conceal your crimson gaze under obsidian shades, or the terror that seized you every night that left you so evidently unraveled in all of your unforgiving guilt and abhorrence for your new form. The pity that could be provoked by the wetness and flush of a child’s face was something many adults in the future instructed was a bias you should have been more grateful for‒ as it triumphed over whatever horrors people held when you spoke a decibel too loudly to show your sharpening fangs, moved too swiftly to confirm the power that swelled within you like simmering, spoiled blood‒ pungent, and nauseating.

It reminds you of the smell at the state of decomposition you found your family in when you returned home from a several day trip with your cello instructor‒ and the smell of its mouth when its sharpened teeth lurched towards your neck, before you felt the metallic taste drip cold into your gasping mouth.

It was first the elongated fangs. Then came the claws, the lack of reflection, the original color of your eyes draining, replaced with a bright vermillion. The enhanced senses and physical power were less noticeable‒ but the subtle power that swelled in your hands when you broke skin and meat with your own grip upon your arm did not go unnoticed by the Supreme Leader who examined your body and soul during your trial.

“This thing should be useful to me, I hope. I was right to send that “Cello Instructor” with them to take care of business here. I’ll continue my divine plan as usual.”

The words themselves terrified you. Should you run? Hide? Die? Where would you go‒ with your small feet and hands? What could you do? The more oppressive horror lay in the confirmation of the whorling suspicion inside of your small, ten-year old mind that your new form allowed for telepathy‒ the exact “usefulness” the Supreme Leader had suspected lapped inside of you. You were absolutely sure of it, days later, when you read the color of the townspeople faces‒ their leering eyes and curled lips, squeezing their children close behind them‒ back towards your home, set ablaze by their torches and oil. The scramble of noise wasn't needed to confirm their disgust of you, but it came anyway.

“Hideous.”

“Demon. Probably killed that poor family.”

“That disguising appearance‒ must be the child of the devil.”

“Murderer. Things like you deserved to be burned. Supreme leader is truly a blessing to take care of such vile things.”

You cowered at their stares‒ but you remember considering it distantly for a moment, even in the midst of your situation. That night you had been found by shaking candlelight, your mouth drenched with blood and fear, palming numbly at your family's cold bodies. You couldn't blame them, you supposed. The townspeople feared you. You feared you. Stay with me . The Supreme Leader told you. And you did.

He defended you during your trial with a kind smile, tying the rope around your wrists loosely with gentle hands, spoke softly of good deeds, good gods, all forgiving and loving. When he convinced the council to graciously join his family , you didn’t run.

“Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You shakily rolled the breath that seized in your lungs, your small hands clutched in a prayer against the heartbeat that thundered against your bones.

“How pitiful child, that you choke on your sorrow. You, abhorrent creature, abomination of god‒ let me love you .”

“Let me be your god.”

He held a copy of Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Vampires of Wonderland in his hands‒ he pressed a finger onto each part of your body, comparing it with his‒ what made him human, and what made you not. He gifted you your own room‒ different from all the other children, deep at the belly of the earth. The cobblestone walls reached high into the heavens where you could not see, even with your enhanced vision‒ the light falling just where your vision could reach. One of his attendants presented him with a pair of cuffs, made specially for your size. The ones they had did not yet fit you. However, he placed them on the ground‒ crescent smile and blackened eyes. You would not escape.

You kept your secrets for a while‒ despite the unquenchable jealousy, festering sin, and violence that sprouted abundantly in the minds of his chosen advisors, who pinched your skin and snaked their cold hands under your shirt. In your ever dwindling, coastal town‒ you'd seen denial was the first reaction to loss. You'd felt a modicum of humanity in your ruthless rejection, letting the inner noise of others curdle in your mind.

Their words on the surface stuck of cheap, saccharine perfume, ones you recognized in the town's alleys and such. Yet you swallowed your nausea down, digesting their words one by one. You still had faith then, capable of religion . So easy to fool back then‒ you think now‒ children rarely doubt the material world. Why would people hurt you on purpose?

You were still a child then‒ an infant in vampiric years.

“ Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

“To be useful to god?”

"Useful to me?"

“They’ve done so much for you.”

“I’ve done so much for you.”

“Don’t you want to repay that?”

You revealed it all, in your childish trust, and his soft hands. You thought perhaps, that adults, despite their true intentions, would help you somehow. Belief in good will. Faith. It grips you with force.

It wasn’t all violence at first. But you began to fear the day where their actions would finally twist into something reflective of their actual intentions. That day came rather quickly, or so you think. Time did not matter in the small confines of your chambers below ground. The bloodletting, lashings, the vivisections were then all to vanquish the spirits that germinated inside your sinking flesh, possessing you to reveal such “impure things” in front of the people. Purification , he called it, no matter how many times you dried your throat from apologies, or promised you would do better next time. Next time I will speak your truth. God’s truth . You say the way their desires for a monster began to shape every laceration, every break of the bone.

Still, you couldn’t be their monster, nor a human. It seemed that the seeds of sacrilege had been sown firmly into you, and flourished each passing decade in its grotesque power.

The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you.

You’d beg through a dried throat and spinning vision for forgiveness and to appeal your usefulness‒ you knew the moment the priest resumed his kind smile, gentle hands, and his flowery voice‒ that he had found a use for you. Work for me , he said‒ and you obliged. He held your hand again, with a firm grip, and brought you to trials, his grand meetings with thousands of his followers‒ and you’d do his bidding, pointing a shaking finger at “non-believers” and spies‒ watching closely, where the supreme leader’s eyes leered and narrowed in order to anticipate your next move of survival . By then, you had learned to tune out a significant portion of the noise of people, to live in ignorant bliss for the few hours he would spend mending your gashing wounds, let you fiddle around with your cello that had survived the angry mob that burned down your family’s bakery, and home. Soft touches, sweet voice, he spoke.

"Good child, one of god, of forgiveness, of love. "

And you could tell he had meant it‒ knowing that when he lied to you‒ he always clasped his hands unconsciously in prayer. If there were opposing intentions twisting below his perfumed words that you had somehow failed to pick up with your trained senses‒ you couldn’t be bothered to unravel them. It was just nice. To be held again‒ forgiven . By someone at least, if not yourself. You were good. You were good again.

Decades pass‒ the people and the landscape move and breathe. It was only a matter of time your hometown would dwindle into a ghost city, being built on scrappy mines and poor fishermen, controlled by a con-man and his desperate believers. Even with nothing to lose, the remaining residents exiled you. Perhaps it was their humanity that they grasped onto with that final action.

You stand against the passing aches after aches‒ drinking it all from your chalice‒ vessels gilded with gold and hammered with human desire, sitting high to the heavens on altars to hold the blood and wine offered to the gods. You’d been hollowed much like that grail, gouged from the sharpened image of your still, immutable face against the shifting harmony of the world you could not enter. You have no reflection, no face, no name people would call out to take shape as your own, no proof of your corporeal form but your own, cold touch. And the hunger. The hunger seized you at every moment‒ aching through the gums of your fangs, and pounding your heart with the lifeblood that chased it. You were at least alive in your

You'd fashion something from the use you'd have to other people. A frankenstein skin stretched over your bones. You still feel the Supreme Leader’s gaze hollowing your senses.

"It's like they're reading my thoughts."

"Those sunglasses and gloves, what are you trying to stand out? So annoying."

"Why don't you read the atmosphere for once?"

"Arrogant asshole."

"What are you, pretending to be all high and mighty."

"Liar."

The noise never stops completely. But you've learned to shut the world out, better now with the advancements on potions and ear plugs‒ courtesy of the Night Raven College’s curriculum‒ hands free to grasp at every opportunity to prove you had existed in some way‒ a being that was real enough to feel the light of gods' love and forgiveness. Useful. Good.

“How did you know I used browned butter?”

Light‒ feather soft, honey sweet music that streams into your mind.

You always sat alone in the end. There was a composition to everything, as you saw it. And you had perfected the score of distance‒ being able to orchestrate a friendly, carefree facade, an absolutely stupid and undoubtedly shallow passion, pruning the space between you and the world. A gothic mirror to parody themselves, so they could not truly look at your monstrous, yet absent form‒ something you were sure would absolutely rupture the thick skin you've fashioned together out of pieces of the real people unlike yourself. You'd break apart into nothing but dust.

It was like the volume, moods, and rhythms created in the scores you played‒ you charged the room with boisterous laughter and directed the eyes at that, instead of your fervent efforts in composing the most fantastic detachment. In the end, you were almost giddy to see that no one saved you a seat, or spared you a glance when you slipped outside for a cigarette wedged hungrily between your fingers. The nicotine was enough to starve off the ache beginning to turn swiftly to nausea between your wobbling footsteps, and you were glad, you think, to have served your use in the social spiral to be afforded a moment of peace.

Or, you thought.

“Huh?”

“You forgot your prize.” The boy in front of you thrusts a frosted cupcake towards you, prompting you to switch the cigarette to your other hand to receive it. In the subtle moonlight, you see the sugar melted into the cream glitter a bit when you inspect the pastry.

He adjusts the hat on top of his green head of hair as he continues. “The competition to see who could guess all the ingredients in the cake correctly‒ you won, it was perfect, actually.”

You stare at him dumbly and you find yourself scooting over to make space for him. His eyebrows are tilted in a way that made his face a little sorry, a little roguish‒ a combination you found curious raised above those soft honey lemon eyes that hung like that summer fruit above the lush curve of his lashes.

“So‒ how did you know? I’m curious.”

You exhale the rest of the smoke resting in your lungs. “I…used to know people who were bakers. Their secret ingredient in their famous brownies was browned butter. I’ve eaten so many trays I’ve come to know the taste. The rest is just luck.”

He laughs. Not like you had seen out of the corner of your eye when he had been talking to all those people, but a loose, genuine chuckle. “I’d hardly call it luck‒ you got the measurements down pretty close. Impressive, if you ask me. May I ask‒ are you a baker?”

“I…” You find yourself smiling through the cigarette pushed to your lips, careful not to show your teeth. “I used to be. I used to spend a lot of time there, they must have rubbed off me.”

How long has it been since you’ve thought about them? You could remember the distinct nutty smell from the pounds of brown butter your sister was in charge of making‒ the click click click of your mother’s footsteps as she worked from the counter to the rack of trays, preparing the bread dough for proofing. Your father in the background, fiddling with the radio, beaming when he heard a recording of your cello performance on the morning radio. Warmth, sunlight. The beat of your heart, and the heat of your blood.

“You’ll have to give me the recipe then. I’ve been looking for a good brownie recipe.”

A moment to contemplate if you should end this conversation here. Something switches inside of you, perhaps a remnant of that warmth you remembered.

“You have something to write with?”

His face flowers gently into a brightened expression before he pulls out a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“...Thank you.”

You hum apathetically to work through the dreadful loom of warmth you feel when you hand the paper back to him with the recipes you’ve committed to memory from your laborious days at your family’s seaside bakery. The smoke still hanging in the air shifts sharply when you stand, and you flick the cindering cigarette to the pavement to stomp it out. You can tell there is more he wants to say that sits bubbly on his tongue, but you turn towards the door leading back to the Heartslabyul dorm before the words can take form through his smile.

There’s a moment that you stand by the door where you reflect on what you saw of him while he was inside, mingling with other humans.

“You should loosen your shoulders more when you smile, like that." Under his hat, you see his eyebrows raise up in slight surprise. Surprise isn't enough, you decide, and add, "If you want to convince people."

You hope those words leave him a bit cold, a bit cruel that he doesn’t come seeking after you anytime soon, feeling the scramble of thoughts threatening to pool into your ears through the plugs. It’s all noise to you. You step inside once more‒ feeling a little less sick, a little less raw to be able to orchestrate again.

Trey finds your handwriting as pretty as you were in the noise of the room, inspecting all the curls and loops of each word. It takes him a moment before he notices what you left behind.

“They forgot their prize…”

------------------------------

The next time you meet him is during band practice. Or, more precisely, hear him would be a better descriptor.

"Have you seen (Name)?"

The thick walls of the storage room muffles his voice, but you still hear it loud and clear as you lean against the door, cello in hand.

"I just saw them a minute ago. I think they went to run a few errands or something since the school festival is soon." Carter replies.

"Ah it seems like I'm on a wild goose chase. I'm starting to wonder if such a person even exists…"

“They’re everywhere and nowhere all the time.” Carter chuckles. "I didn't even know you two were like that."

"Hm. I guess. We only really talked once." He hums.

"But I'd like to get to know them better ."

The sharp inhale you suck in makes an audible sound when you hear those words brush the back of your neck. You press the palm of your hands flat against your ears in panic to prevent any sound‒ voices, noise, the world‒ all of it, from entering your mind.

Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet‒

You time his steps, the pleasantries he's likely throwing at the rest of the members, the time it takes for him to get far from your radius of power. Slowly, you release your hands from your head, and take a few moments to gather yourself before exiting the room.

Carter is the first to notice you. "Eh? (Name)? Since when were you there?"

"Since 10 minutes ago, dear. I told you we were going to take a break from group practice today and do individual practice today didn't I? We've been rehearsing so much for the festival I figured we could take a break for today."

"Really?? How did I miss this? I totally just sent Trey to the wrong place."

Lilia continues to tune his bass. "You were on your phone when (Name) briefed us on the schedule 3 weeks ago, Carter."

"I wanted to do a group rehearsal today! I feel like I finally got the hang of the last couple measures this time!" Kalim interjects.

"Don't pout, my dear president." The hand you place on his head is as gentle as ever. "You can practice without a vocalist for today, can't you? I have a lot to catch up on the Monstero Lounge gig I have coming up."

You bid your fellow members goodbye, dragging the instrument all the way to one of the empty classrooms.

Finally, a moment of peace.

You shuffle through your folder, fishing out the piece you had picked to play for a talent night that Azul had insisted you come and play at, excitedly chattering about how it was going to be brilliant for business.

Chopin's Cello Sonata in G Minor, Largo .

The cello sonata was one of the composer's last pieces. It was spectacular to you. A final, dazzling eruption before dwindling to the mere echoes of what had once been there‒ a fantastical piece with a pressure combed through every measure that would well an incomprehensible rawness that began at your chest, and would weave through the fibers of your throat that clenched in its emptiness.

But perhaps it was not so incomprehensible‒ humans in your life had been much the same. The ones you held dearly would rupture from this world, leaving you empty, aching with the sharpened, receding fragments.

When you slip off your gloves to press your bare fingers against the strings, you try not to let this thought consume you.

"But I'd like to get to know them better."

Bitterly, it seeps.

You know it's wrong‒ the piece is supposed to be for a simple, ten minute performance‒ a monotonous activity of human affairs that you would be pleased to check hastily off the list with a presentable smile and lightness. However, the decades you have lived until this day weigh upon you at once, spinning your hands in such a way that threads your grief heavily into the mellow air. The murky rust of the setting sun swells with the florid volume of your own misery, and the silence of the world that ripostes it.

The song falls softly, a slow stroke that gradually quiets until there is nothing. A diminuendo‒ to shatter, to finish. There's a small comfort, that unlike living things, the scores that stood on the iron music stand could be revived time after time, on trembling strings and resin scented maple. But, not much.

The flesh at the back of your eyelids are sparked with purple and blue stars as you squeeze your eyes shut, head leaning against the body of the cello to steady your breaths. It may have been the dizziness steadily climbing from the ache of your empty stomach to your head, but you felt like you were swaying in that concoction of color and bursting light.

"Don’t you want to be loved by god?”

You're afraid that if you open your eyes, the world may still be there. The noise, it will still exist, and reel you in‒ tangling you among its grotesque allure until the moment you reach towards it. Then, it will furl inwards, somewhere far from where you could detect it. The air feels sharp in your lungs‒ you feel like if you take too much in, you’d burst. The bow splinters in your hand, drawing blood.

"Pretty ."

A voice strikes through your bleakness, a gentle, but clear sound.

Trey stands at the center of your view. His face holds a glossy look for a moment, before he shakes his head and apologizes.

"Sorry‒ I just‒ I just heard you in the hallway, I thought you sounded really…" He laughs, shifting his gaze to the side. " Pretty ."

You look down at your instrument, and notice your bare hands, you remember you don't have your sunglasses on either. The cello echoes when you lean it against the desk, turn away from him to slip on your gloves and glasses.

You clear your throat, feeling each word stumble in staccato breaths. "Ah. Well. Um. Thank you. It's all, rather, very wrong though."

"Wrong? But it was incredible."

"Pretty."

The thoughts that enter his mind that churn into yours are ignored best you can before you swivel, veiling yourself in your disguise once more. "Perhaps wrong is not the best term. It's not tasteful for the audience, I suppose. There was no control."

"Control?" He parrots.

"Yes, you know." You wave your hand in flutter movements. "If someone like me performed like I just did‒ ha! I’d become the laughing stock of the entire school. " You clasp your hands together. "Now, darling. I must get going. Did you want to marvel at my music some more, or is there anything else you needed?"

You work quickly to gather your things, expecting Trey to leave after you've dismissed him. But when you drag your cello case around to leave, you see him still standing in the doorway, leaping towards your hand that rests on the cello case.

"Can I help you? It seems heavy."

"I'm alright. I've dragged this thing around this school, I am perfectly capable‒" When you go to lift the full weight of the instrument however, a dizziness digs into your temples, nausea quickly following suit.

"Oh‒ are you alright? Are you not feeling well? Let me at least help you with your instrument back to your dorm."

You stare at him, feeling your power rise within you, waiting for his thoughts to flood through your system‒ a confirmation to your suspicions you filter every person through, to pick them apart.

“You’re hurt.” He goes to examine your hand, you pull back.

"They don't look so well. Maybe they need something to eat? I should whip them up something after I help them carry this back to their dorm. Hm. Yeah. That sounds good. Something hearty."

Those words are inspected with great skepticism in your mind before the dizziness takes over, muddling your brain to a jumbled mess. Whatever, you think. He seems harmless enough.

“Fine” As soon as that curt response slips from your lips, you cringe internally. You clear your throat, attempting to redeem yourself. “I’ll take up your offer if that's alright with you. Pretty boy .”

He seems to hold the air in his throat when you give him that name, before he releases it in a puff of laughter. "Pft. Alright, yeah. Let's get you back to your room before you spout any more nonsense."

"Me?"

You're a bit taken back from his internal response. But you trail behind him, the weight of the nausea lifting slightly off your steps.

------------------------------

"What kind of cocoa powder did you use?"

"I think…just the regular brand stuff."

"Use Dutch processed next time. If you activate it correctly, the alkalizing process gives the batter a richer color and flavor."

He had somehow used his devilish charm to string you into this, you tell yourself, sipping on the tea you brewed for the both of you. But it would be rude to kick him out of your quarters without a proper thanks. You're no longer human, but you'd at least act civilized.

The tea has run a bit cold from the two whole hours he's managed to rope you into a conversation on baking techniques‒ slipping out the same notepad and pen he pulled out that night you met, and a box of various pastries and baked goods that he seemingly prepared out of nowhere. Truthfully, you weren't supposed to eat human food without proper sustenance from blood‒ however the look he gave you had absolutely pleaded that you do. So, how could you refuse?

You clear your throat to break through your endless flood of doubts and excuses. "I heard you were looking for me during band practice. Now that you've wormed your way into my life by bribing me with sweets‒ what did you want from me?"

"Oh!" He pulls another, smaller box from the bag you saw him rummaging through for the sweets laid out before the two of you. "Ah‒ I forgot about this. It might be a bit melted since there's ermine cream on the top."

The simple white box is opened, revealing a similar cupcake that you (purposefully) forgot the night you met him.

"It's not the same thing‒ it might be better actually‒ I used buttercream last time but it's pretty heavy so I substituted with ermine cream this time." He remains composed but you can tell something is bubbling below it. "Tell me what you think."

" I'm so excited to see what they think…I worked hard on this recipe since it seems it wasn't up to their tastes last time."

You make a face when you hear his thoughts, wondering how absolutely normal someone can be. “You mean to say you came all the way here to deliver me…this cup cake?”

"Yes I mean‒ I don't mean to pressure you into eating it, obviously." His eyebrows bunch upwards in his usual sorry expression. "I just. Wanted to hear your thoughts. Since I haven't met someone this knowledgeable on baking techniques at this school."

People usually had ulterior motives when approaching others with gifts, kindness, words slathered in polite niceties and compliments. You eye him suspiciously as he calmly sips his tea, scribbling away in his little notepad.

Drawing a little closer to him, you lean against the table, feeling the heat of your crimson eyes when you concentrate your magic to wade through the noise‒ pulling the thread of his thoughts from it all. It requires a bit of power through your ear plugs and rising nausea, but you manage to unravel it.

" I'd really like to get to know them better. Friends, maybe . Cater says I should get out there more, this is what he meant, right? "

It was impossible to ignore the truth of the matter‒ that the person sitting in front of you is so absolutely unbearably bare, plain. You'd thought you'd seen clarity before, in how salient the cruelty of people was, but you had been wrong. No doubt this was true clarity‒ the candor of normal, mundane life that you normally blocked out with the rest of the noise of the world. The tonic of human lives rarely interested you, but it seemed like all this person was, and it seeped deeply into his treatment of you. Normal, bare, plain.

Human .

It was so baffling you could not suppress the smile that spread on your lips.

Ah, maybe just for today, you think. Just this one conversation. Just one moment, and I'll forget the taste of human life again.

"Hm, alright. Just this once, pretty boy ."

The sugary cream melts instantly in your tongue, and the airy sponge is sweet when you swallow your determination to forget this honey sweetness he brings. A hint of vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, spice, and everything nice. You let it settle deep in the dark of your belly, feeling the warmth still lacing through your blood from the tea you've sipped with him slowly cool under your flesh. You devour it all, with his words and smile, hiding it deep inside so you can’t remember its sweetness.

But the honey you've added at his request still runs golden sweet on your tongue. You roll it through your mouth, trying to extinguish the taste, but it spreads further, coating your throat as you swallow it. Unlike the contents of the cupcake, it runs raw against your flesh, and you must wait until it seeps deeply into the fibers of your throat before it dissolves.

The hours pass as you talk with him, but the sweetness does not fade.

------------------------------

"You alright?"

The silvery tone of your voice breaks through Trey's thoughts. He had been lagging behind the Heartstlabyul group to take a break from all of the frenzy of today. The responsibility, the pressure. You'd been with them a moment ago, mingling as you always did, but now you've slowed your footsteps to match the slight drag of his own‒ something he's sure you've noticed. Heat tingles at his cheeks‒ he doesn't know whether it's from the way you've broken his image so swiftly with your keen eyes, or if it's from, simply, your thoughtfulness. For him, of all people. For him.

"Yeah, fine. Just tired. Today has been such a long day with these underclassmen."

His laughter rings clearly, even though the obstruction of your ear. With each note emanated from his lips, you feel it slipping through the cracks of the foundation of your feeble resolve, crumbling so endearingly that you smile sincerely when he speaks. It had been disgust, revolt at first, feeling the distance between your world and his inching closer and closer‒ but before you could notice the absence of nausea stinging through your chest and stomach, you felt the feather-lightness of your own smile chiming with his own, completely eclipsing the discomfort you had felt previously in the proximity to other lives. To him.

"You need to relax more. Stop fussing over these no good children." You massage his shoulders in a playful manner.

He feigns pain then quirks that smile on his face‒ you know the one, the one where he bunches his eyebrows and laughs with the back of his throat. In that moment, you're as confident as ever, charging him with laughter‒ letting your inhibitions lose. Control didn’t matter, for a moment. The world doesn’t seem so sharp at that moment, like you were going to tip over the edge.

When the pads of his fingers brush against your fingers, all that sense you had withers so easily in your chest. Through his shoulders, you can feel the vibration of the hum he emits in agreement, a musical accompaniment to the warmth that radiates from his hands.

"Maybe. They're good kids. You're right‒ maybe I do need to relax." You retract your hands from him, allowing him to toss his head over his shoulder. "Any tips?"

The seconds you weigh out whether to lie or not seem to shorten with every moment you spend with him. "I guess…music. I like to sing some of the warm-up pieces I used to know.”

"Warm up for what?"

"Ah for the…church choir."

Liar .

He makes a face, an airy laugh escapes your nose. "What?" You ask.

"...you just don’t look like a religious person.”

You look down at your feet, a slight smile as a comfort to him. “I haven’t been in a while. I don’t think I’ve had faith in anything in a long time.” A quiet lull in your words.

Your stomach turns. It's always a look of pity, or some casted look that drags you as some pathetic creature, cold and inhuman. The words die in your throat, you quiet your breaths, feeling then stick to the prickly flesh of your lungs and throat.

“I get it.”

But the look Trey gives you as he digests your words is a sadness as sincere and clear as water. It was not such a clawing, dried look that transformed you into something you didn't want to be. Instead, he swallows your words whole, as they were, his gaze reaching far beyond the pain. His sound‒ clear as a summer's day, dotted prettily with the honey lemon droplets of his gaze‒ finds you.

“I got you.”

A tranquil, silvery symphony‒ each sweetened thread weaving itself magnificent, deep within your nerves. It takes everything to pull yourself from it.

"Now, I have the perfect blend of tea for you then, darling. It goes wonderfully with those lemon shortbread cookies you made yesterday‒ absolutely divine."

Quick to shake the feeling off, you mask the dread of warmth with your usual stupid passion and fire that carves an expression of slight surprise into Trey's face, just for a moment. But it surprised you, instead, to see that it dissolved completely, and replaced with an elated burst of laughter. It takes him a moment to gather himself, and many more for you to do the same with the words he says.

"You're actually a really good person, (Name)."

The feeling returns, swiftly.

You don’t want to breach into the borders of his mind, but you found yourself reaching for the silvery thread of his sound from the noise, picking apart the gray mess of things to find that glimmering thing. Your mind had learned the scent, the exact hue and melody of his inner voice to be able to pluck it so naturally from everything else, and you were growing fearful that you had committed yet another thing to memory that would eventually be lost to time. But the words that you hear from him‒ you think it will consume you for the rest of your eternity.

"God. You're wonderful."

It nearly chokes you to hear such clarity in that declaration. Foolish . You think. Only a fool would say such a thing. You fix the shades slipping down your face, turning your energy to block out any sound and voice.

"You flatter me, my dearest."

Lucid, pure. His voice. His laughter. It wasn't just noise to you anymore. You think of what chord his voice would be, how it would sing against your fingers on your cello. Or perhaps a heavenly instrument would be more befitting.

"But you've got me all wrong."

You smile. Perhaps you were the fool.

A few weeks later, he admits: "Truthfully, I tried to avoid you best I could before we officially met. Because of your blase attitude and the rumors about you‒ I thought I wouldn't mesh well with people like you."

"Is that so?" A wolfish smile curves onto your lips, eyes turning crescent. You fiddle with the flier for the monstero lounge show coming up, debating whether or not you should have really accepted Azul’s request. "It seems most people think I'm that way."

"Yeah. But I'd like to think you opened up to me a bit, and I discovered something about you that made me want to talk to you. You're real strange, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm the weirdo? I'm not the one whose hobby is brushing their teeth."

"Dental health is important." He states matter-of-factly, before his hardened look is broken with a breathy laughter. "But really. I would have liked to be friends earlier in my life if I had just known you were the way you actually are."

You remember his words, turning your eyes downwards. "I'd really like to get to know them better."

Hesitation curdles in your mind, but the words come instantaneous, eager to his statement. "Which is?" Perhaps too eager, you shrink.

He hums, thinks for a minute. "Just‒ kind ." He says. "I never noticed before, but you're always making sure people are included, checking on people. It's like a sixth sense‒ you can easily pick up what people are thinking, but also feeling. Like a guardian angel or sorts."

You stare at him with a blank look, a breath in your lungs that doesn't make it past your parted lips. Then, gaze downwards, again.

"I wish more people would know how much good you have."

It takes great effort not letting his words sink deeply into your heart, constricting it. Sometimes, when you replay the scene in your head at night‒ an inevitable occurrence when he's on your mind‒ you try your hardest not to let it well something inside you so floridly that it bleeds heavily in your chest, and sprouts the salt in your eyes. But, it does. Idiot , you think, if only you knew what I really was.

You make a noise, unclear yourself as to your response to his statement, crushing the flier in your hand. Attempting to redeem yourself, you casually begin rolling the balled up paper in your hands, giving Trey an exasperated expression.

“What’s that?” He points to the paper.

“Oh‒ nothing. An Azul thing. Or a Monstero Lounge thing. Whatever, I’m probably going to bail on it anyways.”

“An Azul thing?” The hint of disappointment in his tone confuses you. “Oh! the Monstero Lounge show that’s coming up? I’ve been looking forward to it‒ you’re bailing? Don’t let Carter hear you say that‒ he’s been talking about wanting to be in it for weeks.”

A smile quirks on your face. “Has he now?”

Trey nods. “Why are you bailing? I thought you had a real passion for playing?”

“Performance is another matter. You know, the difference between baking for yourself, and baking for other people.” Trey nods in understanding. “Besides, what makes you say that?” You make a face which fails to fully contain the disgust towards yourself. Passion. It curdles on your tongue.

“How do I put it…You…” He pauses, thinking. In a moment, his words flood forth. “Your expression seems heavier when you’re playing. But, maybe a good kind of heavy. You always seem light and bubbly, but now that I think about it, you never talk about yourself.”

“I don’t.” You confirm, a sweet smile.

“You don’t.” An averted gaze. “I never asked.”

“How unusual of you‒ mother of Heartslabyul.”

“So,” His gaze pulls you in. “What’s your favorite color?”

You take a moment to reply, a bit surprised that he would actually follow through with his words. You’re reminded of the reason why you were so taken with him in the beginning‒ despite his sheepish deflection of compliments, despite the playful smirk that curved on his face‒ his words always matched his actions, his gaze, his expression.

“Yellow. A lemony, summery yellow. Reminds me of the flowers my sister used to grow.”

“You just have one sister?”

“One and only. My older sister.”

“I’m envious. I’ve always wondered what it was like being the younger sibling.”

You chuckle, searching the vast landscape of memories stored inside you. “You know‒ teasing, fighting, hand-me-down clothes, the like. But I love her, especially when she makes her brioche bread.”

“You’re close with her?”

Time, space‒ the difference between you and the world, him. It comes in waves as always, flooding you, and your hands which search for distant memories. You’re not sure if it was his ignorance towards your nature, or plainly his presence that seemed to pull your discorporated humanity closer to you once more.

“Very. She’s my rock. She was the first to encourage me to pursue music.”

“Do you play other instruments?”

“Of course. Cello, piano, guitar, accordion, harp, violin, flute…” You trail on.

The conversation goes on, until the two of you notice you’ve been walking around the campus, completely separated from the others. You laugh about it.

When you separate, you watch him walk across the hills, his form roaring against the sunset. There’s a twinge in your stomach, which you swallow with great effort. The distance between you and him seemed like it didn’t matter for the vivid moments you spent conversing with him‒ but now with his back towards you, as he headed towards the light‒ the feeling wades back. You search through the flood as you always do, but you cloud your own vision when you look back to the things you said, the faces you made, the memories you shared. Blackened, like yourself. The sun hisses against your skin. At times like this, you’re reminded of your stunted development‒ you had forgotten what the sun does to creatures of the night.

It scorches your retinas as you look at the heart of the sun, but you let it‒ reminded of the sweetness of his honey lemon eyes.

Bitterly, it seeps.

------------------------------

Every time Trey stands by your door, for some reason, his nerves rise to the surface, tingling at his feet and the hand that raps at wood. He doesn't understand why his body gets this fussy every time‒ he's seen you a dozen times before. That crooked, fanged smile; the delightful way your hands move in conversation, the charming little way you hum when pouring him tea (2 sugars, a touch of cinnamon, just the way he likes it)‒ these are all things he's almost gotten used to that he doesn't feel near faint when you grace him with such pleasures.

" Pretty boy ."

He remembers the nickname you call him, along the standard " darling "s and " my dear "s you seem to call everyone else. Just for him, you've fashioned something that can instantly unravel him, much like now, as he waits in front of your door with fresh pastries. He feels special when you call him that‒ but it feels good, unlike the times he tries to undermine himself under a barrage of flattening statements that stomp out every potential for expectations . Like he could make a difference, a change in anyone or anything. He’s just a normal guy. Nothing more. Riddle was a vivid reminder of that.

Except when he’s with you‒ it feels extraordinary.

The millions of things that seem to arise out of conversation‒ the sheer possibility of what wonderful things he can share with you beats like thunder in his chest, reaching the tips of his ears where they flush. That fullness he felt before returns‒ the only way to alleviate it it seems is to converse and spend time with you. He hopes the redness at least dies down when he's around you, all his senses seem to fly out the window when you're by his side.

We're just studying together. That's all. He tells himself.

He secretly holds his breath when you open the door with the creak‒ but he releases it when his lips part in surprise at your state.

"O-oh. Hello, Trey." Rather than your usual, slurry, elegant demeanor, your voice scrapes against your throat‒ the sound coming small and frail, something Trey had never associated with you before. Elegant, honey-like, and sure of yourself‒ it was never like this. Diminuendo , he remembers from you, and his favorite piece that you play. Like you'd depart from him, where he could not follow.

You fix your glasses, feeling them slipping on your nose, before you run your hand through your knotted hair. The cigarette wedged between your fingers weaves smoke between the two of you, mixing with the smell of alcohol on your breath. "I'm afraid something came up, darling. I have to cancel today, I'm sorry I didn't ring you in advance." You go to close the very small gap you've allowed yourself to open‒ Trey stops you before you can. The bold move surprises even himself.

"...You're sick? In that case I could‒"

" D-don't touch me." A crackle in your voice, fear striking your expression. "A-apologies. No. It's fine. You musnt do anything for me."

"But I want to?"

The prickly air that had been kindling on the inside of your lungs flares all at once at that moment, puncturing something inside.

"You don't know what you want." You spit.

" Oh‒ what?"

"I said you don't know what you want. But allow me to make it easier for you. You don't want this. So go away‒ get out of my sight ."

Hellfire. It stains you.

"I‒" He swallows the lump in his throat. "I-I don't understand?"

"I said . Get away from me, Trey ." His name comes cold on your tongue. He feels it coil around his spine.

What are you saying?

"But‒"

You launch the door open, almost breaking it off the hinges. The crimson of your eyes glow in your power as you bare your fangs, clawing the wood of the door with your sheer grip. A lurching feeling wells inside you, as you grow in size, in power, in sharpness. All the qualities that separate you, from him.

"I SAID GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."

You don't recognize your voice. Trey's feet crumble from underneath him as you tower over his form. With the fear that seeps into his eyes, you decide it's enough, and shut the door with a slam.

You swallow the breaths that come faster than you can handle, looking down at the chips of wood that embed into your nails and fingers, beginning to bleed. You lean on your table, raising one hand to grasp at the root of your hair, catching a glimpse of the crimson glow that emanates off your eyes. The hair that falls in front of your face cages you in that bloody vision‒ red, and violent.

This is what you are, it's what you've always been and always will be. A monster . Fanged, clawed, hideous‒ thick, violent strokes of inky black on one of those books the priest used to carry around with him. Swirling into a void so corroded of color‒ the truest black‒ immortalizing your revolting form, permanently baring your fangs, carrying hellfire in your eyes and throat that you’d swing senseless with an animal violence. Fixed in that abstracted abyss, forever‒ eternal as you are. How pitiful that you choke on your own sorrow.

You fall into a rage, your body dragging itself by the spine‒ swinging your hands and legs throughout the room. A sound tears from your throat, far from a human cry. Music scores from missed practices fly, used plates and cups tumble to the ground, chipping. Your ashtray falls heavy on the grand piano that sits at the center of your room, slamming down the heavy lid, reverberating the strings, hammering into the air a chaotic symphony of ash and disorder.

For a moment you think to pick everything up, tidy yourself up and make amends with Trey‒ but you know the drill by now. In a week, you'd come to terms with yourself again‒ all the things you make and destroy‒ and sever yourself from this place, and its people. In just seven days you'd swallow the bitterness of your own self as you always had, clean your mess, throw the pieces you'd broken away. It ends all the same.

Before you know it, you have a half empty bottle in hand, the days old wine weighing heavily in your palm. You twist your body furiously in attempt to rupture the surfaces of rage you have rising like fire inside of you, to at least reach to the gnawing feeling inside your chest. But it grows even restless, even hungrier‒ eating away at the breath in your lungs and the beat of your heart when you come face to face with your reflection. Nothing.

What sort of monster doesn't have a face?

You couldn't have even be given that, to be remembered and touched‒ even if it was fear and abhorrence‒ to exist as a creature who is seen, and heard on their own. You were merely an image created by others.

Control‒ you never had any of it, ever since your mouth was held open by its hinges and forced to down that creature's blood. It was laughable to even call yourself a musician, a conductor, a person. There was not a moment in your life where you had genuinely orchestrated the fullness of musicality, or anything. When you plucked on the strings of your cello‒ it was always just that. Noise. There was nothing inside of you that could transfigure that dead noise from the strings into something meaningful, something that could exist in the realm of adoration. Loved .

Don't you want to be loved?

How could you be? You're just‒ this .

Crumbling to the ground, you sob, remembering the fear laid plain on Trey's face.

Surely‒ he’s gone. If you had ever held him in that way, at least. Arm’s length, prickled air‒ you had been weaving this inevitable goodbye yourself. Regret curdles heavily in your stomach as you bring your knees to your face on the floor.

I was doing so good. I was good again‒ I am good. You clench your jaw, imagining those portraits of violence from the Supreme Leader’s book. A realization‒ fuck . Nausea rises to your throat.

You want to sleep. Or drink. Or smoke. Something to sedate you out of this emptiness clawing itself all over your insides.

A knock startles you out of your daze. You assume the door is broken by the sound of the rusty hinges creaking open, the light of the hallway pouring behind you. A silhouette‒ but you don’t want to be found, or seen. You stay quiet, hoping he just leaves. Forever, maybe.

“(Name)?”

His footsteps creak against the floorboards, inching closer and closer. You wish you had the energy to tell him to leave again. Instead, you bury your face in your hands.

You hear him shuffle a bit, close to you on the floor.

His breath tickles the hairs on your arm, his voice reaching far into your head, the vibration from his throat rippling to your empty chest. “I’m not leaving.”

With some kind of divine courage, you speak. “Why won’t you?”

He shuffles closer, lacing his fingers through your tangled hair. “Because it seems I like you too much.”

“You’re a fool.”

You were the fool.

“Birds of a feather flock together.” He says, matter of factly. “Because you’re an idiot if you think I’m just going to leave you here. You…”

You feel him swallow, pausing his hands to hold your head at the crook of your neck. “You’re special to me.”

“I’ve got you.”

It feels like you're being enveloped completely by him‒ his smell, his sound. It smells faintly of candied violet, vanilla, and your honey lemon blend of tea. Trey thinks it complements well with your smell. Old books, and well-read letters tucked preciously into cookie tins. Faintly, iron.

In a shaky voice, you apologize. Over and over. "I-im so sorry.There's something wrong with me." He rubs your shoulder, measuring his movements carefully so as not to overwhelm you. "I'm sorry I'm this way. I-I didn't mean to yell. I didn't mean to send you away. I want you here. I-I'm sorry. I lied. I’m a liar.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. We all have our things‒ we’re human, right?”

You cry harder. "No, you don't understand."

"Are you fae?" He asks, looking at your pointed ears and teeth he'd seen in the students in Diasmonia. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're still‒"

Wonderful .

He chooses his words with care in your state. “- my friend.”

You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth. "N-no. I'm nothing of the sort. I-I…" Everything is so unbearable‒ you're unbearable . Your fangs pierce into your lips when you bite down, suppressing the wailing pressure that threatens to leak from deep inside your throat. It burns all the way down when you swallow it, only leaving you with a portion of your dwindling volume.

" I'm a monster ." You spit, looking directly into Trey's eyes‒ like you did moments before‒ hellfire stirring within them. The palms of your hands face him, framed with the sharpened claws of your hands that spot with blood from the splitters still embedded within them. Slowly, you furl them onto yourself, drawing red upon your palms when they ball into fists. "A vampire‒ like the ones you know from books and stories. That's me ."

That is all I am.

Your vision blurs, and you tuck your limbs into yourself as if you brace for impact.

Instead, softness‒ honey lemon eyes, sweetness, golden.

"You're hurt."

You make a sound through your sobs when he takes your hands. Impossibly soft, feathery under your own, he picks the sharpness out of them. The blood is wiped away with his handkerchief, staining the light clover green fabric with blots of red. Now it's dirty , you think. I’ve poisoned it.

"You're not a monster." He says, unfurling your hand further, prying apart your sharpened fingers from your palm. They twitch at his words.

"I tried to hurt you‒ send you away.” You feel like your throat is going to collapse.

He’s quiet for a moment, you can see him roll his saliva through his mouth, and the doubt and anxiety which passes across the movements of his downwards eyes. A barbed look‒ you feel it prickle familiarly against yourself‒ so you ever so slightly inch your pinky towards his hand that rests near your own, making a small gesture with your pinky to intertwine it with his‒ I’ve got you .

A heavy breath pushes past his lips. “People do that all the time. I get it‒ I mean‒ I know how it feels to be anticipating the color and tone of people’s faces. I grew up doing the same. From a certain point‒ you can kind of sense when people begin to tear themselves away from you‒ like you thought they would do eventually‒ it’s kind of a relief, isn’t it? To confirm that the distance you were placing between people at least did something .”

You nod, giving him a small quirk on the lips to agree. He continues. “I’m really just a normal guy‒ you know? I don’t really have the power to change things, or have an effect on people. Like you do.”

“Me?”

He hums, rounding his expression with a small curve on his lips. “You light up the room. You charge everyone with a certain energy. A je ne sais quoi .” He jokes‒ you laugh. “It’s probably a lot of pressure, a lot of fear. But you face it. I like that about you.”

“ I’m not like you .” You hear from him. You want to remind him‒ you're a fool.

“You-” You gulp. “You do that for me too. You light up my day. But‒ I don’t know. I feel bad feeling these things. It’s like I can’t wait, you know?”

Trey scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “Can’t wait for what?”

“I can’t wait. For the moment you‒ or people‒ leave, like you said. I’m always anticipating it. I digest people inside of me‒ pick them apart. I’m really not a good person. Sometimes there’s just something inside of me that switches when I’m faced with anything pointing to people confirming my suspicions‒ like I’m always tipping off the edge. I don’t know‒ people are…” A baited breath. “Bad. And I’m something a lot worse.”

Trey takes your hand again, drawing circles with his thumb.

“I don’t know who I am. I have no reflection, no substance, no form‒ nothing . All I know is that I’ve been emptied to carry this filth that terrorizes me‒ and whenever I lash out at it, I end up hurting other people.” The afternoon light that weaves in between the curtains illuminates a streak of dust and smoke in the room. “My story ends all the same. Like any good fabled monster.”

“What if this time it ends differently?”

A weary smile wobbles onto your lips. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” You stand, dust yourself off, and offer a hand to him. He accepts.

“It will.” His assertiveness almost surprises himself, but he reminds himself why‒ it’s you .

“Why‒ aren’t you certain?” Bitterness seeps your tongue.

“You’re the reason for it. You’re all that.”

There’s a feeling that wells inside you that replaces the tension that slips from your shoulders‒ something a tinge sour, sweet, and warm. You don’t search for the underlying tones and clandestine beats of his words. Clear as day‒ you accept this feeling. Hesitantly, you lean against him, soaking with the feeling that seems to also radiate from him.

“You’ll stay today?”

Trey feels you relax against him.

“For as long as you'll have me.”

He doesn’t let you go.

------------------------------

"I've never seen snow before I came here." You watch the soft speckles of white float gently down from the skies. "I'll never get tired of this scene."

Trey slows his pace a bit, so you can linger on the white landscape. "Really? Not even in the Queendom of Roses?"

You nod. "The island I lived on before I was exiled was exceptionally warm. I wasn’t allowed‒ ”

Quickly, you shift your words. Control.

“-I wasn’t much of an outside kid, on account of the whole sun thing before potions could handle it. And after I had left I hopped from one island to another‒ most of them were too warm to have snowy weather. And when I visited the main island it was always during the warmer seasons.”

You remember the supreme suggesting warm climates‒ quiet, sunny peaks in the outlands, away from people. Those suggestions grew on you with time. You liked warmer climates anyways, . The room you had at the temple had always been cold and damp, the only light that would peek through snuck in through the stone that had eroded over years of negligence. You shiver.

"I don't like the cold, too much. But the snow is beautiful."

You suddenly feel wool, warmth on your neck. Trey fixes his scarf on you, you almost jump away, but after the initial moment of surprise, you relax into his scent that has melted into the wool. Lavender . He always smells like sweet floral, you note. It reminds you of the patches of grass and wildflower that would sprout sparingly in the parts of your room where the sun would kiss‒ the dew that would form on them like opals would be sweet like the fragments of light that wove in soft petals on the hard stone flooring. When you touched that light refracting in honeyed rays in those small drops of water the morning chill brought, you could remember a fraction of your humanity. Summer like a warm blanket and the crickets that chirped outside while you and your sister sat beside the window sill, giggling at the lantern light. The verdant coolness that swept the bakery while you helped your papa prepare the bread rolls for proofing. Silly, small things. It could make you cry, even now, as Trey diligently wraps the scarf around your neck.

“...You were exiled?” He chooses his tone, his words very carefully, softness like velvet honey.

You smile, a shape meant to comfort him. “I was. My hometown was very poor. People needed something to believe in, and they already had their hero.” Supreme leader, in his gilded cloak. "You're going to catch a cold‒ and this scarf‒ it's from your siblings, is it not? I feel bad, you shouldn't give stuff so easily to people." Despite your words, dive your nose deeper into the yarn, threading your claws carefully within the chunky pattern.

"I’m warm enough‒ besides, you wear things like this well.” He finishes fussing with the scarf. The warmth that had welled into the wool from his skin melts into you like cotton candy‒ sweet and soft. “And you’re cold, aren’t you? If I catch a cold I’ll just have you take care of me.”

You press your cold fingers onto his bare neck to hide the rosy heat coloring your cheeks. With a shiver and a smile, he yells "Hey!" while laughing.

"Well I guess I have no choice then.”

A moment of silence after your laughter dies down‒ Trey hardens his expression. “You’re still shivering. The blood supplements haven’t helped?”

A sigh pushes through your nose. “Yeah. I guess. I don’t feel too keen on asking hospitals for donations either. I’ll be fine, pretty boy.” A curt smile curves onto your lips to reassure him.

Trey makes a face. “What if you get sick again?”

The smile you wear tightens. “I’ll be fine .”

“It’s worrying.”

“I don’t need it.”

The silence of the snowfall roars against your ears when he says‒ “What if you fed off of me?”

The dense crunch of your footsteps packing the snow stops as your chest rises and falls with a thickened rhythm.

“Don’t joke about such things.”

“I wasn’t.”

"Then don’t say stuff like that. I said I don’t need it."

"But you do! Look at you! You're emaciated‒ a few days ago you were barely standing!"

"That's‒"

"It’s not healthy, you know. You need blood to survive."

“It’s scary to see you like that.”

You’re genuinely taken back from his internal voice, a slight treble which rings against your ears. “I don’t understand. Why would you be scared?”

His answer is instantaneous, exasperated. “Because you’re my friend.”

You bite the words climbing your throat. As much as it pained you to see Trey like this, you could not swallow that thought threatening to simmer through your lips, a burning notion that had engraved itself into every piece of yourself.

I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need you I don't need I don't need‒

"Why won't you accept this offer? Accept me?" It chokes you to hear him like this‒ but the familiar nausea that seizes your throat overpowers it.

Because I could never make up for it. Make up for it being me that you choose.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“ Fuck‒ yes I will!” You hiss. Quieter, you muster. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will. I’m made that way.”

His silence drives a hot coal down your throat‒ prompting you to push down that blackness that gnaws at you.

“Sorry‒ I‒” A release in the tension of your shoulders. “I apologize. I was just…overwhelmed. It’s a serious proposition‒ you really shouldn’t take it so lightly. I haven’t interacted so much with my own kind but from what I heard, it would be almost a lifelong commitment. At least for you that is. When you die, I will..." You attempt to swallow the tightness in your throat- a hunger. "I will not forgive myself."

“I’m sorry‒ I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. We should talk about it more‒ alright?” He rubs circles with his thumb across your skin, and you feel the ridges of his fingers drawing shapes. “But if it’s regret you worry about‒ know that I would never regret spending my life with you. At any capacity.”

There were stories you heard of centuries after you were reborn as a vampire about beautiful things spun by poets and artists. To reach to the monster‒ approaching it with gentle softness rather than stakes and silver. Risking sharpened teeth with lethal maws, defying the hardwired fear and repulsion against something that has tremendous capacity for violence. Saintly, divine touch. You had deemed it one of the most beautiful things‒ sublime, and completely unfathomable to you.

But when Trey reaches to you in that moment‒ in your moments‒ you think‒ this is what it is. This is what it must feel like to be touched by something beautiful. This is what it must feel like to be touched by god. You almost understand the Supreme Leader, in a way. You understand faith ‒ it’s a terrible thing.

He cools the tindering hellfire in yourself with his touch. It burns as a searing stake through your chest.

He doesn’t let go as you walk through the ashen landscape.

------------------------------

He makes you promise you’ll talk about it. And you do‒ hesitantly accepting his proposition with a box in hand.

“I think it’s a good time to give you this.”

The smell of oak flushes his nose when Trey draws closer to inspect the intricate honeysuckles that weave through the wood.

It’s an old, tattered thing‒ something given to you when you were young by your parents. The flowers were meant to be a gesture of nostalgia and deep affection‒ and you manage to remember the fragments of your mother’s many sayings‒ something about always been meant to be with you, how she felt a strange sense of reunification when she had bore you and your sister.

A bitter taste spreads on your tongue when you move the box towards Trey, and the contents inside clack against the wood. How furious she would be if she knew what you had done.

"What is it?"

“ Insurance .” you answer, quickly.

He gives you a confused look before taking the box into his hands, opening the rusted latch on it. You only hear the eroded hinges creak as he cracks open the chest, the speckles of rust falling onto the table.

You made sure there would be enough to pack the box‒ but it seems that there is still some air when they rattle against the walls of the box. Sharpened to perfection‒ you hope they won’t wear down too much from this motion.

After a minute, there’s the same sound again, then the closing of the box before it’s shoved towards you‒ back fully in your vision once more.

“I don’t need this.” Strained, his voice comes thickly between his constricting throat ‒ a similar feeling proceeding to his chest, flaring at the ends of his fingers which tuck tightly into his palms.

The face he makes worries you.

For him, of course, but for yourself as well. You're afraid you're going to break right then and there, throat etched in silent shame‒ but you pull yourself together with a sharp, willow breath sucked into your lungs. You feel the air settle cold on your tongue, and it almost shakes.

"It's just insurance ." You say, opening the box. A wooden stake is rolled across the table to him. He averts his eyes as if it burns him. "If the time ever comes‒"

"If it comes?" The voice pounding heavily at the back of his throat raised with his breaths. He parrots your words angrily. " If the time comes? Then what‒ I have to kill you? I have to be the one?"

"I would like it to be you, yes."

He gathered his eyebrows further into the center of his forehead. "Me?"

"Only you. It could only be."

You hear his shaky breath. No‒ you feel it press deeply into your bones, a vibration that makes its way from the tremble of his fingers, through the table, into your own flesh, far inside you that its precise throb stretches the growing cracks he's made in your resolve.

"I can't."

"You must ." You feel your claws scratching against the leather of your gloves. "To protect yourself."

He feels terribly selfish, childlike for the quiet volume of his voice. "From who?”

You feel the hungry thing inside of you flourish at your own words. “From me.”

He calls out to your name. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of someone who is so afraid of themselves.”

You have no response to that.

An inhale‒ before he continues. “You’re the reason to the certainty in my words‒ that’s not really something I had before. Nothing feels normal with you‒ but it’s the good kind. You‒” despite the situation, he laughs, cracking the expression you love. “-you really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

A sharp finger presses against your palm to confirm this is truly‒ really‒ actually real. You doubt yourself, telling yourself that you somehow tricked him into thinking you were this good. It must have been all those pet names‒ the saccharine composition that had somehow trapped him into your siren spell.

He faces you with all his sincerity‒ revealing the sharpened claws of your hands when he slips the leather off of them. He holds them softly, hoping if his words don’t reach you‒ at least this language that you had both curated against each other, might. You feel that it does, unable to find a trace of deceit, doubt, or anything besides the honey lemon hue that basks you in all its sweetness.

For the first time in centuries‒ you feel the blood inside you churn warmly in your cheeks, your eyes avoiding his gaze.

“I suppose I didn’t.”

So of course, when he first allows you access to his blood‒ the first action you do is to cover his eyes above all else. He makes a small noise when your cold fingers fall softly on his eyelids.

Without even thinking, he reaches towards your hand‒ he sees the crimson light that weaves through your hands that eclipse into pitch darkness when he lays his hand on top of yours. In the darkness, his voice seems louder when he calls out to you.

"Can you move your hand?"

The fibers of his neck tickle against your stiffened breath.

"Not yet."

He feels your teeth open his flesh, his skin parting like a ripened fruit. The curve of your soft lips that cup warmly around the wound, leaning deep into his scent‒ to dive further into the sweetness of his blood. He groans as a moment of pain passes, but his sound relaxes‒ slurry‒ in his throat when he feels sweet pleasure, thick as honey, feathering from where he feels you feeding. His breath quickens, and you feel the warmth of his exhales. As close as a lover’s breath.

He lets out a shameless sound of pleasure‒ a whisper you drink in with his sweet ambrosia.

"Ah, this isn't so bad."

He feels the fingers you keep firmly on top of his eyes twitch.

"Sorry. 'M sorry." You mumble against his skin. His senses feel so jumbled, flooding as thick and raw syrupy mountains. He blindly accepts them‒ unlike your words, which he makes sure to affirm should not be so. I am not sorry, he thinks. You do not have to be either . There’s a tremble in your lips when he slips those words into the air, humming sweetly against his skin.

He doesn't trust his voice, but the heaviness that clouds his mind barely filters his thoughts.

"A-are you done already?"

"Mhm. Sorry, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I just need a minute." His chest slowly rises and falls. He notices he's gripping your hand. "Can you move your hand now?"

"Let me see you. I want to see you."

"Just a moment." Even in the sensory deprivation, your voice feels particularly far off. "Not yet."

Trey closes his eyes, waiting for the tight pleasure that still prickles under his skin to pass. When he opens his eyes again, he finds your hand gone, the sun seeping through his fingers. You're facing away from him, sitting at the edge of the bed, bloody handkerchief in hand, unnervingly quiet.

"I'm sorry if I caused you any pain. I'll go get bandages and some pain killers for you."

You turn a bit towards him, but he doesn't see your face. He grabs your hand before you could walk away‒ calling your name.

A beat of silence. "Yes?"

"..."

It seems his senses have returned to him when he confirms the weight of your trembling hand‒ how it feels a fraction of a degree warmer than before.

"Why can't you look at me?"

" Why won’t you show me your face?

Your expression?

You?

Are you smiling? Are you mad?

Why can't you show me?

Am I‒ "

"No ." Your back gives out as you press all your force into that word, making the bed creak when you fall into it. "No. It's not you. It's not you. I just‒" A breath. "I don't want you to look at me. While I’m like this. It is a mercy. ”

Waves of scrambled noise crash through you. You want to squeeze your hands over your ears, shut your eyes until all you can feel is the vast darkness, and your fading form within it. You’d congeal with that void, rot until there is truly nothing left of anything you had‒ to to the dust as dead and far as the remains of your home.

"I don't want to just look at you. I want to see you."

You don't trust your voice, so you shake your head. When you swallow the lump lodged in your throat, it tangles in your shaky breath when you feel his hands wrap around yours.

"I want to see you." He repeats.

The noise parts with the lightness of his voice. Slowly, you turn towards him. Instantly, his hands are molded to the curve of your shape, as if they were forged by the decaying whispers of your labyrinth heart. In secret, they were cast by your hearth, and now they are cooled, and formed around the salt and tears that etch florid down your face. These hands are made for you, you think. Only the starlight has come this close to your monstrous form. Only the starlight.

"I'm sorry‒ I shouldn't be so‒ this right now. But I just can't‒ I'm so sorry." The apologies bubble from your trembling lips, as you try to form a coherent thought. But the softness of which he touches the cruel sharpness of your form‒ it wells a crescendo symphony of desire that you withheld, lurching upon you all at once.

He pulls you in, tighter.

This was home. You had always stood at the edge of it, drawing a line before the entrance to remind yourself‒ you had not been welcomed yet. But he had always welcomed you. It felt as if some speck of his soul had always done so, with the relief you feel when you step within it. The room inside your heart when you merge your warmth with his does not feel so full‒ nor so empty. It is filled with potential. Future. Something that had risen from him, infinitely.

"Don't‒" you place your fingers over your mouth. "Not while I taste like this."

He breaks your lips with his words. “Trust me?”

The warmth that folds over you feels like a prayer. Have faith . When you open your mouth, flesh is at your mercy, but you do not bite down as you expected the thirst inside you would have. Stars, the world stripped of its layers until it was only you, and him. For once infinity does not seem so much of a curse.

You must be intoxicated by the sweetness of his blood. Bittersweet‒ it seeps.

"I'm not…" You gulp down the swaying warmth. "I'm not supposed to like you."

"But…?" His smile curves so high the whites of his eyes are almost completely eclipsed by his honey lemon hue.

You intwine your hand with his. Another prayer. "Foolishly, I do."

“It isn’t foolish at the slightest.”

“It’s alright.” You smile. “I’d like to be the fool for once.”

------------------------------

You fidget with your suit steps away from the spotlight, holding your cello with your other hand.

“Stop fidgeting.” Trey instructs you, flattening the creases you’ve made to your suit jacket. He smiles. “It’s just nerves, they’ll pass when you get up there‒ you’ve told me so before..”

“I don’t‒ I don’t know if I’ll be able to play it right. I haven’t been this nervous in ages.” You still straighten the tie around your neck. “Maybe I should tell Azul‒”

The cloth is straightened again, before he glides his hands to your shoulders, bringing you an inch closer to feel the warmth that radiates off his skin. “You’re going to be amazing.”

Your eyebrows crease. “How can you be so certain?”

“You’re all that.”

His hand guides you towards the curtains, lingering when his fingers reach yours before you step into the spotlight. Azul finishes your introduction as you look towards the audience, searching for a familiar face. You find his eyes, and there is no need for any magic, any power‒ for you to find the faith in his eyes. You let it guide your bow, and the strings vibrate like golden hair gleaming in the sunlight, marrying sweetly‒ your internal harmony guided by his sweetness.

The music swells, breaks, heaves‒ before it dies out once more. The lounge fills with the sound of applause, and you sheepishly smile again the few whistles and whoops your club-mates send your way. Each and every thread of sound resonates within your body, vibrating with color.

Once you get off the stage into the crowd, you see Trey march towards you, before almost knocking you down with the force of his embrace. You allow a bit of your power to spin him off his feet, before you separate‒ wanting to see the look on his face.

"Will you come with me?" You pull his hand away from the crowd, breathless in your excitement.

"Where?" He asks, similar in his bursting fruition.

"Out there. Here. Over there. Wherever."

He smiles, the warmth moves the beat of your heart to the tip of your fingers, back into his palm when you lace your other hand with his. You think‒ I'd be a follower, a devotee, a dog for this. Have faith. I've got you. It’s terrifying, and it shakes you with excitement.

"I can't wait."

------------------------------

Notes:

The book I mentioned the priest had is based on the real Dissertations Upon the Apparitions of Angels, Daemons, and Ghosts, and Concerning the Vampires of Hungary, Bohemia, Moravia, and Silesia that 18th-century Benedictine monk and distinguished biblical scholar Antoine Augustin Calmet wrote. It was actually a large source of inspiration to Bram Stoker's dracula. Basically a collection of reports and examinations of vampire/monster attacks emerging in eastern Europe during the late 17th to early 18th century. The accounts of the undead rising and infecting whole villages, reaping of their health and blood that were recorded in this compendium of monster attacks formed a lot of the imagery and characterizations associated with vampires.

Historically, bloodletting was a popular method during the 19th century to cure medical conditions, especially psychological‒ as it was based on the concept of humors. Fun fact, this is why there is a distinction between surgeons (“barbers”) and physicians, and is why the striped barber sign is red and white‒ red symbolizing blood and white the bandages. This method was used from everything from hysteria, insanity, and heartbreak, to things like scurvy and epilepsy.

Bloodletting, transfusions, and vivisections (experimental surgery) both appear in Dracula because they were the hot new science of the Victorian era. Stoker's father was actually a physician so a lot the medical cures and information in the narrative frame the work very closely to the social, religious, and medical attitudes during the period.

Though Victorians still believed the world of humors (ie blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm, or more commonly known by their four counterparts: sanguine, choleric, melancholic, and phlegmatic)- the era began to see a rise of Heroic medicine which sought to shock the body of its ills (ie bloodletting, drinking blood, etc etc)

During the New England vampire panic of the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead”, because of the seemingly unexplained rapid spread of this disease that would “consume” its victim and its family at an alarming rate (this was mostly just due to general hygiene issues and the cures for TB being syrups and elixirs of like literally just morphine and cocaine). TB victims usually had pale, emaciating skin, and in combination with how to identify a suspected vampiric corpse (ie grown fingernails = sharp claws; plump skin = immortality/fast healing); the common cures to TB other than those concoctions during the period such as bloodletting, blood drinking, and the “climate cure” (spending a lot of time outside in sunny, warm climates = aversion to the sun); as well as the spread of TB (highly infection, if one person got it in the home, it would spread rapidly to other members of the family = seems like that originally infected person was “consuming” the rest of the family members) kind of makeup the symptoms, physical aesthetic, and indicators of vampires we know today. Pre-Christian notions believed that a body could be “infected” by evil spirits, the concept of evil, etc.. if not buried properly, which translated into the Christian context as demonic or satanic influences entering the body. And because Churches were often the ones dealing with burials, and setting the precedent for burial rituals‒ they had a lot of influences in setting the precedent for burial rituals, how dead bodies should be handled, etc

Because of the strong religious influences during this Victorian romantic period, and the seeming “failings” of empirical science and thought‒ a lot of people turned to the church

Historically, during the New England vampire panic in the 19th century Victorian era, it was believed that consumption (Tuberculosis) had a strong connection with vampires and the “rise of the dead” because it would “consume” the entire family, beginning with one of the family members, then spreading to everyone else because it was highly infectious. This is why things like pale skin, and vampires needing to feed off of blood is a thing because it is connected to the symptoms and infection of TB (blood drinking was also a cure at some point??)

Everytime I'm like "should I add this ultra specific detail with an irl artist's name??? Does it make sense with the twst universe?? Ah whatever‒"

Anyway I choose Chopin for a lot of reasons. The primary reason was that his music moves me deeply (please listen to the piece if you haven't heard it before). He also suffered from TB (aka consumption), and most likely suffered through a chronic version of it his whole life, which caused a lot of suffering and medical complications through his youth, and into adulthood when rising to fame as a composer. This cello piece was the only sonata that wasn't on the piano, and was played at his very last public concert in Paris. He also had kind of a miserable love life because of his weak health (a condition he could not fix), I thought it would be an interesting connection with MC along with the emotional value the song has on its own.

BPD is very misrepresented and incredibly stigmatized in media especially but also the mental health and treatment spheres in general so I did a lot of not only personal introspection but also research on it as well. I thought vampirism would be a good metaphor for BPD because I imagine the concept of eternity and also having to physically drain someone of their life source would cause a lot of attachment and abandonment issues in addition to the feelings of shame and guilt that often come with having BPD (“why am I this way?”). The monstrous appearance described and often visualized in Dracula/vampire related films and media, as well as the myth that vampires don’t have a reflection also not only conceptualizes BPD and its affect on self image, but also visually narrates the aspects of mentioned shame, guilt, and self hatred that come with BPD and the emotional regulation issues that affect relationships. Anyways I not only wanted to do BPD justice because I feel like its very rarely represented in media accurately and with a happy ending, but I also wanted to explore

I didn’t want to go too in-depth with the cult stuff because I feel that could veer off track. I drew from my own experiences (I have a close family member in a cult), as well as some research + some inspiration from a game series called Faith: The Unholy Trinity. But of course the central ideas of isolation, salvation (under a specific pretense), and dependency are there.

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oftenwantedafton · 3 months

Text

Secret Smile - College English Professor/Vampire Steve Raglan x Female College Student Reader

Chapter 1

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - nothing explicit in this chapter

Summary - Your freshman year of college begins with a last minute transfer into an evening session of English Literature 101 with Professor Steve Raglan.

From the moment you first meet, the man puzzles you. Challenges you. Invites you to bring him the words you’ve never shared. Promises you something darker in every secret smile.

Also available on AO3

English Literature 101 - Steve Raglan

That’s the class you’re sitting in this semester. Evening slot, surrounded by non traditional students. A schedule conflict brought you here. A last minute change. You’ve already missed the first three classes. You think you must be the youngest person here, glancing around nervously at a sea of foreign faces. These are people that have stayed home to raise children; people who have had second thoughts and are switching careers. You are neither. You are just starting out, still an undeclared major, adrift in that vague notion of a liberal arts education.

You decide to occupy a spot in the back corner, waiting for the instructor to walk in. The door opens and the chatter among the students becomes subdued.

The middle aged man that enters the classroom is tall, his impossibly long legs carrying him in a brisk stride to the front of the classroom. He places a leather briefcase that looks ancient on the desk along with a couple of books and some papers. You see white threaded through the darker hair, especially at the temples and running through a neatly trimmed beard. The gold framed aviators he’s wearing have eased down the bridge of his nose and he pushes them back up with a gesture that looks like he’s done it hundreds of times, an absent, impatient adjustment. The bowed head lifts and his eyes meet yours.

You freeze, your breath held. There is something in that look. A predator targeting its prey. Piercing light slate blue eyes trap you. A slight twitch of pale lips. Amusement? You don’t know what to call it. Had you thought him middle aged because of the marbling in his hair? His skin is smooth, unblemished. You cannot mark his age by these aspects of his appearance alone. It is something in those eyes. In that weighted stare.

“Welcome back, everyone. I understand we have a new student joining us. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Oh God, not that. You hated having the spotlight on you. You stammer your name and your major. Apparently that satisfies the English instructor and he begins the lesson.

You hate being forced to read. You don’t mind reading; quite the opposite. You just don’t like being told what books to enjoy. How you’re supposed to feel about them. Maybe that wasn’t the theme the author had intended to present. Maybe they just wrote out of boredom and it somehow accidentally became popular. You didn’t think anyone should be able to dictate an individual’s response to literature.

The instructor’s voice is unusual, a combination of a harsh rasp that makes you wonder if he’s a smoker and a slightly nasally intonation to some of his words. It’s not unpleasant, just different. You’re focusing more on the sounds of the words than the words themselves and you belatedly realize people are gathering into groups to discuss the last several chapters that had been assigned.

“Would you come up here, please?” Steve’s sharp eyes find yours again.

You slide out of the chair and make your way to the front of the classroom. He drags an empty chair over next to his and you both sit down.

This close, you now learn there is a distinct scent to the older man. Also not unpleasant. Not cologne, not soap, something else. It reminds you of a candle recently extinguished, of smoky reeds of incense, of damp earth after summer rain.

The long sleeved striped shirt Raglan is wearing doesn’t quite reach his wrists. You see surprisingly willowy joints and lines of fine dark hair. There are tiny diamonds printed on his tie.

“I have a copy of the syllabus here for you. You’re going to have to put in some extra work to get caught up to the others. I don’t typically allow students to join this late into the semester.”

The stapled packet of papers that you assume must be the syllabus still sits on his desk, trapped beneath his long fingers.

“I’m sorry. Something happened last minute and—”

“I’m not interested in excuses. I need to know if you can do the work. If you are worth the investment of time, as it were.” That twitching smile reappears. A canine pokes from beneath his top lip. Very white and very sharp looking.

“I’ll get caught up.”

“We’ll see.”

You reach for the syllabus. He keeps it imprisoned and you tug futilely, letting your hand drop.

“Give up that easily, do you?”

He was…testing you? What was with this guy? You glance back at the rest of your classmates, but no one seems to notice the scene unfolding in front of them.

“No.” You reach again and this time his fingers lift to brush yours in the briefest graze that could certainly be considered accidental, except you know it isn’t.

“Why undeclared?”

“What?”

“Your major. You’re that indecisive?”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to choose the wrong career path.”

“Plenty of people return to school. The group behind you is evidence of that. There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

You chew your bottom lip. “I know I’m supposed to pick something practical. Something that I can support myself with. That doesn’t line up with my interests.”

“Which are?”

“I mainly enjoy writing.”

“What type of writing? Journalism or…No. Creative writing, isn’t it?”

You nod. How had he guessed correctly?

“And why don’t you think you can make a career of that?”

“I don’t want to teach. And there’s no guarantee I’d be successful. It’s too much of a gamble. I just regard it as a hobby.”

“Times are changing. There are a lot of self published authors out there now.”

“It’s too risky.”

“So you’d rather be miserable doing something you don’t enjoy simply because it ‘pays the bills’.”

“That’s kind of how the world works, isn’t it?”

“You’re awfully cynical for someone so young.”

“You’re awfully judgmental towards someone you’ve just met.”

Steve leans forward. “There it is. A little spark. Not completely resigned to your fate then, are you? I think you’re destined for something more.” The chair creaks as he eases back again. “I’ll give you until the end of the week. Come to my office on Friday evening. The hours are posted there.” He points to the packet you’re holding.

You flip through the pages. “I can’t do Friday evening, I’m working. Do you have anything during the day?”

“I never work during the day.”

“Why not?”

Another smile. Both canines exposed, both equally sharp. “The night is what I’m accustomed to. If you can’t do Friday you’ll have to be ready that much sooner on a different night. No excuses. Understood?”

You nod, about to stand when he halts you, fingers curling around your wrist, blocked from view by the desk, if anyone had cared to look. “Bring me something you’ve written. A sample of creative writing.”

“I don’t write for other people. It’s just for myself.”

“Well. Add that to your assignment then. You’ll write something for me. Yes?”

“I’ll try,” you manage evasively. His touch is warm, firm, unyielding.

“Try very hard.” The manacle of his hand vanishes abruptly and he stands, addressing the classroom once again. You return to your seat.

You can still feel his fingers on your skin.

***

The coursework piles up that week.

You struggle to keep up but you’re determined to finish getting Raglan’s assignment done at the very least. The reading that is; you’re still not comfortable with the idea of sharing your personal writing.

Even more uncomfortable with the man himself. He’s attractive, but intimidating. You can’t tell what he’s thinking; he seems to be able to read you like an open book. His smiles that border on condescending confuse you; even more so when they soften to something secretive, amused. You’re not in on the joke. You don’t understand.

You manage to swap shifts at the coffee shop you work at part time and now find yourself outside your English professor’s office door that Friday evening. The rest of the building—a house that has been converted to offices, actually—is empty. Most of the teachers and administrative staff have left for the weekend. You’ve arrived a bit later than you’d intially intended. It’s already dark outside.

You inhale deeply and knock on the door. You hear Steve’s voice beckoning you inside.

“Come on in. Have a seat.”

The office is small, crowded. Lined with shelves of books. The furniture looks well worn, like the battered briefcase he uses. A single hardbacked chair is positioned before his weathered desk.

You sit. He folds his hands and rests his chin on them, regarding you. The silence lengthens. You squirm and clear your throat.

“I finished the reading assignment. I’m all caught up.”

The hands relax, no longer supporting his bearded face. “And the other?”

“I wasn’t able to.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why are you so afraid of someone reading your writing?”

“I’m not afraid. It’s just…it’s mine. It’s personal. Not meant to be shared.”

“Yet you want to do this for a career.”

“No. I told you. It’s just a hobby.”

He removes his glasses and sets them down on the desk, the frames still unfolded. “Do you want to pass this course?”

You frown. “Yes. And I’ve done what you asked. I got caught up. I switched shifts to be here tonight.”

“You didn’t do everything I asked, though.” He rises, moving around the desk. The desk lamp throws his shadow, dark and menancing on the rows of books.

“You can’t make me. That’s not anywhere in the course description. The course name is English Lit, not Creative Writing. I can go to the Dean and…”

“And what? What will you tell him, exactly?”

“That you’re making me do extra work.”

“Maybe I see potential and I’m trying to foster it.”

“Harassment.”

He barks a short laugh. “Harassment? What have I done to harass you?”

You swallow nervously. “Touching my wrist in class, for one thing…”

“My dear, that is not a touch.” His fingers wrap around the metal armrests of the chair you’re seated in and he leans towards you. That smell from before is heavy in your nostrils. “Would you like to know what a touch is? Hmmm?” His face moves so his lips are beside your ear. “When you have crossed a century. When the only dawn you see is one printed on a page or captured on a screen. When the stale blood that circulates with the beat of an immortal heart is invigorated by another, gifted, teeth in skin, that is the touch I speak of. How fast your own heart is beating…”

Your breath rasps. This cannot be real. He cannot be real.

“You will give me new words. Transcend the tedious mediocrity and monotony of an ephemeral existence.” He sinks a hand into your hair and pulls your head back, exposing your throat. “Do you want to know what it is to be truly touched? A brush with eternity?” You feel his lips dust over your throat. The points of his upper cuspids scrape over your skin. The line of your pulse is drawn for him along the arch. Your eyelids flutter. His scent is all around you. The fragrance of forever. Unyielding earth and undaunted metal. “How strange evolution is. Once canine teeth were a sign of prowess, lending dominance when choosing a mate; then withering away over time to more gentle points. Working quite in reverse when I was granted a gift of everlasting life.” Another soft kiss, a gentle counterpoint for what is to come.

His voice and his scent have you spellbound, captive. You cannot move. Sharp fangs pierce your flesh. The pain is there and gone in a flash. His mouth seals wetly against your throat. Pulls at you, drinking from you. He moans at the taste and it vibrates along your skin. A new frequency.

The hand tightened in your hair eases; the sucking pressure abandons your neck. There is a trail of crimson leaking from the corner of his bottom lip. A bloom of color in his cheeks. Mouth no longer pale. Your color, now on him. Inside of him.

Just enough to satiate. Decades of practice. So many more years between you than you’d intially thought.

“You will bring me your writing.” He wipes at the blood trail and it stains his beard. “I’ll give you one more day. You’ll return to me tomorrow night. No excuses.” He holds out a hand, offering you assistance to stand. You find yourself needing the support, suddenly lightheaded. You do not protest when he tugs you with more force than necessary, drawing your body against his.

You do not resist when those smirking lips close over yours.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #dividers credit @saradika-graphics

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denjjisgf · 4 months

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college student armin thoughts:

armin lives in the last room on the right at the end of your floor. although meeting a fair share of your floormates, he’s the last to introduce himself.

one wednesday, you round the corner for the elevator and collide into his backpack. he has a navy jansport, the kind with the tan suede padding on the bottom. he smiles an apologetic grin and steps into the now arrived elevator. divine timing, right?

it was silent on the way down. the normal scent of last friday’s activities and mud from the melting snow was replaced by pine and laundry softener lingered in the tight space. armin shuffles in place, swinging his arms low at his side and kicking at pieces of road salt with his camel birkenstock clogs. *ping* the metal doors slide inside the wall and you step out first. as you’re walking out, thinking of conversation starters and hoping fate might bring you back to this moment in another life, you give up on this chance to say hello to the nice smelling, pretty eyed boy on your floor. disappointed you make your way to your room for the night. a flash of blond flies past your peripheral. armin leaned into the door in your path with a shove, popping it open to both of your surprise. the owner of the room sat at their desk, shocked at the two strangers standing in the frame of the once closed door, “can i help you?”

“sorry! just looking for the bathroom!” he sputtered out, face red like a tomato. he smiled and you found it contagious.

“we haven’t met yet,” in his head, he counted to ten to regulate his heart rate. “i’m armin.” his voice had the cutest inflections, perfect little cracks of nervousness caught in his throat.

his eyes followed you, taking you in up close. it wasn’t until that last second, really, that he decided to spark this interaction. it had been a long semester, one where his best days were in passing with yours. he dreamed of softly knocking on your door to wake you in the morning and carrying your laundry down to the laundry room, a pocket of change jingling, ready to pay for your loads. in the library, he yearned for you, seated in the chair next to his, where you both study and mostly distract the other. he searched for your face in every crowd and always walked a little faster to the one class you both had three semesters ago when he first saw you. he watched the weeks turn into months, waiting for the perfect moment, but it was never the right time. that was until now.

“hello armin, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

—

“come sit with mee,” he pouts with a pushed out lip. he starfishes his legs out in the center of the bed, swishing them open and closed. his cropped shag sticks up in all the right places as it rests on the headboard. god is he lucky for being so cute; a short sigh slips out of your playful smile while you circle the room, ditching your socks and slipping into a tshirt.

“can you wait a second? i just got back,” you shimmy off your jeans, “and last i checked this was my room.” you finger through a drawer and take out some sweatpants.

“i actually cannot wait. it’s been hours. i thought you only had the one class today. where have you been? you have responsibilities here: me!” he’s gleaming, patting the bed with both hands and urging you closer. “i’ve been waiting to watch our show all day. can we pleasee?”

he’s so damn needy. but he’s so damn needy for you, so who are you to deny. you plop down in the space between his legs where the blanket is warm from his presence and you settle in, palms pressed flat over his thighs and his arms linked with yours in a hug. he kisses along your temple and takes a deep breath, “i needed this.”

he continues to play with you, adjusting the shoulders of your sleeve and pulling at lint on your pants, tugging on your hair and swishing his feet at the foot of the bed. you reach for the remote and a small projector screen illuminates the low lit room, “armin, do you remember what episode we left off on?”

“ i have it all set up and ready. all you gotta do is press play,” he’s so smug, a mix of nerdy matter of factness and what you know as puppy love. you play your show and smile at the familiar theme song— it reminds you of moments like this with your boyfriend. your eyes drift to scan the room; your mugs neatly stacked on the drying rack, makeup brushes resting back in their jar, and a freshly folded pile of laundry sat on the corner of your desk. had he done all this while you were gone? you swell with adoration, a cold tingle racing through your body as you paw for his hands with a squeeze.

“truly, love, what would i do without you?”

“i think you mean what would i do without you?” he smiles and kisses you, soft and sweet, light like breathing for the first time and overwhelming in every sense of the word. “now pay attention, you fell asleep again last night and i don’t think i can bear to watch this episode for the fourth time.”

#armin x reader #armin x y/n #aot x reader #armin fluff #armin arlet x reader #armin headcanons #armin artlert aot #attack on titan headcanons #snk x reader #snk fluff #this is so self indulgent #a self insert at its finest

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bajistadiamond · 1 year

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Yuu Singer, Octavinelle (Poor Unfortunate Souls)

Yuu was furious, he doesn't cross that out, he was about to get angry when he found out what Ace, Deuce, Grim did.

He didn't understand why or what was the need to make a deal for the answers when he had been helping them with the studies, even Jack was going to study with the group…reluctantly, but he was going.

Yuu even praised Grim when they delivered his notes, he was proud of his monster-cat-friend-almost-brother and a few minutes later he was completely disappointed.

At first he didn't want to help and Jack shared that thought. His friends and the other 250 students needed to learn that every decision has consequences.

But Crowley begged Yuu and Jack for help, they didn't want to… but Dire is a cunning dog.

Dire sighed tiredly and with a hand on his forehead said. "Gods, too bad they can't help…and just now when I was looking into a new chef who's an expert in pear compote." Jack's ears perked up with interest. "…and he was also going to do the math to increase the dorm's budget so they could have a suit of their own." Yuu's right eye twitched angrily.

"Damn you Crowley and damn us for giving in to temptation." Yuu and Jack thought before agreeing to help Crowley by freeing those Blue chained with his contracts.

Jack thought it would be a good idea to follow the Octavinelle leader.

But Yu no. "Azul surely expected that and more after we faced him in Mostro Lounge" Yuu said seriously.

The singer thought they could see the student records… when he asked Dire if they could see them this with a mysterious smile he said he. "Each student's information is confidential and I, as principal, cannot divulge it… but if I leave I don't know my keys lying around and then someone uses them… it wouldn't be my fault." he said as he pulled a golden raven key from his keyring and tossed it to the ground before walking off.

Yuu and Jack looked at each other blankly as to how that man managed to get the position of director of NRC…

But well, in the end, checking Azul Ashengrotto's logs didn't reveal that much, although it was useful.

Everything unfolds as in the game, the changes occur when they ask Yuu and Jack for help in Mostro Lounge while they wait for Azul.

As Yuu set down some drinks on a table, he looked at the stage. An idea formed in his mind and she went with Jade Leech.

The twin was intrigued when Yuu asked if he could put on a little show. "Some entertainment will keep customers calm until they are served." Yuu said with a smile. Jade looked at the first year, the young man who had caused a stir and chaos with her friends in just the first few months of the semester.

Jade knew that Azul would make a deal with him that night, perhaps to get her magical gift, but they needed to see how far his magic was. He accepted with his typical charming smile.

Yuu thanked him. He wasn't stupid, he knew that entering Mostro Logue to talk to Azul was like entering the mouth of the whale, but he needed to risk it. He called over to Jack, who was taking orders from one of the tables. The young man with wolfish features finished writing down the order and went to Yuu.

"Jack, do you like the singer Karla Mary?" He asked Yuu with a smirk. While he was not yet familiar with all that TW had to offer, he caught up with the singers and types of music that his new world had to offer. Like Karla Mary, a 34-year-old singer from the Land of Pyroxene; she famous for always singing in a mermaid outfit and pearl accessories. He had also seen Jack's playlist for his workouts, basically all the songs were hers.

Jack blushed at the question; His first instinct was to deny it, but his tail betrayed his emotion at hearing his crush's name. "What's the question!?" Jack asked the other in a snarl; Yuu told to Jack the idea... put on a show

And to the surprise of both of them, Jack liked the idea. They went backstage and got ready. "Don't worry, what you have to say will come to your mind while I use the voice of the gods." He assured Yuu to his friend.

Floyd, who was sitting at the bar watching the anemones, looked confused when his twin came on stage. Jade feeling his gaze winked at him with a smile.

“Good evening Mostro Louge…” Jade said into a microphone. “First of all, an apology for the inconvenience tonight; They won't happen again." He said looking at the students with anemones that became more nervous. “Now, enjoy a little show prepared for you; a tribute to the Sea Witch…with you Yuu and Jack Howl.” He said before going backstage.

Yuu and Jack came out wearing their uniforms; the first confident and the second somewhat nervous for not being used to being in the spotlight. "Vil makes it look so easy." The werewolf boy thought as he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat.

The customers looked expectantly at the stage with a question on their mind. What the hell were they going to do? Your question was answered in seconds…

"Why have you come pumpkin?". Yuu asked with a mischievous voice. "I-I've heard that if someone needs help, you're the one to talk to". Jack said nervously the moment the words came to his mind. Yuu leaned in. "Of course! As the Sea Witch that's my job"

Everyone present understood; Yuu was the sea witch and Jack a soul in need. Even without clothing it was easy to understand.

"Now let me guess" Yuu walked around Jack in an elegant waddle as he looked at him. "You need help with a woman; a princess to be precise". He added before sitting down on a golden chair out of nowhere. "H-how did you…" "My dear, it is my job to know the deepest wishes of the unfortunate souls who seek my help." Jack blushed. "She's a mermaid isn't". Jack nodded. "But, I am a werebeast. Even if I knew her, her family would not allow the relationship." Jack said in a sad tone.

Those present who were newts and hybrids of various kinds understood. Not many people accepted the relationship between a half-beast and merfolks.

"Don't be so sad, that's easy to fix." Yuu said downplaying it. A shadow appeared behind him and passed him a cup of tea. "All you have to do is hide your wolfish features and become a merman. It's the only way to get what you want."

Many felt uneasy when they saw the shadow, even more so when no face could be seen and only heterochromatic eyes were visible; one yellow and one white. Jack nearly went out of character as he saw another similar shadow appear behind the first.

"Can you do that?" Jack asked, nervous about the apparitions.

Yuu smiled; it wasn't easy to use the voice of the gods when you weren't singing, but she was doing it. Shadows were added, using the Leech twins as inspiration; He had to use shadow magic to extract a piece from each of them to do so without hurting them.

My dear, sweet child. That's what I do. It's what I live for~

To help unfortunate humans, merfolks, and in your case therianthropod like yourself~

Poor souls with no one else to turn to~

The mysterious music started playing, the lights dimmed, and purple smoke began to envelop the stage.Yuu dances gracefully as she hopes to gather enough magic to change her outfit, something she's been practicing for weeks.

I admit that in the past I've been a nasty~

They weren't kidding when they called me, well, a witch~

But you'll find that nowadays~

I've mended all my ways~

Repented, seen the light, and made a switch~

True~? Yes ~

Octavinelle was in awe of the song. It was known to the entire sea of TW that "poor needy souls" was the only thing left of a song created by a woman with the voice of the gods and lost over time.

And I fortunately know a little magic~

It's a talent that I always have possessed~

And dear lady, please don't laugh~

I use it on behalf~

Of the miserable, the lonely, and depressed~ (pathetic~)

Yuu smiled at the shadows and they smiled before dancing as they looked at their flesh and blood versions. The Leechs felt a chill run through her body; the twins looked at each other confused because they were afraid of some kind.

Poor unfortunate souls~

In pain, in need~

This one longing to be thinner~

That one wants to get the girl~

And do I help them? ~

Yuu snapped his fingers and instantly Jack's outfit and he changed. Jack had torn black pants, a light blue shirt with lace on the sleeves and neck, a pair of golden balls. Yuu was in black; from the boots to the jacket with the train up to the knees. Both sporting smokey eyes, rosy cheeks and Yuu with red lips.

Yes, indeed~

Those poor unfortunate souls~

So sad, so true~

They come flocking to my cauldron~

Jack was impressed; he used to he didn't understand why some people get carried away by the moment or a popular song, but damn him now he understood. "Maybe you should see more asking Vil about the best movies to watch." He thought the wolf as he danced

Crying, "Spells, Ursula, please!" ~

And I help them ~!

Yes I do~

Azul was hiding at the entrance of his establishment watching the show. "The voice of the gods is amazing." He thought. He knew what Yuu was up to and was pleased to see another with his level of cunning… excepting Jamil. As for his opinion of the song, he was delighted; he felt alluded to even if the show was in honor of the founder of the dormitory he ran.

Now it's happened once or twice~

Someone couldn't pay the price~

And I'm afraid I had to rake 'em 'cross the coals~

The students who made a deal with Azul touched the anemone on his head feeling marked by the phrase. Ace, Deuce and Grim who were listening to the song felt Yuu's angry glare and vowed not to sink so low again.

Yes I've had the odd complaint~

But on the whole I've been a saint~

To those poor unfortunate souls~

"Now, here's the deal." Yuu said guiding Jack to the center of the stage. "I'll use a potion to turn you into a merfolk for a month… you get the idea, a month!" Yuu pointed out with a frown. "Because love is not like in fairy tales and it takes time." Yuu said looking at those present. Yuu clapped his hands twice and a cauldron formed in the middle of the boys. "Listen Howl…" Jack looked at Yuu as if he was going to tell him the secret of life. "before sunset on the last day of the month your dear princess must fall in love with you." Yuu explained as a heart with a tiara bloomed. "And give you a kiss, but not just any kiss, a true love kiss". The heart shone; Jack beamed with delight, making use of Vil's acting lessons.

Azul, Jade and Floyd felt that he had heard that explanation elsewhere. Almost word for word, but they couldn't remember where. While on Olympus, Lady Fate laughed as she watched the three of them try to remember something from them old life. "Yuu, you're doing great". She congratulated one of her favorites in Twisted Wonderland.

"If the princess gives you true love's kiss, you will be a merflok permanently… but, if she doesn't, you will revert to your true form and…". A golden merfolk-like Jack figure transformed back into the beastman. "You will belong to me!" Yuu said with a maniacal smile.

Whether it was Yuu's pleased smile or the unfairness of the deal or the deal felt like the one they signed or the power of the voice of the gods made them do it, Ace, Deuce and Grim screamed. "Not Jack…!" The two shadows appeared behind them and covered their mouths. Customers were on the edge of their seats from the drama of the show. Jack looked worried, because those shadows looked too much like the Leech. "Have we got a deal?" Yuu asked impatiently making Jack look at him without knowing what to do. Jack thought, his mind didn't have what he should say and one look at his singing friend was enough to know what he wanted; Yuu wanted her to improvise. Jack thought about the deal, and while he knew it wouldn't be easy it wasn't impossible, but on the other hand…

"I-if... I become a merfolk, I'll never be with my family again".Said Jack sad; his crush couldn't be more important than his family. "But you'll have your woman and a life of royalty, heh heh. Life's full of tough choices, isn't it? Heh heh~ ". Yuu laughed with a fake sympathy grimace. "Oh, and there is one more thing. We haven't discussed the subject of payment". Yuu reminded him before bringing the chair back to sit Jack in it. "You can't expect me to do this for nothing in return, or can you".

A chill ran through the 250 students trapped by Azul in a contract. "God, they got it… Yuu didn't have to torture them so much." They all thought embarrassed.

Jack frowned and making a worried voice said. "But I don't have- ". "I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle!". Yuu cut him off innocently. "What I want from you is...". Yuu made a dramatic pause before saying in a deep voice. "your voice".

"What!?" Customers and Octavinelle members yelled in concern and astonishment. Mostro Lounge customers long ago forgot their complaints about the slow service in favor of watching the show; even Azul got caught up in the plot. Jade and Floyd would also be sitting on the plot if it weren't for the twin shadows looking at them. For the first time the Leech twins were scared and unknowingly… by shadows created with a piece of theirs.

Jack was confused and tried to ask."But without my voice, how can I- ". Yuu silenced him before chanting again.

You'll have your looks, your pretty face~

And don't underestimate the importance of body language, ha! ~

Yuu danced before taking off his jacket revealing a tight black shirt that showed off the few muscles in his arms and torso. Azul felt a twitch in his eye when he heard "body language"… "How easy it is to say that for those who didn't have to be fat in their childhood or have a slow metabolism." He thought angrily as he went over his plan to trap Yuu in his tentacles.

The women there really like to be praised.

They think that a man who talks too much is atrocious ~!

Yet on, at the bottom of the sea it is better to agree to what the mermaids say. And after all dear, what is idle babble for? ~

Although Yuu had to change the lyrics, he was trying to show that women were not equal and that while some would go for a pretty face, others would prefer someone who praises them, and others wanted a partner who would see them as an equal.

Come on, they're not all that impressed with conversation~

Unless you plan to scare them away~

But they adore, swoon and fawn~

In a kind gentleman who is withdrawn~

He is the one who bites his tongue and doesn't speak much who gets a woman~

Every magic sensitive NRC student could see it revolving around Yuu. While Yuu was elated, he had accomplished a lot in a single song and though he was feeling the weariness he had a show to finish and a deal with Azul to finish.

Come on you poor unfortunate soul~

Go ahead! ~

Make your choice! ~

Yuu raised his hands creating tendrils of golden magic with his hands and towers of gray smoke. The lights glowed in various shades of red, purple, and green creating the perfect setting for the song's climax. Jack was drawn to make the deal; It could be a simple song, but he attracted you like a magnet or maybe Yuu's magical gift.

I'm a very busy person and I haven't got all day~

It won't cost much~

With a wave of her hand in the cauldron, golden smoke formed Karla Mary's face with a smile. Others who admired and loved the singer blushed and looked at the image of her with dreamy eyes. Jack tried to touch the image, but it disappeared when he tried.

Just your voice! ~

You poor unfortunate soul~

It's sad but true~

If you want to cross the bridge, my sweet~

You've got the pay the toll~

Take a gulp and take a breath~

And go ahead and sign the book~

The cauldron and chair whirled off the stage to form a silver book and pen that floated in front of Jack. The students trapped in a contract looked at the scene so much like what happened to them and forgetting that it was a performance, they prayed that Jack wouldn't sign.

Flotsam, Jetsam, now I've got him, boys~

Yuu told the shadows and unknowingly giving them the ability to live. The shadows upon feeling the power behind a name smiled with complicity. While they were part of Jade and Floyd's shadow, they would no longer have to be. The twins would have their shadows while they could be independent to bother and forever punish them for their wrongdoing.

The boss is on a roll~

This poor unfortunate soul~

Luckily for everyone, Jack didn't get to touch the pen because the entire stage was engulfed in white light and then it was just Jack and Yuu back in their school uniforms as they bowed to the crowd. Jack looked at Yuu with wonder and respect; Yuu looked at his furry friend with a smile. The Mostro Longue patrons gave them a standing ovation and the Octavinelle students whistled for such a fabulous show.

The rest of the night unfolds much the same… except that while Azul wanted "the voice of the gods" from Yuu, she couldn't get rid of it because those with that gift were born with a rune in her heart that prevented snatch her…

Meanwhile, in Pomefiore… Vil was watching the video that showed his childhood friend performing. "Awesome Jack" He thought with a smile, because even if it was a rookie performance he was pretty decent. "Maybe I can talk him into participating in the casting for the live-action Heracles." Yuu in his opinion also did well, but he only thought about his friend Jack.

A bit long than the others, but it had to be given the situation of Twisted Wonderland chapter 3.

And taking advantage, I present Karla Mary inspired by Cala Maria from Cuphead.

Note: Therianthropy is a term used to represent humans with animal traits (therianthropod).

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nonvaleniente · 2 years

Text

From Fx to a D // Professor Damiano AU! x Fem! Reader

Pairing: Damiano x reader

Summary: Y/N was never good at learning foreign languages. It got even harder when the most handsome man she has ever seen started teaching her Italian class and got her distracted all the time. He seemingly noticed her interest in him and one trip to the library lead into something more interesting...

Warnings: SWEARING, SMUT, PUBLIC SEX, UNI TEACHER-STUDENT RELATIONSHIP, PROBABLY INCORRECT ITALIAN WORDS/PHRASES (I used Google translate because I am too embarrased to ask my italian learning friends to help me with smut lol), ALSO BARELY PROOFREAD BC I AM STUPID AND NEED TO RUSH THINGS

Y/F/N - your friend's name

Y/L/N - your last name

IT IS FINALLY HERE!

Yes, I promised it would come out on Monday but I literally cannot grasp the concept of time. Managing it is really something I need to work on. But I hope no one is that mad at me. Now, let's enjoy this trip to horny-town, shall we?

ENJOY!

Don't forget to leave any sort of feedback and reblog if you like it!

You couldn't keep your eyes off him.

You weren't able since the first day of last semester. When he walked through the door, his messy hair and white shirt with few buttons undone on the top, you knew you were screwed. He looked like a roman god. Straight out of historical romance novels. The perfect little stubble showing on his face made your mind wander off many times. Wondering, how would it feel scratching against your thighs, with him between them. Oh, how many nights you thought about him leading you to the professors' lounge and after closing the door, slamming you against them and not having any mercy.

You had no chance.

You had to keep reminding yourself to get out of these little daydreams. To actually pay attention to his words, you had to fight yourself every Tuesday afternoon. You were never that good at Italian and ever since this distraction in a human form walked into your life, it got even harder. Hell, if some higher powers weren't in your favour, you probably would have been out of this school already. But to have the chance to keep looking at this man, that was a motivation for you to at least pass.

The silence all around pulled you out of your thoughts. Upon realising that everyone was staring your direction, you turned your head up. There he was, looking at you. Patiently waiting for your answer to the question he had previously asked.

After a few seconds, which felt like eternity, he gave you a smile and moved on to get the answer from someone else. You started blushing from the embarrasment. Your friend sitting next to you noticed and playfully hit you with her elbow, while raising a brow at you. She obviously knew about this little crush and always made jokes about how the two of you should just get a room already. You always rolled your eyes, knowing deep down thats what you wish for.

The next round of questions started and you saw your teacher going down the line, all of your classmates answering one by one. When you knew it would be your turn next, your heart began racing. You were quickly counting through the questions, to see which you would have to answer, so you wouldn't embarass yourself even more.

„Signorina Y/L/N, domanda numero 6, perfavore.“

He set his hand on the table in front of you, supporting his body weight as he was leaning a little bit. Tattoos peaking from under his rolled sleeves, you had to push away the sinful thoughts once again.

You looked up at him, trying not to stumble over your words.

„Domanda numero 6? La ri-risposta corrette è b: il fiume,“ you quickly got out of yourself, while feeling the sweat dripping down your body.

„Corretta, not corrette, Y/N, otherwise, good enough,“ he switched to english now, and you earned yourself another sweet smile from him. You were glad that you finally got something right but also that the torture was almost to be over for another week or so.

After Y/F/N answered her question, he decided to finish the lesson, as an hour and half already passed.

„Alright guys, let's wrap it up. You dont get any homework, as there is going to be the test I already told you about next week, so you better study hard,“ he paused, as everyone started getting up from their chairs already, making a lot of noise as they were packing up their belongings.

„And...,“ he raised his voice.

„...don't forget to lend the book Compiti Italiani 2, it can seriously help you.“ He finished the class by picking all of his books up, walking towards the door. He let everyone pass through, before walking out of the class himself.

You and Y/F/N said your goodbyes and each went different ways. Yours lead to the library.

Your teacher semeed to be following the same path.

Upon arriving to the library door, you noticed that it seemed to be closed. You couldn't see people moving inside, not even the librarian. It seemed quite unusual that the library would be closed at this time, it was usually opened everyday until 18:00. It was barely 16:00.

You shook the handle and checked for the opening hours sign, just to be sure.

The sign was showing exactly what you thought.

It was still closed though.

You weren't happy about the situation but there was nothing you could do, so you decided to go home. As you turned away, you started rambling through your tote bag. It was always full of things and you could never find your wireless headphones. You were slowly walking, crunched to the side, still picking on random things, to find the plastic box. As you took a few more steps, you noticed a figure in front of you.

Upon turning your head up, you noticed your handsome italian professor standing there. He was playing with a set of keys, turning them at their hoop around his fingers.

„Exemplary student, I see. Running to borrow the book I mentioned straight after the class,“

He smiled, while slowly walking towards you. Your heart started pounding, but thanfully, he just passed you to get to the door.

„I didn't know you're in charge of the library, Mr. David. Where is Mrs. Andrews?“ you were geniuenly curious.

While trying to unlock the door, he turned his body halfway to face you.

„She is still in charge of the library, but I volunteered to take her place when she has to bring her daughter for a checkup at the doctor, which is every other week at this time. You know, I get credits for it and it's not that hard of a job,really.“

You almost forgot that he was just a student like you. The only difference is that he was currently working on his Doctorate degree and in order to achieve it, he had to teach some classes as well. Credits were definitely something good to have more of.

When he finally got the door unlocked, he made his way behind them. Holding them open with one hand, gesturing for you to come through with the other.

As you marched foward, you felt his eyes looking you up and down. While walking over the threshold, you heard his voice behind you.

„And outside of the class, it's Damiano for you.“

Did he really just suggest for you to call him by his first name?

You quickly gave him a smile while speeding your walk to get to the shelves, so you can look for the books you need and get the hell out of there.

Soon, a few more people started coming through the door. They were sitting down to study or simply trying to find the books they want. It was taking you surprisingly long time to get to the titles you were looking for to help with your school work, but you didnt want to ask your teacher, you would rather die on the spot.

You spent a good 10 minutes going slowly over the section of letter „C,“ but didnt see any copies of the Italian book left. Thinking your classmates already took all of them, you were slowly losing hope. You slid over to the frame on the right, moving on to find a book for your sociology finals.

Scanning the shelves with your eyes, looking for the letter „S,“ the dark figure appeared next to you once again.

„Need any help?“ he asked you generously.

Oh well, you didn't want to ask him at first. But since he was already standing there, you decided to give it a shot.

„Maybe.“

He started walking away from you, signaling you to also leave the cubicle made out of shelves.

„Well, maybe Compiti italiani is in a different section, you're not in the language department, signorina.“

You were following him to the other side of the library, but this comment made you pause for a split second and roll your eyes. He was following you to the cubicle in the furthest corner of the room. You really just wanted to get this over with and come back the next day, when the usual librarian would be back.

Then, Damiano, as he asked you to call him, walked between the two giant shelves and you kept following him. Stopping in front of the middle one, you started scanning the section of the letter C once again.

„Thank you, I can handle from now on.“

Something didn't seem right as he didn't leave after what you just told him. In fact, he got even closer. You didn't know if you were scared, purely annoyed or even a little bit aroused. You just barely got to notice that the books on the shelves were about history, when he turned you around in one swift movement. You dropped your bag on the ground in a response, hoping your glass water bottle didn't shatter.

He pinned you against one of the book cases, roughly holding your hands above your head.

„And maybe, I lied about the book being here,“ he smiled at you while intertwining his hands with yours. He started placing a few kisses on your neck, leaving you in complete state of shock.

„What is going on?“ you were trying to get an answer while holding in a moan.

„Shhhh, we're in a library, remember?“ he commented between the kisses. „a bad student like you needs to be put in her place.“

You were fighting the urge that was growing inside of you and weakly tried to push him off. He looked at you, worried, waiting for explanation.

„So you do this with all of the students who get bad marks in your classes?“

„No, just the ones who eyefuck me basically every lesson. C'mon, michetta, you are so desperate for me, I can see it.“

You were practically melting at his words. As pinky blush started appearing on your face, you were trembling. Of course, you wanted him, you would give up anything to have this man fuck you. But in this situation, you were a bit confused.

As the adrenaline kicked in, you reached out your shaking hands and pulled him back to you by his arms. He had this suggestive smile on his face and you knew very well that he had unspeakable intentions. You reached your neck up and got your mouth close to his ear.

„Well then, fuck some of the italian into me, Damiano.“

„Volentieri“ he winked at you and finally pressed his mouth against yours. You kissed back as one of your hands made its way out of his grip. It trailed into the back of his head, carefully caressing his hair. You finally had the chance to fully give in and pushed your tongue even further into his mouth.

Damiano started leaving little trail of kisses from your mouth, traveling down your cheeks and chin. Finding his way to your neck again, he was bitting on little bits of your skin, which made a moan escape your mouth involuntarily. He quickly put a hand over your mouth, so students in the front wouldnt hear you.

He hiked one of your leg sup to his torso, which made you automatically wrap it around him. Sliding his hand up your thigh, he found his way towards your underwear. He brushed his fingertips right between the outline of your labia, feeling the increasing wetness in your panties. You felt a little laugh against your neck.

„Do you leave my class this wet every week? Or is it just the thought of me fucking you in a place we shouldn't that has gotten you so excited?“ he looked deep into your eyes while still caressing you through the soaking fabric. Not giving you time to respond, he leaned in to slip his tongue into your mouth once again. He let go of your leg and his hand trailed up to the hem of your panties, pulling them down. He bent over, taking them off completely and putting them in the pocket of his blazer afterwards.

„We'll see if you're good enough of a girl to get them back after this,“ he said with a hint of arrogance in his tone.

This got you so worked up, making you want to show how well you can behave for him. You grabbed the man by his shoulder, turning him around, so he's the one leaning against the book casing. Almost smashing him against it, he let out a silent suggestive grin. It seemed like he could read your mind, knowing about your plans. You dropped to your knees in front of him, trying not to lose any eye contact. Reaching hands to his belt, you tried to unbuckle it fast so you could get what you wanted. Unfortunately, the belt had no intention of coming undone. Upon seeing you struggle, Damiano finally put you out of your misery by helping you.

Once the brown belt around his pants and his zipper were open, you pulled them down to his ankles. This action left you with his intense boner showing right through his boxers in front of your face. It has taken you back to the many nights you imagined getting this view. Kneeling in front of the man built finer than any renaissance building in Rome. Ready to take him all in, it really felt like you're dreaming.

His boxers finally joined the pants down at his feet and you were left with a view that you never had before. He wasn't the biggest in the world, but still way bigger youve ever seen in your life. For a second, you were worried if you would even be able to fit him all in your mouth.

But what better way to find out than give it a try, right?

The question followed your worries and you dived straight in. You gave him a last good look up, seeing him waiting in anticipation. Grabbing his lenght with your right hand, you immediately realised you needed some kind of lubrication. You spat right on his tip and smeared it all over, which quickly turned into giving him slow strokes. This has already earned you an expression from him, being interested in what youll do next. You started picking up the pace, trying hard not to make the sloppy sound. Your hand was sliding up and down, getting faster and you were joyfully looking at his face in pure bliss. You decided to give him a little bit more of a show and quickly switched the hand for your mouth.

„Cazzo.“

Going at the same tempo as before finally got a moan out of him that he was struggling to hold in for so long. Hearing him speak in italian had some kind of effect on you and you started to feel the knot in your stomach getting tighter. You were speeding up, jerking your lips around his cock as fast as you could. Damiano was definitely enjoying it, fighting himself not to be any louder. You wanted to finally have him inside of you, so you took a next step.

Stopping this activity, you reached for your bag that you previously dropped onto the ground. After ramaging through all of your belongings, you found the condom you have thrown in a few months ago „just in case.“

„Always prepared to get fucked but rarely for an italian exam, I see,“ he smiled at you.

„You know, I'm naturally talented at the first option. The second one? Not so much.“

You took the condom out of it's wrapper and carefully rolled it out on his cock. When you got up from the ground, you immediately found yourself pressed against the wall once again. Damiano wasted no time, passionately kissing you. This time, he wrapped the leg around his core himself.

„Let's see if youre right about that, bella.“

He roughly pushed himself into you, which made some of the shelves shake. There was no adjusting period, he was pounding you at the speed of light. This tempo made you light headed, you were rolling your eyes back. There was clearly sweating rolling down his face, which made you aroused even more. You still couldnt believe this was happening but tried to be present in the time and place. You were whinning, practically melting into his body as he was fucking you. He reached his hand to shut your mouth once again.

„How I wish you could scream my name right now, begging me to fuck you harder. Unfortunately, bad girls like you have to be quiet because they can't learn their fucking lesson.“

In one swift movement, he turned you around, forcing you to bend over. With one of his hands still on your mouth and the other hiking your skirt up, he entered you from behind. You let out a muffled moan against his palm, as you felt him deep inside of you. Your walls clenching around his cock made him seem short of breath. He was pounding you while being completely pressed against you. You were slowly losing yourself to him.

He moved the hand from your back to your cunt. Without warning, he started rubbing your clit fast, matching the speed of his thrusts. You were being tipped over the edge and it seemed like he knew that you were getting close.

„Sborra per me, puttana,“ he growled at you in italian. Although you didn't understand, it was the last push you needed. This killer combination made you come undone with another muffled cry.

You felt a few more thrusts until he came himself, his whole body shaking into you.

When you were both done, you stayed in your place for a minute, just catching your breath and processing whatever just happened. You were absolutely in bliss after this scenario, which seemed like cropped out of your pornsite search history. It has definitely taught you a lesson or two, but you maybe didnt want to admit it to him.

You heard his pants buckled behind you, so you finally decided to face him. He still looked great, if not better, with messy hair and his shirt all creased up.

„Well, you definetely got a part of italian fucked into you. Was that enough for you to start studying for my lessons or do you want to fail, so you can keep on salivating in my classes?“

„I admit, it made me rethink my past decisions, but also if I wasn't bad at learning foreign languages, I wouldn't have a gorgeous italian man fucking me in the back of a library, so I guess it was fine after all.“

You grinned at him, sticking your tongue out.

He pulled you closer to him by your waist, passionately kissing you one more time.

„What if I keep fucking you, maybe in my place or yours, and we might get to some tutoring in between, hm?“ he raised an eyebrow suggestively.

„Sounds like a deal to me.“

You quickly collected yourself, grabbing your bag off the ground, straightening your skirt down. Soon you realised that you had no underwear on.

„Do I get my panties back, please?“ you looked to Damiano one more time.

He just giggled and shook his head.

„When you pass my class, at least with the D mark, you can have your underwear back.“

He immediately walked off, heading towards the front of the library. You also got out of the cubicle, burning up with embarrasment. You really didn't want anyone to think youre sleeping your way to a better grade. On the other hand, you were still so happy about what just happened that you didnt want to care about other people.

Seemingly, there were only two students left, both with headphones on. Looked like film majors editing their final projects so there was a low chance they heard anything.

You made your way to the door, as Damiano was already behind the librarians desk. As you were about to pass through, he jogged around the table to quickly get to you.

„Not even saying goodbye to your teacher? That is rude,Y/N“ he frowned his face at you. You playfully hit him into his arm.

„Well, Mr. David, you didn't seem to care about 'rude' when you were fucking one of your students in the school building, but let's talk about that later, shall we?“

He bit his tongue and smiled at you. After that, he handed you a piece of paper with his number and adress on it. It also said „TUTORING“ on top, which made you smile as well.

You nodded your head and waved to him, knowing you couldn't kiss him goodbye, as there were already two sets of eyes on you. You just dissapeared through the door frame and went your own way.

Replaying of the scene that just occured in the library didn't stop in your head until you fell asleep, thinking about the right time to call him about your first tutoring session.

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