#HAUNTED BY THE SINS OF HIS OWN PAST

[needanaccount2readarcaneposts]

like you guys know warwick is supposed to be a metaphor, right?

and by 'you guys' I am talking to the writers of Arcane S2 (2024), who appear to have forgotten this.

like warwick, in a strictly plot sense, is something that is done to vander. but warwick, in a narrative sense, is supposed to be a metaphor. you understand that, right?

it's a metaphor for the monster within the man?

the hound of the underground?

the way suffering breeds cruelty breeds monsters - the uncaged wrath of zaun?

the sins of his past come back to haunt him?

the violence he tried to leave behind, but never could?

"i knew you still had it in you."?

Sometimes, as he fed in dark alleys on stray gangers, the flash of knives would remind him of an old blade covered in blood. Blood passing from the blade to his hands. From his hands, to everything he touched. Sometimes, he remembered the girl again. And still there was blood. It had always been there, he realized, his entire life, and nothing he did could wash it off. He'd left so many scars that even if he didn't remember his past, the city would. When he peered into the eyes of Zaun's criminals - the gang bosses, murderers, and thieves - he saw himself.

that's the warwick we should have gotten in S2. vander the grey, not vander the unproblematically whitewashed. vander the revolutionary who brought his gauntlets to that bridge to fight for a future; the base violence necessary for change. vander with blood on his hands, just as much as the partner he scapegoated for it; tried to bury in the pilt along with his own guilt; not just vander who felt aw shucks real sorry about the attempted murder that one time. vander the complex. vander who sold out zaun's resistance to ease his own shame. vander the reckoning with his own complicity; his own violence; his own original sin. vander whose murkiness helps vi unpack her black and white worldview, and let go of the rose-tinted past to which she clings; understand jinx, even understand silco; understand that it's not just about Individual Bad People doing Individual Bad Things to Individual Good People, and Individual Good People who have to defeat the Individual Bad People, but that this is something far bigger and far older than any of them, a whole rotten system of misery and oppression that turns people into monsters. that the thing that turned vander into a monster, METAPHORICALLY, happened long before he met singed.

vander the monster, as well as vander the man.

instead, we got whatever this shit is:

[somnoir]

Ghost KingConsort?

Prompt: Demon Twins AU where the ghost king is summoned and claims his appearance is that of his beloveds. Shenanigans of a vindictive dead twin.

Danyal Al Ghul escaped from the league. The Lazarus Pits were never merciful but for once, they were. The pits were merciful to him as the green swallowed him and spat him out miles away from that place.

Danny can't forget his first death, the sword in his gut as Damian cut through him. The title of heir was reserved for only one of them and the spare was no longer needed. He supposed it was yet another mercy upon him, knowing that the title of spare was not simple. He would have been Damian's spare—spare parts.

Danny remembers his second death. The electricity that killed him over and over again as the ectoplasm spilled from the artificial portal brought him back to life again and again. One second he was dead, the other he was being revived. It was torturous in every way possible.

It's been years since then. His parents were a difficult case, unable to accept that their darling child had died and continued to believe that Danny was being possessed by the menace Phantom. They hunted him, tried to rip him apart to 'free' their son. It took both himself and Jazz leaving with the help of Vlad (reluctantly accepted) for his parents to stop hunting. Their home that had already felt empty was even more empty now.

It's been almost four years since then. Danny had settled into his role as Ghost King, even when the crown of fire floated over his head then descended to be too big, too much—resting around his neck.

It's... Difficult...

CUT TO THE JUSTICE LEAGUE SUMMONING HIM!

Danny Fenton, nineteen and very much overworked from all the paperwork he had to sort through as Ghost King, finds a small tugging to his very being. A summoning he recognized, sighing loudly before he's answer to this visible desperation. Like it was a world ending issue.

And yes, it apparently was when the fabric of reality itself was tearing itself apart for some strange reason. As the ruler of the infinite realms—the king of the very domain that basically glued the multiverse—this was apparently the right call.

Dressed in all of his kingly regalia, Danny felt the crown of fire float up from his neck and burned over his head. His cape, cloak—whatever—was heavy and he blinked, green eyes boring into every soul present. He recognized the fractured soul of the laughing magician—one of his more irksome subjects that avoided taxes like it was the fucking plague. He really should tell Skulker to haunt his grandfather. Maybe even Youngblood would be suitable.

But aside from the laughing magician, his eyes settled upon a familiar soul, a familiar face. Danny blinks again.

Shit... He thought, staring at the masked yet horrified face of his own twin. Robin was nineteen as well by now, older, stronger—redeemed.

In the past, Danny would have cursed Damian to the seven hells and allowed the seven sins to have a bite. But Jazz was blessing. An older sister who made sure to heal him, to let him grow, to let him develop. He's forgiven Damian for his faults. They were children, brainwashed by a mad man. He's not too angry. Resentful and a bit vindictive? That was a given as he technically was the spirit of a murder victim. Of kinslaying.

"Hellblazer." The language spoken by the dead leaves his mouth easily. It can't be understood by the living, and it was barely understood who came back from death. But John Constantine was a different, more difficult case. One hell of a motherfucker that avoided death until the entity itself was ranting to both Clockwork and Danny about his escapes.

And John Constantine recognized his title regardless of the language.

The sad man in a trench coat stiffened, staring at Danny as he stiffly bowed. "High King Phantom." He greets, and attempt at respect. When there was suddenly movement, Constantine was quick to hiss at the others—glaring at Robin who looked ready lunge at them.

Oh, he can't help himself. This was funny. In the words of his own counterpart turned brother—He could make it worse. Jazz was going to nag him, true, but Danny was so. Utterly. BORED. Being Ghost King had a lot of entertainment, like how he got to fight people and basically hang out with people from the past. But it got... Repetitive. Normal Ghosts wouldn't mind with their eternal afterlife, but Danny was still half-alive. He was completely human—just a half dead one.

"Your majesty—" Constantine struggled to explain, "The universe... Do you know why portals have been opening, your majesty? Forgive my impudence but our world has been plagued by portals from different worlds, some even lead to the infinite realm."

"It's not uncommon for natural portals to the realms to open. Many of your dead like to visit." He smirked, "Many like to haunt those who've wronged them."

Constantine gulped, "Your majesty, would you, by any chance, be aware of why these portals are opening?"

Danny sighed. Well, he can't say he wasn't concerned. This was his world too after all, even when now. It was Jazz's world, where she still went to school, it was Sam and Tucker's world. It was his family's world. So yes, he is concerned.

"The portals to the realms are under my jurisdiction. They are natural and open in my places with thick and ambient ectoplasm." Danny drawls, "But these dimensional portals are strange. I'll check in with the Master of Time to see if someone is meddling with reality. It may not even be from your dimension."

He can only shrug at that, remembering how Dan had practically ripped through time with his madness and rage, tearing through the world to ensure his birth.

"I see, thank you for your understanding, your majesty." Constantine nervously says.

"Say, would you like to watch the battle royale for your soul?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused, magician." Danny rolls his eyes, "But you'd certainly enjoy watching people tear each other to shreds for your fucked up soul. I don't understand why people want it so much when the paperwork it comes with is a hell in itself."

"Your majesty," Constantine paled.

"I'm joking. I'll deal with this as quickly as possible." Danny paused, grinning as he made a show of offering his hand to the justice league. "I couldn't possible sit by and allow my beloved's world to crumble. He'd be devastated."

Constantine blinked. Everyone blinked. And then Danny turned to Damian and... Batman. Bruce Wayne. His father. At least he seemed to be treating Damian better than Jack did with Danny and Jazz.

"You must have recognized this face, yes?" Danny tilted his head. "You are his family."

"What have you done to my brother?" Robin—Damian immediately growled, like a feral cat as he unsheathed his katanas and aimed for Danny.

"Hm." Danny rolled his eyes, "He's well. Very much taken care of." Because yes, Danny was well fed and taken care of, especially as the Ghost King. "I've taken his form so I assumed you knew of him."

He dismissed Robin long before he could even speak, turning to Constantine once again. "Don't fret too much, John Constantine." The man in question flinched once his name was uttered in the language of the dead he could barely understand. "This will be fixed in a days time. If not, I will send someone to deal with it."

The Ghost King's appearance had been startling when they summoned him. A boy with a striking resemblance to Damian if not for his white hair. A twin? Bruce had sounded devastated at the implications. But Damian? He'd seen the ghost king and felt nauseous, unable to tear his eyes away from the eldritch being that wore his brother's face.

It took a lot of explaining once they were back in the cave. The duel, Danyal's death, the Lazarus taking him and he was never seen again. Everyone was... Well, they were devastated. Yes. Grieving a son and brother they never met. But the Ghost King has been summoned with a face similar to that of their father's, a face that was the exact same one to their brothers. The Ghost King who referred to the dead Danyal as his beloved.

It's the next day when they're back in the watchtower, anxiously waiting for any update. Constantine continues to curse under his breath, shaking his head before a portal rips through reality. Everyone stiffened, preparing for the worst.

A girl appears, a child. She's a spry little thing with glowing green eyes, flaming white hair, and a face that they immediately recognized.

"Sorry that I'm late! Times pretty bendy and we don't really keep up with it." The unknown laughs, "Well, short answer, Phantom has identified the problem and has attempted to apprehend it. Unfortunately, it's been a week on our end and the perp apparently fell into your world."

Time distortion—Constantine had mentioned it. But they stare at the girl who rambled about their supposed target until Batman cleared his throat, seemingly softer on the girl—someone who was visibly a child.

"Young lady, welcome to the Watchtower. Even id the greeting it late." Batman curtly yet gently says. "May I know your name?"

The girl blinked. "Oh! You can call me Specter, princess of the infinite realms! I'm Phantom and Danny's daughter."

It is then that the possibilities processes in their heads.

One. The Ghost King took the form of his beloved, aka the dead twin brother of one Damian Wayne.

Two. Damian's dead twin and Bruce's dead son might be the queen (consort?) of the infinite realms.

Three. Danyal and Phantom had a daughter. Damian and the rest of the Bar kids were uncles and aunts. Bruce was now officially a grandpa.

Damian faints on the spot.

[truuskn]

it's so interesting to see evil done unintentionally. when a really good person makes a mistake, a serious terrible mistake, and becomes the cause of someone else's grief and pain... it's moments like this that give you a glimpse of their true nature. give you a new perspective of them. the way they try to make amends with all their might, try to justify and explain themselves, the way they suffer, regret what they have done and dream of turning everything back... life journeys like this, especially solo journeys, that's what i love. and, oh, jazz had it rough

you know, after everything cybertronians have been through it's hard to stay that way. sympathetic. after centuries of violence, brutality and fear, after endless battles and losses it's truly hard to sincerely feel compassion or guilt, hard to feel sorry for anyone but yourself. you want to be selfish, you want to finally let go of the past and live the damn life, you want to forget all your sins and enjoy the well-deserved victory, the home, the precious peace for which you went through hell. but jazz can't do that

he's done a terrible thing. he killed a human. many in his place would just accept that "little inconvenience" and move on. again against the backdrop of everything that had happened to them this event really meant nothing. a few lines in the giant book of their history. a few heavy seconds in the flow of the thousands of years of their lives. nonsense. trifle. the death of a bad person who deserved it. a cruel decision of fate. an accident beyond their control. so many ways to justify themselves! but jazz can't do that. shame for what he has done haunts him. he tries to put it aside, tries to start over, but he keeps getting pulled back, to the heat of battle, to the darkness of his former life, by the hands of those closest to him and by his own efforts. it's this event that fundamentally changed something about him. changed the way he looks at the world and himself

he can't forgive himself. he can't forget. he wakes up every night with nightmares, reliving that day and hundreds of other days over and over again. why is he reacting this way? he became a bad man a long time ago. so much blood on his hands, so many murders, so many ruined fates at his mercy, but the bitter sharp shame still stubbornly follows him. he can't move on knowing what he and his people have doomed the earth to by involving it in their conflict, he can't move on knowing that in the eyes of the earthlings they are far from heroes, far from fighters against injustice. for humans there is no much difference between an autobot and a decepticon, they are all murderers, they are all destroyers of their home. if this is his legacy, if his struggles and sacrifices have led to this outcome, doesn't that mean he's been wrong all his life? was it all for nothing? what was even the point? is the only thing he's actually good at is destruction? it can't be true. it can't stay that way!

he wants to understand what he means to others, he wants to make a difference, he's really trying, but the scary truth is... nothing will change. no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, there's no going back. he'll remain a monster in their eyes and he'll remain a monster in his own eyes. they won't forgive him and neither will he forgive himself. he'll have to live with that. he accepts it eventually. it will never get any easier, but he will live through it

[kunaskitten]

Roommate from Hell (roommate!sukuna x reader) [college au]

> Warnings: 18+, smut, College AU, somnophilia mentioned, fingering, sukuna makes reader clean his fingers, choking, creampie, dom-kuna/sub-reader, nothing crazy just typical sukuna behavior, it's short and rushed, there is context but it's lazy, horny ass writing, uuhhh yeah, sukuna is an asshole but what's new? reader is the shy and easily flustered type, but she's also naughty. if I forgot any lmk

> Word Count: 3.8k

> A/N: Uhhh I'm so down bad for this man. This is something I just quickly threw together ...and yes I kicked my feet the whole time you can shut up now. I'M OVULATING OKAY!? Also this is my first time ever writing smut or any fanfic for that matter so if it sucks oop- Not my art; couldn't find credits- I'm sorry!

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

Being Sukuna’s roommate was a nightmare.

Not in the typical “he leaves dishes in the sink” way. No, that would’ve been way too easy. Ryomen Sukuna was an entirely different kind of problem, the kind that came with a towering frame, a voice like sin, and a cocky smirk that made your stomach have those stupid butterflies in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.

He was your own personal tormentor, hell-bent on getting under your skin. And, to his credit, he was damn good at it.

It started off small: stolen food, flicking your forehead when you ignored him, ruffling your hair just to piss you off. Then it escalated. Coming up behind you while you were making coffee, his chest pressing against your back. Making lewd comments just to watch you get flustered. Walking around shirtless, knowing full well you’d glance, against your own will, before tearing your eyes away.

And when that didn’t get the reaction he wanted?

He started touching your stuff.

He’d rifle through your books, pretend to read them, then get bored and leave them open to random pages. He’d steal your pens. Your hair ties. One time he stole your tube top and wore it as a headband. Like, you can't make this shit up.

You swore up and down that you hated him.

But that wasn't really the truth, was it? Because in reality, you liked his silly antics, in a way that wasn't quite healthy.

And that's what you actually hated.

You tried to be strong, to fight it. To roll your eyes and shove him off, to pretend you were immune to his bullshit. But late at night, when you were alone in your room, the thoughts would creep in. His hands. His mouth. His voice.

You’d tell yourself it was just frustration, that it would pass. That he was just a stupid frat boy, not someone you actually wanted.

But then you started writing about him.

It was meant to be a way to vent. Or just to stop yourself from being shameless enough to masturbate to the thought of him. To get the thoughts out of your head and onto paper where they couldn’t haunt you. But what started as frustration quickly turned into confession.

Page after page, you spilled out every filthy thought, every desire you refused to admit out loud. The way you wanted him to ruin you. The way you wanted to stop resisting. The way you wanted to wake up with him already inside you, stretching you open before you even had the chance to tell him no.

That had been your life for the past few months, but now? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's like any other night, and now Sukuna was standing in your bedroom, surmising what his next ploy would be.

You were dead asleep on your bed, having been exhausted from your studies that day. He’d crept in like he had a dozen times before, purely to fuck with you. He never stole anything important. He would just rearranged your books, unplugged your phone charger, flipped your alarm clock upside down. Just enough to annoy you, to make you storm into the living room the next morning with fire in your eyes, ready to cuss him out. He lived for that look, for the way you spat his name like a curse, for the challenge that simmered beneath your irritation.

Tonight was no different.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes scanning the room for his next crime. Maybe he’d hide your laptop charger. Or dump your neatly folded laundry onto the floor.

Then his eyes locked onto something near your nightstand. A book? No, a journal.

Sukuna knew he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But you had made it too easy, leaving it right there, tempting him. If you truly didn’t want him snooping, you would’ve locked it up somewhere, right? He walked over to the nightstand slowly, careful not to wake you.

The first page was harmless; just scribbled thoughts, a few mundane entries. Boring. He nearly tossed it aside, more than eager to get back to his antics.

Then he saw his own name.

Right there, inked onto the page in your familiar handwriting, mere inches from where you lay sleeping.

Sukuna’s smirk twitched, curiosity sparking. His fingers tightened around the worn edges of the journal as he flipped the page. Then another. And another.

The more he read, the more his grin faded.

He expected to find complaints. Stuff like, 'Fucking Sukuna won’t leave me alone. I hate him. He’s such an asshole.'

But instead—

'I think about him too much.'

His breath slowed. His eyes flicked toward you.

You were still, chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, lips parted slightly in sleep. Completely unaware of the way he stood looming over you, flipping through your darkest, filthiest thoughts.

He turned another page.

'I don’t want to want him, but I do.'

Another.

'I want him to pin me down. Hold me there. Make me take it.'

Sukuna went still for a moment.

A slow heat coiled in his gut, sharp and electric. He let out a quiet exhale, gripping the edges of the journal just a little too tight. Fuck.

He had spent months toying with you, always testing, always pushing, waiting for the moment you’d finally snap. But this? Resisting something you desperately wanted.

His gaze dragged over you, slow and unhurried.

Your delicate, exposed throat. The way your body curled slightly into yourself, vulnerable, unaware. The rise and fall of your chest beneath your thin sleep shirt.

His lips curled into something darker. You had been fighting a losing battle this entire time.

Sukuna closed the journal, exhaling a quiet chuckle with a manical grin. "Let's see how you look when confronted with this..." He mutters to himself.

Sukuna walks over to the door of your bedroom, journal in hand, and he closes it shut, pretty damn hard. Hard enough to wake you.

You wake up immediately to the sound of your door slamming, the soft lock clicking after, and you sit up instantly. As your eyes flutter open, you catch the silhouette of a man standing at the foot of your bed.

Your insufferable, cocky, completely unpredictable roommate Sukuna.

Your stomach tightens as you register the way he’s holding something... your journal. His lips are curled into a lazy smirk, fingers thumbing through the pages with blatant amusement.

“Didn’t take you for the kinky type, sweetheart,” he drawls, flipping a page. “And yet… look at all these filthy little confessions.” His eyes gleam in the dim light as they flick up to yours, predatory and unreadable.

Your heart stammers in your chest. “What the fuck, Sukuna?” you snap, scrambling to grab the journal from him but he pulls back.

He merely tilts his head, unimpressed by your flustered reaction. “Tsk. Don’t act all shy now. You wrote this for someone to read, didn’t you?” He steps closer, the air between you thick with his presence. “Or were you hoping I’d find it?”

Your pulse pounds in your throat as he reads aloud, voice dipping into a mocking purr:

“‘It would be a dream come true to wake up with him sinking inside of me…’”

Your breath catches, shame burning through you like wildfire. “You’re an asshole,” you hiss, lunging to snatch the journal from his hands.

But he’s faster.

Sukuna grabs your wrist, yanking you forward with effortless strength until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He leans down, lips grazing your ear as he hums, “I’d say you have two options, princess.” His grip tightens, just enough to remind you of how easily he could overpower you.

“One… you can keep pretending you don’t want this.” His free hand skims up your thigh, pushing the blanket away as his breath fans against your neck. “Or two…” He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, dark and glinting with something sinister.

“…You can let me make that these little dreams of yours come true.”

His lips hover over yours, waiting, taunting. Daring you to make the choice.

And fuck—your body is already betraying you. You're so turned on it must be unfair.

You shudder as his grip tightens around your wrist, his body heat pressing into you, suffocating in the best way. Your heart pounds as you meet his gaze. He’s waiting, daring you to push him away, but you don’t. You can’t.

"S-Sukuna I-" You're unable to finish as he harshly grabs your cheeks, squeezing your face a bit, enjoying the sight of a bright red, blushing idiot.

He laughs amused. "You gonna choose or what?" He says smugly, knowing full well you're already unraveling for him. Your face is on fire and the heat pooling within you is too much to handle. You'd never give into his antics so much, but under these circumstances, within his grasp, the last thing in your mind is denying him.

"I-I want the fantasies t-to come true..." You shut your eyes tight after admitting this, unable to look at him after saying such an embarrassing thing.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

The journal slips from his fingers, landing forgotten on the floor as he shoves you back onto the bed, the motion jolting your breath but leaving no time to protest. Sukuna is on you before you can even think, moving with the deliberate, unhurried confidence of a predator that already knows its prey won’t run.

The weight of him pins you down, broad and unyielding, caging you beneath him. It’s suffocating in the best way, stealing the breath from your lungs, making your head spin. You’ve imagined this—god, you’ve imagined this, but reality is something else entirely. The way his body presses against yours, the solid warmth of him, the intoxicating scent of his skin—cologne, smoke, something darker, something undeniably him and full of sin.

“You wanted to wake up with me inside you?” His voice is a lazy murmur, the barest hint of amusement lacing his words as his fingers ghost down your body, tracing over the fabric of your shirt, barely touching, just enough to make you need. “Should’ve told me sooner, sweetheart.” His breath is hot against your ear. “Would’ve made it happen every night.”

A shiver rolls through you. You can’t tell if it’s from his touch or the weight of his words... every night... As if he has no intention of this being a one-time thing.

His mouth finds your throat, his teeth scraping against sensitive skin before he bites. Not gentle, not careful. You gasp, pleasure sharp and electric, the sting of it sending heat pooling low in your stomach. He chuckles against your neck, pleased, his tongue flicking over the fresh mark, soothing what he just ruined.

“You’re already so easy,” he murmurs, the warmth of his breath tickling your skin as his hand slides under your shirt, his palm rough, calloused, searing against the softness of your stomach and moving up slowly and teasingly to your breasts. “Didn’t even have to try, did I?”

A flame within you still wants to fight him, to not surrender so easily, but what’s the point when your body is already betraying you? When you’re already arching into his touch, already gasping at the feeling of his fingers dragging lower, teasing, tormenting?

Sukuna shifts down, dragging the blanket off you completely, exposing you to the cool air, and to him. His gaze is molten, hungry, as his fingers skim down your stomach, inching lower, pressing between your thighs.

A pleased growl rumbles in his chest. “Fuck.” His fingers stroke once, testing, and he exhales a quiet chuckle. “Soaked just from me reading your little fantasies out loud?” His tone is mocking, but beneath it is something else, something darker, satisfaction, possession. “You’re filthier than I thought.”

You whimper, hips shifting, desperate for more than just his teasing touch. The tension is unbearable, the fire in your veins turning molten, burning for something only he can give. You grab at his shoulders, nails digging in, frustration boiling over. “Sukuna—”

“Say it.” His voice is firm, a command rather than a request. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and expectant. “Tell me you want it.”

The words catch in your throat, not from embarrassment, but from sheer need. Because he knows. He knows you’re already too far gone, already wound too tight, already at the mercy of whatever he decides to give you.

Your pride wants to fight it. But your body is already surrendering.

Your breath shudders as you exhale, the last of your resistance slipping away. “I want it.”

Sukuna’s grin turns sharp, feral. “That’s my girl.”

He rewards your honesty by pushing two fingers deep within your throbbing cunt. Your moans are already lewd and embarrassing and this is just the start.

His pace with his hand is maddening as he works on you like he's done this for over a thousand years. The pressure building up within you is already immense.

He pulls his fingers out suddenly, forcing them into your mouth, making you taste. As soon as he orders it you're obediently sucking all your lewd juices off of him. He finds it cute the way you're submitting to him so soon.

Suddenly, his hands are on you again, gripping, claiming. The fabric of your shirt bunches in his fists before he tears it upward, dragging it over your head in one swift motion. His gaze drops, raking over your newly exposed skin, and something dark and hungry flares in his eyes.

A low growl rumbles in his chest. “Look at you.” His fingers trace the lines of your body, slow, possessive, making you shiver beneath his touch. “Been hiding this from me all this time?”

Heat sears your cheeks, but before you can retort, his mouth is on you. Hot, demanding, teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your collarbone before his tongue soothes the sting. His lips trail lower, claiming more of you, sucking new bruises into your skin, marking you as his.

His hands move with ruthless efficiency, unclasping, unzipping, removing layers of clothing vanishing between gasps and stolen breaths. Every inch of exposed skin is met with his touch, his mouth, his teeth, until you’re left bare beneath him, your body trembling with anticipation.

You should feel vulnerable like this laid out under his gaze, utterly exposed, but the way he looks at you? Like he owns you already? It only sets you on fire.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, as his hands roam, fingers digging into your hips, thumbs brushing over sensitive skin. His voice is lower now, rougher. “You’re perfect.”

Your breath catches, but Sukuna doesn’t give you a moment to recover. His lips crash against yours. Hard, devouring, leaving no space for air, no space for thought. His tongue parts your lips, claiming your mouth the same way he’s claimed the rest of you, making you feel just how much he wants this.

One of his hands slides lower again, teasing over your thigh before gripping it, yanking your legs open so he can settle between them. His fingers toying with your soaked clit, it's not enough for you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your hips arching up in silent demand.

He chuckles against your mouth, breaking the kiss to murmur, “Impatient, aren’t we?”

You glare, but the effect is ruined by the way you whimper when he presses his knee between your thighs, applying just enough pressure to drive you insane.

“Fuck you,” you manage, breathless.

“Oh, I intend to.” His smirk is pure sin, and then his fingers are back on you, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him. His voice drops to a low, taunting whisper. “But I like watching you squirm first.”

And god, he does exactly that. He doesn't let up on your clit, flicking and pinching your sensitive bud in a way that makes you shamefully moan into his mouth. His mouth finds your throat again, trailing lower, his tongue flicking over your pulse before he bites, harder than before. You’re a mess beneath him, every nerve alight, every teasing brush of his skin against yours making it harder to think, harder to breathe.

“Shit,” he mutters, as if the feeling of you slick and desperate around his fingers is enough to test even his patience. His other hand tightens on your thigh. “You’re so fucking ready for me.”

You whimper, rocking against his hand, your body begging, pleading.

And then he’s shifting, positioning himself against you, his weight pressing down, suffocating in the most intoxicating way.

A smirk curls at his lips as he watches your expression—the anticipation in your eyes, the way your breath hitches, but then he pauses. Not to tease, not to be cruel, but to strip away the last barrier between you.

He takes his shirt off in an effortless motion and then his fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats, dragging them down with an unbearable slowness, the fabric slipping past his hips, down thick, muscular thighs, until he’s finally bare before you.

And god you think he’s perfect. Cause, I mean, he is.

The room feels impossibly hot as your gaze rakes over him, over the sharp ridges of his abs, the inked patterns that stretch across his skin, bold and carnal. The tattoos that you’ve seen glimpses of before, from his moments of teasing you while shirtless, are now on full display, and they only make him look more dangerous. More like something you were never meant to touch, but desperately want to.

Your eyes dip lower, and- fuck.

A shiver runs through you at the sheer size of his cock, thick and intimidating. The breath catches in your throat, thighs instinctively pressing together, but Sukuna notices. Of course he does.

His smirk turns downright sinful. “What’s the matter, princess?” He leans in, his lips ghosting over yours, reveling in the way your body reacts, the way you squirm beneath him. “Having second thoughts?”

You shake your head, barely able to form words, because no, this is exactly what you want, what you’ve wanted for so long it hurts.

That’s all he needs.

Without warning, he aligns himself with you. You can feel the tip pushing teasingly against your needy pussy. You're impatient, but feeling how massive he is against your tight hole makes you second guess again. "W-Wait 'Kuna-AAH!" You choke on your words as he starts pressing inside, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you completely.

A strangled moan rips from your throat, your fingers digging into his back, your body aching from how deep he is. Your face bright red and eyes starting to water, you beg for mercy.

"'Kuna f-fuck ss'too much!" You whine against him.

Sukuna groans, his head dropping for a fleeting second. “Fuck-” His voice is rough, strained, as if even he wasn’t expecting you to feel this good.

He pulls back slightly, just to thrust in deeper, forcing a whimper from your lips.

“Been thinking about this, haven’t you?” His voice is a low murmur against your ear, his pace slow, torturous, drawing out every sensation. “Fantasizing about me fucking you like this while you lay here, pretending to hate me?”

You bite your lip, refusing to answer, but Sukuna isn’t having that. "Aww don't wanna talk? That's okay." You think for a moment you'll catch a break from him, that he'll slow the pace a little, but you're so wrong. Oh so wrong.

"Guess I'll just—have to—make you—talk—" He says between thrusts, bottoming out into you each time, and oh does it work. You're practically screaming his name now. "Ah, mmph! Ah-! Su-ukuna f-fuck umph- ah!" Your desperate moans are music to his ears. He grins devilishly as he enjoys every moment of you like this.

As you try to suppress your moans out of embarrassment, Sukuna's eyes flicker with a cruel look.

His fingers wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a silent reminder of his control. His thumb drags over the delicate line of your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burn into you, daring, demanding.

“Don’t think you can hide your sounds from me.” His grip tightens, just enough to make your pulse race, just enough to make your breath hitch in anticipation. “Do you really want this?”

Your head tilts back, surrendering. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

His smirk is pure satisfaction. “Good girl.”

And with that he ruins you.

His pace turns brutal, merciless, each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, forcing broken moans from your lips. His name spills from you in gasps, in desperate, helpless cries, and he devours every sound, every reaction, like they were made just for him.

“You take me so fucking well,” he groans, his teeth grazing your jaw before biting down again, claiming you in every way possible. “Just like you wanted, huh? Just like you wrote in that filthy little diary.”

Your mind is unraveling, your body helpless against the overwhelming pleasure. His cock slamming into you relentlessly makes your head feel dizzy. You swear you can feel the tip bullying your cervix. It’s too much, too good, too consuming, winding you tighter and tighter until you’re on the verge of shattering.

"'K-Kuna please-"

Sukuna feels it. Senses it. His smirk deepens, sharp and knowing.

“Come on, princess,” he rasps, his fingers slipping between your thighs, rubbing just the right way on your clit as he continues to rut into you. “Cum for me.”

And you do. Would you really disobey him now?

The pleasure crashes over you in violent, blinding waves, your entire body tensing, trembling beneath him. A cry tears from your throat, your vision going white, your nails digging into his skin as you fall apart.

Sukuna doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, drawing it out, making sure you feel every second of your unraveling. And when he finally follows, burying his cock deep within your poor aching cunt as he groans into your neck. The warmth of him flooding you only makes the pleasure linger, dizzying and all-consuming.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the heavy rhythm of your breaths. You cling to him lazily, your mind and body still in a whirlwind from moments before. Then Sukuna chuckles, low and satisfied, his lips tracing lazy, possessive kisses over your shoulder.

“Guess I should sneak into your room more often,” he muses.

You groan, too spent to shove him off. “You're still an asshole 'Kuna”

He smirks, pressing a kiss to your jaw, smug as ever.

“And you love it.”

[scliffe]

I love the ending for the new anime season very much—it’s sweet and beautiful; and also terribly fitting for the Green Witch Arc.

Ciel’s mental state is constantly represented by the clothes he’s wearing; during his mental escape in GWA, he was wearing these clothes—the debut costume—pristine clean and unadulterated right before he was ripped out of them and defiled. Staying in these clothes forever means denying what he went through—time forever frozen in that moment before he fell from grace—it means denying his past and what has happened to him.

When he wears these; he turns almost childlike and cowardly, clinging to “his brother”, crying and sulking in bed, being terrified of adults, and hating Sebastian—the proof of his sin. But of course he’s unable to remain in escapism forever—and he gets jolted into the cold reality of being in that cage.

In the ending song; he starts the dance in the same clothes he was wearing the night of the ritual—the height of his misery and the night he lost everything he had left. These are the same clothes he is mentally stuck in whenever he gets a PTSD attack—torn, filthy, and miserable; these clothes brought with them the ghosts of his past.

Even the loving family he used to have only serves to make his current situation even more wretched in comparison. He looks at the ghosts of his parents, Madam Red, and Joker, and he slumps down in misery. For a moment he’s lost and adrift in the middle of nothing; missing his anchor. But then he gets up and grabs Sebastian’s hand.

Sebastian pulls him into motion. Ciel still wears these miserable clothes, but he no longer seems lost or haunted by the ghosts of his past. These are the very last clothes he was wearing before he decided to become the Earl of Phantomhive. Whoever our Ciel used to be—the child that he was before he chose to kill himself and took up the name of Ciel Phantomhive—was then “buried” forever in these clothes.

This quiet moment where only the two of them are dancing with wisps of blue represents that moment of transformation—the last moments our Ciel exists as his past self before he dies and the Earl of Phantomhive was reborn. Sebastian holds him as he looks up for the last time and peacefully, with no resistance, closes his eyes.

The frame expands and then we see him dancing with the servants—in the same order that they were found: Finnian, Mei, and Bard. The lighting is warm and luxurious, the servants clap and cheer him on, and he’s wearing gorgeous, expensive clothes—as he always wears when he’s with Sebastian—as the Earl of Phantomhive. This is possibly the cutest footage I’ve ever seen in my life.

And finally; Sebastian holds him up (or more like he climbs Sebastian; which also speaks a lot of their relationship) as he reaches up and grabs the star. This is the role Sebastian has always held in Ciel’s heart—he is his support, his closest, most intimate companion, and perhaps the tool (literally being treated like a ladder) for Ciel to reach his goal; while Ciel also trusts Sebastian not to drop him or let him down.

I don’t think I’ll ever shut up about how Sebastian is the one who pulled Ciel out of that hell—it is my Roman Empire and I will write 999 posts about it. I love how; although Sebastian and Ciel’s relationship may be morally questionable; at the end of the day, Sebastian is still the one who allows Ciel to grow into who he is—to rise and grasp the star with his own hand.

This ending is terribly bittersweet as we watches Ciel’s journey—both his pain, his determination, and the companions he gains and achievement he grasps—as he dances through the waltz.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

LOVE LEFT ME LIKE THIS AND I DONT WANT TO EXIST

katsuki bakugou x reader

katsuki, japan’s number 1 hero, discovers his fiancé’s dark past and questions everything.

themes of abuse and violence. please read with discretion 🤍

part 1/2

inspired by florida!!!

all you had to do was beat the charges.

first, the body. he’d laid there, mouth foaming and blood pouring from his neck. you had checked his pulse. the deed had been done. standing over him, your eyes wandered to any means of disposal. ultimately, you decided to let them discover it.

second, the evidence. you made sure to use gloves and specifically used his favourite rocks glass, the one he’d drink out of before heading to see you. you’d leave it on the coffee table next to the couch where he currently laid. maybe they’d believe this was his doing, if luck was on your side. you’d write a suicide note on his behalf- you hadn’t thrown our those gloves yet, anyway.

third, the getaway. because you weren’t going to let them drag you away with his body in a bag. the weight of what you had done would do nothing but shackle you down. yes, you’re haunted, but right now you had to act just fine. your heart was tied up with laces and crimes.

and your cheating, abusive, husband seemingly died out of nowhere, supposedly committing suicide on his own accord while his young marital partner disappeared? well, no one asks any questions where you’re headed now.

you did your best to lay it to rest. meanwhile, japan mourned the loss of a seemingly good and innocent pro hero, to whom you now widowed.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ���.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

3 years later.

most of your life had been running and hiding. the thought of settling down anywhere, in a city where you were nothing but a mere guest in. you didn’t trust trust, you didn’t trust happiness. all until meeting katsuki one day.

the thought of ever loving a despicable, power-hungry pro hero set off sirens in your head. but there was some allure about katsuki that made you forget the shadows of your past.

little do you know, he fell for you first and he fell harder. it was impossible not to be enamoured with him- a gorgeous, 6 foot tall blonde with a cocky attitude and fierce determination. who you, at first, wrote off to be a shallow douchebag, but who turned out to be the sweetest, most chivalrous gentleman you had ever gotten the pleasure of knowing.

perhaps your favourite thing about him were his dreams. the things that drove him to be better. his determination to be a good hero, to be the symbol of peace like the ones who came before him. theres a certain light in his crimson eyes that you can’t miss. he shines bright in this light, dazzling your heart and daring you to love him.

so, after just 2 years of dating, you and katsuki are now engaged and living together. the public knows of you, with both adoring and jealous fans by your side.

it gave you this rush. loving him was passionate as sin. every time you’re with him is one hell of a time, even if its something simple as watching a shitty movie together or folding laundry after work. only occasionally, you’d look over your shoulder, making sure no one was following you.

right now, he’s in the kitchen with you. you’re seated on the counter while he cooks, letting you taste-test everything. the glint of your engagement ring looks stunning in this light. katsuki’s happy to be the first person you’ve been married to. at least, he’s happy believing that.

though, somethings different about him this time. he’s quieter, his mind ruminating on something.

he looks at you, the love of his life, seated on the counter wearing his clothes, and wonders how you could be capable of lying to him.

he sighs, putting down whatever he’s doing. he wants to know the truth.

“babe.” he starts, not fully facing you. your ears perk up at the sound of his voice. “yeah?”

he walks over to you, looking you in the eye with his beautiful red eyes. you could sink in them.

“i’m the first man you’ve ever committed to.. right?”

he asks, though it’s something you’ve told him time and time again. previously, he’s wanted to know for some insecure reasons. you’re his one and only, and in the past, he’s just wanted to know you’re on the same page. it’s something you’ve told him everyday.

“yeah.” you smile, hiding behind that facade. “why do you ask?”

he takes a step closer, looking at you. his eyes are pleading, because he wants you to tell him otherwise. please, tell him that what he’s heard isn’t true.

“i wanted to see if you’d lie to me.”

your heart drops.

“what… what are you talking about?” you almost laugh, nervously. that anxiety creeps up your throat. its pathetic the way you thought you could even keep this up.

he sighs, running a hand through his ashy blonde hair in stress. it was wishful thinking, believing that he, a pro hero charged with investigating and bringing justice, would never find out about your crime. for a moment there, it felt good. like you were really gonna get away with it.

he walks past you, rummaging around in his bag before putting the files on the counter next to you. evidence. the man you had taken out, and links that suggested you had done it. your hands shake, seeing how its all stacked against you. looking him in the eye was out of the question.

truthfully, he isn’t sure who he’s looking at. he knows he loves you, but love has never before made him question everything like you’re doing to him. he sighs before continuing.

“kirishima showed me everything.” he says. “he and his team were investigating this case in a city nearby here. i didn’t think much of it until he told me you married the guy, and left right after he was pronounced dead.”

he looks at you, into the face of the person he loves more than anything. he’s begging you to say no. he’s begging you to be innocent.

“did you do it?”

you swallow hard, eyes darkening as you think of your options. was it worth it to lie anymore.

please say no. he thinks. please tell me it isn’t true.

“…i did what i had do.” you whisper, finally confessing.

and his worst fears are confirmed.

his heart sinks, furious as he looks at you. he’s trying to discern if this is the person he knows, if this is the person he loves. his voice is shaky, hands trembling with unbridled rage he tries to keep under control.

“why.” he says, not a question but a command, like venom. you almost flinch at his tone, though you can’t say you blame him. he person he’s set on marrying hid something so huge from him for years.

“its not what you think.” you insist, truthfully not knowing where to start. you cringe at the way your voice cracks when you speak.

his eyes narrow looking at you. “then what is it? you committed a heinous fucking crime and i’m suppose to think its for a good reason?”

god, if katsuki knew half of how hard you life had been. he had a hunch you were going to lie to him again, and it only made him angrier. “tell me the truth. i wanna know-“

“i had a husband before you.” you cut him off. he decidedly holds his tongue, surmising that he’s finally getting the truth from you. so, he waits. impatiently patient.

“i was young, and i had just run away from home.” you explain, the memories of your past crawling back up your throat. “my father was a creepy, rape-y bastard. couldn’t last another second in that house.” you say.

his heart aches at that. he had some idea that your childhood was less than ideal, but the thought your own father did that to you was more than he could bare. though he’s angry, he knows you didn’t deserve it. “i’m so sorry.”

you simply nod, praying for mercy as you continue. “so… i ran away. there weren’t a lot of people who could help me, or who could bring me in. i stayed on the streets most nights.” you sigh, wishing you could run into katsuki’s embrace. on other day, he’d gladly shield you away from all this hurt.

“and then… i met this guy. a hero, believe it or not.” you chuckle bitterly, much to your fiance’s chagrin. the thought that the bastard who did this to being someone like him made him sick.

“he got me a job, and helped me get back on my feet. i fell in love, as stupid and naive as that sounds.” you say. “…and when he asked to marry me, he said it’d only be on paper. that it’d just be so i could have shelter, food and water. i felt like he saved me.”

katsuki nods, still trying to process all of this. “but he didn’t save you… did he?”

you shake your head.

“turns out i married my father.” you say, darkly. he bites his lip, suspicious confirmed. those abused as children are more likely to move on with someone else abusive, after all. its sad cycle that he wishes he could remove you from. though it seems you had your own way of doing that.

“i was gonna die in that house.” you whisper, voice cracking at the seems. “so…”

you can’t even finish your sentence.

he isn’t an idiot. he can connect the dots. but even though the climactic end of your sentence is obvious, he still can’t quite wrap his head around it. he still loves you, though he’s mad as hell you kept this from him.

“i laced his whiskey and watched as it killed him. after, i… i packed my things and left town. took his money, too.”

his silence is killing you. you wish he’d say something, that its okay- though its not. that he still loves you- though he shouldn’t.

you speak again, maybe trying to fix this mess. “i know its wrong. i know its fucked up. i shouldn’t have.”

he lets out another breath, eyes noticing the way your hands shake. those hands, the ones he’d hold in his own, had blood on them.

“and why didn’t you think to tell anyone? no heroes, no police?” he has the nerve to ask, though its a valid question.

you snap, tension breaking as you push yourself ofd the counter and away to face him. “because i don’t TRUST you fuckers!” you cry, yelling while tears spill from your eyes.

silence.

bakugou stared right back into your eyes as you said that, and his expression immediately hardened again. he was angry all over again. for one, he already knew you didn't exactly trust heroes, albeit except for him. but this just hurt him. he knew that he himself was a hero and would protect you with his life.

so why couldn't you see that?

“i’m going to give you one more chance to re-think what you just said.”

but you stand your ground. “no.” you say, shaking your head. “i was abused for years and no one heard my case. i was dismissed and shunned for years until finally, i ran away. and when i did, i was stupid enough to trust again. to trust one of you power-hungry assholes! and how did that end!? with me being scared to come home everyday! with my husband using me like a god damn punching bag!”

his expression immediately drops at your words. hearing what you went through as a kid hit him like a truck. but, on the other hand, he was still so angry. he wanted to tell you that not all heroes are like that, that he wasn't like that.. but the anger was overpowering both his thoughts and his feelings as he listened. he wants to tell you that it’ll never happen again, but his emotions slip it before he can say that.

“and because of what happened with him, you think we're all like that?!” he roars back.

“its different for you and me.” you say, tears refusing to subside. “every-time i’ve let my guard down i’ve been beaten. nothing good comes from trusting.”

so, he wonders if you ever really trusted him. why agree to marry him if you supposedly didn’t believe in trust, or in love? he feels his whole world begin to crumble around him.

he can see now, putting those signs together. your hesitancy when you first met. your trust issues, your reluctance to speak on your past. it all made sense now, and he hated it.

“thats why you were so hesitant to let me in, huh?” he asks, looking at the ground. he’s struggling to keep calm, between his anger towards the monsters of your past and a little towards you.

“you thought i’d be like him?” he asks, and that question physically hurts your heart.

“no! i love you!” your voice cracks like its a lie. both of you notice that.

suddenly, i love you was like the worst thing he’s ever heard.

“and its worse because i’m a hero too, huh?” he asks. but you can’t answer that. instead, you opt to look down, letting your tears soak into your clothes.

“thats not what i thought.” you say, though you aren’t exactly sure who you’re convincing. “i promise, i know you’re different.”

and he is different. katsuki bakugou was nothing like the demons you had fought in your past. he was bright, and warm, and his love felt like home. more specifically, a home that was about to be torn down.

“then why didn’t you tell me, huh? why keep this from me for years?” he asks, still wanting answers.

to this, you almost scoff. it should be obvious. “how do i tell my boyfriend, who is the #1 hero in the country, the pillar of justice and peace, that i murdered someone? that my own hands took someone else life!?”

god, he’s livid. he can’t even look at you, though he admits he kind of understands why you hid it. he believed you were an angel.

“..and you have the nerve to think i’d stop loving you over it!?”

“YES!”

that answer made his anger hit a new record. He grabbed your arms, pushing you against the wall. he held you against it, his grip firm on your wrists, his eyes filled with anger as he looked over your face.

“do you really think I'm like that? do you really think after everything we've been through I'd just stop loving you that easily?”

he was yelling at this point, but he could also hear his voice break slightly as he spoke. he’s crying too.

“you’re hurting me.” you firmly speak.

the fear on your face makes him realize what he’s just done.

exactly 2 seconds after his question, he lets go, backing away. he stutters to himself for a question, seeing what he’s done like a knife through his chest. maybe he wasn’t any better. maybe you had a right to not trust him.

“i’m… fuck, i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” he says, trying to wipe away your tears. he stops as you flinch away from his touch, only making him hate himself even more.

he loves you, and all he’s wanted to do was protect you. he’s angry, yes, but the last thing he’s ever wanted to do was hurt you. he’ll never forgive himself for that.

silently, you grab your jacket and keys and leave the apartment.

part 2 soon! 🫧

[aurumalatus]

𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 [𝟔]

pairing. kinich x fem!reader

word count. 3.5k

genre/warnings. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff and angst, drabble collection, descriptions of blood and injury, panic attacks and anxiety

summary.

in which kinich learns the value of all things: lives, friendship, and, of course, you. or, in which kinich realizes that you are the only priceless thing in this world.

author's note. first off, sorry for the late chapter ;-; but the next chapter sort of marks the start to the second half of the story, so i hope you guys look forward to that! some parts of this chapter are a bit intense so please heed the warnings! please let me know if you enjoyed! reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

↢ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ↣

𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗜𝗧'𝗟𝗟 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗙𝗘𝗘𝗟 𝗔𝗟𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧

As you make slow progress toward recovery, Kinich can’t expel the image of you bleeding out from his mind.

The village doctor had rushed to your home, undeterred by the blanket of night falling over the land. The woman practically thinks of you as her own daughter, after all, with the amount of work you’ve done for her over the years. She stitches up your wound with a careful, practiced hand.

(Kinich stands at your side as it happens, your hand grasping his in a bone-crushing grip. He tries not to cry when you start to scream out in pain.)

She commits you to bed rest. You whine and argue against it. Kinich fights with you about it. You make up like you always do, but you stare longingly at the door every day when he leaves to work.

Time passes, and you do get better. He thanks the archons before he sleeps for that fact, truly.

But the guilt doesn’t cease. 

It prods at him in the dead of night, wrapping his stomach in knots as he tosses and turns. Even when he can hear your soft, even breathing across the room, a deep terror takes root in his chest. Nightmares lurk and haunt his rest, and sometimes, even when he wakes up, he has trouble believing that you’re still alive—it all feels too real when it’s in his head.

Even in reality, you’re decidedly…different. The weakness of your smile, of your hand in his—he can’t quite get used to it. It’s all part of your healing process, he knows that deep down, but he can’t shake the feeling that he had a role in all of this. 

On one night, the feeling of sin finally manages to gnaw through his chest.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, shirt sticking to him like a second skin. His blankets are already strewn about the floor, likely from his erratic movements. His gaze slides over to you, still peacefully resting, and he sags with relief. The pain keeps you awake sometimes, so it’s a miracle that you’re sleeping soundly for once.

With that in mind, he eases himself out of bed quietly, tiptoeing past you and into the hallway. He heads for the bathroom—a splash of cold water over his weary face might be just what he needs. The moonlight filters lazily through the window, uneven slivers painted over the wall. He yawns, letting the door shut behind him.

The mirror sits above the sink. 

It’s one of the more expensive things you have in your house, but you’d gotten it for a good deal at the flea market—Kinich had bartered for what felt like hours. You’d gushed over the artistry of it, the glass intricately framed with braided knots of silver. Kinich hadn’t really understood back then—a mirror is just a mirror, after all—but he’s not keen on saying no to you. He never has been.

His reflection stares back at him, haunting in the gloom. 

When he looks at himself like this, he sees his mother. He doesn’t really remember the sound of her voice anymore, but he remembers her eyes, her hair. So much of him had been inherited from her.

Most days, he tries not to think about where she might be—he doesn’t see a point in asking questions he’ll never know the answer to. But he does wonder if she thinks of him, if even for a fleeting moment of her day. Then, he wonders if she remembers him at all.

(Maybe she doesn’t want to.)

His reflection frowns.

Locks of dark hair shine in the lowlight, the streak of blond distinct against the plain backdrop. The paleness of it, even when braided back, still reminds him of his father. A flash of a rage-filled glare strikes through his mind.

“Kinich—Kinich, help me, please!”

The voice—

He chokes.

Kinich stumbles back from the mirror, the sight of his own reflection suddenly horrifying him. No matter where he moves, he can’t seem to escape it, golden eyes—no, his father’s eyes—following as he staggers around the room. A ghost’s frigid fingers grip around his shoulders.

It was his fault.

The room suddenly shrinks inward. Something icy and unseen grabs at Kinich’s heart and yanks until a struggling gasp is ripped from his lungs. The vase on the windowsill tips and cracks against the wall, shards skittering across the floor and water splashing against the backs of his calves. It’s shockingly cold, shooting shivers up his back and fraying his nerves.

Someone is screaming. His mother.

“Kinich?”

A faint voice reaches his ears, but he ignores it in favor of the thoughts pounding around his skull. The memory of his father’s corpse hangs at the edges of his mind. He looks back to the mirror, fingers curling into his hair, scratching at his scalp.

The blond streak is still there.

He sees his mother, begging and screaming, bruises littering her skin. Actually, she’s not screaming at all—he still can’t remember her voice. But she’s looking at him, grasping at his feet, and her lips are moving but he can’t hear—

“Kinich? Are you there?”

His hair—his father—seems to leap out at him, bursting from the mirror and grasping at his neck. The pressure leaves him scrambling to breathe. He thinks of the cliff, of his choice.

Echoes of footsteps pad down the hall, and he panics.

No, no. You’re going to see him, and you’re going to know what he’s done. You’re going to look at him with disgust and fear, and you’re going to leave. He hadn’t been enough back then, and he still isn’t now—no matter what he tries, nothing changes.

It’s your fucking fault! This is all your fault!

Another voice roars in his head, the hatred almost palpable with each syllable.

He clutches at his chest, desperately feeling for the heartbeat there—he feels like he’s dying, rotting from the inside out. His hand slams against the wall, nails digging painfully into the wood, clawing.

“Kinich?!”

Your voice comes again, more panicked now. You can probably hear the chaos from outside.

There’s no time.

He seizes the blond lock in his left hand, the right scooping up a ceramic shard from the floor and holding it to his head, right near the roots of the hair. He has to get rid of it—he’s panting, mouth dry and burning at the same time.

A firm knock on the door has him halting in his tracks—only a few strands of hair catch the sharp edge of the shard, floating uselessly to the ground. His chest heaves, uneven breaths puffing from his chapped lips.

He pauses. The shard clatters to the ground next to him, dropped from his grip. Slowly, he clambers to his feet. He brushes his clothes off once, then twice, before steeling himself to face you.

When the door swings open, it’s your face that greets him.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, eyes wide with concern. Hesitant, you reach for him—your shirt rides up with the movement, revealing starch-white bandages tinged with red. You’d irritated your wound in your panic to get to him.

He almost vomits at his feet.

He catches your hand before it reaches his cheek. He doesn’t deserve your comfort right now—maybe he never did. But your gaze is still so fond, so soft, as it falls upon his face.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his. A faint frown paints your lips, wrought with worry. The thought is almost ridiculous—you both have only been worrying about each other all this time. “What’s going on?”

And Kinich knows he should tell you. He should do a lot of things when it comes to you. He should tell you he’s sorry for everything he’s put you through, that he knows he’s not good enough for you right now but he hopes to be, that he hopes you’ll wait for him to be that person. 

But he doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he lets a deep, shuddering breath escape him. The only way to repay everything you’ve given him over the years is to be strong. If he can protect you, he can be useful to you.

So he takes the weakness sprouting in his chest and crushes it in his hands, letting the ashes go. He’ll bury them with this night—starting tomorrow, he won’t worry you again. 

Gently, he raises your hand to his lips, brushing over your pulse point. The steady drum of your heartbeat brings him some semblance of comfort, at least. The weight of your stare lifts from his shoulders when he meets your gaze head-on.

“I’m fine, just knocked something over,” he finally chokes out. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

/

A few days later, the whispers of a rumor begin.

The sky is still reddened with dawn when he heads out, greatsword secured to his back. It’s newly-sharpened, courtesy of you. With your range of movement limited, you don’t leave the house much these days—you pass the time by cleaning and cooking, despite Kinich’s pleas for you to remain in bed. You’re antsy to do more, even while your healing progress slowly chugs along.

The outpost is already bustling by the time he shoves the door open, slinking inside. The place usually runs rampant with work, with people searching for deliveries or other odd jobs. They seek him out often, knowing how often he visits, and he welcomes the extra Mora. 

For some people, it’s a more social place—they enjoy a drink at the small bar between deliveries, chatting and laughing. There’s one such group already here, the clink of glasses audible even this early in the morning. Kinich’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the stench of alcohol.

On the back wall is the request board, a place for people to advertise any long-term jobs. Kinich favors these sometimes, on days where the weather is better, just so he can maximize the amount of Mora he takes home. When he makes his way over, there’s already another man scrutinizing the requests. Weathered papers dot the wall, some yellowed with age, some pristine white and newly-posted.

“Hey, kid,” the man greets. It takes Kinich a moment to realize it’s him he’s referring to—he offers a short nod in reply, a bit confused. Most people are familiar with him to an extent, but rarely do they try to interact.

He just starts to read another Saurian hunting job when the man speaks again.

“That earthquake a week ago…they found some ruins in the South. Rumor has it that it’s holding some kind of awesome treasure, and no one’s quite made it through yet.”

He gives Kinich a once-over, sweeping eyes reflecting a faint respect—his reputation precedes him, apparently. Kinich shifts his weight, arms crossed, a challenge. Seemingly pleased by his confidence, the man chuckles.

“I’ve heard you’re a strong one. If you’d like, we’d have you join our party.”

Kinich regards the man with his own criteria—he looks experienced, arms criss-crossed with scars as evidence of battles long won. But even Kinich himself is still young, so he knows years don’t equal strength.

“What’s in it for me?” he sighs, feigning boredom. “For all I know, I could head in there alone and not have to split the spoils.”

The man’s smile widens, practically splitting his face.

“I like your spunk, kid. How about this, if you make it all the way down there with us, I’ll even let you have first pick.”

Kinich ponders that for a moment—it’s not a bad deal. Though it’s not his preference, working in a group can make long-term investigations like this go much faster, and he suspects that he’ll be able to assess the value of whatever treasure they find better than anyone else. In short, he’ll be guaranteed the greatest share of Mora, without using all of his own personal effort. Objectively, it wouldn’t be his worst decision.

If he can make a good amount, he can buy one of those cakes you like from the market.

Your smile would be well worth it, he thinks as he shakes the other man’s hand.

/

The dangers of the ruins had not been overstated—even halfway through the place, Kinich finds himself matted with blood and grime, muscles aching with overuse. Already, many have turned back, and as many lives have been lost. Only a few remain, those desperate enough to see the task through to the end, resting in one of the safer areas before continuing deeper toward the treasure.

Kinich reaches back, testingly feeling the stone wall behind him—it’s damp, but stable, so he leans back against it, sliding down to sit on the ground. Even down here, flowers grow through the cracks in the stone, tenacious in their bloom. It reminds him of you.

He wonders if you’re resting well, if you’d stayed in bed like you promised. 

“You got a girlfriend back home?”

He flinches at the sudden address, and he turns to see the man next to him—he can’t remember his name—smirk and nod at his bandana. He’d been thumbing at it unconsciously, the only source of comfort in this dark, stinking place.

“I know a woman’s work when I see one,” the man chuckles.

Kinich wonders if he should mention that he actually taught you how to weave, then decides against it—he doesn’t really care what this man thinks anyway. Somehow, he doesn’t feel an urge to discuss your existence with strangers.

“No, I don’t,” he replies quietly instead, and it’s the truth. There’s no title between you two, nothing to define the course of your relationship—in fact, the closest thing would be something informal, like “roommate”. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

The older man observes the way Kinich gnaws at his lip, bothered, before offering a comforting pat on the back. It’s a bit friendlier than Kinich is used to, but he supposes it comes with the wisdom of age—somehow, the act reminds him of Elder Leik.

“Not a girlfriend, then, but something, right?”

Something feels wrong to say—too vague, too uninvolved. When he imagines the pulsing in his chest, it’s your hands cupping his heartbeat, holding the very core of him. 

Everything would likely be a more proper term.

His teeth grit, flashing in the dark.

“Sure, something like that.”

“You should tell her, you know,” the man sighs, leaning back against the wall. Kinich wonders how the man is practically reading his mind. “At least before you get old like me.”

Kinich knows he’s a bit more mature than other people his age, a result of his upbringing. And usually, it can be an advantage—he’s independent and self-sufficient, unlike most others. But it’s times like these that he wishes he would’ve lived a normal life, going to school and playing until dusk fell. Social skills have never been his strong suit, and he often finds himself saying the wrong things.

He can’t afford to do the wrong thing anymore when it comes to you.

It’s always been entirely unintentional, but these days, he can’t seem to do anything but hurt and disappoint you. And now you’re at home, alone, while he goes out and risks his life. Briefly, he ponders what would happen if he never made it home.

Would you cry? Would you move on?

Would you find someone else?

It’s hard for him to imagine a version of himself that doesn’t have you by his side. 

He wants to keep it that way. 

He really, really likes your smile.

Kinich finally turns to face the man next to him, jaw clenched with determination. The man smirks, seemingly expecting that reaction.

“Got somethin’ to say, kid?” he asks, raising a brow.

Kinich nods, staring down at his hands. 

“After this,” he affirms, more to himself than anyone else. “After this, I���ll tell her.”

/

And, as always, Kinich finds himself alone. 

He can’t exactly say what had happened to the others—then again, he hadn’t tried to look. Monsters seemed to leap at him from every turn, and he couldn’t focus on much more than his own survival. 

On his way back out of this place, he’s sure he’ll come across their bodies one way or another. He’ll try to give them a half-proper burial, he thinks. 

The ruins descended far further than he had expected—a pulsing warmth seems to emanate from this place, layering sweat over his forehead. A heady scent of smoke lies thick in the air, rising toward the unseen ceiling. Kinich has to be careful with his steps—the place is so weathered and worn, he fears that the floor might give out beneath him.

He isn’t sure what he expected to see at the bottom. Treasure doesn’t usually appear in cartoonish chests filled with shining gold coin, after all. But when he inspects the ruins around him, all he finds are pale stone walls with a single pedestal in the center.

Cautiously, he approaches, eyes sweeping for danger. If the treasure is something truly valuable, it wouldn’t be out of the question for it to be booby trapped in one way or another. But he walks up, each step light and gentle, and nothing happens.

He sheathes his sword, peering down at the treasure laying over the smooth stone. 

It’s a wristband, thick and engraved with a language he can’t understand.

The style of it is different than most he’s seen—somehow, it looks a bit more modern. But even historical fashion items don’t tend to sell for too much, he thinks in disappointment. 

Essentially, he’d wasted his time coming down here.

He picks up the wristband, inspecting the design of it. Then, tentatively, he slides it on.

A burst of heat cracks through the air.

“Who dares disturb the Dragonlord K’uhul Ajaw?! Speak now, mortal, or I’ll pound your puny face in!”

A tiny, yellow, pixelated dragon bursts forth, and Kinich’s jaw just about drops. 

Treasure comes in many forms, of this he is sure, but this seems to be more of a burden than anything.

It—no, K’uhul Ajaw—whirls on him in apparent rage. Kinich can’t really tell with the ridiculous sunglasses sitting on his face.

“Hey, I’m talking to you! Is there a brain in that puny head of yours, or are you just deaf?”

Kinich sighs. Whoever had started this whole rumor must be having a great laugh at his expense.

“I can hear you,” he replies monotonously. “I just don’t particularly want to talk to you.”

Ajaw grows angrier. Kinich wonders if it’s just his default state.

“Then why did you come all the way down here? Are you stupid?!”

“Well, I was told there was some sort of powerful artifact here,” Kinich admits. He glances toward the ceiling, gauging how long it’ll take him to climb out of this place. “But it seems that they lied.”

Ajaw reddens in rage. “I’ll have you know that I am that artifact! My awesome power is beyond anything your mortal mind could possibly hope to comprehend!”

Kinich thinks it’s obvious why this dragon would’ve gotten locked in these ruins for so long—his personality is loathsome. Whoever sealed Ajaw likely had only done it to rid themselves of the grating sound of his voice.

Still, he can sense the deep thrum of potential within him. He’s likely not lying about having incomprehensible power.

Ajaw fixes Kinich with what he can only receive as a judgmental stare. 

“Why did you come all the way down here anyway? Are you looking for revenge? Trying to topple a nation?”

Ajaw proceeds to list a series of awful atrocities—Kinich zones out halfway through the war crimes. He’d come down here for Mora, but mostly, he’d come down here for you.

He thinks of your smile, and a pink flush washes over his face.

“I have someone I want to protect.”

It’s silent for a moment as Ajaw absorbs the implications of his explanation and the blush on Kinich’s face. Then, he laughs, a shrill sound like nails on a chalkboard.

“You come all the way down here seeking power, all to protect some puny, peasant, mortal girl—”

It’s quite an assumption, not that he’s necessarily wrong. Kinich’s jaw tightens.

“—don’t speak about her.”

A sobering chill crackles in the air, filling the cracks in the ruined stone and sinking onto his shoulders. Ajaw seems to feel it too—he hesitates at the pressure, suddenly devoid of his earlier haughtiness.

“...I see,” is all he replies, calculated.

Ajaw floats languidly towards Kinich, circling him. “Well, I’ll admit, I can sense something different about you. So, luckily for you, I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

The tone of his voice is laced with foreboding. Kinich crosses his arms, cautious.

“What kind of deal?”

Ajaw chuckles—the sound echoes hauntingly, running a chill down Kinich’s spine.

“Don’t be so scared,” he barks. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little dying.”

[ghcstao3]

“you don’t smoke.”

it takes a lot to startle ghost these days, but then again, soap has always been the exception, hasn’t he?

“come again?”

“you don’t smoke,” says soap. “not anymore.”

ghost does his best to keep him breathing even. “yeah, well. things change, j—soap.”

things being the bullet in soap’s head. things being the memory loss, the losing johnny. things being the doctors telling ghost there's no guarantee that soap will remember anything; remember him, what they were to each other. yet here they stand—ghost trying for a smoke in one of his secret haunts (ha), and an amnesiac soap that should be in medical or under price's supervision but has instead found his way here.

old habits die hard, ghost supposes.

"what are you doing here anyway, sergeant? surely you have something more important than bein' up here."

in ghost's periphery, soap shrugs. the expression he wears is still infected with the blankness of unfamiliarity, but ghost would be stupid to think there isn't some reason as to why soap has somehow found himself here, in a location he surely couldn't remember, if he couldn't so much as recall ghost's name without a reminder.

"got sick of medical," soap replies plainly. "my feet led me here."

ghost hums, though he knows it isn't the full truth. he balances a cigarette between his lips, fishes his lighter from his pocket, and lights the smoke. soap says nothing.

he doesn't know what to make of anything, as soap allows him to indulge in silence, and he doesn't know whether or not he'd rather this be a one-off kind of thing. on one hand, this could mean that soap might start remembering other little things, might start picking up the pieces of his past, their past. but on the other, if this is only a one-time occurrence, it might leave ghost a little more heartbroken than he already is—which could be a good thing, if only so he might eventually, finally move on from what could never be, not ever again.

"you shouldn't smoke, lt," soap says quietly, the moment ghost flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot.

ghost pauses, caught off guard by the nickname he'd yet to hear again since the incident. he feels soap's eyes on him, unwavering, oblivious.

the lieutenant clears his throat in an attempt to play off his surprise. "focus on your own issues first, soap."

ghost starts past him, just barely fighting the urge to clap the sergeant's shoulder as he passes. his chest feels tight as he leaves soap behind, breath caught in his throat as he tries not to look like he's running away.

he can't do this. he can't—he can't. can't bear to have soap so close yet so far from reach. can't bear to have these glimpses into the past taunting him as punishment for innumerable sins. ghost can't do this.

how he wishes for things to have gone differently. in which way, he still isn't sure, but he thinks that anything else would be less painful than this.

[rimatsu]

setting pessimism aside to daydream about my ideal bucktommy makeup scenario and i just... keep oscillating between buck extending an olive branch and tommy reaching out first. there's merit in both. yes i'd love for buck to discard passivity and fight for this salvageable relationship — for buck to look tommy straight in the eyes and tell him that his sharp edges and his vulnerable insides don't make him any less deserving of love. that he's not blinded by the excitement of novelty or misguided admiration — even without the full picture, buck has seen enough pieces of the puzzle that makes up tommy's whole to know that he loves the entirety of him, unspoken faults and past sins included. that buck can't guarantee forever but he sure as hell can try to build the sturdy foundation of a shared life based on the hope for more. that sometimes you just luck out on the first draw and there's nothing wrong with good fortune.

but it would also be extremely healing if tommy knocked on buck's door to chase after his own second chance. to say "i want you more than i'm scared of hurting" when buck asks him what's changed in 4 months — because tommy would rather live with scars than be haunted by regrets and what-ifs. because buck is worth the risk of never recovering from having loved him

[tonkatsubowl]

truth to be told, it takes a lot for aventurine to fully trust someone, let alone loving them.

the man had already lost so much, including his own sense of self. to be stabbed in his back, to be betrayed, to be mocked and used and made fun of—he was used to it. it would take aventurine a while for him to feel comfortable being vulnerable with someone, considering he didn't trust anyone in particular.

though the man wore a gorgeous smile, wandering through the streets of penacony, it wasn't a genuine smile, but a mask he put up. expensive clothing, his beautiful countenance and the abundance of money he liked to toss around... it was just a mask he put up. it was also for the sake of his own reputation, too. especially when you were directly under diamond herself.

the main suspect of his suffering. and the cause of his success. a double edged sword that he walked upon. his own life was theirs. a mere toy, a mere chess piece to gamble with.

...but when he met you, he was confused. afraid, even. but he put up a fake smile, some flirtatious words here and there, but the man did not trust you, nor did he believe you would be willing to stay by his side for an eternity for aeons know what.

when he met you, you were kind, understanding. you were a little stubborn, too, and humorous. you never failed to have aventurine laugh at your cute little jokes, and you never failed to protect him, whether it was against the ipc's mocking him in his name, or against nightmare infested monsters that dared to consume his flesh within a dream.

he was terrified of you.

he didn't know what you were doing to him.

every time he saw you, he felt... weak. vulnerable around you. and he hated it. he loathed it. he hated everything about how you were making him feel, as though you were a curse that came to haunt him due to the sins of his past.

every time he saw you, his heart began to palpitate, his chest aching. and it got worse whenever he saw you so happy with someone else. but... maybe you were better off with someone? everyone kept leaving him, after all, whether it was death or it was simply due to some gambling... game-thing. a business transaction, even.

but you stayed.

you stayed throughout the hardships he faced.

why?

just why?

why, of all people, did you want to stay with him? a once upon a time slave, now a business man specializing in manipulation, gambling (an addiction, to put it), and flirtatious words to soothe the mind so he could win his way.

even through everything, you were still here. that was when he decided to seek out a certain doctor.

he sat across from him, forcing a smile across his lips, but the doctor could see it. the mask that aventurine donned himself with.

"you're in love."

aventurine's eyes looked up to the other, "you must be misreading your books like usual."

"you came here... to me, for your thoughts."

aventurine chuckled to himself, nervously, even.

"love? i haven't heard that word in ages."

"it is a complicated thing. especially with how you can be, gambler. a man who is unpredictable, keen to the eye, and... well, unfamiliar with the positive things."

aventurine cleared his throat, toying with the golden coin in his hand. he purses his lips, his mask wearing off for a moment.

"...now, dr. ratio, i am not doubting your knowledge and intelligence, don't get me wrong. i just don't believe that it truly is such a strange thing called... love."

the genius sighed, "you complained to me the other day that you couldn't stand seeing (y/n) talking to others, smiling and laughing. i recall that i was not assigned to be your therapist, here. the rest should be obvious, but it appears you're too stubborn to catch on... or rather, you're unfamiliar with this feeling. this term. love."

bullseye. it was as though ratio had called him out completely. for once, the gambler was silent. here, he would try to make little comments here and there, some jokes there and wherever but... the man was actually silent.

"... what do you suggest i do, then?"

dr ratio leans in, resting both elbows on his knees, eyes fixated on the gambler's own pristine eyes.

"if you are comfortable with it, move at your own pace if you wish to pursue. this is ultimately your choice. you can pursue these feelings, or you may leave it. there is no right or wrong answer, here. this all depends on you and what you wish to do. love is about being vulnerable with each other. accepting each other at their lowest. being for one another. your lover is considered to be your number one companion, truthfully."

aventurine was quiet.

"what is your gambler's intuition?"

a sigh left aventurine's lips. he stood, flipping the coin in his hand, before showing the result of heads or tails.

"...i suppose i'll make a bet with myself. one that doesn't cost money or the finest of gold and jewelry."

the genius watched as the other male got up from his seat, retrieving his sunglasses from his expensive outfit, before placing them on. "i'll make a gamble, to be specific, about this."

"then i wish you the best of luck, aventurine."

months had past, and the two of you were already in a relationship. it had been months, but the man didn't dare to tell you, 'i love you' just yet. as a matter of fact, those words were terrifying for him. what if he lost you after he said that? what if something were to happen to you? he was terrified of saying it, as he wasn't ready yet.

dr. ratio was right—he was paranoid to the bone but hid it. yet, aventurine played a few cards and decided to gamble this relationship with you, to see if it could work out. and so far, everything was well.

you were understanding, kind, beautiful, patient... the perfect partner someone could ask for.

but it also felt undeserving.

did... he deserve this love? did he truly deserve to experience the harmony that his heart fluttered to? he began to doubt. then he spiraled into a panic.

he began to sleep restlessly at night, rendering himself vulnerable to nightmares and the instability of his mind.

... but you were there, throughout all of it.

his eyes shot open, the familiar warmth of your hand gently cupped at his left cheek. he had fallen asleep on the couch, reading a long text presented to him by his supervisor, which was mainly just work and business related things. he didn't realize he had fallen asleep, and at first was confused when he woke up.

his phone was placed securely on the table, and there was a blanket draped over him. the air conditioning was turned on for his comfort, and before him was a tray full of biscuits, tea... for him to savor in once he woke from his nightmare.

"are you... alright?" you asked. "you were having a bad dream."

his eyes traveled to your voice, finding your concerned expression, his palpitating heart now steadying at an easy rate. he began to breathe, his eyes softening.

you were here, at his most vulnerable state, concerned for his well-being. he was silent, but he immediately reeled you in for a gentle hug. he was reluctant, but he wanted to feel the rest of your warmth. your head was buried into his chest, and you could hear his heart slow down. he closed his eyes, calming down from his inner demons.

"...you're okay." you murmur, brushing the top of his hair with your hands. "i'm here for you."

you didn't know much about him at all, truth to be told. the man wasn't really comfortable sharing his past with you, yet. he was a locked chest, and in order to find the key to his past, you had to be patient. time was key, but whatever demons he was facing at night... he knew you would be there.

he had doubts, at first, and always believed that he'd always be alone.

but... you were a different story.

"...thank you," he whispers onto your ear, cradling you close to his chest, "for being here."

your gaze softens, and you were silent for a moment. this was the first time you've seen aventurine like this. so vulnerable, so... reliant on you. but you were okay. because everyone has their own weakness. not everyone was perfect, and you understood that.

"... don't thank me." you say, closing your eyes, taking in his scent as the two of you nuzzled up against each other on the couch, "please don't. it's my job—my duty, as your other half, to be here for you."

dr. ratio's words echoed into his brain, reminding him of what love truly is. being there for one another, no matter what.

"you haven't been here?"

months past, and aventurine is presenting a beautiful, scenic view of penacony for you. the night sky was phenomenal, and the beautiful sounds of crickets and late night critters were no more than music to your ears. you seat yourself at the bench, whilst the gambler was walking around, admiring the view... taking pictures, even.

"i haven't, but now i am." you say, flashing a smile.

aventurine took some time off today to take you out on a date. the man had more than enough sick and vacation leave to do this for you, and it's the first time where he actually used it.

he sits next to you, admiring the night sky, and the sight of you above all else.

"it's a beautiful sight. i come here when i want to... relax."

your gaze softens, and your hand comes towards his own. digits intertwine, and you murmur something, audible for your lover's ears.

"thank you for taking me here. to your safe place."

aventurine looks over to you, puzzled.

"... safe place, huh? didn't expect to... call it that. but i guess that's what you can say for this spot. i can feel at peace here." he nods slowly, looking back to the scenic view.

"... it's a spot where you can feel vulnerable and be okay with it," you say, instantly catching his attention, "and i want to thank you for trusting me to bringing me here. i really, really do appreciate it."

ratio's words echo through his mind once more, the pad of his thumb suddenly reaching over, gently lifting your chin. he leans in, granting you a subtle kiss, in which you've returned.

"... may... i be vulnerable, once again?"

he lowered his guard, his voice coming to a whisper.

"you... can always be vulnerable around me. i want to be your safe person." you respond, in a whisper.

"..." he was silent. "i love you."

it was the first time, too, that he said such a thing to you. such strong words that let your heart skip a few beats. your face comes to a faint, vermillion flush, but you were happy nonetheless. you smile, cupping each side of his face.

"i love you too."

[pseudowho]

Red

Nanami Kento, the infamous Curse User, is finally captured and sentenced to death after years on the run. The reader feels her grasp on morality quickly unravel, when her ex-boyfriend breaks down any inhibitions she thought she still had.

Warnings: 18+, smut, MDNI, Bad!Nanami, really a reprehensible man, rough sex, bondage, forced orgasm, multiple sessions, coercion, dubcon, tw: gaslighting, tw: abuse, reader is obsessed and hopelessly in love, and Nanami Kento takes full advantage of that.

*I absolutely do not endorse a relationship like this, and I must insist that anyone who reads this sees it as the red flag it is...ANYWAY...*

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You felt sick to your stomach.

"They caught him. Did you hear?"

You stumbled through the rain, barely composed, your heart in your mouth. Anxious desperation clawed up your spine, on your way to get the fix that you had been withdrawing from for so long.

"Yeah, Gojo got him, obviously. No, no, he's alive, for now."

Mud spattered up the backs of your legs, tripping through puddles, passing under rain-hush willows, Torii gates, and so many graves filled by his hand. His hands that you knew. His hands that knew you, so intimately, a body and soul so untouched by anyone else ever since and ever again.

"Nanami Kento. The Nanami Kento...scheduled for execution. Finally."

You reached corridors, a caretaker shouting in indignation as you tracked mud all over his freshly polished floorboards. You gained speed, running, ready for his face his hands his smell his eyes his body his heart and yours that was always his forever his still his--

"You shouldn't go in there." Your hand retracted so briefly over the handle of the door to the execution chambers. Feeling cold drip down your spine, not knowing if it was rainwater, sweat, or Gojo's voice behind you, you shivered. You felt him approach. A long hand on your shoulder; protective, apologetic, grieving.

"I...I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be this way. But you shouldn't go down there. He's...bad for you." You sniffed, straightening yourself, steeling against him. Gojo was so insignificant to you in this moment. "Are you keeping watch? Is there anyone else?" Gojo sighed, knowing better than to argue with you, feeling dread creep through him regardless. He leaned back on the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes downcast. You heard your own heartbeat, amplified hummingbird's wings. You heard the rain, cleansing on the leaves, but weighing you down with your sin. You felt the thread on your finger, trapped beneath that door and running down the stairs.

"No. No, it's just me. I...understand. Whatever you want to do, I...I understand." You felt the ghosts in this corridor. You felt the footsteps long since gone. You felt the shadows of the other half of Gojo's soul. Ah, yes, you thought, raindrops running down your cheeks, you would understand, of course.

"There will be a gap in the guard. At midnight. Just five minutes. Ten, if you're lucky." Gojo turned, facing down the corridor. You could smell the regret. The weight of his own failures haunted him. He sensed your fingers grip the handle, squeezing down, taking your life into your own hands.

He would give you this, what he had prevented you from taking five years ago. He would not see another whole broken into halves. He would not regret, for a moment now or for years to come. Behind him, your other hand, cold and damp, reached out and squeezed Gojo's. He felt the farewell upon your skin. "Thank you, Satoru. I love you." "I love you, too. Be good." You wracked with need, trembling down those spiraled steps. They took you so deeply underground, that you could feel the earthen chill of ages past upon your skin, and you welcomed the death and rebirth, shedding the life you had left at the surface.

You knew Nanami Kento would, inevitably, be your downfall. And yet...you had shared a room with death so many times, now, that you would not fear him reaching for your hand. You paused near the bottom of the stairs, soaked in the soft orange glow of ten thousand illuminated paper charms. You felt him. He beat you to it. "I can smell you." Your knees almost buckled; that voice. It ran through you, spitting hot oil in cold blood. You flurried down the rest of the steps with numb feet, rounding the corner. The breath rushed out of you, into him, and he smiled at you, so much wider than he used to, all canines and white.

Nanami Kento was bound to a small chair, barely enough to hold the sheer width of him. In this short (long too long so long) five years, he had grown from a man, to a beast, his shoulders hulking and mountainous, scars littered across his forearms and collarbones.

His white shirt was bloodstained-- mostly someone else's, you assumed, but some from Kento himself. Kento was scuffed, bruised, red at the corner of his lip. His parting remained, disheveled from his capture. His harness, the brown leather soft and aged, strained against his chest and shoulders. His blunt blade rested, leant against the wall in a dingy corner of the room.

The only thing holding back what you knew would be Kento's enormous, overwhelming power, were the ropes that restrained him. You fingered at the blade of the Cursed tool in your pocket. He was...ethereally beautiful. You felt the last vestiges of yourself pass to him, blissfully unaware he would take so much more from you yet. His smile grew, eyes full of searingly cold ice, sneering at you as tears built in your eyes.

"You're crying for me?" He cooed, soft and mocking, "Why is that? You made your choice, all those years ago." "You were the one who left." "You were the one who stayed," he growled, lurching forwards against his bonds, chest heaving and straining, snarling. Expecting you to step backwards, instead, he felt the sick satisfaction of you stepping closer instead-- drawn in by his gravity. "You didn't give me a choice, Kento," you begged, shameless, "You didn't come for me. I couldn't find you." Kento huffed, scoffing, twisting against his restraints. "Fuck off," he scorned, spitting a wad of blood to the floor, "I came for you. The night I found you in Gojo's bed, of all people." You frowned, remembering the night Kento snapped and executed two dozen colleagues in his offices, years after leaving Jujutsu High. Remembering the news reaching you third-hand, through whispers in the corridors, as you had headed to Jujutsu High to see if anyone had heard from him. Remembering Gojo's grim confirmation, how you had collapsed in his arms, carved in two. Remembering how he had taken you home with him, tucked you into his bed, where you slept fitfully, alcohol-soaked to numb the nightmares. Your stomach filled with ice water. "You were-- you were there?" You choked, tears spilling over, "At Gojo's? You were there?" "Tell me," Kento commanded, his lip curled, "how many hours it was, after you heard? How many hours before you let Gojo Satoru fuck you like some desperate little whore? How many hours it was before I found you in his bed." You shook your head, brutally injured by his venom, punctuating him with sobs and denial as his voice rose.

"Three? Four? So devastated, it took another man fucking his seed into you before you could get over the loss of your lover? And you have the fucking audacity to come in here and cry over me?" Kento strained forwards, teeth bared as he sniffed deeply, breathing out with a satisfied smirk, a laugh, deep and smoky. "Can't smell him on you now, though," he mocked, filthy and merciless, "I thought he liked pathetic little scraps like you, but I suppose one fuck was enough to tell him you belonged to someone else, just as much as he did."

Kento already knew, of course, that Satoru would not have taken you even once. Kento felt his cock swelling against his thigh with your anguished begging. "Is that what he told you? To make you leave?" Your head swam with the revelation that Kento had come back for you, the rage that Satoru had lied and sent Kento away. You shook your head, dropping to your knees before him; desperate for his approval, full of dreadful fear of rejection.

"Nobody else," you pressed, crawling forwards and squeezing his thighs with cold little hands as he scoffed again, looking away, "ever. Kento. Ever, ever, for years. There won't ever be--" Kento suppressed his smirk, reeling you in after you bit so willingly. He leaned down to you, his cock twitching at the memory of the last time you knelt between his legs, looking up at him with wide wet eyes. He allowed his breath to ghost over your neck, seeing your skin prickle. He softened his face, nectar and promise in his eyes. "...you and Gojo...you didn't...?" His voice was soft, gentle, hopeful. Your head shot up, fingers digging deeper into his thighs as your eyes brimmed over again, thrilled by his belief, his trust in you. His lips were so close to yours, that you felt his hot ashen breath upon your tongue, dragon's fire, those whiskey-soaked eyes flicking across your face. God, if I'd known it would be this easy, Kento thought, maliciously possessive, I'd have let you find me years ago. His cock twitched at the feel of your hands clawing his thighs. He imagined fucking you down into the bed while you clawed at him, struggling, gasping and crying.

"Never," you promised, chasing his face with yours, while Kento withdrew just enough to maintain a teasing closeness, "he lied. He lied to you." Kento's cock twitched again, thirsty for your desperation.

Kento smiled again, that beautiful, cloud-parting smile, and you preened into him. He hummed, leaning forwards so briefly to brush his nose against yours. Your breath left you in a shudder as his voice passed over your lips;

"That's good...good girl. I couldn't bear to think of anyone else's hands on my beautiful girlfriend."

You sunk into his sudden warmth, your hands stroking up his thighs, his hips, up his ribs and shoulders. He allowed you to embrace him like this, for just a moment. Prickling with fear, you felt the frost form over him once more. Kento sneered again.

"...she's gone though, I think. Rotting here, festering with the dregs of Jujutsu Society. Willing to live and die a pawn. Scum. Less than scum."

Kento sighed, withdrawing from you fully, his back against the chair, turning his head as you tried to cup his jaw in your hands. He shook you off, face twisted with disgust. He was thrilled to watch a part of you shrivel and recoil, before reaching out harder, begging in fractured whispers, clawing for dry land.

"You had your chance. You're too wet for my life. You couldn't do what I do, live how I live. You couldn't lie, cheat, extort, torture, murder. You're too soft." Kento's lip curled in disgust as you pressed yourself between his legs, begging, beseeching, "To think of all the cum I wasted by fucking it into you." He hoped you couldn't feel him, hard and throbbing against your belly.

"--anything you want-- I'll do anything you want-- please--"

"Please what?" Kento shot, shaking the ropes around him with thick, scarred arms, "I'll be dead before dawn. And I want some peace and quiet. You're nothing to me now."

A part of you died, shattered by his rejection. Clapping a hand over your mouth, your shivers threatening vomit, you sat back on the floor, pressing your face into your knees, sobbing and abandoned for a second time.

"It's a shame," Kento scorned, tutting, "we were beautiful, once. But I'd rather die than have you be my only fucking option."

Kento felt you break, and it was delicious.

You shook within, panicking at his imminent second abandonment...but you were more determined than ever to prove yourself to him. You would sell your soul. You would sell the lives of your fellow sorcerers. You would sell your dignity, your self-respect, your whole being. Having Kento in any form, even this cold-hearted killer, was better than the agony of his death, where you would surely die with him.

From your pocket, hands shaking, you withdrew a blade; a special grade cursed weapon, stolen, illicit. You reached around Kento, breathing deeply of the sweat, sandalwood and copper tang on his skin. You pressed the blade into the hands bound behind his chair. You turned, hesitated...and walked away.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

You could not bear to return to your apartment. You had staggered past Gojo, reeling from Kento's biting rebuttal. You had wiled away the evening in some backwater ditch of a bar, sinking into spirits and self-loathing.

You waited to be found...by him, or by your colleagues, for execution as an accomplice to his escape. You didn't care anymore. You would die at his hands, or theirs, and cling onto that final shivering bliss of his bound body against yours. Even as a good man, he had always possessed you, more than you possessed yourself.

Walking to your door just after midnight, fumbling with the keys, you let yourself in, to spend a final night alone before your inevitable execution.

The alcohol numbed your senses, the darkness close around you. You did not feel his approach, this killer in the shadows.

All at once, you felt an enormous hand clasp over your mouth, and another pinning your wrists behind your back, tugging you backwards against a body, such an immovable chilly presence. A whisper, a tongue grazing against the side of your throat.

"I want you screaming...but not yet." You arched back into Kento's body, seeking a warmth he didn't have any more. The man you knew was long-since dead.

You felt his hand loosen, drifting slowly from your mouth, to your throat, squeezing just tightly enough to make your breath hitch, examining the length of your throat from the outside with a hum. You smelled the cigarettes and whiskey on his breath.

"I'm so proud of you," Kento purred, stepping you slowly through your apartment, pushing you towards your bedroom, "such a good girl...I knew you'd pass the test." Your heart swelled with his praise, but a lingering doubt soured the edges of your tongue.

"--how did you-- s'too early, Kento-- the guard--"

"Guard?" Kento laughed, booming with genuine mirth, "Some scrap of a boy in a beanie? Please. They'll find what's left of him in the morning."

"Oh--Ino--" you felt tears prickle on your lash line, your breath leaving you with a gasp as Kento tossed you face down on your bed. You tried to turn back to look at him, but felt his hand grip the back of your neck, shoving you roughly into the sheets. You shivered, fingers clenching as you heard the telltale clink of his belt undoing, the soft shhhk-shhhk-shhhk of Kento unthreading it from his waist.

"Oh, Ino!" Kento mocked, "Shut the fuck up, before I make you shut up," his voice pitched and ruthless. His face twisted as you trembled, noting smears of blood left by his hands on your wrists. You smelled the copper tang over his sweat and stale cologne. You knew you would never reject him, already wet with the promise of him coming back for you.

Kento softened momentarily, knowing he would struggle to fit inside you if you were scared and trembling. The faintest ghost of him wanted to pull you into his arms. The ice over his old soul knew he'd break if it cracked.

Kento crawled over you, his black trousers unzipped, cock straining against the tight fabric of his boxers. He clasped your hands, binding them with his tie to the head of the bed. You were so ready for him to take back what was his, that you didn't hear his next words, rumbling and gravelly on the back of your neck.".

"Keep still, and do as you're told. I'm sure you remember the old safe word...if I care to listen."

You felt your skirt forced up to bunch around your waist, heard a fabric rrriiip of your tights and underwear being shredded away from your core. Kento breathed heavily as he knelt above you, hooking his cock and heavy balls out, stroking himself with one thick hand as his fingers jabbed between your legs, sinking between your folds with little to no regard for your pleasure.

You jolted, squeaking against the sudden intrusion. Kento letting out another rich, smoky laugh as he sunk two thick fingers into your entrance.

"...ahhh, lovely. Can you warm my fingers up for me?" Kento laughed again, drawing out into a stilted growl as he jerked his cock eagerly to your tight wet walls around his digits. You panted into the sheets, Kento releasing his cock you squeeze your arse as he fucked you with his fingers, leaving bruising fingerprints before slapping the skin harshly, groaning as your fat jiggled, flushing with the abuse.

"-- better than some common whore...shit. Such a good girl...getting me out of there. Maybe I'll keep you around...just to fuck, my sweet little cocksleeve. Or are you better than that?"

"--anything, I'll be anything you want-- Kento-- please please take me with you please--" Pleasure burned in your belly as you heard the wet slaps of his hand, masturbating himself again to the sight of his fingers moulding you to the shape of him.

You filled with a burning need to be what he wanted you to be, so exhausted by life, so bitter and ready for someone else to take control. Kento did so, gladly, withdrawing his fingers to your disappointed groan. He slapped your backside again in punishment, once, twice, three times until you learned your lesson, biting your lip against your cries.

"You'll come on my cock, or not at all," he snapped at you, impatient, with his pre-cum dripping down your folds as his cock grazed at the entrance to your prone, bound body. He rammed his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to lick him clean, low voice husky with need at the feeling of your tongue swiping over him.

Pressing one hand down on the back of your neck, before raising it to yank sharply on your hair, Kento fucked into you without warning, pressing hard, to bottom out immediately. Your scream was choked, your neck hyperextended back at the insistent pull of your hair. Your body ached and strained against his use of you, and you revelled in it, in too deep to care about how wrong it was. You stung with the size of him, always big, and so much bigger without preparation.

"--haaaah fuck-- good girl...fuck you through it-- fuck you through it-- scream all you like-- been waiting for this for so long--" Kento crushed your body flush under his, so heavy that he forced the air out of you, making you lightheaded against the raw pleasure of his cock pounding into you without mercy, simply chasing his own orgasm.

Kento's skin electrified with the sinful joy of stealing pleasure from you, ripping his shirt and harness off over his head with a fractured growl. He gripped your bound hands, slipping a hand under you to squeeze your throat, his hips slapping into you with agonising bliss. He cursed and spat against the pleasure, demeaning you and praising you in equal measure.

Breathing hard and fast, Kento saw a bead of his sweat fall to the back of your neck, and leaned down to bite you there, hard, mounting you like an animal as he fucked you harder, faster. Your clit throbbed, untouched, but you lost yourself in the deep primal ecstasy coiling in your belly. You felt the telltale twitches of his thighs and abs against your legs and back, knowing from his frantic jagged moans that Kento was about to cum, before remembering--

"Ken--Kento--oooh--ooh, Ken," you cried, whimpering as his cock bullied against your cervix, "...'m not-- not on-- pull out Ken--"

Kento jerked and groaned, grinning that wide sharp-canined grin again, his laugh leaving him in ragged breaths as his balls drew up close, ready to spill; "--fuck...pull-out? Not a--haaah-- fucking chance, without the safe word, sweetheart." Kento fucked you faster, challenging you as your cock-addled brain clasped at straws, trying desperately to remember, fuck what was it--

Kento gasped, his orgasm starting to wash over him, "Too late," he jeered, and came with a broken hushed roar, rutting his cock inside you so his seed would spurt, coating you, thick and sticky, all over your deepest walls. Kento didn't give a shit that you hadn't come-- and neither did you, trembling and mewling as his length jerked thick heavy ropes inside you.

As Kento pulled out, breathing hard, pumping his length a few more times to spill his last drops of seed across your back, he huffed out a humourless laugh, running his hand back through his hair; "'Pull out'...you'll take what I give you, and be grateful." Kento scooped up some seed, dripping from your cunt, shoving it roughly back inside you.

"What fucking use are you," he spat, ramming his fingers in you until you sobbed, squirming around him, "if you can't even keep my cum inside you? Pathetic." Your breath hitched, tears spilling over at his brutal mockery. Seeing your tears, hearing the lump in your throat, Kento cooed at you, clasping your jaw in one thick hand.

"Oh darling...don't be sad...just be better." He slapped at your cheek a few times, too stinging to be tender, pressing a hot wet kiss just beneath your eye. He stood up, stretching, padding over towards the door.

"I need a drink." Kento mused aloud. You pulled yourself up the bed, still tightly bound, clamping your legs together to keep his cum inside and win his approval. You almost wept with the bitter ache in your shoulders and arms, how your pussy stung, how worthless he thought you were. You heard the clink of bottles and glass in the kitchen.

Kento returned, sitting in the chair at the end of your bed, naked, legs crossed, as he poured himself a full glass of whiskey. You could not see him, your face pressed into the pillow. You couldn't see the cold, impassive gaze upon your bound, shivering form. You couldn't see the way he idly played with his cock, slowly stroking life back into it as his cum glistened on your folds.

"Let's play a game," Kento proposed finally, as sleep began to creep across you, "and if you win, I'll take you with me. If you lose, I'll leave you here for the dogs." Kento took a long drink, draining his glass with a satisfied hum, his cock now half-erect against his thigh.

Your determination peaked again, so certain you could make things right, and make Kento love you like he used to. You were a void, yearning to be filled.

"Yes, I-- I can do it-- anything," you pressed, voice strong and bold now, eager to shed the shell he had left you in. Kento refilled his glass, almost to the brim, grinning wolfishly. He reached into your bedside drawer, tipping his head and raising his eyebrows at you with a smirk, withdrawing a vibrator, and a dildo.

"So confident," Kento teased, a shadow of the way he used to play with you when he was softer, more restrained. He couldn't deny the flicker of joy he had felt at the old you, briefly rearing her head.

Kento emptied his hands for long enough to flip you to your back, binding your arms to the bed again, ripping your shirt and bra open at the middle, exposing your breasts and belly. Kento grabbed your nipple roughly, yanking it until you squealed, slapping it hard with a gravelly chuckle.

"Don't spill my drink." Kento ordered, picking his glass up, placing it on your chest, between your breasts. You faltered, stock still, staring up at him, uncertain.

"...I-- what?" Kento's slim brown eyes burned down at you, teasing the dildo against your sloppy cunt, before ramming it into you. You instinctively moved to squirm away with a cry, understanding almost a moment too late, the meniscus of the whiskey kissing the lip of the glass. You stilled completely, shuddering at the cold rubber filling your cunt to the belly, squelching with Kento's cum.

Kento hissed between his teeth, face twisted with nasty glee. He looked so animated, so alive with this hedonistic torture, such a far cry from who he once was.

"Close," he taunted, leaning down to brush his lips over yours, pulling away as you moved to kiss him, satisfied to hear you swear under your breath as he denied you. Kento flipped the wand vibrator in his hand deftly, switching it on and clicking to max out the vibration.

"Don't...spill my drink." Kento repeated slowly, pressing the brutally vibrating wand directly against your clit.

You saw stars, your body moving to convulse reflexively, and you gritted your teeth, eyes fixed on the wobbling glass on your sternum. Your legs shook, the pleasure too harsh to be enjoyable, feeling yourself being unwillingly dragged towards a bone-wracking orgasm.

"Kento please-- please stop please please-- I can't do it I can't keep still I can't--" You babbled at Kento, tears streaming, certain he may not acknowledge your safe word even if you did squeeze it out. Only your desperation to win him back stopped you from even trying.

"Then die here." Kento shrugged, stroking himself again as he pressed the wand harder against your clit, thrilled to hear you scream in anguish. Your orgasm hit you with stunning force, harsh wracks of pleasure pounding through you as your body remained rigid. Still, the whiskey did not spill.

Your teeth gritted around your cries, and you met Kento's eyes with a ferocity that used to make him hard in seconds. His cock twitched in his hand in memory, pre-cum dripping down to wet his fingers. Baring his teeth in a snarl now, Kento knelt between your legs, grabbing the dildo and fucking it into you with harsh strokes, pressing harder with the punishing vibrations of the wand.

Your body was on fire, every part of you burning, from bruised bound wrists, to your feet, crackling with electric overstimulation. You cursed, spitting out tearful bile at Kento.

"--Kento-- stop it-- you fucking monster-- I hate you-- you fucking left me and I hate you so just stop it--"

Kento grinned, growling out as he continued his messy overstimulation of you; "There! There she is! That's my girl...make me proud!...shit, you're a mess. Don't spill it now." As another orgasm hit you, a primal hideous landslide, you screamed with your head thrown back, woefully unable to dissipate the pleasure through movement.

Suddenly full of unbridled rage, the years of grief and abandonment pouring out of you, you snapped, certain you wanted to hurt him as he had hurt you.

The glinting madness in Kento's eyes, the way his hand worked his rigid cock harder as he released his grasp on the dildo, now ramming it back into you with his knee...he wanted this. He wanted you pouring with spite. With rage. He wanted the venom and the hatred. He wanted the raw unbridled loyalty that you promised him through this humid obsession.

"--let me go-- KENTO. I'm warning you--"

Kento laughed, rich and earthy, as he gripped you by the throat, pinning you to the bed. Your body was exhausted, groaning, all bone-deep and guttural aches. By the time your third orgasm hit, you were floppy, the whiskey glass tilting on you just too sharply--

--before being snatched up by Kento, who drained it in one thirsty gulp. Pulling the sex toys out of you and tossing them aside, Kento moved to line his cock up with your entrance. Full of tearful anger, you kicked, hard, fighting back against him as he laughed, encouraging you-- "Fight me-- come on girl, COME ON--"

Kicking out again, spitting acid at Kento, berating him for leaving you, berating him for the twisted hatred you had endured alone for the miserable job you did, you cried, all bitter spite and loneliness. Kento caught your legs, forcing them open, pressing himself between them. He jabbed his cock between your folds as you squirmed, struggling up the bed, until Kento folded over you, grasping you by the back of the neck, and pulling you up for a searing kiss-- the first time you had tasted him in years.

Kento took advantage of your gasp, and invaded you with his tongue and cock, fucking sloppily between your legs, cursing into your mouth, until he met your entrance, slamming himself in to the hilt. Kento gripped you by the hips, thrusting into you while he slammed your pussy against him. He immediately set a feral pace, intent on claiming the last scraps of you, if he couldn't get you out of Jujutsu society alive. "--not gonna-- haaah-- let you die here-- fuck, good girl, good fucking girl, take it-- FIGHT ME--"

Every time you tried to buck and kick, and throw him out of you, Kento cupped your jaw, kissing you just like he used to, disarming you as you bit into his forearm planted beside your cheek. Kento kept up his punishing pace, reaching up to release the belt as he groaned into your throat, biting the delicate skin there. The briefest flicker of warmth passed over him, to feel your hands clutch at his chest, still trying weakly to push him off you. Kento reveled in your fight, your incessant struggling beneath him making his need to cum, to fill you again and make you his, urgent. You felt this in him, in his trembling arms and sloppy thrusts, all at once splitting you in two and completing you. Relenting, you allowed him to claim your mouth again, lips smooth and supple against yours, whiskey on his breath. Kento couldn't last any longer, and didn't want to; he finished with a broken rumble, all groans and whispered curses in your hair. Crushing you to the bed beneath his hulking body, you whimpered to feel his cock twitch and bound inside you, filling you again with sweet ache and seed. Kento rested on you, ignoring your gasping little breaths as you saw stars, buried beneath him. Swallowing away the lump in your throat, your mind swam with your fates; killed in battle or executed or on the run or hiding with filthy curse users or begging the higher-ups for mercy but all alone every one of them alone-- "...come with me." You blinked. Kento's back still heaved with exertion, his face buried in your neck. You felt a twinge, a prickle down your spine-- Cursed energy, approaching from a distance. "You have to decide...there's no time. I lie. I steal, and extort. I blackmail. I murder. I live in...in absolute luxury. You will never want for anything, while you're with me-- but you must be with me." You smiled. Another door had opened. Kento was the easiest decision you ever made.

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

❝ WHY AM I IN LOVE ALONE? (WHY AM I HURTING ALONE?) ❞

Gojo Satoru x male!reader | angst with comfort | unrequited love, ex-cheater!Gojo, arranged marriage | wc: 8.5 k | not proofread

warnings: character death (Geto Suguru), mentions of infidelity, r! has self-esteem issues, r! has some dark thoughts about su!c!de, mentions of parent death, abuse from parents (r! is from an influential sorcerer clan, his family kinda sucks), talks of virginity

masterlist; part 1; part 2; part 3; alternate ending; playlist; au's and what if's

authors note: there are some time skips here and there, hopefully, it isn’t too confusing! I really appreciate all the comments on the first part of this and I hope this satisfies you guys!

The flame of the candle casts the room in an evershifting blue. Pulsing and moving, pushing and pulling as the shadows undulated. It resembles the way sunlight dances on the waves of the ocean, piercing through the waters to reach as far down as it could.

It reminded you of —

Of summer.

The candle flickers, sparks of orange briefly flying, just as your father walks through the door of cement. It takes five men to push but they do so without complaint. Your eyes squint to protect themselves from the fluorescent lighting of the hallway and the flame burns upwards in the offence.

The men hastily pull the door closed. Your ears itch from the grinding noise of stone and your skin warms from the candle but you say nothing.

Your father kneels across from you. Unbothered by the still-furious flame.

The candle is the only barrier between you. It sits on top of cylindrical stone; the melted wax nearly covers the top, some dripping down the sides but you’ve never seen this candle shrinking or the flame dimming.

The room you’re in is one of great importance to your family. It was taller than it was wide. Dark as sin without this cursed flame. The (L/N) family nearly fell into ruins some century ago, a member of your clan decided to turn this room into a place where no secrets would be safe, so you’d have no enemies.

After he had done this, your clan flourished.

It served its purpose. No lies could be told in this room.

“Is Gojo Satoru in love with you?”

The flame calms from its fury. As if listening.

“Yes.”

Sparks of orange fly, shooting from the wick and pathetically fizzing out. His eyes darken, swallowing that gorgeous blue like a black hole.

“So your mother speaks truthfully.”

He had hoped it was just mindless gossip — misplaced anger from his own infidelity. Your father was never one to admit your mother was right.

“Geto Suguru.”

His name makes you turn your eyes down to your lap. Your father’s frown deepens. Further settling into permanent lines of displeasure on his ageing face.

“My son, born of the (L/N) clan, promised to marry Gojo Satoru. A six-eye user, soon-to-be head of the Gojo clan. My son who had centuries of ancestors fought to put him in this position of power with a strong family name, riches and opportunities beyond belief.”

“Bested by a boy whose parents aren’t even curse users.”

That haunting blue burns steadily.

“This is your duty, as son of the (L/N) clan.”

“Father, how could I compete with Geto Suguru — “

Your father reaches through the flames and grabs your face. The skin of his arm reddens as the flame roars at the disrespect. It licks at your eyebrow, your eyes, your cheeks. It burns. Though not like a regular flame would. It doesn't eat away at your flesh and render the fat past that — the flame hisses, digs under your flesh, and sets your nerves ablaze.

The pain is white hot and you swear you burst a vein in an attempt to grit your teeth together. It's like you're burning from the inside out, your skull heating up and glowing from where your skin is stretched thinnest.

You've been through this time and time again but the pain never dulls. It pries your lips open and a strangled wail is ripped from your throat.

Your face is held so tightly your cheekbones feel as though one more gram of pressure would shatter it. His face splits through the fire as he scowls down at you.

“I will not let the decision of a 15-year-old boy destroy what I’ve tried so hard to build. This is bigger than you ever will be. Your marriage to Gojo Satoru will make our clan more powerful than ever.”

You weep as you nod your head while nails dig into the flesh of your thighs. He lets you go, pushing your face away from his hand as if he was tossing trash away. You back away, hands shakily hovering above where your skin feels as though it's sizzling. Like you always do, you lean on the wall and the cool wall is like heaven.

The flame calms just as your heart does, at times it is as though it pulses with the beating in your chest.

In those minutes, your father stays stoic.

“Love is worthless in matters of power. The things I ask you to do will strengthen our clan, and strengthen our abilities. Put your selfishness aside, boy. This is a debt you owe to your flesh and blood.”

“...Yes, father.”

“Why do people stay with someone like that?” Megumi scoffs from behind the couch. He’s dressed in his pajamas, hair still damp from the shower he took. Meanwhile, you were sitting watching the television, dressed for bed yourself.

“I think it's sweet,” you say. The series was truly ridiculous and overly dramatized. Some cheesy and soapy drama that plays at night when lonely adults need someone else’s problems to obsess over.

“He stays with her even with all her flaws.” Megumi’s face says more than he ever could. You laugh, beckoning him over to settle next to you.

This is the usual. Gojo is always busy with missions here and there. Sometimes even needing to get onto a plane - he could be gone for days at a time. Leaving you, Tsumiki and Megumi.

Well, just you and Megumi now.

He doesn’t react as you squeeze him a little closer, just tucking his legs comfortably to lean on you.

“Okay, but that doesn’t negate the fact that she’s hurt him. I mean, it’s honorable but — isn’t he tired? I mean, she slept with his dad. Twice!”

You chuckle, grabbing the towel he had slung over his shoulders to help him dry his hair.

“You were paying attention! I thought you hated this show,” Megumi rolls his eyes. “How can I not pay attention? It’s so stupid I can’t look away.”

“Please. Just admit you like watching shitty tv shows,” you tease.

“I really don’t,” he denies. Megumi shrinks a bit despite his words and you chuckle. The dialogue from the TV continues and Megumi relishes the ambience.

The way you gently dry his hair. The dumb characters talk about who slept with whom and what impossible surgeries they wanna do. The lingering scent of the takeout dinner you indulged in with him today. Your shampoo and body soap and the smell of the detergent you use help him sleep easier at night.

“Is it the same for you?”

He feels your fingers pause. Not frightfully, more confused. He continues as your movement does.

“You’re like this doctor. You stay even if he hurts you.”

“What are you talking about? Gojo’s never hurt me,” your tone was perplexed.

“I’m not blind," Megumi mumbles. You pull your hands away from Megumi, his towel now on your lap as you wait for him to turn around. He does.

Then a commercial plays, something about a new aquarium that’s just opened; it casts the living room in blue and your heart gets caught in your throat.

‘ It’s not the same, ‘ you tell yourself, ‘ I’m not my father. ‘

“Whatever gave you that impression?”

“You rarely call him by his name. You stay up when he’s here but turn in early when he’s not. You go to clan meetings alone but he brings you around everywhere when he’s here. Dates, gifts, compliments.”

Megumi shrinks under your gaze but meets your eyes unwaveringly.

“Every time you look like you’re about to smile at his jokes you just...pause and remind yourself about something...is it Geto?”

Megumi inhales sharply at the expression on your face. The commercial had come and gone and the next that plays is a stream of constant colour; chaotic and disarrayed. The red-orange and yellow make you look like a curse.

But then your eyes soften and his grip on his knees loosens.

“I — I saw a picture.“

There are pictures of Geto in the house. Gojo said he would be fine without it but you found it ridiculous how much hurt he thinks he’s saving you from. You were already brought to your knees and metaphorically beaten down by the man you love and the man he loved; your best friends.

A picture of the four of you in high school wasn’t going to make you less or more pained.

Megumi’s asked about Geto before. But not like this; not like he knows something he shouldn’t. Geto wasn’t a forbidden topic.

But.

Your children deserved better than that. They should believe that love is important and that their fathers are there for them through whatever it is. That Satoru and (Y/N) were not going to just disappear and leave them to fend for themselves.

“On his flipphone.”

Of course.

Of course he kept that useless piece of crap.

Of fucking course.

“The wallpaper was of them. They seemed closer than friends. Did Gojo hurt you because of Geto?”

“Despite his flaws, he’s still my husband, Megumi.”

That doesn’t satisfy your son. His brows twitch and he gets that defiant look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist into knots. The ghost of that man, Megumi’s biological father, always sweeps through your brain every time he gets so stubborn.

You don’t hate Megumi because of it. Gods know how much you wish you weren’t a (L/N) — you wouldn’t have chosen your parents. Your mother, absolutely. Your father could go rot in hell with his new wife.

“But you’re unhappy.”

“I’m not — ”

The trailer of a movie plays; it casts the room in orange for a brief few seconds.

“You are. You’re lying. I’m not a little kid anymore, I’d be fine if you...if you divorced Gojo, I don’t mind if you move out. If you’d let me, I’d stay over. A kid from my school has divorced parents, he seems fine. He said it made his parents happier.”

“Megumi — “

“I can take it. You don’t have to stay together for Tsumiki and me anymore. You’ve raised us well.”

Not well enough if he’s pleading for you to leave Gojo.

“You’re just a boy. You don’t know what you’re saying. I think the TV show is really starting to get to you,” you jest. Megumi’s never been one for jokes though. Especially not ones as dumb as yours. Your awkward grin falls and you sigh.

“It wasn’t because of Geto. Suguru and Satoru...”

Megumi’s ears prick. He could count on his hands the number of times you’ve uttered Gojo’s name. Each time, it’s said with such bitter longing. The rotten essence of first love and cruel summers dripped from every syllable. This time, however, there’s a softness to it, an emotion Megumi would later know as yearning.

“They were the strongest and they were inseparable. With Suguru, Satoru could just be. With Satoru, Suguru felt worthy.”

“I was,” you sucked in a breath. “I was...there. Yes, it hurt me but I love Satoru, Megumi.”

How could you not?

Those heavenly eyes and boyish grin. His lips seem painted by the angels and his hair spun from those impossible-to-reach clouds and the purest of light. Satoru was beyond beautiful.

He was funny, brash, and annoyingly persistent. His very existence was irritating to some; he was good at everything. His hands were like Midas, everything he touched turned into gold.

Nonetheless, he was human. You would know better than most. When Suguru left Satoru looked like a facade of a young god. That’s what Suguru did to him that you never could. Suguru made him human.

So you didn’t blame Satoru for falling in love. You couldn’t even blame Suguru for falling in love.

You were an obligation chosen out of his own comfort. (Y/N), his precious friend whom he’d marry once the two of you were 17 years old.

You were duty and honor. You were a reminder of his godhood. He was untouchable and ethereal; even so, he wanted nothing more than to fall into the arms of the one person who could make him unravel his soul. He held Suguru more preciously as you aged until he couldn’t anymore.

“I love him.”

“But you’re sad. He makes you...sad.”

It pained you to see Megumi try to understand. He was your son. This talk of a loveless marriage and divorce, him saying he would be fine with the aftermath as if he would have to carry responsibility for it.

He was just a boy. He was your boy and he’s trying to protect you when it should be the other way around.

So you shake your head and reach forward to cup his cheek in your palm.

“I still love him, Megumi. Sometimes, that’s enough.”

Megumi wants to tell you it isn’t.

If love was enough, his mother would be alive and his shitty father would have stayed to be a father to Tsumiki and him.

If love was enough, Tsumiki wouldn’t be in a coma.

But he says nothing and just shrugs. He murmurs a half-assed agreement and then stands from the couch. He goes to bed that night, wishing nothing more than to see the world from your eyes. You were his father. More than his own was.

Gojo was a busy guy so he warmed up to you first. Despite how tough it was for you to navigate being a teenager yourself as you raised him and his sister.

He just wanted to make you happy. Because clearly, you were incapable of doing it.

Megumi found it hard to sleep that night.

“Awh, asleep already?” Gojo frowned as he peeked into Megumi’s room. He was supposed to arrive the next morning but he missed his family. So he took an earlier flight.

A creak made him look your way and his eyes widened.

“Don’t bother him, Gojo.”

“(Y/N)…” his footsteps sound tentative as he walks towards you.

“Don’t look at me like that, I was just watching a sad movie is all. Megumi stayed up late, so don’t wake him. He’s got school tomorrow.”

Gojo doesn’t believe you. The way he’s gazing at you is as if you were the most pathetic curse to have ever graced the earth. Had he ever looked at Suguru that way before his betrayal?

Gods, even the thought of him has your brain pulsing. Those lost summers and cozy winters were yours too but of course, for Satoru, it must’ve been different.

To you, they were everything because your friends were there. More importantly, Gojo was there.

To him, his Suguru, they were all they needed.

You wipe away some of the tears, sniffling and turning away from Gojo. “You came home early. I didn’t cook dinner tonight, but I can heat-up some leftovers,” Gojo follows you to the dining area. He wants to ask if you are okay, even if he already knows the answer.

‘ Is it Suguru? ‘

It’s on the tip of his tongue. It’s been 9 years since his betrayal, your mother's funeral, your father's wedding. Between Tsumiki and Megumi, and the missions there was never a chance to have that conversation.

But what if it wasn’t? You were more than that. You existed beyond the shadow that Suguru cast — in Gojo’s eyes anyway.

The microwave dings and it casts the kitchen in a warm yellow glow. “How was the mission?” He watches you make a plate, standing near the kitchen island with his arms by his side. “It went great. The uh, the plane ride there was sorta bumpy though.”

“Yeah? You got scared or sumthin’?” He takes his bandages off, eyes twinkling with something you can’t quite place.

‘ He’s making jokes, talking casually, ‘ Satoru thinks. His palms feel a bit clammy. “Hah, as if. Even if the plane was fallin’ I’d definitely get out of there,” he boasts with that careless smile.

You offer a chuckle, turning just as your smile fades into a polite purse of your lips. The plate is placed in front of him and he’s not hungry but he sits anyway.

Huh.

So this is what having an intimate dinner is supposed to feel like? It creeps in that you’ve never been on a date outside of this marriage. He had never wooed you before Geto. It was all casual and friendly. Even if it was just the two of you, your guardians would keep watch to ensure that nothing got too passionate.

Where were they when Gojo snuck into Geto’s room? Night after night, week after week...

He had never touched you like that. Every time he tried, you found yourself pushing him away. Not out of bashfulness or lack of attraction. You just can’t help but wonder if he’ll replace you with Geto in his mind and your heart breaks every time.

9 years of marriage and still, your bed was cold as ice.

At times you would feel panic, wondering if Gojo is with another body to fill that void that you can’t fill but then it ebbs away.

Because they weren’t Geto either. So they were just as meaningless as you.

You grimace.

To think you’d blush and swoon at the idea of your marriage. Enamoured at the fact Gojo chose you. Now here you are. A resentful friend, a horrid husband, and a failing father.

If it weren’t for Tsumiki and Megumi you would’ve been hanging from the ceiling or perhaps you’d “let your guard down” during a mission. Maybe even in front of your husband. Your train of thought is cut short as your mother’s face appears. Stiffening your lip, you turn your gaze to the table to collect yourself.

Gojo watches you shifting around and reaches a foot forward to bump into yours. He smiles at the way you get wide-eyed, frozen for a second.

“How was your day, my beloved?”

“I went to Jujutsu High to oversee Megumi’s transfer,” his brows lift.

“Already?”

“Just to make things easier, Gojo. So it isn’t so last minute. He practised summoning his Divine Dogs today too.”

You’re wringing your hands together, folding and unfolding your fingers all while glancing at the table. It reminds him of the day he found out you had feelings for him.

You were sat across from him just like you are now. The both of you were 15 and hungry, so you offered to pay for lunch. Suguru and Shoko had gone off to grab condiments and he saw it; that look of adoration in your eyes.

You were handsome and kind. A true friend to him, Suguru and Shoko. Then an idea popped into his head, an idea he’d never proceeded with if he had known the repercussions.

If he wed you, he’d still be able to be close to Suguru.

He was selfish. Suguru told him that it was cruel, you were their friend and this would hurt you.

“Satoru that’s cool-blooded. He’s had a crush on you for a year now, you shouldn’t,” Suguru murmurs.

“It’s just a crush, he’ll probably divorce me or something. Then, I’ll marry you, Suguru.” He interlaced his fingers with Suguru. Naked shoulder pressed to naked shoulder. His 16th had just passed, he’d have to marry you after his 17th birthday but it’s alright. He told himself you would get the message and he’d have Suguru. Duties fulfilled and promises honored.

“What?” Suguru’s eyes were so wide it was almost hilarious. Satoru turned on his side, outlining the traces his lips left on Suguru’s skin.

“Will you marry me, Suguru?”

Satoru’s guilt wraps around his heart with its sorrowful roots. He wonders if you think you’re ugly, or unworthy. His fondness for you wants nothing more than to hold you. You were his friend after all, before all of this; the missions the four of you would go on together were the highlights of his life.

He didn’t mean to hurt you.

The food tastes like ash in his mouth but he swallows it down.

“We should go out tomorrow.”

You blink at him, contemplating. He can see the tearstains on your skin, the wetness on your philtrum that you’ve tried to wipe away and the way your lashes are clumped together.

“Anywhere you wanna go, after we drop ‘Gumi off we’ll be off to the races. We could go shopping or —”

“I want to go on a mission with you.”

That catches him completely off guard. You offer a grin, and the slightest flash of teeth has Satoru nodding before you even get to say another word.

He owes you this. You deserve happiness.

“Of course, anything you want.”

Gojo should’ve stopped there. Said nothing else.

“I love you, (Y/N).”

All at once, he sees your eyes turn hollow and your smile tightens.

You don’t believe him.

“...Thank you, Gojo.”

Ever since, that’s the only way you responded to his “I love you’s”.

Thanking him for trying to convince you and himself that it was true.

Megumi’s never seen your father before. He looks so out of place at home. His hulking form and intimidating face were so rough like unpolished stone. He should be elsewhere, not eavesdropping like he is now but he can’t help himself.

Gojo had to tend to business and you couldn’t turn away your father. You knew what he was here to talk about anyway and after last night's screaming match with your husband, you were as tightly wound as a coiled snake.

“How is your wife, father?”

“She is healthy.”

A vein bulges from the side of your head, rage pumping through it as your jaw clenches. His gaze scrutinizes you in such an obvious way it makes you want nothing more than to exorcise him.

“Gojo Satoru killed Geto Suguru. Is this true?”

How could it not be true? You thought bitterly. My guilt, Gojo’s crying, my outburst — all proof of his death.

He scoffs, a pleased quirk on the corner of his lips.

“I suppose you’ve done well then, my son. You didn’t even have to do any bloody work.”

“You know nothing, father. Geto Suguru’s death was a tragedy, don’t you dare turn it into a victory,” you seethe.

“He was a troublemaker. A waste of breath — a weakling. He deserved all that he got, don’t tell me you’re sympathizing with a murderer?”

“He was my friend!” Megumi flinched as you yelled.

“If you hadn’t pushed me and Satoru to marry, all this pain would have been avoided. We would still be friends, I could grieve for him without bitterness in my heart!”

You have no more tears to give. Instead, your anger burned like an inferno, burning you from the inside as you glared at your father.

“You’ve ruined me just like you ruined my mother. Where is duty? Honour? All of that is just trampled by your greed! You are dishonorable! Disgusting! Selfish!”

“You dare speak to me that way?” He lifts his hand and Megumi's palms hover close to stop him. The doors slide open. Satoru stands there. Even with his blindfold on, his gaze is heavy.

He calls your father's name. He doesn’t hide his disrespect. No titles were shared. No acknowledgment of his relation to you. He was beyond mad.

“It’s best if you leave, old man.”

Your father lowers his hand and you realize your nails are digging into your palm as blood seeps through your fingers.

“This younger generation truly knows no respect. Does it pain both of you to be together? Is my son so ugly, Satoru?” He laughs derisively. “Put a pillow over his face as you take him then! Gods knows I did the same with his mother.”

You open your mouth and yell, an ugly yell that's so full of anguish and anger; no words or vulgarity. A scream that makes Gojo’s throat hurt hearing it. Your father looks at you in disgust, shaking his head as he turns his back to you.

“Pathetic.”

You lunge at him and Gojo stops you, gathering you into his arms as you try to reach for your father.

“I’ll kill you!”

“Beloved, that’s enough —”

“You monster! I’ll burn you alive!”

“(Y/N)! He’s gone! That’s enough!”

Gojo doesn’t know why but he lets his infinity down. He lets you dig your fingers in his shoulder, and scratch the back of his hands as he tries to gather your wrist and grunts as your head bumps into his.

“I’ll kill him! Let me kill him!”

He grabs your wrists and pushes them against your chest. You’re pinned to the wall and the more you struggle the more he presses on your chest. It forces you to take deep breaths, and for your brain to catch up with your body.

“He should be the one that’s dead! Not my mother! Not Suguru! Him! Why isn’t he fucking dead!?”

Satoru can’t help but think of those final moments with Suguru.

How ragged his breathing was as he leaned against the wall.

“At least curse me a little at the very end.”

Suguru’s smile makes Satoru feel like a teenager again. He reaches forward and Suguru noses into his palm. Satoru’s breath comes out in a shudder. There he is, the man he loves more than anything, dying.

Suguru hums as Satoru leans over to hug him. Using the bit of strength he has left his head slots where it belong; in the junction of Satoru’s neck and shoulder. He remembers how ticklish he was there and manages a chuckle as Satoru flinches as his hair did just that.

He has so many things to say.

But he feels that wedding band and he’s glad that Satoru won’t be alone.

“You went on a date with (Y/N) at the crepe restaurant, I could sense your curse energy.” His daughters had wanted to go there after and Suguru remembered how bittersweet it was to sit where the two of you had sat. He had imagined himself as you and he’s struck with the want to see you and Ieiri and —

“I should have married you.”

Suguru’s eyes water. “Satoru —”

“All I do is hurt him. You were right, Suguru. I was cruel. If I married you, we would all be happy. Your daughters and my children, they’d be siblings. (Y/N) would have found someone who would never be as cruel as I am. We would still be friends. I should’ve married you. I should’ve married you.”

Suguru was selfish too. He resented you for having Gojo. It pained him to think about how lucky you were — he wished you misfortune.

What kind of friend does that?

You’d met his parents. Spent birthdays together, and went through lessons and missions together. How could he resent you and love Satoru and Shoko so dearly?

“I chose my path, Satoru. But in another life...in another life, we’re all happy.”

Satoru feels Suguru’s lips press to his jaw.

“You can make it right, Satoru. You love him, you’ll know what to do. Just don’t be so crass, yeah?”

Your yelling doesn’t cease. He’s half a mind to yell along with you because there’s truth in your words.

Why is it that everyone that mattered wasn’t here? Because they’d hold you and tell you were alright. Your mother would’ve done everything she could to ease your pain. Suguru would be here to do the same for both of you. What would they say if they were here?

What could they do to help you?

Help him?

Satoru lets you push him away. Megumi wonders if he should walk in now. He’d never seen you like this. He takes one step forward and Satoru speaks.

“I want a divorce.”

A pin could drop and Megumi was sure it would sound like an explosion. Your chest heaving slows as Satoru watches you straighten your posture.

“Do you live to embarrass me, Satoru?” You can feel his infinity go back up.

“Or is it me that embarrassed you? Should I allow my father to mock Suguru’s death? What am I meant to have done? What could I do to satisfy you, husband?”

“This marriage is hurting us.”

Your bark of laughter makes Satoru’s heart clench.

“A marriage YOU could’ve prevented. Did you forget that? You’ve had all the time to stop it. In those 3 years, you fucked Suguru and confessed your love to him. What exactly did you intend for my life?” You cross your arms, trying so hard to keep everything contained but your mouth can’t stop itself.

“Because I could have been fine. Maybe my father would have cast me aside but at least I would have moved on. Instead, you wormed yourself into my heart and infected me from the inside out.”

“Your mother just passed. I didn’t want to cause you more pain by canceling our wedding —”

Your palm doesn’t strike him but that isn’t with lack of trying. He can see the way your hands shake as you attempt to nullify his infinity. The trails of blood that drip down from your nails piercing through your palm from earlier. Your eyes were as dark as night as you stared at him with a blank expression.

“You are dishonorable, Gojo Satoru. You are selfish, and you deserve nothing you have. Not me, not Megumi, not Tsumiki, not Ieiri and you sure as hell didn’t deserve Suguru.”

He snaps at you. Slapping your hand away as he points a finger in your face.

“You don’t get to scream at me when I tried to make this marriage work! For 10 years all I’ve ever done was love you!”

“All you’ve ever done is bury Suguru by using me, Satoru!”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” Megumi is frozen in place. He had never seen you fight before. Had never ever seen Gojo yell or lose his cool. He feels his heart hammering against his chest and clasps his hands together.

“Every time I touch you, you pull away! Every time I kiss you, you flinch — Fuck! Do I repulse you?”

“You don’t get to be pissed about not being able to fuck me, Satoru.”

He takes off his blindfold and those cerulean eyes shine with fury.

“Of course I fucking do! You want to be the martyr so fucking badly and you did it, (Y/N)! You’re the martyr!”

You don’t let him poke his finger into your chest but despite your smacks, he touches you anyway. He grasps your wrist and his grip is so tight you can tell it’ll bruise.

That horrifying blue sears your skin.

“I may be selfish but you’re fucking vindictive, (Y/N). You tell yourself that you’re nothing and somehow it comes true. Living, stewing, in a dead man’s shadow just so you can feel good about not returning my efforts!”

Just a few nights ago he was sweet. Telling you that he loves you and he wanted you. You never believed him and here was your proof, the labor of your hurt and pain stands before you with righteous ire.

“So I’m done! I’m done.” You shake your head. He scoffs, letting you go as if he was tossing trash away.

“(Y/N) — ”

“We’ll divorce next year. Next year on this day, I’ll allow you to divorce me. But not now. Not today. Call me a vindictive, vengeful, stubborn asshole. But what I’ll not allow you to do is humiliate me all over again.”

Satoru wants to say something, but the whine of an animal stops him.

When you find Megumi clutching the neck of his Divine Dog your anger disappears in an instant. He isn’t crying though it’s obvious he’s simply holding it back. The dog's part as you reach to cup his face, whispering his name as he attempts to steel his expression.

“...I’m so sorry, Megumi. I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“It’s whatever,” he shrugs. Satoru sighs, combing his fingers through his hair as he crouches next to you.

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have to listen to that," Satoru sighs. “I’m old enough — “

You stop him by pulling him into a hug. He’s stunned, his face would have been comical in any other situation so Satoru smiles.

“You’re just a boy. Don’t act so tough so soon,” Satoru reminds him.

The few things Satoru and you could relate to was how your children would never have to face the theft of their youth as long as you were alive. You squeeze him tighter and he returns it, burying his face into your shoulder.

Despite being pissed at Satoru, he says nothing as he feels him stroke his head.

The dogs whine again and nuzzle Satoru and you, licking Megumi’s ears and cheek to dissipate this acrid scent of fear and anxiety.

“Can I stay over with you sometimes?” You know what he actually wants to ask you.

‘ When you leave am I still allowed to need you? ‘

His shoulders sag in relief as you nod.

“You don’t even have to ask, Megumi. You know I love you, right? I’ll always love you, my beautiful son.”

“Couldn’t have gotten a place with better Wi-Fi?”

Shoko glares minutely as you pluck her cigarette out of her mouth. You put it in yours and she gags at the indirect kiss which makes you roll your eyes.

“Just because you’re single doesn’t mean I’m interested, (Y/N),” you scoff and shove her shoulder. She stiffens on purpose but sways a bit. It makes you laugh.

The house you bought was a cute duplex penthouse. Something small for yourself and for Megumi when he slept over. Shoko was the only person to have seen it so far — other than Megumi of course.

Your divorce was months away but it was far too awkward to sleep on the same bed as Satoru after that fight. This was for the best; baby steps until you’re officially separated.

“Hm, even if I was interested in women you’re not exactly my type.” She lights up another cigarette and leans on the railings of your balcony. Man, hate Satoru all you want but he sure was generous with his money. The view was stunning. It must have cost a fortune.

“So. You’re single now.”

You cringe and shrink down, limply holding the cigarette as you brace your chin on your arm.

“For the first time in 13 years...”

“27 is a perfectly good age to fuck around. Not too old to scare anyone of a respectable age off but not too young to make people feel like a creep.”

“You’ve such a way with words, Shoko,” you mutter dryly.

“I’m just saying, sex is a great way to get your mind off of things.”

“Says who?” She laughs, turning to you with a cocked brow.

“Satoru may be the golden child of the sorcerer world but he’s not a sex god. His dick isn’t that good, alright? There’s someone out there that’ll make you feel like a virgin again,” her laughter dies out as she takes note of your bashful eyes.

“...No.”

“What?”

Shoko's brows furrow. It’s the most expressive she’s ever been.

“10 years and not once?”

You hide your face further into your arms.

“(Y/N)!”

“Okay! We never had sex, alright? I — I don’t know if he ever went to get his dick wet from somewhere or someone else. But me and him never fucked. I’m an adult virgin! Sue me!”

“Not even a handjob?”

You groan, smushing the cigarette into the ashtray before going back inside. She follows, belatedly smushing her cigarette when you remind her with a look.

“Ok — Okay, but do you want to be a virgin? It’s perfectly reasonable if you do. I’ll respect your choices. But, why didn’t you...?”

“Shoko, every time he touched me...I felt like the ugliest person on this goddamn planet. We tried,” you sighed. “He tried a few times. Never pushy, never forcing but no matter what fucking angle he approached it from. I just couldn’t.”

Shoko slides her arm over your shoulder and you pliantly turn to return the hug. Her shirt, unsurprisingly, reeks of cigarettes but it brings a semblance of comfort. For a moment you’re washed over with nostalgia though for once, it comes with no pain.

“Well, you’re good-looking and you should definitely take half of Satoru’s money in the divorce. You’re good with kids too, a definite catch,” she presses a kiss on your forehead and you accept it with a loose grin.

“You deserve someone and if you don’t want anyone that’s fine too. Just promise to invite me out sometimes,” her eyebags suddenly seemed darker and so you give her another hug.

“I love you, Shoko.”

“I know. Unfortunately, I do too.”

“You love me,” you tease as your fingers wiggle and she pushes your face away ruthlessly.

“Heavy emphasis on the unfortunately — tickle me and I won’t heal you.”

She lets you escape her grasps, flabbergasted at her statement.

Satoru twists the ring, the light that it catches shimmering bashfully at his attentiveness. His husband had moved out, Megumi decided to sleep over after a whole day of helping him settle in and Satoru didn’t know how to feel about it. His hand feels naked and uncomfortable. The air that breezes lightly on the bare skin make gooseflesh ripple. The ring is enclosed by his fingers and he props his face on the fist, peering at the papers of this mission and that. The writing all look like giberrish, floating aimlessly in his brain as he thinks of (Y/N).

Had he truly never felt Satoru’s affections? It might have not been the love he deserved but to call it nothing was egregious. Or was he being selfish again?

Satoru pinches his nose bridge. His throat longs for the burn of alcohol which surprises him. He wasn’t much of a drinker — he wasn’t a happy drunk.

The ring grew warm in his hold and Satoru squeezed it. It always had the funniest way of doing that. It was as if it was alive, like a cursed object made to punish Satoru. Whenever his eyes wander or his mind reminisces of passionate nights, it burns and he resents himself for it. 10 years of involuntary celibacy was not something he thought of when he was younger. He liked sex. He doesn’t know if it was because it was good or because it was with Suguru. Regardless, Satoru enjoyed it.

He thought that if you got over that hurdle in your relationship, the two of you could fall into sync. He knows he cares about you and he knows you love him.

The house was so quiet. Satoru wants nothing more than to hear your soft breathing, Megumi’s sleepy mumbles and Tsumiki’s shifting around in bed.

He was supposed to be the strongest so why couldn’t he keep his family together?

Suguru told him that in another life they were all happy. But Satoru can’t help but ask himself why not in this life?

His hand unfurls and he slips the ring back in place.

(Y/N) Gojo is a Grade 1 sorcerer with extraordinary skill and wit in battle. His face was crafted by angels with feather-light touches, ones that thumbed the furrows of his brow with a sense of melancholy and kissed his eyelids with love; Satoru did not deserve you. He didn’t deserve to wake up with you by his side, caught by how beautiful you were when your guard was down.

Satoru suddenly wonders what made him unable to fall. It wasn’t your personality, nor your voice. You were funny, intelligent, headstrong, resilient, and everything most men fantasized about. Was it him? Even with all his attempts, his sweet gestures and words, did you see through it?

Did you see him?

What was it that you saw?

A tall child craving for his favorite person to come back?

…Was it a pathetic sight, (Y/N)?

Did you heart bleed for him?

Satoru stands, slipping the mission papers back into their files.

His guilt is a willow tree you had planted within him, tended by his own hands and watered with your tears. It’s beautiful and lonely, surrounded by flowers that climb and choke its branches as it hopes for someone to understand it.

You had. You understood the isolation he felt being on top and you supported him and got stronger to reach him. You saw right through him and he remained blind to you.

Shoko's name flashed across the screen of his phone. Satoru picks it up mindlessly, sitting on the end of your — his bed.

“You better give him half of your belongings in the divorce,” she says. He hears the burn of the cigarette as she inhales.

“Suguru was my friend. Just as much as he was (Y/N)’s.”

Satoru’s brow twitched. “Excuse me?”

“Suguru. I was there, believe it or not, and so was (Y/N). Suguru was our friend, our brother, our Suguru. We grieve him every day. Even before he was dead, we grieved him. I don’t fault you for being a shitty husband because of your grief, (Y/N) wasn’t the best husband either.”

“Don’t pretend to understand — “

“Get out of your head and stop mourning alone. All those years. When have you ever come to see me, Satoru? I was hurting too. ”

She exhales, flicking the ashes away as Satoru covers his wet eyes.

"I fucked up, Shoko." That was an understatement of the decade. She glances at the night sky, watching the buildings breeze past.

"I fucked up."

“Itadori Yuuji?” You squint your eyes at the papers, ignoring the warmth that Satoru emits from your side. You were at a clan meeting. One that Satoru decided to join so, you had no choice but to listen to him.

“Sukuna’s vessel,” he tilts his head, scratching the back of his neck from the uncomfortable button-up you forced him into. If he wanted to annoy you, you’d gladly return the favor. It was a few sizes too tight and the tie you put around his neck choked him but, he acted as cool as a cucumber.

“The boy Megumi found?” He nods and you read his papers with more fervor.

“You fought Sukuna?” He smiles cheerfully, grinning from ear to ear as he spins in place.

“I won,” he cheers. It takes all your self-restraint not to throttle him. “That was reckless,” you hissed out, ignoring the servants eyeing the both of you as they set down the trays of tea and finger foods.

“I’m the strongest. I would’ve won anyways,” he peers over your shoulder to read through the report again.

“Why are you showing me this? The higher-ups already called for his execution.” He places his chin on your shoulder. Your breath hitched yet, neither of you commented on it.

“I told them I’d kill them if they executed Itadori Yuuji,” he faces you as you turn to glare at him. Your lips were centimeters apart. Satoru takes note of your racing heart.

“Are you insane?”

“He’s just a boy doing what he could to save our son. Itadori shouldn’t have to be killed for doing the right thing.”

He lets you push his head away, slipping the papers back into the document sleeve and sliding it over to him.

“He will be executed once he eats all his fingers, he is a lamb sent to slaughter.”

At times like this, you think of Suguru and wonder if he was telling some truth about the world you lived in. Kids dying in droves because of curses that would never exist if non-sorcerers didn’t exist. But really, this was no one's fault but Sukuna. The old bastard couldn’t just die instead, he prolongs his existence like a roach.

"Megumi blames himself for that,” your heart squeezes at the thought. “They get along great, such rambunctious students. You would love them, you could spend more time with ‘Gumi.”

“Satoru, I’m not going to be a teacher. I’ve no patience for it,” he looks befuddled at your words. “You’ve been my husband for 10 years, so that’s a lie.”

The reminder of your marriage earns him a stink eye that he just giggles at. The official papers were to be served in a few more months. Until then, you were still together in the public eye.

“Just...think about it, (Y/N). I know you’ve been busy with missions and these boring meetings but I also know you miss Megumi and he missed you too.”

Gods, he’s playing that card. Why does he always need to play that card? He knows you give in every time.

“How have those missions been? You’ve been traveling a lot,” he puts Itadori’s file away and gives you his full attention. “Exhausting but it is fun to sightsee and make new friends,” you reach for the cup of tea.

“...Ya popped your cherry yet?”

The tea sprays onto the table and you cough violently as you save yourself from the near-death experience. A servant gasps and rushes to clean the mess, another asking if you’re alright and if the tea was too bitter or hot.

“You’re — You are — “ he grins as you cough and pats your back. “You are so gross, Satoru!”

He cackles at your flustered expression.

The servants leave eventually and you stew as you sit across from Satoru, back turned to him to stare out at the courtyard. Your silhouette makes his smile widen. He props his chin in his palm, taking in the sight of you.

“I wouldn’t mind if you had. I was just asking, as a friend.” He’s glad your shoulders don’t stiffen. The only reply he earns is your middle finger.

“Whaaat? I just wanted to know if it was good.”

“Is this how you’re going to convince me to be a teacher? By asking vulgar questions?”

“Not my intention but if I can kill two birds with one stone then why not?” You groan as you hang your head, hoping the ground will swallow you whole. Satoru hums a tune as he awaits your answers.

“Fine! Fine. I’ll be a teacher.”

“You’ve earned one mark! For a full mark, answer the other question!”

You’re tempted to throw the whole tea set to his face but can’t help the smile that crawls on your face at his animated movements. So you turn to face him, shaking your head as you sigh.

“No, I haven’t. Does that satisfy you?” Satoru’s slack jaw makes you want to punch him.

“Nearly four months of traveling and missions and meeting other people. Not one got into your pants?” You huff and cross your arms.

“So you’ve let someone into your pants, husband?” Satoru gasps. “How dare you? I’ve been a dutiful teacher and my students will attest to this!”

He then placed his elbows on the table, looking like a schoolgirl about to gossip.

“You should tell me all about your type, I’ll be more than happy to help you,” he draws hearts in the air with his finger.

Your type? You wanted to scold him and maybe even degrade him for acting like a perverted cuckold but this question catches you off guard.

You found Satoru attractive. Then again, who didn’t? But what was your type? You place your chin between your thumb and finger. Satoru waits patiently.

“I don’t know, I mean, I know I like men but...huh...”

You scratch the back of your neck.

“I guess I never really thought about it.”

Satoru exhales, endeared by the worry on your face. He was a shitty husband but Satoru was a good friend. You had put your life on pause for his. It was only fair that he helped you. He may not be able to fully piece together your heart but he’ll do what he can until you can smile again.

Those months away helped, there’s no doubt about it, but he knows you miss home and you needed to put down new roots in soil that wasn’t infested and toxic.

He knows you’ll probably take years to forgive him. He’s willing to wait, so he can have his friend back.

“We can start simple. Which one of our friends would you sleep with?” Your shrug makes him list some names. Then the sight of your eyes widening as he says Nanami Kento makes him gasp.

“Nanami!? Our underclassmen!?”

As Satoru guffaws and goes on about how boring Nanami was your mind ponders on this tightening of your chest.

Were you too lenient with Satoru? After all he has done?

You weren't without sin or fault. You understand that much but this feels so different. Familiar, actually, there's no expectation in Satoru's affections.

It was casual and it made you feel lighter than you have in a long time.

Should you be angrier? As a boy, his friendly attitude felt like a slap across the face. Now, it just feels right. Has your heart finally stopped beating for Satoru? All it took was 10 years of a shitty marriage?

It was rare for sorcerers to live as long as you have. A sense of panic grips you. For a moment, the thought of time wasted flashes. Then, those sweet memories of Tsumiki and Megumi seep in. Memories of Shoko, Satoru, Suguru and you laughing boisterously at something stupid while eating at the school field.

Your eye creases as your cheeks lift. Satoru is still rambling about Nanami and the only thing that makes him stop is a sound from his fondest memory.

You're laughing. Clutching at your stomach and tear-pricked eyes kinda laugh. His huff of disbelief transitions into a chuckle.

Oh, you forgot how good it felt to laugh this hard. It felt so nice to have him as a friend again. So fucking nice.

"His cheekbones are something to behold, I know, but did you forget his old hairdo?"

Satoru can see the warmth seep back into your skin, your eyes are glowing again as you cover your face; those heavenly shades of (E/C) peek through your fingers. The ring glimmers, and for a moment Satoru's chest doesn't feel heavy.

"You can do better, husband," he says. Your teeth are in full view. No longer hidden by a grimace or frown or a tight-lipped grin. There was still a long way to go but Satoru was willing to go the distance. For his beloved friend who deserves it all.

He can't wait to tell Megumi you are back for good this time. He can't wait to see you interact with his students. He knew you'd get along with them, they'd love you. Gods know they need a break from him at times.

"You're so fuckin' dumb, 'Toru," you exclaim. He agrees with a hum and for the first time in a long time, you feel like yourself again.

"Made you laugh though," he dodges the pillow you'd been kneeling on with glee.

[leonsdolly]

Wicked Game

Leon Kennedy x fem! reader

Synopsis: Leon leaves you for her, and you're not sure what to do now.

CW: nsfw 18+, infidelity, angst, suicidal thoughts, comparing yourself to her, masturbation, mentions of p in v

WC: 1.5k

“What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you…” You murmur along to the melancholy words that are floating around your room like butterflies. Actually, more like flies nearing the end of their life span - movement transitioning from an erratic flight to a lazy, almost purposeless dwindle until they’re on their backs with their legs sticking up in the air. That’s exactly how you are now that Leon’s done with you. A dead fly - no one could save me but you. Chris Isaak gets it. He gets it so well that he’s been looping for God knows how long.

Was it only last week that Leon left you for the ghost from his past? The one in red, haunting him in ways that you were oblivious to. Always bleeding red, like Bloody Mary or something. Maybe it was better if you’d feigned ignorance to the evidence. Maybe you’d still be able to call him yours if you played your role of a cross-eyed Mary jumping right into his arms with no protests, always playing it clean.

It was all because of a letter that was carefully tucked away in his desk drawer, folded and sealed with a kiss. No, literally a kiss. The bitch left her lipstick imprint in lieu of her signature. YSL, shade R1. You’d always been a Dior girl anyway. 

You swore up and down that you weren’t purposely snooping through his belongings, that you were just looking for Scotch tape. The offensive document shook in your hand as you fearfully inquired about its contents. He was stuttering and ashamed and apologetic and all the things a good man is when he’s sinned. He let you cry and scream and sink to your knees with your head in your hands like you were never going to come back up, like you could die in this position and be encased in marble. A new weeping angel.

You know in your heart that you could never equate to her in his eyes. The knowledge that he’s probably been comparing you to her throughout your relationship makes you so damn ill. Maybe you should slit your own throat in front of him and let the crimson flow over your body so you can match with her. Bleeding red all over the place, letting him see nothing but that cursed color, the way he did all those years ago in the city where it all started. The way he’d still continued to do so after meeting you and promising all sorts of things you weren’t accustomed to hearing. You suppose you can’t fault him completely, it wasn’t like he intended on hurting you; he’d tried to overcome his adversities and forge a new home for himself, one that was pink and frilly and covered him in glossy kisses after a long day at work. But ultimately, it wasn’t enough. His allegiance lay with first red, then white, then blue. 

You just miss him so damn much. You’re desperate enough for him that if he were to walk through the door right now, you’d take him back in a heartbeat. Sure, maybe you’d have difficulty meeting his eyes for a while, deep pools, murky with guilt and who knows what else. Your vision would be limited to the freckles on his neck, the ones resembling a vampire bite, but that’s alright with you. You’re familiar with the area, having kissed it so many times. You shouldn't be thinking about those little spots or anything else about him for that matter. He made his bed, and now he has to lie in it. With her. Pressed up against her with his face tucked into the crook of her neck. Oh God, now you're the one seeing red. Is there really such a thing as a red string tying two people together, keeping them bound for eternity? Hopefully not, because you're nauseous at the concept that it's always been her. She was right there beside his former bright eyed and bushy-tailed self, the version that had a vague understanding of how the world worked, before he was your solemn Leon. They trudged through the abyss together, leaning on one another for strength in the midst of a plague. You wish God would just deliver armies of locusts to devour you and him and her and the rest of the world. The end is here anyway now that he isn’t. 

Your last memory of him is that pitiful look in his eyes as he gazes at you one more time. You said I was your baby. He said a lot of things, promised you the world, and look how things turned out. It’s sickening really, how cruel fate can be. Was this fate? You’re going to tie their disgusting red string around your neck and squeeze until your head pops off like a rocket. A blazing glory, capable of stealing his attention.

The thoughts of needing to be better so that he’d be with you again swirls around in your brain, filling up your entire being until you can’t bear it any longer. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to put a ring on your finger and give you his babies and hold you close on your deathbed. Your hand twitches, muscle memory activated from all the times you slipped your hand into his, anchoring you to him. I’m so sorry… Ada and I… We’ve been through a lot together. You can’t take this anymore. But I love you more than anything in the whole world… How am I supposed to live without you? He never did give you a proper response to that, silence encompassing the air between you.

You shuffle to the bottom drawer of your dresser and fish out a wrinkled shirt that had been shoved towards the very back, away from prying eyes - navy blue with the letters “RPD” emblazoned in white across the front. You slip it on and inhale the fabric draped over your frame, protecting you, hugging you as you crawl back into your bed. His arms really were the loveliest place to be. Firm and gentle, wrapped around your torso like your very own bullet vest. Shielding you from horrors you would never have to experience, he’d make sure of that. Or at least he had, anyway. His lingering scent fills your senses like whispers in an abandoned chapel. Something familiar, a sense of comfort in your hollowed out state. It takes over your grief for a second, and when you shut your eyes tight, everything is alright again.

You yearn to hold onto this feeling, but it dissipates once your eyes open, and you're isolated yet again. Your bottom lip trembles as you squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, gripping onto the hem of his shirt. His arms are around you again, and the smell of him is welcomed. It elicits a natural response from your body, begging for his touch, forming a silent prayer to any divinity who will listen. Your thighs involuntarily part as you reminisce on the feeling of his face in between them, tongue lapping at everything you have to offer. Whimpers fall from your lips as your other hand travels down to slowly stroke your clit the way he used to do it. There’s my baby. You’re his baby, still so good for him. You rub your clit faster and faster as the hand that was clutching onto his shirt for dear life comes up to squeeze your tits and pinch your nipples. 

You realize that tears have been running down your flushed cheeks as you grind down onto your fingers faster in an effort to chase your high. Just like that… Sweet baby, my sweet baby. 

He's probably fucking her at this exact moment. Cock buried miles deep inside her perfect cunt, perky tits bouncing at every thrust while she moans for him. You’re going to blow your brains out. What kind of sounds does she make when she’s getting the railing of a lifetime? Something more refined than your own little whines. Is she kissing those precious freckles on his neck, giving them all the attention they could ever ask for as he lets out his own delicious noises? You weep as you continue to rub your clit while slick leaks from your neglected pussy, begging for only him to fill it up.

You’re sobbing as you feel the release building up in your core, and you're bawling as you feel your pussy clamp around the ghost of his cock. You let out a cry of both pleasure and agony as you frantically cum all over your fingers. My perfect baby.

Shallow pants escape you as you simply lay motionless, eyes trained fixedly on the ceiling of your melancholy prison. You shakily bring your other hand up to wipe away the tears that have forged new paths for themselves on your cheeks and down to your pillowcase. I love you. You’ll always be my girl.

This world is only gonna break your heart. How are you supposed to live without him? Nobody loves no one. Chris Isaak needs to shut up.

[thepsychonyx]

The Dagger is a representation of Solas Duty and Trauma

DRAGON AGE THE VEILGUARD SPOILERS AHEAD

I believe the dagger being left behind in Redemption endings symbolise Solas finally being freed of his duty & trauma whilst non-redemption endings force that pain to go with him. The dagger reminds him all he lost & sacrificed vs in Redemption he is free and regains his autonomy.

Before anyone yells at me that this is a reach, I get it- but walk with me. The dagger was commissioned by Mythal, he was against its creation and against its purpose to sunder the Titans, it was also used to kill Mythal and is essentially a symbol of all of Solas' original sins

Though some of us agree that none of these things sit solely on his head, they do sit on his conscience.

The grief of having a part of your autonomy irreversibly altered as they did with the Titans is a reflection of how he was forever condemned to himself. His one salve? Duty.

I've never thought Mythal's words in the Redemption endings were an indication of him prizing her affection above the chance Rook gave or Lavellan's pleading, she mutilated his spirit and perverted his purpose. For which, her taking accountability unbinds him of the emotional and mental toll. This is only one aspect of why the dagger is key to redemption. The important thing is he needed to be freed of his duty, he feels he has gone too far and taken too much. He knows the price has been too high and that is why he wants to be stopped, one way or another. Hence leaving hints for Inquisitor and Varric, as well as stating to Rook he fears becoming like Elgar'nan, too powerful with no one to check him. He never wanted to be this, and he is ready to die. Solas is exhausted of what this duty has taken from him as it has costed him everything.

Crucially, freeing him from his duty finally allows him to let go of the purpose he made himself physical for. He was brought into the world to give her wisdom, wisdom she denied and without her to unbind, his reason for being physical is left to trying to heal the wounds he made.

In DAI, if you drink from the Well, thus putting you into Mythals service, Solas is incredibly angry for valid reason. He just watched you make the same error he did!

He bears these words so heavily because this is also the burden he bears - he is stuck in the cycle of what this duty demands of him.

Solas asks you what will you do after Corypheus and he only *Approves* if you say "I'll restore what was" - he associates bettering the world with undoing the condition his actions have forced it into.

"You honor the past and work to recover what was lost, even if the cost is high." It is not all about Mythal, it is about fixing his biggest mistakes and restoring the world to what he, someone duty bound to the people for causing the problems, took away from *everyone.*

He knows the cost is high, that's why he wants to be stopped. That's why he leaves hints for Inquisitor. It's why he says to a friend, "I would treasure the chance to be wrong again" - he just cannot see another way because he is bound by his purpose for why he entered the world.

This is why the Trick ending also works because it forced Solas to see another way to atone, but the dagger - the grief and trauma - goes with him. The bad ending is him completely forced (stabbed) into becoming a manifestation of pride. His duty completely corrupting his values.

Whilst the Redemption ending is the most fulfilling as it finally let's him allow himself to let go. He is forgiven, for the first time ever by his friend or true love, he is absolved of the burdens and duty that haunted him, he is given the wisdom he has always been denied.

Someone who only wanted to free others finally being freed themselves, who endeavoured to unshackle the chains of others finally being unbound of his own, isn't that a beautiful ending? He is just a man, a faulted haunted man who did his best and I think that is worth something.

The beautiful thing, is with the Solavellan ending, Inquisitor Lavellan gives him more than just atonement to live for. Bereft of his original purpose of bestowing wisdom as he has confined himself to atone, she posits a new purpose. Their love, eternally, will be their new fate. He will never be alone again, and together work towards his new purpose. For a man who was enslaved by a friend (he wore Mythal's valaslin!) who used him and ignored him, to be given salvation from the love of his life who listened to him and wants to be beside him through everything - I cannot imagine a better conclusion and retirement from his Duty and the first crucial step into healing from his Trauma.

(Ignore me in the corner teary eyed lol)

This post by Trick states that the endings with the dagger mean it’ll be harder for him mentally to become free - it may be a simple association that no dagger = redemption, but this is DA it has to mean more. At least, it does to me.

[khuzena]

Elegy of the hopeless, a savior’s love

Pairing: Sunday & You (g/n)

Synopsis: There will come a day when you will have to choose between fleeting love and lifelong devotion. There was a clear gap between you two. Sunday, the former head of the Family in Penacony, an outcast. You, some nobody who aims to make it big someday, just a nobody. Both outcasts, both commoners. However, Sunday will always be the savior of the people, a man who devotes himself for the freedom and peace of mankind. And you? Someone who’s story is meant to take a different road.

C.w: Angst, trauma, happy ending, he needs therapy, I change my mind you both need therapy

Note: This was written 23 minutes before the release date of 2.7, there may not be any accuracies since I want to write this fanfic as a tribute for Sunday to guarantee a higher chance of getting him with my sad 89 pulls. Thanks.

Sunday was a man who once prided himself for being righteous.

However, the said Halovian was no longer a priest, no longer the decorated head of the Family. Despite this, not once had he abandoned his values, not once had he forsaken the dream he once dreamed as a child, to sing odes of hope and to bring salvation to those who maybe or maybe not worthy of paradise.

He who walks the path of the nameless, will one day make a name for himself. He will carve his own place in paradise, even if the world no longer deems him as a prophet.

Yet, he hadn’t expected falling for someone. Someone of your stature.

Before you both knew it, your affections for each other grew, and so was his devotion for you. But he had to choose between his goals and you.

His mind was riddled with memories that continue to haunt him. The piano keys carried the weight of his sins the more he played a low tune. A debut between who he was, and who he is.

That fateful day marked the day his faith was tested.

One, two, three.

The notes reverberated softly in the dimly lit room, his fingers brushing over the keys with a precision honed by years of practice. But each sound struck a chord in his mind, dragging him back to memories he’d rather bury. He couldn’t ignore how the melody warped, pulling him into the shadows of his past. The rise to power, the unrelenting pursuit of his dreams, the countless lives he’d affected—knowingly or not. The moments where he trapped innocent people in his grand vision, their lives twisted into threads of a tapestry only he could see.

He felt the weight of it all pressing on him, a phantom force tightening around his chest. Each note seemed to mock him, whispering accusations he couldn’t escape.

Then, there was you.

Some idiot from the Astral Express, bright-eyed and reckless, who somehow wormed your way into his life. You were no better than the Trailblazer—maybe even worse, an enabler of chaos and bad decisions. Yet you carried a dream so simple, so pure it made him envious: to travel the universe, collect stories, and one day become a writer whose words would immortalize the memories you crafted with your own hands.

Envy. Was that the right word?

How could he envy you?

You brought him peace, a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years. Piece by piece, you shattered the walls he had meticulously built around his heart. At first, it was the small things: teasing jabs, lighthearted jokes that made him bristle, then laugh despite himself. But before he realized it, you had become something far greater. He longed for you, craved your presence like a man starved of affection.

Sunday, who had never known love, yearned for something he could barely understand. He wanted your arms around him, grounding him under a sky filled with stars, your voice whispering that everything would be okay. That he would be okay. That he was more than the sum of his sins.

But the past never let him rest.

The piano’s melody faltered as memories clawed at him. The faces of those he’d hurt flashed before his eyes: expressions of fear, betrayal, and pain. He saw himself standing above them all, a figure of absolute power yet utterly alone. His hands, now gloved, trembled as he remembered what they’d done—what they’d created, what they’d destroyed.

“Sunday?”

Your voice broke through the haze, shattering the storm of his thoughts. He glanced up, startled, to see your concerned face. There was no hatred in your eyes, no judgment—only that familiar warmth that felt so foreign to him.

“You’re thinking too much again. What’s on your mind?”

He wanted to tell you. He wanted to lay bare every ugly, broken part of himself. But the words caught in his throat. What if you saw him as the monster he believed himself to be? What if your kindness was a fragile mask, hiding resentment and disgust?

“I’m just thinking,” he lied, the words barely audible.

You didn’t believe him. With a small shake of your head, you slipped onto the bench beside him. “What are you thinking about?”

“Everything,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice laced with exhaustion.

The truth spilled from him in that single word: his fall from grace, the haunting memory of his sister’s absence, the crushing weight of his failures. He was at war—with himself, for you. He couldn’t save you from the wreckage of his mind, but he also couldn’t bear the thought of pushing you away.

“You should go to bed,” you murmured gently. “We’re dropping off at Amphoreus tomorrow.”

He didn’t move, his hands returning to the piano. The melody that filled the room was softer now, almost mournful. Each note resonated with the echoes of his guilt, yet drowned them out just enough for him to keep playing.

You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I know what you’re thinking. Stop thinking.”

He wished he could.

Another kiss, then another.

“Just play the piano,” you whispered. “I’m still here.”

The tears threatened again, hot and stinging, but he swallowed them down. He didn’t deserve to cry—not for himself, not for his sins. Instead, he focused on the weight of your head on his shoulder, the steady rhythm of your breathing.

“Play your favorite song,” you suggested, your voice a soft murmur. “It’ll help.”

For a moment, his hands hovered over the keys. Then, slowly, he began to play. The melody was one he and Robin had composed as children—back when the world was simple, their dreams untouched by the cruelty of reality. The tune carried a bittersweet nostalgia, weaving through the room like a ghost of their innocence.

He glanced at you as he played. Your eyes sparkled with wonder, watching him like he was worth something more than his mistakes. At that moment, he almost believed it.

“I’m listening,” you said softly, your voice fading as you drifted into sleep.

His shoulders still bore the weight of his past, but with you resting against him, it felt a little lighter. The melody shifted, becoming softer, gentler. One day, he thought, he would compose something even more beautiful—something worthy of you.

Until then, he would keep playing. For you. For himself. For the chance to heal, note by note.

Maybe one day, he could repay your kindness a hundred times over.

Note: very rushed ig bc I started at 10:37 am and ended at 11:59 am bc I wanted to write this as tribute for the 2.7 update. !!! I don't know but jf there's any errors let me know lol my keyboard was so loud going TACK TACK TACKKK

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[jeonluvz]

VIRTUE & SIN

Dracula Jeon Jungkook x Sacrifice F!Reader

On the night of a rare blood moon, you return to an ancient, forgotten cathedral deep in the woods—drawn back by its haunting beauty, hoping to paint. But as you step through the crumbling archway, you’re seized by a cold, unrelenting grip. Jungkook stands before you: a vampire cloaked in flowing black silk, his crimson eyes burning through the dark. His long, wavy hair frames a face both beautiful and merciless. He doesn’t bare his fangs, but you feel the threat in his silence as his hand tightens around your neck, pinning you against the cathedral doors. The air around him is icy, his strength inhuman, his presence inescapable. You’ve stumbled into his sanctuary—and he’s not letting you leave.

WARNINGS: Read more, for mature audiences.

WC: 24k

It started days ago—maybe weeks. The stories had always been there, whispered between locals who never dared venture too far past the tree line. An old cathedral, they said, swallowed by the forest centuries ago after some unspeakable thing happened on its altar. A holy place desecrated. A godless place now avoided.

You didn’t believe in stories. You believed in light, and shadow, and form. You were just looking for somewhere new to paint.

That’s all.

You’d wandered too far off the trail, chasing the way the sun cut through the leaves like stained glass. That’s when you saw it—partially hidden behind a wall of ivy, a jagged spire breaking the treeline like a splintered fang. The cathedral. Real.

Your breath caught at its beauty, at the weight of silence pressing down around it. It didn’t feel abandoned. It felt asleep. The kind of sleep that shouldn’t be disturbed. But curiosity held your hand tighter than caution did. You’d walked the perimeter, brushed moss off old stone, peeked through broken windows. You told yourself you’d return with your brushes. You even smiled, thinking it would be your secret place.

But something followed you out of the woods that day.

You felt it first on your neck—like someone standing too close behind you in a crowded room, except the forest was empty. Then, in your dreams: red eyes just beyond reach, long fingers slipping through your hair, the pull of a voice that never spoke. You knew something had noticed you. You felt it when your back was turned. When you left the lights on. When you started painting your own face without meaning to.

Still, you told yourself it wasn’t real. That you were being foolish. That you’d imagined the presence watching you through the branches.

And yet.

You packed your things and went back on the night of the blood moon.

You told yourself it was just for art.

But some part of you—a deeper, darker part—knew it wasn’t. You weren’t seeking beauty anymore.

You were answering a call. One you pretended not to hear the first time.

The trees part like curtains as you step into the clearing, breath caught in your throat. The abandoned cathedral rises from the earth like a memory no one dared to bury—stone blackened by time, vines clutching its bones, yet impossibly, impossibly alive tonight.

You push open the weather-worn doors with a creak, expecting dust and silence. But what greets you is something else entirely.

Light.

Hundreds of candles float midair, flickering without flame, their glow casting golden halos on the cracked stone floor. They hover in impossible stillness, lighting the nave like a dream—soft, sacred, and wrong. Your eyes widen in awe. You don’t speak. You don’t breathe. The world outside is forgotten.

And then the wind shifts.

Not a breeze—a presence.

It moves through the cathedral like a storm that doesn’t disturb a single flame. You feel it before you hear it, and you hear it before you see him.

The wind slams the great doors shut behind you. In the sudden echoing boom, he’s there.

The entity

He doesn’t walk. He arrives—as if the shadows built themselves into him. Long black silk moves with the whisper of death, molding to a body sculpted by something ancient and cruel. His hair is damp with mist, falling in dark waves around his face. Eyes like fresh blood in candlelight lock onto you, and you don’t have time to run.

His hand is already around your neck.

Not tight. Not yet. Just enough to steal your balance. Just enough to remind you that you are nothing but a guest in his forgotten temple.

“You came back,” he murmurs, voice smooth and cold as winter stone.

“You shouldn’t have.”

His grip doesn’t tighten—but the air does. Like it’s shrinking around your lungs. Your feet barely touch the ground, held steady only by the strength of his arm, which is cold as stone and just as unyielding. The flickering candlelight paints red into the hollows of his eyes, and it’s not a trick of the light.

He is furious.

Not loud. Not wild. But seething. His gaze cuts through you, slow and deliberate, like he’s deciding what part of you to curse first. A silent war burns behind his eyes—restraint vs. wrath—and wrath is winning.

Your breath trembles in your throat as your eyes meet his. You don’t speak. You don’t move. But he sees the fear.

And something dark curls through his lips.

“M’lady,” he says, the words soaked in disdain and old-world elegance. “How idiotic of you to come back.”

The cadence is regal, mocking, spoken in the lilting tone of someone centuries out of time. He says it like a verdict. A spell. A warning too late.

The candles flicker once—violently—and settle.

His eyes stay locked on yours, and though he has yet to bare fangs, you feel them. Waiting. Hungering.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like one might study a caged animal that wandered into fire. Amusement flickers across his face, but it’s razor-thin—too cruel to be called a smile.

“Humans,” he sneers, licking his teeth slowly, deliberately. The movement is fluid, predatory, and his tongue drags across where his fangs should be—hidden, but promised.

“So dumb. So terribly eager to die for wonder, for beauty, for stories they were warned never to believe.” His tone stays elegant, as if reciting poetry meant to insult. Then his voice drops lower, richer.

“It’s feeding time,” he says, almost purring. “And I so happen to have the feast of the century.”

Your eyes widen. Your breath turns sharp in your chest.

His face lowers to your neck—close enough that you feel the cold of him brush your skin before his mouth even touches you. You panic, heart pounding, instincts screaming for flight even though your body cannot move.

And he stops.

A growl simmers in his throat, not loud—but displeased. His hand presses you tighter to the stone door behind you as his breath ghosts over your neck.

“I don’t like my blood panicked,” he murmurs, and now there’s ice in his voice. “That’s child’s play.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his stare heavy with reprimand and threat.

“I like it obedient. Warm. Still.” A pause. “Willing… or broken.”

The candles flicker again—closer now, their flames bowing toward him like servants.

The silence shatters.

Behind you, the great cathedral doors groan, then snap shut with a sound like bone cracking. The lock turns on its own—ancient iron grinding into place. You flinch. The sound echoes like a death knell, final and heavy.

You’re trapped.

Jungkook doesn’t move away. His lips are parted slightly, glistening, his tongue sweeping slow across them as he tastes the air between you. His other hand rises—fingers brushing lightly down your arm, cold enough to make you twitch. He feels your pulse beneath your skin, just beneath your jaw.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He hums.

“’Tis a blood moon, dear,” he says softly, reverently, as if reciting a divine truth. “I am fourfold stronger than on any pitiful day.”

His eyes roll half-shut for a moment, savoring your fear like the scent of wine. His voice holds its ancient lilt, thick with restrained hunger. “Flesh is warmer under it. Blood runs sweeter. And yours…” His eyes snap open, red and ravenous.

“You’ve been ripening for me since the day you crossed my threshold.”

You try to speak—but no sound leaves you. There’s nothing left in your throat but breath and heartbeat.

He sees that.

His gaze drags slowly down your body. Not with lust—yet—but with hunger. As though he’s studying his next course, deciding where to begin.

“Speechless,” he murmurs, tone steeped in mock sympathy. “Good. You’ve finally learned the language of prey.”

He doesn’t sink his teeth in.

Not yet.

Instead, Jungkook lingers—his mouth hovering just above your neck, breath colder than any wind you’ve ever felt. But his hold softens slightly, his fingers no longer clutching but cradling your throat. Like he’s choosing to keep you alive.

And that’s what makes it worse.

He inhales again, long and slow. You feel the tremor ripple through him, not with restraint—but reverence.

“You smell of fear,” he whispers, voice low and heavy like smoke. “But beneath it…”

His nose brushes your skin—your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow of your neck. You shiver as his mouth opens, lips grazing—not biting—just tasting.

“Desire.” His voice wraps around the word like silk on steel. “As if some part of you wants to be chosen. Touched. Taken.”

His hand releases your neck only to slip down, fingers dragging along your side, then resting over your racing heart.

“You didn’t come here for art,” he murmurs, mouth now right at your ear. “You came to surrender. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He tilts his head again, long dark hair brushing your cheek. His voice is intimate now, coaxing.

“Do you feel it, my sweet little muse?” His lips ghost your pulse again, then pause. “The way the cathedral holds its breath with you inside it? The way your soul leans toward me, even as your body shakes?”

His other hand comes to your waist, slow, sure, possessive.

“You came to be devoured, and you will be. But not alone by teeth.”

He leans back just enough to look you in the eye.

“I want your mind first. Your obedience. Your warmth wrapped around the cold in me.”

He smirks—beautiful, merciless.

“Now tell me, m’lady… Shall I begin?”

You finally find your voice, though it shakes, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

“Who… who are you?” Your breath comes too fast, too shallow, still under the heavy weight of his presence. Your eyes flicker nervously to the side, but you can’t escape. Not even if you tried.

Jungkook’s smile deepens—dark, knowing, dangerous. He leans in just enough for you to feel the press of his body against yours, the icy chill seeping into your skin through the layers of your clothes. His red eyes gleam as if he’s enjoying your fear, yet there’s something else in them too—something ancient, something alive in a way nothing else is.

“You don’t know?” He muses, as if the answer were obvious. “Foolish of you, to wander into my lair without knowing the true name of the beast.” His voice is rich, dripping with the weight of centuries.

He steps back just enough to let you take him in—fully.

The cathedral’s dim, flickering light dances over him. The long, flowing black silk of his clothes clings to a body carved by time. Muscles shaped by centuries of power, eyes sharp and piercing, his jawline cut like it was made to be admired, worshipped. His hair falls like a dark wave around his face, catching the light with every slight movement. He’s perfect—impossibly perfect.

His smirk widens when he sees where your gaze lingers, reading your thoughts as clearly as if they were written on your skin.

“Ah…” He purrs softly, voice laced with quiet pride. “Centuries… and good blood, keeps this man young.” His old-world lilt stretches the words, making them sound like some twisted poetry. “And more than that, m’lady—alive.”

He steps closer again, his gaze locking onto yours like a spell, a chain. “I am Jungkook, or perhaps better known as Dracula. A name spoken with reverence and fear, passed down through your little human histories.”

His hand rises slowly, fingertips tracing the air between you as if caressing the invisible thread of connection that pulls you toward him. “I’ve walked these woods, these lands, far longer than your kind can dream. I’ve seen kingdoms rise, and I’ve seen them fall.”

The weight of his words settles on you. The way he speaks makes your blood run cold—and yet, there’s something else. You feel his presence seeping into your mind, erasing the fear, replacing it with a strange desire. His power wraps around you like a warm, suffocating blanket.

“Now…” His voice is a whisper, dangerous and intimate all at once. “You know my name. You’ve found your way into my world. Do you fear it, m’lady? Or will you let me show you just how good it can feel… to belong to me?”

Your voice barely comes out—thin, shaky, caught between fear and something you don’t dare name.

“So… you drink blood?” you ask, hesitant, eyes locked on his in the dark.

The change is instant.

Jungkook’s expression hardens, and for the first time, his fangs flash—long, pale, perfectly sculpted. Not bared in hunger, but in displeasure. A warning.

He steps closer.

“I do more than drink blood,” he says, his voice thick with contempt and pleasure. “I eat flesh. I fuck. I consume.”

Each word is spoken slowly, like a strike.

“I feel better than any man—human or fang—could dream of, m’lady.”

His accent wraps around the vulgarity like silk wrapped around a dagger, old-world elegance dragging filth into the divine.

“Why do you ask… my little sacrifice?” The last part is soft, cruelly affectionate.

His hand rises again, fingers cold as marble, and he rubs your neck—where his grip had been. You flinch. His thumb brushes over the skin, slow and possessive, until he finds it.

The bruise.

A smile curls at the edge of his mouth when he sees what he’s done—dark skin blooming beneath your throat like a mark of ownership. “Look what I’ve done,” he says, almost to himself. “So delicate. And already ruined.”

But there’s no apology. Just pride.

He leans in again, this time slower, mouth near your ear. “That bruise… is a promise, dear. Not of mercy. But of what’s to come.”

He grabs your arm—rough, possessive, his fingers like iron—and without another word, begins pulling you through the cathedral.

“Come, come now dear,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, his voice still soaked in that elegant, archaic lilt. “I need to get you bare.”

His tone is decisive, like it’s not up for discussion. You stumble after him, his grip unrelenting, as he moves with inhuman speed—gliding, dragging, commanding the very air around him.

He leads you toward the left, past the shadowed pews and crumbling altar, toward a tall, narrow door half-covered in ivy and candlelight. It groans open at his touch, revealing a steep staircase of cold stone spiraling downward.

The air grows denser as you descend. The light shifts—no longer candlelight, but something softer, more unnatural. You feel the past pressing in around you, walls breathing memory and death. And desire.

At the bottom, the stairs open into a chamber carved from ancient stone—thick and quiet, like the inside of a tomb.

But it’s not empty.

There, set against the far wall, lies a bed—massive, low, draped in red velvet so deep it looks black in the low light. Thick curtains hang from the stone arch behind it, spilling down like blood, their fabric old, regal, untouched by time. Golden rings at the top gleam faintly. It’s all wrong in its beauty—too perfect for something hidden underground. Too clean for something dead.

Jungkook doesn’t stop walking until he’s nearly at the foot of the bed. Then he turns, finally facing you again.

Not a speck of dust on him. Not a thread out of place. The silk of his shirt clings perfectly to his chest and arms, catching the low light like polished obsidian. His hair falls in soft, deliberate waves. His eyes—still glowing, still red—drag over you.

He looks more god than monster.

And that, somehow, is worse.

He tilts his head slightly. “Surprised?” he asks, voice low, amused. “You thought I’d be rotting? Filthy?” His mouth twitches at the corner, not a smile—a dare.

“I am not a beast.” His hand rises, slow and graceful, fingers curling like he’s beckoning you to kneel. “I am something older. I ruin beautifully.”

He steps closer again, hand brushing the side of your face, then your shoulder.

“And you, little thing… You’ve already started to feel like a good feast.”

You stand frozen—your back to the stone wall, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief. The air is too still, too thick. You can hear nothing but the echo of your own pulse and the faint shift of his silk clothes as he steps closer.

Jungkook watches you. No mercy in his eyes. Just hunger. And something darker—possession.

He licks his lips, slow and deliberate, tasting the air between you like it carries your soul on it. “Still frozen,” he murmurs, almost fondly. “Like prey.”

His fingers rise, brushing your collarbone lightly—tracing the line of your clothes. The cold of his touch sears into you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t tear.

He unwraps.

The first button gives under his fingers.

Then the second.

Then the third.

One by one.

He watches your face the whole time. Not your body. Your reaction.

“You’re not moving,” he says, lips curving into something wicked. “Not resisting. Not fleeing. And yet… your heart…” He presses his palm flat over your chest, right where it pounds. “So loud. So sweet.”

Another button undone. The fabric slips, exposing your shoulder.

“Let me show you something,” he whispers, stepping behind you now, his hands trailing the garment down your arms. “Your body may freeze in fear… but it answers me just the same.”

Your clothes fall to the floor in silence.

The cold air hits you. But it’s his gaze that burns.

He circles you once, slow, eyes devouring every inch with the patience of a creature who has waited.

“You wear mortality like a veil,” he murmurs. “But I see through it.”

He leans in, breath skimming your shoulder, lips brushing just beneath your ear.

“And tonight, I claim what’s beneath.”

Jungkook doesn’t rush.

He could—he’s strong enough to tear you open like paper—but instead he savors this. You. Your helplessness. The silence in your throat. The tremble in your breath.

His fingers graze down your spine, featherlight. Then up again. Just skin to skin, slow enough to feel your shiver roll through his touch. His body is so close behind you, and yet not quite touching—just heatless presence, taunting.

“You’re soft,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet. “Too soft for a place like this.”

His hand curves around your hip. Squeezes. Possessive. Filthy.

“I can feel the blood moving in you… thick and warm,” he whispers against your neck, not quite kissing you, just hovering. “Like honey in a glass jar. Slow. Sweet. Desperate to spill.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s low. Cruel. And somehow, even that is sensual.

“You’re trembling like a virgin,” he growls, his mouth so close now that you can feel his lips shape the words against your skin. “Is that it, little lamb? No man’s touched you right? Or are you just not used to being touched by hell, himself?”

His fingers glide across your stomach, then back down, then circle up again just beneath your chest, skimming everything he knows will make you squirm. “You humans are so fragile. So quick to break. And yet…”

He cups your jaw, turning your face toward him. Those red eyes blaze—burning through your soul.

“You walked into my cathedral like you wanted to be ruined.”

Then he leans in, lips just barely brushing your ear, voice dropping into a rasp.

“Tell me,” he growls, tongue flicking against your earlobe, “when I take you—do I rip you apart slow… or do I make you scream fast enough to echo off every holy wall in this tomb?”

“Please,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out. “Just… don’t make it painful.”

Your voice cracks like something inside you has finally given up the fight. No resistance. No denial. Just raw, trembling surrender. You weren’t pleading for mercy—you knew better. There was no tomorrow for someone in your place. Only tonight. Only him.

Jungkook stills behind you.

Then you hear it.

A laugh—quiet, low, amused, the sound of a predator entertained by how easily the prey gave in.

“Oh… my sweet little dove,” he breathes, voice soaked in mockery. “You beg so easily. It’s almost… disappointing.”

His hand slides around your waist again, this time lower, fingers spreading against the base of your stomach as he presses himself to your back. You can feel the hunger in his body now. All that cold, coiled tension.

“You think I’d hurt you?” he croons, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “No, no, no. You’ve misunderstood me, m’lady.”

His fingers drift upward again, ghosting under your chest. “I don’t hurt blood I intend to drink.”

Then his hand wraps lightly around your throat from behind—not choking, just holding, like he wants to feel every swallow, every panic-breath, every heartbeat thudding against his palm.

“I’m a vampire,” he purrs, voice thick with that ancient, formal lilt. “And blood is… precious to us. Sacred. Especially blood like yours.”

He moves, slow and deliberate, his lips dragging along your jaw. “And to me, it gives life. Power. Desire.”

He presses a kiss—cold and lingering—just beneath your ear.

“So be good, little thing,” he whispers darkly. “And maybe… just maybe I’ll think about sparing you.”

Then his tongue flicks out, tasting the throb in your pulse, and he hums with approval.

“But hell, you make it hard. You’re so warm. And you tremble like you want to be taken.”

He steps around to face you now, hand still at your throat, eyes glowing like coals.

“I could drink you slow. Lick every drop. Fuck the life out of you until there’s none left to scream with. But if you’re very good…” he smirks, cocking his head, “I might just leave enough for you to crawl out of here.”

Jungkook stands in front of you, towering—every inch of him hunger made flesh. His hand slips from your throat slowly, fingers dragging down the center of your chest as he steps back, just enough to look at you fully.

“You look like you’re praying,” he says, voice low and wicked, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, then slowly—so slowly—down your bare form. “But prayers don’t reach this place anymore. Only I do.”

His hands rise to his chest, undoing the first clasp of his black silk shirt. The sound of it—quiet, deliberate, metallic—clicks through the cold air.

“I’ve worn this for decades,” he says, slipping the garment open inch by inch. “Silk from dead kingdoms. Threads soaked in centuries. And now, finally… I get to take it off for you.”

The shirt falls from his shoulders, revealing muscle that’s carved, defined, impossible. His body looks like it was forged by hunger, by time, by blood itself. Cold to the eye, but burning in its power.

You can’t look away.

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, look at you,” he breathes, stepping closer again. “So quiet. So compliant now. Like you want to be undressed by a monster.”

He slides a hand over his own stomach, then down to the laces at his trousers, voice thick and condescending. “Shall I keep going? Shall I show you what eternity builds, little sacrifice?”

Then he leans in, chest brushing yours, his hand snaking back around to cup your throat again.

“I could make you beg,” he whispers darkly. “Make you crawl. Make you thank me for what I take. Because you will feel it—my mouth, my cock, my fangs. Every inch of me that’s been starved of warmth.”

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes glowing redder now, closer to the edge.

“But you asked so nicely… ‘Just don’t make it painful.’”

His lips ghost yours, not kissing—just hovering. “I don’t do pain, little one.”

His tongue flicks out, wetting his bottom lip.

“I do ruin.”

He doesn’t touch you again just yet. He stares.

Like you’re already naked beneath him. Like the very sight of you is making restraint a sin he’s barely managing to keep.

You see it now—clearly—what hides behind his control. The want. The ache. It’s written in the way his chest rises heavier with each breath, how his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding back from grabbing you and devouring.

His body is a marvel—impossibly sculpted, broad, powerful, every line and muscle more defined than anything you’ve ever seen. Not human. Not fair. It’s the kind of physique forged in deathless time, by hunger and discipline, by a need to be feared and worshipped.

And you can feel it. All of it. The cold radiating off his skin like a warning, but his eyes burn so hot it makes your insides twist.

He tilts his head just a little, eyes dragging over your bare form again, more lingering this time. More predatory.

“You feel it, don’t you,” he murmurs, voice dropping like honey turned to poison. “This… pull.”

He steps close again—so close his chest nearly brushes yours, but not quite. Just heatless air, just tension, just his stare raking over you.

“Your skin tightens. Your thighs press together. You can’t tell if it’s fear or want. That’s what I do, little mortal. I blur the lines until you’re begging me to cross them.”

His hand lifts, brushing your cheek—tenderly. Like a lover.

But then his thumb grazes your bottom lip.

Pushes in just enough for you to taste his skin.

And he smiles. Feral. Gorgeous. Dangerous.

“You want to know what I taste like, don’t you,” he whispers, voice curling around your spine like smoke. “You want to know if eternity’s hunger can be sweet.”

He leans in again—mouth near yours, breath just as cold and slow as the moonlight.

“But you’ll have to ask me for it, darling. Nicely. On your knees, maybe. Like the offering you are.”

Jungkook’s smirk widens at the thought, a wicked glimmer in his eyes as he steps back just enough to leave space between your bodies—but not enough to let you escape the intensity of his gaze.

His voice drops even lower now, huskier, a perfect blend of authority and temptation.

“You’ve been so quiet,” he taunts, eyes flicking down to your trembling form, that soft breath escaping your lips. “Almost as if you’re afraid to say what you really want. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”

He takes a slow step forward, his movements deliberate, measured—like a predator playing with its prey before the final strike.

“I could make this easy on you, sweetheart. Just give in. Let me feel your blood—your body—just as I want to,” he whispers, running the back of his fingers lightly along your arm, then up to your shoulder, feeling the goosebumps rise under his touch. “But I won’t. Not yet.”

He steps closer, so close you can feel his body heat even through the air that separates you. His lips are so near, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet.

“You want to know if eternity tastes sweet?” His voice is a velvet rasp. “Then show me how much you’re willing to beg for it. I’m not giving you anything you haven’t earned, little one.”

A finger trails down your throat, softly. Light. The same path his thumb took earlier, but now it feels like a promise. “I could ravage you, take what I want, and leave you crumpled beneath me. Or…”

His voice turns teasing again, amusement lacing every syllable as he circles you, one hand trailing over your waist, the other hovering just behind you. “Or, I could have you begging me. Wanting me so badly you forget what it was like to resist. But no more of this silence, hmm?”

He finally brushes his lips against your ear, a teasing whisper. “Tell me, sweet thing, what do you want from me? If you’re not too afraid to say it.”

His hand presses at your lower back, guiding you toward the bed but stopping before you make contact. “Say it.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, laced with trembling hope. “It’ll be quick?”

For a moment, Jungkook stills—but only just. His hands remain where they are, exploring you slowly, confidently, like he already owns every inch of you. His thumb grazes your hip. His palm brushes over your stomach. Every movement is deliberate. Possessive.

Then his tongue swipes across the bottom of his lip, wetting it as he studies your face—your fear, your question, your fragile hope.

And he smirks.

That old, cruel, regal smirk of someone who’s lived too long and learned too much about how to break humans open without even trying.

“In truth?” he drawls, voice thick with that timeless accent, low and curling like smoke around your ears. “*I want to. I do. But this blood—your blood…”

He leans in, nose brushing just below your jaw, where your pulse flutters wild beneath your skin.

“…it feels like it needs to simmer some more.”

He says it like a chef eyeing a perfect meal not yet ready to be touched. Like you are a delicacy he intends to savor, not rush.

“You taste scared still. Raw. Untouched. And I do so hate to dine on something undercooked.”

His teeth graze your throat—not biting, not yet. Just a scrape, a warning, a promise.

“Let it warm. Let it plead with want.”

And his hands roam again, slower this time, but firmer. He’s not rushing you. He’s ripening you.

Jungkook pulls back just slightly, just enough to let your skin cool from his breath—and then he straightens.

His hands go to the waistband of his trousers, slow, like he’s showing you something sacred. His eyes never leave yours, even as his fingers tug the dark fabric down over those impossible hips, revealing the sharp V-line, the lean strength, the unholy beauty carved into every inch of him.

“Your eyes say you want to run,” he says quietly, tilting his head just enough for the candlelight to catch in his eyes, still glowing, still blood-moon red. “But your body? Your body says it wants to be wrecked.”

He steps out of the pooled fabric and brushes a hand through his long, dark hair, pushing it back from his face. It falls in elegant waves, wild yet regal. Ancient. Timeless. His chest rises and falls slow and steady, like he’s controlling every breath, every urge—barely.

Then he kneels.

Not like a servant.

Like a beast preparing to feed.

His mouth hovers just above the place where your shoulder meets your neck, his breath trailing cold over the skin. You feel every molecule of air between his lips and your body.

His fingers press lightly to your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the graze of his abs against your stomach. He groans—low, guttural, as if you make him hungry in ways even blood doesn’t.

“Mmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating into your throat. “You smell like trembling prayers and heat. I could keep you like this for hours… just trembling. Just ripening.”

He presses the flat of his tongue to the curve of your neck and drags it slowly along your pulse, tasting without taking.

And when he reaches just below your ear, he whispers, voice thick and devastating:

“You want me to bite, don’t you.”

His fingers flex against your waist again.

“Not yet. I want you sweet. I want you crying from it.”

He looks up from your neck, hair falling in front of one eye, and smirks.

“Be patient for me, little offering. The best things bleed slow.”

He feels it the moment your breath hitches—that quiet, involuntary quake that betrays you. The way your hips shift just slightly, your thighs pressing together as if instinct is fighting reason. And that’s what he wants. Not permission. Proof.

Jungkook smiles against your neck, a cruel, hungry thing. “There it is,” he murmurs, his voice warm and wicked like a silk noose. “Your body’s finally learning who it belongs to.”

His hands slide down your back, slow and sure, fingertips grazing your skin like he’s mapping it. Worshipping it. Claiming it.

“You’re softening for me,” he continues, voice like a spell. “Your skin’s getting warmer, your blood sweeter. I can smell it.”

He brushes his lips along the side of your throat, not kissing—tasting—his nose buried in the hollow just below your jaw as he inhales deeply.

“Mm,” he groans low. “There’s nothing like this. Nothing.”

His hands tighten suddenly at your hips, grinding you slowly into his body so you can feel just how hard he is—how much he’s holding back.

“See what you do to me?” he growls. “I’ve lived through centuries of blood and war and pleasure and death, and still—still—nothing tempts me like humans trembling in my hands.”

His voice slips into a rougher edge, a possessive sound under the smooth accent. “Do you know how hard it is for me not to ruin you right here? Against this cold stone, with your hands clawing at me and your voice begging me to stop?”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, hair tousled, lips stained from kissing your pulse.

“But you’re not ready yet. Not quite. I want more from you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, just barely pressing through what little fabric remains, teasing the heat gathering there.

“You’re starting to ache, aren’t you?” he whispers, licking his lower lip again. “You’re so close. Just say it. Say you want me.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath cool but ragged now, his control splintering with every second.

“Beg for it, and I might make you feel something no human ever has before.”

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper—fragile, cracked, but still there.

“Feel something no human ever has…?” you echo, wide-eyed, chest rising fast under his grip. “What do you mean?”

That grin. That cruel, ancient grin crawls across his face like a shadow catching flame. His laugh is low—genuine, dangerous, and devastating. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek as he speaks, his voice like black velvet dipped in sin.

“Oh, darling…” he murmurs, letting the syllables drag. “You poor, breakable thing.”

His fingers—those long, death-born fingers—trace your throat, featherlight at first, then firmer, circling your pulse like a predator playing with its food.

“I mean ecstasy,” he breathes, lips near your ear now. “I mean your soul clawing at the edge of your body because it cannot hold the pleasure I’ll wring out of you.”

His hands clamp harder now—one gripping your waist possessively, the other wrapping around your throat with exact, careful pressure.

“I’ll make you feel your own heartbeat through your spine,” he growls, dragging his fangs—still hidden, still threatening—along your skin. “I’ll tear pleasure through your nerves until you forget your name and remember only mine.”

His voice drops lower, eyes boring into yours with something feral underneath—something old.

“Have you ever been devoured, little mortal?” His thumb brushes your lips now, rough from restraint. “Because that’s what I do. I ruin. I consume. I take. And I make you thank me for it.”

He presses against you again, harder, undeniable now. He’s not just toying—he’s holding back a storm.

“Say the word,” he whispers, teeth flashing, “and I’ll give you something no man of flesh could ever dream of giving.”

He growls low when he feels you kiss him back with trembling need—your lips parting, your breath catching, your body no longer resisting but responding. That’s all the permission he needs.

In one swift, fluid motion, he grabs you tighter, lips never leaving yours as he starts moving—walking you backward, his body guiding yours with the kind of force only centuries of power could carry.

Each step has weight, dominance. His hand on the back of your neck, his other still gripping your waist like he owns it—because in his mind, he does now.

Your knees bump against velvet.

And then you’re falling—gasping as your back hits the bed, soft but firm beneath you. Before you can fully take in the crimson sheets, the old stone around you, the massive crimson curtains drawn like a stage, he follows—he pounces.

He pins you beneath him, a knee between your thighs, one hand on your chest, his body everywhere. He’s not just on top—he’s above, towering over you, hair falling forward in waves of inky black as he stares down at you, red eyes lit with unholy want.

“Look at you,” he purrs, hips slowly grinding into yours, just enough for you to feel how hard he is. “Flat on your back in my bed… trembling like a sacrifice and breathing like a lover.”

He leans down, mouth brushing your cheek, voice hot in your ear. “You taste divine. And now you feel darker.”

His hands roam again, slower this time—savoring. He explores like you’re something forbidden he waited too long to claim. His lips return to your throat, but this time they linger longer, more possessive, more dangerous.

You feel his restraint fraying. The way he grips your thighs tighter. The way his hips press into yours with more urgency. The way his teeth scrape along your skin like he’s tasting the line between worship and devour.

“You’re sworn by me now,” he whispers against your neck.

His breath grows heavier, colder—like mist curling through the cathedral air. You feel it right before his mouth dips, slowly, hungrily, down to your neck. His lips press to your skin first, soft—almost reverent.

Then he licks.

A long, deliberate drag of his tongue up the curve of your throat, stopping just below your jaw. He groans, low and deep in his chest, like the taste itself stokes something feral in him.

“Mmm… this…” he murmurs, lips brushing where your pulse pounds. “This is what I starve for. Warm, willing… sinful. The church cries at this grave from your innocence”

His tongue flicks out again, slower now, tracing the fluttering vein like he’s savoring the anticipation more than the blood itself. You feel his breath against the damp trail, his nose brushing your skin as he inhales you like perfume.

Then he stills—mouth hovering.

“You’re trembling,” he says with a smirk, voice low and velvet-dark. “I adore when they tremble. It means the body knows before the mind ever does.”

His hand grips your jaw, tilting your head to bare more of your neck. “And your body, darling… it’s already spoken for.”

He sees it in your eyes—the fear mixed with something else. The way you look at him, desperate, vulnerable. It drives him mad

“Jungkook, please….be gentle.. W-with me”

He watches your pleading gaze and feels the weight of your words settle deep into him. Gentle.

His lips curve into a wicked smile, dark and full of satisfaction. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he feels your pulse race beneath his lips. His fangs graze your skin, teasing, not yet sinking in, but just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

With an almost lazy drawl, he murmurs, his voice thick with that haunting, old-world accent, “Gentle, you say?”

He laughs softly, the sound dark and rich with amusement. “Ah, my sweet little prey…” he continues, his fingers trailing down your side, brushing along the curves of your body as though he’s deciding what he wants to claim next. “You beg for gentleness now, but let me assure you, this… this will be nothing like what you’ve known.”

His hand moves to your throat again, just resting there, teasing the line of pressure, but not enough to cut off your breath completely. “You may beg, but I don’t listen to pleas. I give what I want, what you need… whether you ask for it or not.”

He dips his head lower, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, torturous kisses. Then he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes, his red gaze sharp, full of dark promise.

“Do you want gentleness, my little sacrifice?” he asks, voice like honey and fire. “Or do you want me to take you as only a creature like me can?”

The soft whine escapes you before you can stop it, a sound that drives him wild. He hears it—the surrender, the pull toward what you know he can give, whether you’ve fully accepted it or not. It’s a plea, but it’s something more: a signal that you want him to take control, to claim you in a way only he can.

He smiles, a dark, twisted thing that shows how much he enjoys it—the power, the control, the fact that you’re his now. His eyes flare with intensity, glowing like crimson embers as he watches you, feeling your surrender in every inch of your body.

“Good little one,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, and that single phrase makes a shiver run through you. “You wanted me to take you, didn’t you?”

His grip tightens around your throat just enough to make you dizzy, but not enough to stop your breath entirely. He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear, his voice now a dark promise.

“I’ll show you what it means to be the property of me,” he purrs, his other hand sliding down to your waist, his fingers pressing against your skin like he’s marking you.

His body presses against yours, hard and possessive, a reminder that there’s no escape now. His lips hover over your neck once more, his fangs just barely brushing the skin, teasing, knowing that the moment he sinks them in, everything changes.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, almost a growl now. “It’ll be a charm you’ll never forget. No turning back from this.”

He moves then, not slow, not gentle—he’s on top of you, fully in control, and you feel his power in every movement, every shift of his body against yours. He drags his mouth down your neck with purpose, his hunger a force of nature that overpowers everything.

The tension is unbearable as he stops just at the edge, his lips lingering for a moment. “Ready, little one?” he whispers, and you know it’s no longer a question. It’s a command.

And with that, he takes.

He doesn’t give you time to breathe, doesn’t give you time to think. His lips crash against yours, rough, demanding, as though he’s trying to brand you with the intensity of his kiss. His teeth graze your lip, sharp and hungry, and his grip on you tightens—like he’s trying to consume you in every way, pulling you deeper into the kiss, deeper into his world.

You can taste him, feel his need, his dominance pushing against your own. His body presses into yours, his chest hard and unforgiving, and you can feel every inch of him. There’s no tenderness here, no gentleness, just raw desire and a thirst that goes beyond flesh, beyond the physical.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth without warning, exploring, claiming. The kiss is possessive, and you can feel the burn of his desire in the way he holds you, in the way he forces you to kiss him back—his hunger is undeniable, and it’s all-consuming.

His breath comes in short bursts against your lips as he pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low, almost a growl. “You’re almost ready.”

He doesn’t hold back any longer. His kiss turns feral, deeper, more urgent. His hands grip you harder, pulling you against him with force, as if trying to fuse your bodies together, as if he can’t get close enough. The passion burns hotter, darker, and you can feel the raw power of him, his hunger spilling over into everything.

His lips are bruising, teeth scraping against your mouth as he forces you to meet him, to give yourself to him. He doesn’t wait for you to respond; he takes what he wants, relentless and unyielding.

His hands move to your hair, gripping it tightly, yanking your head back to expose your throat, your skin quivering under the roughness. His breath is harsh against your neck, and then his mouth follows, leaving fiery trails of possessive kisses, harder than before.

You can feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, every movement sharp and precise, as if each second with you is a moment he’s claiming, marking, owning.

“my blood,” he mutters into your skin, voice dark and thick with lust. “All for me.”

His hands trail lower, exploring, rough and unrelenting, as though he’s making sure you’re fully his—body, mind, and soul. He pushes harder, deeper into the kiss, like he’s sealing his claim with every touch, every bite, every motion.

He grips your legs, effortlessly pulling them around his waist, and you feel the hard press of his body against yours, each inch of him a reminder of how much control he has. The heat between you is suffocating, overwhelming, and his body fits against yours with the precision of someone who has claimed you before, knows you intimately even in this moment of newness.

With a low growl, he pushes himself closer, forcing you back into the bed beneath you as his mouth trails down your neck once more, his hands roaming over your body with possessive urgency. You feel the shift, his dominance evident in the way he moves—never asking, never hesitating, only taking what he wants.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice thick with hunger and a touch of mockery. “Feel that?,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “The way your body melts into mine? You’re already mine, in every way. I don’t need your consent to make it real. You’ll beg for me by the end of this.”

His fingers dig into your skin, pulling you even closer as he starts moving against you, the pressure building with every movement, the friction between you undeniable. He’s rough, raw—like he’s marking you, staking his claim in the most primal way possible.

“Tell me you enjoy this,” he demands, voice rough with desire, as his hands explore your body. “Tell me you want me to take you, to make you mine.”

His grip tightens on your legs, pulling you even closer as you resist, and that only seems to ignite something darker in him. The frustration in his eyes flickers, but it’s soon replaced by something far more dangerous. He leans in, his breath hot and sharp against your ear as he feels your resistance, his voice low and almost predatory.

“You don’t want this?” he growls, a twisted amusement in his tone, “How foolish.” His hand moves to your throat again, a steady pressure that reminds you just who is in control.

“Humans,” he sneers, the disgust evident in his voice. “You think you have choices. You think you have the power to deny me. But look at you, so fragile, so… easily shattered.”

His fangs glint as he smiles down at you, the cruel smirk only growing. “You’re all the same, aren’t you? Weak, fragile little creatures with your false sense of power.” His eyes gleam with red-hot fury. “You think you can play hard to get, but you’ll give in, just like the rest of them.”

With each degrading word, he leans into you, pushing his body harder against yours, forcing you to feel the weight of his hunger, his need. “I’ve lived for centuries,” he continues, his voice like dark silk, “and you’re nothing but a fleeting moment in my world. I’ll take what I want from you, no matter how much you resist.”

He moves against you, grinding his body into yours, his hands possessively roaming your skin as he forces you to submit. The pressure builds, and every movement from him reinforces the idea that he’s beyond your control, beyond any human limits.

“So go ahead,” he mocks, his voice dripping with disdain. “Keep pretending like you can deny me. But you’ll beg soon enough. Every human does.”

And with that, he presses harder, relentless, the heat of his body suffocating, his words cutting through the space between you like a blade.

His hands shift, fingers becoming claws, digging into your skin with an almost primal force. You can feel the raw pressure as he grips you harder, as though he’s trying to hold you in place, to mark you, to claim you in the most physical way possible. His body presses harder against yours, almost crushing, as his mouth hovers just above your neck, sensing the rapid pulse beneath your skin, like a heartbeat calling out to him.

He inhales deeply, the sound of his breath ragged with hunger. “So weak… so fragile,” he mutters, his lips barely brushing the skin of your neck as he feels your pulse racing beneath his fingertips, beneath his mouth. The tension between you is electric, and you can almost feel the hunger in his eyes as they flicker with dark delight.

He leans in, his fangs scraping lightly against the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath cool against the heat of your body. “I can feel it,” he whispers, his voice a low growl, “the way your pulse quickens for me… How it speeds up when you’re fearsome.”

His claws dig deeper into your skin, and you feel a sharp sting as the sensation of being marked, being taken, surges through you. He’s toying with you, enjoying the control, the way you shiver under his touch. His mouth moves to your neck, his teeth grazing just beneath your pulse, teasing, testing.

“Don’t pretend,” he continues, voice dark, dangerous. “I know you want this… even if you’re too proud to admit it. You’ll break just like the rest of them.”

His grip tightens once more, his claws drawing a small line of blood, and as your pulse throbs beneath his touch, he presses harder against you, feeling the tremor of fear and desire in every movement you make.

He slides one strong arm beneath your back, wrapping it around you possessively, dragging your body flush against his cold, unyielding frame. The motion is swift and commanding—there’s no space left between you now. His muscles flex as he holds you there, his grip tight, as if daring you to even try and pull away.

Then his mouth is back on your skin—hot despite the chill of his body—pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, then your throat. Each kiss lingers, lips dragging slow and deliberate, as if he’s memorizing the taste of your skin. He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your neck like a low warning of the hunger still brewing beneath the surface.

“Mm,” he hums, voice thick with dark pleasure, “your blood sings to me. Your fear, your heat… it’s intoxicating.”

He kisses higher now, along your jaw, then back down again, tracing your pulse with the tip of his tongue. You feel the sharp edge of his fangs graze you, but he doesn’t bite—he savors. Teases.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs between kisses, breath cool but voice molten, “what you’re making me exude.”

His arm tightens around you, and with every slow, hungry kiss, he pulls you deeper into the nightmare you can’t seem to wake from—one where danger and desire blur until you’re not sure which one you’re responding to.

His hand slides downward, slow and deliberate, the drag of his fingers over your skin sending a fresh wave of heat through your already tense body. His touch is cold, but his intent burns—every movement practiced, possessive, and deeply aware of what it does to you.

He keeps his arm wrapped tight around your back, holding you to him like he’s staking a claim, while his other hand moves lower, over the curve of your hip, then between your legs. He rubs there—firm, unrelenting—watching your reaction with a cruel kind of satisfaction.

“There it is,” he murmurs, eyes locked on you, voice smooth and dripping with hunger. “You feel that? That’s your body betraying you, sweet thing. So wet, so ready, and I’ve barely grazed you.”

His fingers work in slow, purposeful circles, teasing, pressing harder every time you flinch or gasp. The red in his eyes glows brighter, and his mouth finds your neck again, kissing rougher now, more desperate.

“This is mine,” he growls, rubbing harder, his words sinking deep into your skin like a curse. “Every drop of you—blood, body, breath—it all belongs to me now.”

His palm presses deeper, and he slows—just enough to feel it. The blood rushing through you. The throb of your pulse beneath his touch. His fingers drag lazily over the heat between your legs, and he exhales a low, predatory sound, eyes flicking down to watch the way your body reacts to every teasing motion of his hand.

“Ah…” he breathes, voice dipping into something darker, almost reverent. “I can feel it. Your blood… it’s moving faster now. Right here.” His fingertips graze just enough to make you twitch, and he grins as if he’s discovered something sacred.

He watches his own hand as he continues to rub you, the muscles in his jaw flexing with restraint. “So warm,” he mutters, mostly to himself, though his eyes flick up to yours. “So human. So helpless.” He presses a little harder now, drawing a slow, deliberate circle that pulls another reaction from you—one he drinks in like it’s just as sweet as blood.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, licking his lower lip again, watching the way you squirm. “Do you hate it? Or is it the fear that makes it feel this good?” His finger slips lower—barely a stroke, barely a touch—but enough to make your body jolt.

“Such a sensitive little thing,” he coos mockingly. “I could play here for hours. Just watch you fall apart on my fingers… until you beg me to take the rest.”

He dips lower again, dragging the wetness over your skin, staring at it with dark fascination, as if you were bleeding for him already. “You’re ripe,” he says, voice rough now. “And I haven’t even sunk my teeth in yet.”

His thumb slides into place with unsettling precision, pressing into that sensitive spot with slow, calculated pressure. He watches your body jolt beneath him, the way your hips shift involuntarily—like instinct has taken over and your body is answering him before your mind can catch up.

“There we are,” he mutters, eyes narrowing with wicked satisfaction. “You move so sweet when you think you’re not supposed to.”

He circles with his thumb, firm and unrelenting, and your legs tense beneath his body. He doesn’t stop—if anything, he sharpens the pressure, dragging out the movement just to feel every twitch, every gasp.

“That little shake,” he murmurs, leaning in so his breath brushes your cheek, “it’s the blood. Rushing everywhere. It sings to me when you’re like this.”

Your breath stutters, hips shifting again despite yourself, and he lets out a dark chuckle.

“Keep moving,” he says lowly, voice like velvet laced with threat. “Let me feel what desperation does to you. Show me where it aches.”

He presses harder, thumb slow and firm, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open—exposed. His red eyes lock on your face, drinking in your helplessness like it’s the finest wine he’s ever tasted.

“So effortless,” he whispers. “So very, very easy to unravel.”

His touch turns torturously slow—he’s no longer just teasing, he’s studying you. Reading the way your body pulses under his hand, how every twitch, every breath, every tremor answers him. His thumb glides through your slickness with practiced cruelty, circling, pressing, retreating—only to return harder when you shift or whimper.

“There,” he murmurs, almost to himself, watching the rhythm of your blood surge beneath your skin. “I can feel it building. Like a tide under your flesh. You’re trying so hard to hold still, aren’t you?” His voice is thick with hunger, low and reverent, like he’s savoring something sacred.

He leans closer, lips barely grazing your cheek as he works you with measured intent. “Every beat. Every drop. The blood rushes down when you’re like this… soaked and wanting.” His tongue drags lazily along the edge of your jaw. “You don’t even realize what you’re giving me.”

Then he slows again—too much—just when you start to chase his rhythm. His eyes flick to your hips, your thighs, how your body pushes toward his hand even now.

“You want more,” he says, smirking darkly. “Even if you’re afraid. Even if you should be running.”

His fingers slip lower, gathering everything your body’s given him, then he brings them back to your clit—pressing, slow and unrelenting—his gaze never leaving your face.

“I could play with this flow all night,” he growls, voice sharp with lust. “Watch it flood, feel it heat, make it scream. You’re already bleeding desire for me, little thing. And I haven’t even bitten you yet.”

He feels it—your body swelling under his touch, the heat rising, blood rushing thick beneath the surface like it’s begging to be claimed. His thumb doesn’t stop, but his eyes darken further, pupils blown wide with want. His nostrils flare slightly, catching the scent of your arousal and the pulse pounding in your veins, and his lips part.

“Ah,” he exhales, voice catching on something primal. “You’re ripe now. I can feel your blood blooming under my hand… swelling just for me.”

His mouth dips lower, hovering over your skin, and he drags his tongue slowly across his bottom lip—then licks the corner of his mouth, tasting the air, savoring the heat radiating off you like it’s already on his tongue.

“It calls,” he says, voice trembling with restraint. “Your blood sings, your flesh swells… and I—” he cuts himself off with a groan, mouth finally descending to the place just below your jaw.

He doesn’t bite.

Not yet.

He kisses first—slow and heated—right where your pulse pounds the hardest, letting his tongue flick out to taste the salt of your skin, the heat, the life. His fangs graze but don’t pierce, teasing you like everything else.

“Let me taste your sweet nectar,” he growls, muffled against your neck. “Let me drink the ache you’re trying so hard to hide.”

And his hand doesn’t stop. His thumb keeps rubbing, circling, coaxing more of that need out of you—more blood, more heat, more helpless want—for him to swallow whole.

His hand stills for just a breath—then he shifts, sliding down with liquid grace, eyes never leaving yours. His mouth finds the place his thumb had worked so mercilessly, and then—

He replaces it.

Warm lips parting, tongue slow, deliberate—he presses his mouth to you like he’s worshipping, like he’s claiming.

His thumb, slick with you, lifts to his mouth. He slides it past his lips and sucks, slow and deep, tongue curling around it as his eyes flutter shut in something close to ecstasy.

“Mmm,” he hums, letting it slip free with a wet sound. “You taste like heat and life. And you’re swelling for me.”

Then he lowers again. This time—mouth wide, tongue flat—he licks the swollen ache of you with long, dragging strokes. No mercy. No hesitation.

“So warm,” he whispers against your folds. “So full of blood… I could stay here for hours. Lick until your pulse breaks against my mouth.”

He groans into you, tongue flicking, teasing, then circling with the same relentless rhythm his thumb once had. His fingers spread your thighs wider, holding you open as if you were an offering—something sacred to be devoured.

And he does.

Slow, then faster. Savoring every movement. Every taste. Every swell of blood under your skin.

“Keep giving it to me,” he growls into your cunt. “Let your blood pour for me, little one. I want to feel you fall apart—on my tongue.”

He pulls off slowly, leaving you trembling, your body yearning for more of the pleasure he had just given. His breath is heavy, sharp against your skin as he looks up at you, a dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. He lets his tongue flick out, licking his lips with satisfaction, eyes still locked on yours as he drinks in your every reaction.

“Patience,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “It’s not time yet.” His fingers trace along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, sending small jolts through you.

He moves up, placing a hand on your chest, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a teasing motion. “You’re almost there, aren’t you?” he muses. “So desperate for me to finish what I’ve started. But it’s not just the blood, is it?”

He leans closer, lips barely brushing your ear. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

His fangs flash briefly as he smirks, then pulls away just enough to look you over, eyes dark with desire and amusement. He seems to savor every moment of your hesitation, knowing how close you are to giving in completely.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low and teasing. “When I’m ready, I’ll give you all of me.”

He watches you with an almost predatory focus, his red eyes gleaming with dark amusement as you squirm beneath him. The way your body tenses and moves, desperate for him to continue, is an intoxicating sight. Each shift, each breath you take, only fuels his need.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. “Look at you, all squirming, trying to hold on.”

He leans closer, his body pressing against yours, but still, he holds back. His lips ghost over your neck, just enough to feel your pulse thrum beneath the surface, but not enough to bite. His hands move down your sides, gently caressing, but the slow, deliberate touch only seems to heighten the tension.

“You think you can take it, don’t you?” he teases, his voice rich with mocking pleasure. “But your body is betraying you.”

He watches as your body writhes beneath him, as if every inch of you is calling out for more, for the release he’s holding just out of reach. His eyes flicker to your face, drinking in your reactions, savoring the control he has over you, the way you’re teetering on the edge, unable to escape the pull of his presence.

“You want more,” he says softly, voice laced with amusement. “But you’re not quite ready yet.”

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin as he watches you squirm. His eyes, now darker with desire, flicker down to your body, his gaze almost possessive.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “Like the finest wine… a richness I can’t get enough of.”

He moves his hand to your thigh, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin, tracing slow circles. His lips graze your neck once again, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss before he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Every inch of you is perfection,” he continues, his tone smooth, as though he’s savoring the words just as much as he savored every drop of your blood. “The taste… it lingers in my mouth, intoxicating. I could keep going. I could take my time and let it all flow into me, filling me with you.”

His hand moves lower, brushing against you with delicate pressure, enjoying the way your body reacts, how it trembles beneath him. “You’re nothing like any human I’ve had,” he whispers, his voice growing darker with possessiveness. “Your blood… you’re almost made for me, little one.”

He pulls away slightly, eyes flickering with hunger. “You feel it too, don’t you? The pull. The way my mouth just craves you.”

He moves in close again, his lips pressing against yours with a mix of hunger and tenderness, as though tasting you again is the only thing that matters. His kiss deepens quickly, his tongue slipping past your lips with insistent pressure, as if he’s trying to draw out every drop of desire that he knows you’re hiding within. His mouth is insatiable, each kiss more demanding than the last, his hands gripping you tighter as he feels the blood flowing faster beneath your skin.

As his lips brush against yours, he pulls back just enough to murmur, “I need to feel it…” His breath is shallow, ragged, his eyes dark and heavy with hunger. “I want to taste your blood again, feel that pulse…”

Before you can respond, he kisses you again, but this time, his mouth moves down your neck, lips finding the tender skin where your pulse beats strong and fast. He lingers there for a moment, feeling the flow of blood just beneath the surface, his fangs grazing lightly against your skin as he teases, savoring the warmth of you.

“Mmm…,” he hums into your skin, a low sound of pleasure. “You feel it too, don’t you? The way your body just responds to me.”

His hand tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, the pressure building between you as he continues to kiss your neck, feeling the rapid flow of your blood with every passing second. The sensation seems to drive him mad, making his movements more urgent, more intense. He can’t get enough.

He pulls back slightly, his lips still brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of heat as he looks down at you with a wicked grin. His eyes burn with a dark amusement, watching the way you react, how your body trembles under his touch.

“You’re so easy,” he murmurs, voice dripping with teasing mockery. “So eager to give yourself to me, aren’t you?”

His fingers trace your jawline, then slide down to your throat, feeling the rapid pulse of your blood beneath his fingertips. He presses just hard enough to make you feel the pressure, but not enough to hurt, his touch taunting.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his voice low and sultry, “do you want me to take it? Do you want me to taste that blood of yours again? Or are you still playing the reluctant little thing?”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear as he nibbles lightly on the soft skin, savoring the way you flinch at his touch. “Don’t be shy now,” he chuckles darkly. “You can beg for it, if you want.”

He moves his hand lower again, brushing against your body, enjoying the way you flinch with each stroke, each movement of his fingers. His lips hover just over your neck, his fangs brushing against your skin as he waits, taunting, teasing—waiting for you to give in completely.

“I can make you beg, you know,” he growls softly. “All you have to do is ask.”

He kneels before you, his movements deliberate, his eyes dark with hunger and anticipation. His gaze locks onto yours, intense and possessive, as if he’s studying every inch of you, every breath you take. The air between you is thick, heavy with unspoken desire.

“You must taste me,” he says, his voice low and commanding, laced with the weight of centuries of power. “I only drink the strong blood, the blood that has been touched by desire, by fear, by surrender… like yours.” He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin, the intensity of his gaze never wavering.

His hands move to your waist, his touch gentle yet firm as he pulls you towards him, urging you to close the distance. “I have waited for this moment,” he continues, his voice a velvet growl. “To feel your lips on mine, to taste you, to make you part of me.”

The dark red of his eyes glows even more brightly as he watches you, waiting for you to respond. “Don’t be shy,” he whispers, his words dripping with dark promise. “I know you want it, want to feel me. To give yourself to me.”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing lightly against your skin, and his hands grip you tighter as if to remind you that there is no turning back now. His eyes are full of possession, and the desire to make you his runs deep in his veins.

“Taste me,” he says again, his voice now a growl, as he positions himself closer, ready to give you the dark pleasure he’s been promising. “Let me show you how a true vampire feeds.”

He helps you sit up with a firm yet gentle grip, his hands strong as they guide you, keeping you steady as your body trembles slightly. His touch is commanding, but there’s an odd tenderness to it, a contrast to the hunger in his eyes. The coldness of his skin brushes against you, sending a chill down your spine.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice low and deep, the accent heavy with authority. “Stay with me, don’t look away.”

He watches you closely, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light of the cathedral, a silent command for you to obey without words. His fingers trace the curve of your neck, feeling the pulse that races beneath your skin, sensing the tension in your body.

His lips curl into a small smirk, and for a moment, he just watches, enjoying the way you react to his every move. “Do not be afraid, dear,” he says softly, his voice almost soothing, though his words carry a darker edge. “I won’t hurt you… unless you beg for it.”

With a flick of his wrist, he gently tilts your head to one side, exposing the delicate skin of your neck. His eyes flicker down to the vulnerable spot, and he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your skin.

“You must taste me,” he repeats, his voice now barely more than a whisper, a command wrapped in velvet. “You are spoken by me now. Let me show you what it means to belong to one.”

His lips brush against your neck again, but this time, you can feel the sharpness of his fangs just beneath the surface, poised to take what he desires. He waits, letting the tension hang in the air as his fingers tighten slightly around your waist, pulling you even closer, as though drawing you into his world completely.

He helps you sit on your knees, his hands firm on your shoulders as he guides you into position. His touch is almost possessive, but there’s a strange gentleness in the way he arranges you, as if he’s taking care to make sure you are perfectly placed for what’s about to come. The tension in the air thickens, and his eyes never leave yours, watching you with an intensity that feels both consuming and dangerous.

“Kneel for me,” he whispers, the words dripping with command, but there’s an undeniable edge of satisfaction in his voice as he adjusts you. “Show me you understand your place.”

The way he speaks, the power in his tone, makes your heart race. It’s as if every movement, every word from him is meant to remind you that you’re in his domain now. You feel exposed, vulnerable, yet something about the way he holds you in place makes you feel as though you can’t look away, even if you wanted to.

His fingers brush lightly over your skin as he straightens, his gaze flickering down your body before meeting your eyes again. “Such a beautiful thing, ready to be claimed,” he murmurs, his voice almost a growl.

He steps closer, the air between you thick with the tension of what’s to come. His eyes glimmer with hunger as he watches you, waiting, almost daring you to make the next move. His body is poised and ready, but it’s clear that he’s enjoying the control, the slow build-up as you remain in this position for him.

“You are mine now,” he whispers, leaning in close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin, a mixture of cold and desire. “And I will feed, whether you like it or not.”

His words are chilling, yet they stir something deep within you, a mixture of fear and yearning, as he waits for you to react.

As he moves behind you, his presence surrounds you like a dark shadow, and the coolness of his body presses against your back, sending a shiver down your spine. His hands come to rest on your shoulders, gripping you firmly, but the pressure is steady and possessive, guiding you without a word.

“Stay still,” he commands, his voice low and thick with intent. You can feel his breath against your neck, the heat of his body radiating through his cold, silky clothes, adding a strange layer of tension to the air. His fingertips trace slowly down your back, sending a wave of chills over your skin as his touch lingers just a little too long.

He moves closer, his body pressing against yours as he shifts behind you, his chest brushing your back with a quiet hunger. The coldness of his skin contrasts sharply with the warmth of yours, intensifying the feeling of helplessness as he takes full control. His lips hover near your ear, and he whispers softly, “I want you to understand what it means to kneel before me. To be mine.”

His hands glide down your body, firm and possessive, feeling every curve, every inch of your skin, until they settle on your waist. You can feel the growing tension, the hunger radiating from him as his fingers flex, pulling you closer to him. Every inch of his touch is calculated, meant to remind you of your vulnerability.

“I don’t share,” he murmurs darkly, his voice thick with desire, as he leans forward just enough to let his lips ghost over the back of your neck, the cold tip of his fangs brushing against your skin. “You will learn what it means to serve me, and in return… you will taste what few have ever had the privilege to taste.”

His words are heavy with promise and threat, and the pressure against your back builds as he moves, shifting closer, until you feel his breath just behind your ear. There’s no escaping him now—he has you exactly where he wants you.

He presses his hips harder against you, letting the rigid heat of his arousal grind into the base of your spine, and leans his mouth close to your ear with a low, breathless chuckle.

“You feel that?” he murmurs darkly, voice thick with wicked satisfaction. “That’s craving.”

A cruel, slow smirk curves his lips as he lets the words linger, savoring the way your body tenses beneath his. His palm drifts up your front, fingers splayed, feeling your heartbeat thrum wildly against his cold touch.

“Not just for blood,” he adds, dragging his lips along your neck, voice softer now but laced with danger, “—for heat. For flesh. For every frightened little sound you make when I touch you here.”

His hand slides lower again, teasing, possessive, his breath hot against your ear as he drinks in the scent of fear, compliance, and something deeper—something you try not to admit is growing between your legs.

“That’s the blood moon, sweetheart,” he whispers, teeth grazing your throat. “It makes demons honest.”

With a slow, deliberate shift of his body, his hips grind forward—just enough to make you gasp—and he catches the sound with a wicked grin. His hands clamp down on your hips, firm and unrelenting, thumbs digging into your skin as if marking you as his.

“Ah—there it is,” he murmurs with dark amusement, voice curling like smoke around your ear. “A slip… how telling.”

He rocks against you again, this time slower, more intentional, letting the tension tighten like a noose. His smirk deepens as he watches your body respond, helpless against the cold, dominant weight behind you.

“You pretend to resist,” he continues, fingers tightening with every word, “but your body—it sings to me. A siren’s call… from prey who wants to be caught.”

His breath ghosts down the nape of your neck as he leans in closer, lips brushing your skin, never quite biting, always teasing. And with a growl low in his throat, he murmurs:

“Let’s see how long you can keep pretending.”

Your fingers grip the sheets tightly, knuckles white with the tension that runs through your body. The fabric crinkles beneath your grasp, but it’s no match for the force of his body pressing against you. You can feel every inch of him—his chest against your back, his rigid form, the heat of his presence that fills every space around you.

His movements are slow, deliberate, each one calculated to leave you trembling. As he presses further into you, his hips grinding against yours, the full weight of him sinks deeper, and you can’t help but feel him—whole—inside your every breath, your every thought. The tension between you is unbearable, the heat of your pulse mingling with the coldness of his body, a strange contrast that makes your skin prickle with both fear and need.

“Do you feel that?” he breathes against your ear, voice thick with desire, as his hands grip your hips, pulling you back against him. “Every inch of me? You’re so perfectly made for this…”

His breath fans across your neck as he moves with slow, agonizing precision, letting you feel the full force of him—his hunger, his dominance. And yet, in that moment, you’re trapped between fear and something else, something that pulls you deeper into his web.

“Inch by inch, m’lady,” he purrs, his voice dark and commanding, laced with an insidious pleasure as he continues to move against you. His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your body with a practiced precision, pulling you closer, inch by inch, until every nerve in your body is on fire, straining against the unrelenting tension.

His breath is hot against the back of your neck, each exhale a whisper of danger and desire. You can feel the weight of his body pressing down on you, the hardness of him digging into you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

“Every movement, every shift, a reminder of your place,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your skin as his hands move with possessive certainty. “Every inch of you calls to me.”

His smirk is sharp as he watches you squirm beneath him, his eyes darkened with lust and hunger. Every part of you is at his mercy, and he’s taking his time, savoring the effect he has on you, enjoying the way your body reacts to each push, each slow, deliberate motion.

“Slow and steady,” he muses with a dark chuckle, his voice smooth, almost melodic in its teasing. “Keeps the heart going, they say.” His gaze never leaves you, dark eyes tracking the way you lean forward into the bed, as though instinctively seeking support, seeking something to anchor yourself as he slowly, deliberately pushes you further into a place where resistance is no longer an option.

His hand grips your hip, steadying you, guiding you in the way he wants, the weight of his body pressing you deeper into the bed with each deliberate move. He enjoys the way your breath catches, the way you surrender to his pace, the way your pulse flutters and races beneath his touch.

“Your heart… so precious,” he continues, the words slipping from his lips like a slow, intoxicating poison. “I can feel it speeding up, eager for more. Every inch, every movement, you give yourself over to me.”

He leans forward, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear. “Slow… steady… but never still,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust and dominance. “That’s how I’ll keep you… until I’ve taken every drop of you, m’lady.”

He lets out a soft, almost satisfied growl, the sound vibrating against your skin as he continues to move, his hands still gripping your hips, guiding you into his every motion. “Heart so heavy,” he murmurs, his voice laced with a twisted mix of affection and amusement.

You can feel the weight of his words settle over you, the way your heart seems to echo his every breath, every shift of his body. He knows the power he holds over you now—your pulse is his to command, and he’s making you feel every beat, every thud that resonates through your chest.

“So full of life,” he continues, the heat in his voice growing darker. “But I can hear it, feel it… it’s heavy with desire. And fear.” His thumb presses harder into your pulse, watching you, feeling how your body trembles, caught in the pull of his dominance.

“Such a delicious contradiction,” he purrs. “Your heart races for me, even as you try to resist.”

The words hang in the air, thick with the promise of what’s to come as he continues to hold you in place, the tension building with each slow, purposeful thrust. His control over you is absolute—your heartbeat, your fear, your desire… everything he can feel, he owns.

He picks up his pace, the sound of his movements echoing in the quiet room as he listens to the rapid, frantic rhythm of your heart working beneath him. His sharp eyes remain locked on your body, sensing every change, every shift in your pulse. It’s like he can hear it—the desperate beating, the tension in the air, and the way your body responds to his every movement.

“I can hear it,” he whispers, his voice low and dark, filled with a twisted satisfaction. “Your heart… working so hard for me.” His hands tighten on your hips, guiding you, pressing you deeper into the bed with each deep, forceful push. His breath quickens, his fangs almost visible as he feels the heat radiating off your skin, the sweet anticipation building in the air.

“Such a beautiful sound,” he murmurs, smirking at the frantic beat. “I can feel it… racing for me. It calls to me.” He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, his voice almost a growl. “I can make it stop. Or I can make it burn. Your choice, m’lady.”

His movements become more urgent now, the sound of his hands gripping the sheets beneath you as he moves faster, the pace increasing with every beat of your heart. He’s intoxicated by the way you respond, by the way your pulse spikes, and he’s not going to stop until he’s made you feel every ounce of that tension, every ounce of the control he has over you.

His fangs, sharp and unmistakable, glint in the dim light as he becomes rougher. The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable, a dark, primal desire as he feels the rhythm of your heartbeat quickening beneath him. Every thrust, every movement, is meant to break through your resistance, to claim you fully, as his.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he growls, the sound thick with lust, the air thickening with his dominance. His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he presses deeper, harder, each thrust deliberate and punishing.

The harsh, unmistakable slide of his body against yours matches the ferocity of his breath—slow, deliberate, but every bit as powerful as the hunger in his gaze. “Your blood, your pulse… everything about you calls to me,” he murmurs, voice hushed but intense, each word dragging out like a promise of something far darker.

His fangs graze your skin, teasing at the edges of your neck, tasting the air that swirls between you both, and his breath quickens, caught in the frenzy of his need. “I could sink my teeth in right now,” he hisses, voice raw, “but I want you to beg for it.”

His movements grow rougher, more demanding, as if he’s marking you with every inch, claiming your body as his own, pulling you deeper into the frenzy.

“Please, just drink it” you plea, words slipping out like curses under your breath.

He pulls back slightly, his lips slick with your blood, a twisted smirk curling on his face as he licks his tongue across them. “Mm… that’s gratifying blood,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with satisfaction. The words hang in the air, each one dripping with dark pleasure.

He watches you, his eyes dark, red, and full of hunger, as though savoring every drop that remains. The hunger is still there, but it’s mixed with something more—something dangerous and possessive. “I told you,” he continues, his voice soft but loaded with meaning, “it’s the strongest blood that keeps me going.”

His hand moves to trace the curve of your body, his touch lingering, almost possessive, as he watches the way your body responds to him. “You’re a rare find,” he whispers, his fingers brushing your skin, feeling the pulse beneath. “And I’ll be sure to savor you in every way.”

His gaze lingers on your form, his lips still tasting the remnants of your blood. There’s an eerie calmness in his presence now, the hunger still there, but now coupled with the satisfaction of having claimed you.

He smirks darkly, his eyes narrowing as he watches your body, the way it moves beneath him, the way your reactions come so effortlessly. “So easy to satisfy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His hips roll slowly against yours, his gaze fixed on the way your body responds to each movement, as if savoring the power he has over you.

His hands trail over your skin, feeling the way your breath hitches, how every small touch, every motion, makes you shudder. “I could do this forever,” he whispers, his smirk widening as he watches you, the pleasure he’s giving you almost as intoxicating as the blood he’s taken.

The tension builds again, slow and deliberate, as his control over your body deepens. The slow pace, the teasing rhythm, it’s all part of the game for him—a game he’s winning with ease.

He looks down at you with a dark, satisfied smirk, his voice laced with twisted amusement as he murmurs, “Humans feel promising.” The words are almost a revelation to him, a reminder of just how easily your body responds to him, how effortlessly he can command pleasure from you.

His hands trace the contours of your body, each touch deliberate, measuring the way you react, the way your pulse quickens, and the warmth of your skin beneath his cold touch. “So delicate,” he continues, his voice soft but tinged with a dark edge. “So responsive… It’s almost a gift.”

His hips shift slightly, the rhythm slow but unyielding, as he continues to savor your every reaction, his smirk deepening as he watches you. You’re a plaything, something to be enjoyed, and he’s in no rush.

He picks up the pace, his movements becoming more deliberate and forceful, as he feels the tension in your body rise. His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you closer to him as he begins to thrust with a stronger rhythm. His eyes never leave you, watching every small reaction, every slight change in your expression as you start to tremble beneath him.

“You’re so delicate,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, as he continues to move in and out of you with a deep, unrelenting rhythm. “So easy to claim, to break down…”

His breathing becomes heavier, and he leans down to bite at your neck again, feeling the warmth of your skin against his lips, savoring the intimacy and the power that comes with having you completely at his mercy. The hunger that had simmered before now flares up, and he becomes more relentless, a sense of urgency building as he moves faster, his body pressing hard against yours.

“Mm, hm… You make the crows flock,” he groans, throwing his head back with a low, wicked laugh, voice soaked in pleasure and mockery.

Outside, the wind howls faintly through the cracked stained glass, and somewhere in the distance, the eerie cry of crows cuts the silence—drawn to the blood moon, to the scent of heat and sin that clings to the cathedral air.

Jungkook’s muscles tighten as he snaps his hips harder, head still tilted back, his throat exposed in a rare moment of wild abandon. “They smell the death of innocence,” he purrs, lowering his gaze back to you with glowing red eyes. “And they know I’m feeding well tonight.”

His pace is ravenous now, primal, his cold skin blazing with heat from the friction and the thrill of it. The crows were just a warning—the real danger was right here, inside you, possessing you inch by inch.

A guttural growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating through your body as Jungkook slams deeper into you. The sound is raw—half pleasure, half hunger—as if holding back some ancient beast just barely chained beneath his skin.

“Fuck,” he hisses between clenched teeth, the moan that follows low and drawn out, dragged from his throat as your body clenches around him. His breath comes harder now, colder against your skin, sharp fangs glinting just beneath his parted lips.

“You feel…” he pants, voice rasping as he leans over you, the sound almost broken by lust, “divine.”

Another growl escapes him, louder, closer to a snarl—his control fraying. His nails bite into your hips as he rolls them into you, deeper, harder, more unrestrained, chasing that edge like it’s his last breath. The cathedral groans around you, as if it too bears witness to something unholy.

His lips brush your ear, voice thick with dark amusement and desire as he growls through a twisted grin,

“In the very heart of divine art… thou soundeth like the devil herself.”

With that, he drives into you harder, rougher, the force of it stealing the breath from your lungs. His body presses close—unrelenting, heavy with hunger—as his hands roam your trembling form, every touch a claim, every thrust a punishment.

“Blasphemous, yet beautiful,” he murmurs, fangs flashing. “A sound fit not for prayer, but for sin.”

Jungkook’s head tilts back again, a guttural moan spilling from his throat—hungry, elated, almost worshipful.

“Gods above, I do love it…,” he growls, hips slamming harder, his voice thick with heat and ruin. “Give me more. Cry louder for thy devil.”

His grip bruises as he pulls you back against him, body trembling from the force of his desire. His mouth lingers by your ear, breath cold and ragged as he speaks low and wicked:

“Let them hear what thou truly art—mine, ruined, taken… made for this.”

And he thrusts again, deeper, faster—every movement dragging you closer to surrender, every sound you make only fueling his madness. His hunger was far from sated—he wanted all of you. Over and over

He slams in—deep, unforgiving—bottoming out with a force that makes the air leave your lungs. The sound that rips from his chest is part growl, part moan, dark and guttural.

“Fuck—yes,” he snarls, his voice tangled in that strange mix of eras—half modern hunger, half gothic reverence. “Tight little thing… takin’ me like it’s thy sole purpose.”

His eyes flicker, glowing red beneath damp lashes as he grins down at you, breathless but relentless.

“So deep now, little lamb… ‘tis not sin if thou wert made for it.”

And with that, he rolls his hips again—slow first, then snapping forward harder, slamming into the end of you like he’s trying to brand it. Like he wants to ruin you for anything but him. Forever.

His head snaps back, hair wild around his face, and a raw, feral scream tears from his throat—ragged, echoing off the cathedral walls like a beast unleashed.

“AH—fuck, yes!” he roars, voice cracking with the force of it, a brutal mix of ecstasy and madness. The sound is ancient, primal, something that doesn’t belong in this world.

He looks down at you, eyes glowing, chest heaving. “You… you were made for this,” he hisses through his teeth, pounding into you so hard the stone beneath the bed groans. “Mine—by blood, by bone, by every cursed thing that keeps me breathing.”

And he screams again—louder this time, as if breaking, as if everything inside him has finally snapped.

Your scream rips through the cold air, sharp and broken—a cry torn from somewhere deep, where fear and pleasure blur into something primal. The cathedral seems to echo with it, as if the stones themselves remember what it means to be alive.

Jungkook shudders, body seizing for a breathless moment before a crooked, dark grin spreads across his face. His eyes blaze brighter—red like burning embers, lit with hunger and triumph.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice shaking, nearly laughing with twisted delight. “Scream for me—let the woods hear who owns you.”

He slams deeper, harder, using your cry as fuel, as proof, as possession. The sound drives him wild—like blood on his tongue, like music composed for monsters.

“Louder, darling—don’t go quiet now. The night’s still young, and so are we.”

His body tenses, muscles rippling under the pressure of his restraint slipping—every last ounce of control breaking away, replaced by pure, raw, unrelenting primal instinct. He growls low, deep in his throat, a sound that vibrates in your very bones as his thrusts become wild, uncontrolled, and ferocious.

“Taken gratefully” he snarls, his voice raw, primal, and dripping with hunger. “Every scream, every moan, every drop of blood—I own it all.”

His fangs flash, sharp as daggers, and his grip on your body tightens—his hands bruising, pulling you impossibly close, as if he’s trying to merge you with him, consume you whole.

He doesn’t wait, doesn’t think. He moves with pure animalistic drive, his hips slamming into you with brutal force, like a beast ravaging its prey. His breath is ragged, almost frantic, as he loses himself entirely in the madness of the moment. His eyes are wide, red, and burning with an insatiable need.

“I’ll take it all—every inch of you,” he growls, voice turning into something feral, untamed, as if he’s no longer just Jungkook, but something ancient, something far darker.

His back arches, powerful and rigid, as if every muscle in his body is drawn taut, stretched to the breaking point. His head snaps back, the long strands of his hair falling over his shoulders like dark waves, revealing the full intensity of his face—eyes glowing, fangs bared, a primal snarl escaping his lips.

A guttural moan rips from his throat, raw and unfiltered, as his body pushes against you with unrelenting force. He moves deeper, harder, the intensity of the moment overwhelming both of you. His hands grip your hips like he’s trying to fuse you to him, hold you in place as his pace becomes erratic, desperate, a frenzy of need and hunger.

“You’re mine… all of you,” he grinds out between heavy breaths, his voice low and dangerous, almost predatory. His chest heaves, and you can feel the sharpness of his breath against your skin as he continues, driven by an almost feral need.

Every inch of him moves with purpose, as if there’s nothing else in the world but this moment, this unrelenting need to claim you. His head tilts back further, eyes dark with desire, and he roars, the sound ripping through the silence of the cathedral, echoing off the stone walls.

“You were created for this,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as the rhythm between you becomes more frantic, more primal, like he’s fighting against something much darker inside. The sheer intensity of it all, of his body working against yours, fills the air with a heavy, almost suffocating tension.

And in that moment, he becomes something more than human—a beast, possessed by hunger, pleasure, and the need to dominate.

The sound of a heavy slam reverberates through the cathedral, shaking the stone beneath you. The force of it echoes, sharp and sudden, like a thunderclap in the stillness of the night. It’s as if the whole building trembles under the weight of Jungkook’s primal need.

His movements become more forceful, almost frantic, each thrust harder than the last, as if he’s lost all sense of restraint. His body presses into you with raw, unrelenting power—slamming against you in rhythm with the crescendo of his own hunger.

The sound of his body colliding with yours is drowned out only by his harsh breathing, the occasional growl escaping his lips as he loses himself deeper in the moment. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your skin as if to mark you, to claim you completely. His breath is heavy, ragged, a low, deep growl of satisfaction rumbling from his chest.

Every inch of him feels like a storm—unstoppable, wild, consuming. His back arches again, this time more violently, his head thrown back as his movements become more erratic. The cathedral, with its towering, silent presence, is filled with the echoes of his desire—the slam of his body, the growl of satisfaction, and the unmistakable sound of him claiming what’s his.

He curses under his breath, voice thick with frustration and hunger, barely coherent through the intensity of the moment. “So long… so damn long…” His tone is low, guttural, a raw rasp as his body pushes harder against yours. “You don’t know what you’ve awoken, do you?” he growls, lips brushing against your ear as he drives into you again, each movement a mix of desire and anger, like he’s releasing centuries of pent-up need.

“So long without…” He curses again, more to himself than to you, his body trembling, his fangs grazing your skin. “You, this… I’ve waited… I’ve needed this.”

The words are broken, rough, torn from him as his rhythm quickens, each thrust matching the fury of his emotions—longing, rage, and desperation mixing in a volatile storm. His eyes burn redder, darker, as if the very essence of his hunger is consuming him from the inside out.

“You were meant for this… you were meant for me,” he mutters in a near growl, still cursing as he feels the tension in his body build to something almost unbearable.

Your body slides down flat against the bed, every part of you feeling the heavy, intense weight of Jungkook’s body pressing against you. The force of his movements, relentless and powerful, leaves you breathless as you barely manage to keep yourself upright under him. His hands grip the bed around you, his knuckles white as he fights to hold onto control, though it’s clear he’s teetering on the edge of losing it.

“Stay with me,” he demands, his voice thick with desire, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. The pressure of his body pushing into yours is overwhelming, each motion sending a wave of heat through your veins, forcing you to feel every inch of him as he moves inside you.

His hips drive deeper, and you can feel him growl in pleasure, the sound vibrating through his chest as the slamming of his body against yours echoes like a punishing rhythm. His fangs scrape against your skin, and the coldness of his touch contrasts sharply with the heat building between you. His red eyes burn with an almost predatory gleam, and the primal need in him is now impossible to ignore.

You can feel every inch of his hunger, his rage, and his desire mixing together in a volatile, almost desperate frenzy as he goes faster, harder. His body trembles with the effort to keep control, but he’s slipping, losing himself in the moment, in the sheer pleasure of having you beneath him, claiming you in the only way he knows how.

He stops suddenly, his body still against yours, panting heavily, as though struggling to catch his breath. His chest rises and falls rapidly, the tension in his muscles taut, every inch of him shaking with the exertion. His eyes, glowing red, never leave you as he leans down again, lips brushing against your neck. You can feel the heat of his breath, the coldness of his fangs, and the predatory need that still pulses through him.

He gently touches your pulse, feeling it race beneath the skin, before he sinks his fangs into your neck with unbridled hunger. The sensation is sharp, sending a shock of cold pleasure down your spine as he drinks deeply, his hands gripping you tighter, pulling you closer as if to claim every drop of your blood.

He groans into your skin, the sound a mix of pleasure and satisfaction, his fangs brushing your pulse as he drinks, enjoying the taste. He pauses, pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you with a twisted, dark grin playing on his lips. Then, he leans in again, almost reverently, to drink even more, his thirst insatiable.

The sensation of him feeding, of his mouth on your neck, is a blur of pleasure and pain, sharp and intoxicating. His hands roam over your body again, feeling the way you react to him, and he growls in satisfaction, deepening his hold on you. He’s lost, only thinking of the blood and the feeling of power that comes with it.

“So sweet,” he murmurs into your skin, his voice low and rough, as he continues to drink, savoring each drop, as if he’s tasted nothing like it in centuries.

His fangs sink deeper into your neck, his voice low and dripping with a mix of satisfaction and dark amusement. He pulls back slightly, still feeling the thrum of your pulse beneath his lips, and whispers, “I may have been cast to hell, but heaven must still pity me to bring a body like this into my home.”

His words are as cold and contemptuous as the rest of him, but they carry a strange reverence, as though he’s claiming you not just for himself, but as something almost divine—a gift, a prize. His red eyes lock onto yours, full of unfiltered lust and pride as he sees you, breathing shallowly beneath him, completely at his mercy.

The room around you seems to pulse with his hunger, his desire, as he shifts his weight, grinding against you just slightly, reminding you of his strength and the control he holds over your body. His words are a reminder of the twisted world he lives in, and the way he sees you—both a temptation and a conquest.

His hands claw at your body, marking you, making sure you feel the full weight of his presence, while his lips press against your neck once again. The cold of his fangs contrasts with the heat of his breath, making every part of you keenly aware of just how much he wants you.

“Such a lovely thing,” he mutters, lips barely brushing your skin. “I would have made you mine, even if heaven had denied me.” His tongue flicks against the wound he’s left, savoring the taste, before he moves back to drink once more, his eyes never leaving yours, as though daring you to move, to escape, to fight.

But you know, somewhere deep inside, that escape is impossible.

He presses his lips to your back, the coldness of his mouth sending a shiver down your spine. His hands, firm and unyielding, glide along the curve of your body as he takes in the sight of you—broken and enthralled, caught in the web of his control. His eyes, glowing with an eerie red intensity, trace every movement you make, watching you with hunger and satisfaction.

As you remain frozen beneath him, his voice comes low, almost a whisper, but full of dark promise. “I could make you immortal, mortal.” His lips graze your skin again, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. “Your blood and body—an offering to hell itself.”

His words drip like molten honey, dark and heavy, making the offer feel tempting and terrifying at once. The thought of eternity with him, bound to him, devoured by him and yet kept alive in his twisted version of immortality is almost more than you can bear. He feels the tremor in your body as you process his words, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Would you like that, my little sacrifice?” he breathes, his teeth just barely grazing your shoulder. “To live forever, not as you are, but as mine. The blood of the damned coursing through your veins, forever feeding me.”

He pauses, his hands trailing possessively across your body, waiting for you to speak, to make your decision. “You would never age, never die,” he continues, “but you would never be free either. You would be bound to me, your very soul mine.”

His lips hover near your ear, his words slow and deliberate, full of dark affection. “All for me.”

You let out a soft huff, your chest rising as your breath shudders beneath him—and he stills, grinning against your skin like the devil sealing a pact.

“With blood sweet as that… full like that,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust and ancient power, “the blood moon above us, and this sacred ground beneath?” His tongue traces the line of your spine, slow, reverent. “A cathedral… abandoned by God but not by me.”

He presses himself deeper against you, his hips aligned, his breath heavy. “All I’d need—” he growls low, like thunder rumbling in a cave, “—is to release.” His hand wraps tightly around your side, holding you still as if claiming dominion. “And I could make… or happen… my sacrifice.”

A beat. Then his voice drops lower, almost intimate, “You, spread beneath me. Blood ripe. Altar warm. I could open the gates of hell right here with what’s inside you.”

His fangs flash, barely held back. His body tense with restraint.

“Shall I, my little lamb?” he taunts, “Shall I summon eternity with your ruin?”

He pulls out slowly, almost reverently, before guiding your body onto your back. The velvet sheets beneath you contrasts sharply with the searing heat left behind on your skin. His red eyes rake over your form like a wolf savoring its prize, and he smirks, fangs just barely showing as he hovers above you.

“Thankfully you’re arousing,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement and something darker, “I don’t need to throw your body out like the others.”

His hand glides down your side, fingers brushing your waist, your hip, your thigh—claiming.

“Pretty face,” he murmurs, leaning close to your cheek. “Curvy body…” his palm spreads over your stomach. “And heat… warm as the sun.”

He exhales a low breath against your neck, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. “It’s almost poetic. The sun never touches me—yet here you are. Burning under me like it never left.”

You look up at him—wide-eyed, lips parted, your breath shallow. There’s no hatred in your stare. No screaming. No fighting. Just… mercy.

That makes him pause.

His smirk twitches, falters for a beat.

“Mercy?” he scoffs, voice low and venom-laced. “After what I’ve done to you?”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re an unsolvable riddle. His hand tightens on your waist—not cruel, but possessive. There’s a war in his eyes now. Hunger. Guilt. Obsession.

“You pathetic, radiant little thing.” His voice dips, words trembling with a mad kind of reverence. “Even now… even ruined, used, bitten… you pity me?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor. Just something ancient cracking in his chest.

“You’re worse than the priests who blessed this ruin before I slaughtered them. They didn’t beg. They didn’t look at me like I could be saved.” He leans closer, lips brushing your temple, a whisper full of decay and longing:

“You don’t know what you’ve done… mercy is a curse to something like me.”

He stays still.

Too still.

His chest rises, but it’s shallow—controlled, unnatural, like he’s holding back something monstrous from slipping through the cracks.

His eyes trace your face again, slow, devouring. He doesn’t blink.

Then—

“You shouldn’t have looked at me like that,” he says, voice hollow, like it’s coming from a memory instead of the man in front of you. “Not with mercy. Not like her.”

His hand lifts, fingers trembling as they brush a lock of hair from your cheek. He lingers there, cold skin pressing into your warmth like he wants to feel alive again.

“They all begged. They all wept. She didn’t.”

A strange smile twists his lips, wrong and wistful, as if he’s seeing someone else through your face.

“She said I was damned. But she loved me anyway. She said I was still a man.”

His smile cracks—gone, shattered. A breath bursts from him like a sob strangled in iron.

“Then she ran.”

His nails dig into the sheets by your head. His eyes are wild now—too red, too empty.

“I drank her dry.”

The confession hangs in the air, cold and heavy, like a noose.

He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice drops to a whisper, raw, shaking with something unholy:

“You don’t understand what it does to a man to be worshipped and feared all at once. To be kissed… and called a monster in the same breath. To be touched… and still alone.”

He grabs your wrist, guiding it to his chest.

“Feel that?” he whispers. “Nothing. Not a heartbeat. Not a soul. You pity this?”

His smile returns—warped, glass-sharp.

“Maybe you’re sicker than I am.”

His shadow swallows the candlelight as he looms over you, body tense, breath still despite the heat rolling off him in waves. His eyes—bright, blood-red—pin you in place like a predator circling the last trembling heartbeat of its prey.

He doesn’t touch you yet. He just watches.

“Let’s see,” he murmurs, voice low and crackling like fire behind stone. “If you break like the rest. Or if you’re made to belong to me.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, restrained. Barely.

He leans in—slow, a ghost of movement—and his nose brushes yours. You feel the air stir as he breathes in your fear, your heat, your confusion, like it’s a scent he knows how to read.

“You’re shaking, little lamb. And yet…” His eyes flick down, lingering too long. “Your body hasn’t run. What does that say about you?”

One hand presses down beside your head. The other hovers near your throat—not touching, just threatening.

“Are you the victim here?” he hums, smile sharp as his fangs. “Or something darker pretending to be soft?”

He tilts his head, watching for your reaction. Watching for the crack.

“Answer me. Speak. Or I’ll decide what you are for you.”

The silence clings to the air like incense—thick, sacred, unbroken. Your lips part, but no sound escapes. Only breath, shaky and shallow. You stare up at him, wide-eyed, refusing to speak, refusing to give him what he wants—whatever that is.

His face doesn’t move. But something shifts.

The pressure changes.

His pupils dilate, swallowing the red for just a breath, and then it snaps back—brighter, angrier, hungrier.

“Silent?” he whispers, as though the word offends him. His palm finally lands on your throat—not squeezing, just laying there, cold and commanding. “Defiance in the form of nothing. Cowardice disguised as quiet. Or perhaps…”

He leans closer, mouth by your ear.

”…you’re begging in the only way you know how.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you again. His thumb strokes your jaw with a cold kind of tenderness that makes your skin crawl—and burn.

“You’re unraveling. Bit by bit. I like it.” He grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll either shatter… or you’ll become. And either way, you’re mine now, aren’t you?”

The candles flicker as the room tightens around your shared silence. He lowers himself slowly, until your foreheads touch.

“One more moment,” he says, teeth flashing beneath his breath, “and you won’t remember who you were before me.”

His lips crash into yours—rough, devouring, like he’s sealing something ancient with your breath. His hips grind forward, hard and slow, pressing into the cradle of yours with unbearable weight. There’s no patience in the way he moves, only intent. Possession. Hunger that’s tasted the edge of madness and decided it liked the flavor.

His hand curls around your jaw as he kisses you deeper, thumb brushing your cheek like a mockery of tenderness. The cold of him seeps into your skin, but his pressure—his need—is hot, overwhelming, primal.

“You’ll stay silent now?” he growls into your mouth, lips still grazing yours. “Even when I press like this?”

He rolls his hips again, slower this time, deliberate. Cruel. Testing.

Your breath catches—still no words. Just the helpless arch of your body, the shudder in your chest, and the silent surrender in your eyes. You give in, not with sound, but with everything else. Your silence screams, louder than any plea.

Jungkook growls low and feral, the sound vibrating from deep in his chest as he slams his hips harder against yours. The restraint in him finally snaps.

“That’s it,” he snarls, eyes glowing like dying embers ready to reignite. “You submit without a sound. How utterly divine.”

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head, his body pressed flush against yours. “You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you? Driving me mad. Mad with your quiet… with your blood… with your keeping.”

The bed groans beneath the force of him, his pace unrelenting now, teeth bared just over your throat—danger trembling on the edge.

His voice is low, filled with dark promise as he speaks against your skin, the words sinking deep into your senses, twisting your mind as much as his body does. His grip tightens, his hold unyielding as he pushes into you, inch by inch, until you can feel every breath, every shift of muscle.

“Like an offering, a true one,” he mutters, the words vibrating against your skin as he continues. “I shall use it all, then. Your blood, your body, your soul. You shall be immortal. Bound to me, forever.”

He shifts again, a brutal push that makes your body strain, your pulse racing in spite of the silence. There’s no room for retreat now, just the weight of his dominance, the inevitability of what he’s making you become. His eyes—those deep red pools—burn into yours, watching as he claims you fully, watching the surrender written all over your face.

His breath hisses out, sharp, as he moves with renewed intent. Each thrust is slow, deliberate, designed to break you down. “You’ll never escape me now,” he growls. “Not when I’ve tasted what you are… what you could be. Immortal… a sacrifice and a queen in one.”

His lips brush your ear as he breathes against you. “Feel it, don’t you? Feel it all coursing through you… your blood… your soul… mine.”

The pace quickens again, ferocious in its finality, as if he’s determined to finish what he started, to bind you to him, to his dark desires.

No more silence—only the sound of his name in the air between you.

The words drip from his lips like venom, every syllable a reminder of the control he holds over you. His voice is smooth but cruel, taunting, almost as if he’s savoring the way you’re unraveling before him, piece by piece.

“That’s what a good offering does, M’lady,” he murmurs, the edges of his words sharp as he presses deeper. His gaze never leaves yours, dark and insistent, as if daring you to resist, daring you to break.

His body moves with calculated precision, the rhythm relentless, and each thrust forces you to feel the weight of his dominance, of what he’s taken from you and what he’s prepared to keep. “You belong to me now,” he whispers, his breath hot on your neck, his hands tracing the lines of your body with cruel intention. “Every bit of you… the blood, the soul, the heart… all of it, bound to me, to my hunger.”

The pressure builds in your chest, the weight of his presence pressing down on you as he takes, claiming you as if he already knows the inevitable conclusion. “A perfect sacrifice… so sweet, so willing… This is your fate now.”

His pace becomes more frantic, more urgent, his hands gripping you tightly as his body moves with a wild hunger, as if the very act of claiming you could give him more power, more control. “M’lady… there’s no turning back.”

He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, a low growl vibrating in his chest. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you closer as his body aligns with yours, feeling the heat, the tension, the weight of the moment. With a swift motion, he wraps his arm behind your back, anchoring you to him, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every movement as he presses against you.

“You are delicious,” he whispers in a voice thick with hunger. His lips brush your skin as he leans in, kissing the curve of your neck. The sensation of his teeth, his fangs barely grazing against your flesh, sends a shiver of both fear and desire through you. “And I will make sure you never forget the blood moon.”

The grip around your back tightens as he shifts, pulling you into him even more. His movements become more deliberate, as if savoring each moment, feeling the pulse of your heartbeat under his touch. His voice lowers, almost a purr, as he continues, “I’ve claimed you, body and soul. You’ll never be the same. You’ll never want to be human.”

The weight of his presence, the power he exudes, it’s suffocating, but in a way that makes it impossible to look away, to resist.

His name slips from your lips, soft and hesitant, and it makes him pause for a moment, his breath coming in slow, deliberate inhales. His red eyes flicker with something deeper, something more intense. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips hovering over the delicate skin of your neck, his fangs barely visible.

“You speak my name like that,” he murmurs, the words heavy with something unreadable, “it makes me wonder… if you’ve already accepted what you are to me.”

He leans down again, brushing his lips gently against the curve of your neck, trailing his kisses lower, as though savoring the moment, feeling the pulse beneath your skin. “You don’t know what you’ve started, m’lady.” His voice is thick, almost possessive, but there’s an edge of something darker, something that feels like an unspoken promise.

His hands slide to your sides, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours once more. The warmth of your skin against his coldness, the sharp contrast, makes him shiver with something primal. “Once you taste this life, you’ll never crave anything else.”

He rises slowly, towering above you now on his knees, his chest rising and falling with restrained hunger. The candlelight from the cathedral flickers across his bare torso—defined, pale, otherworldly—casting shadows that dance along the etched lines of muscle and collarbone. His dark hair falls partially over his face as he looks down at you, red eyes burning like coals beneath the veil.

“Look at you,” he breathes out, voice thick with indulgence, laced in that old, decaying elegance of another time. “Stretched below me like a relic waiting for worship… or ruin.”

He runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back, then places it on his own thigh, framing the image of control and tension. The way he holds himself—shoulders pulled back, spine straight, body coiled—tells you just how much he’s restraining. Not for your comfort, but for the ritual. For the power in waiting.

“We’ve not yet reached the peak of this hour, my offering,” he growls low, eyes scanning you. “Shall I show you what it means to be devoured by something eternal?”

He leans in, his breath hot at your ear as he begins to rock his hips—slow, deliberate, claiming each inch with the weight of centuries behind him. His voice coils around you, thick with that archaic cadence, as if spoken from a different age.

“Sun or moon… doesn’t matter to me, lamb,” he murmurs, a cruel smirk ghosting his lips. “You’ll burn the same under me. Be it light or shadow, you were made to be taken.”

Your eyes stay closed, but he watches your body respond—each breath, each twitch, each surrender of muscle. He keeps the pace maddening, not fast, not gentle—just punishing enough to remind you this was never going to be tender. This was ritual. Sacrifice. Hunger wrapped in silk.

His fingers dig into your thigh, his other hand braced near your ribs, feeling your heart beat faster with every rock of his hips.

His hand glides upward, slow and claiming, until his fingers find the swell between your thighs. Without hesitation, he begins to strum—methodical, almost cruel in precision. Every movement syncs with the roll of his hips, each touch designed to pull you deeper under.

“Tremble for me, little lamb,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, old, laced in something between a threat and worship. “Your body sings sweeter than any hymn I’ve heard in this cursed cathedral.”

His eyes burn red as he watches your reaction, fingers growing bolder, teasing the edge of your sanity with every flick, every grind.

You arch helplessly, breath catching in your throat—and he feels it, revels in it. His mouth lowers without pause, claiming the left nub between his lips like it was his birthright. Tongue circles, then sucks, slow and possessive, making your spine curve harder beneath him.

“Ah… still so responsive,” he growls, muffled by your skin. “Even after all this, you rise for me like the dead to their master.”

His hand doesn’t stop either—stroking lower, darker—while his fangs scrape gently across your tender flesh in warning and promise.

He keeps sucking—long, slow, relentless. His mouth latches harder, tongue swirling, pulling soft moans from you like confessions. Your nipple grows tight between his lips, and he groans against it, the sound low, reverent, wicked.

“M’lady, your body speaks sweeter truths than your tongue ever could,” he murmurs, before biting down just enough to make your breath hitch. He doesn’t stop. If anything, he feeds on your reaction—suckling harder, wetter, like he’s starving for the taste of you.

His hand spreads wider across your ribs, holding you in place as his mouth claims and consumes. Every flick, every pull, feels calculated—like worship twisted into torment.

He shifts, moving to the right with dark purpose, his thumb pressing harder against your other nipple, strumming it relentlessly. His mouth follows, trailing kisses and nips down to your skin, his movements urgent but controlled, as if savoring every ounce of reaction he pulls from you.

“So perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, eyes gleaming with an almost manic hunger. “Each part of you… such a sweet offering. How can you deny me?”

His thumb strums quicker, pushing you to the edge of sensation, teasing you with every subtle change, while his lips hover just over your skin, waiting for the next tremor to sweep through you. His hands, possessive and relentless, trace every curve, making sure you feel every ounce of him.

His voice is almost a hiss as he speaks, the words a mix of desire and disdain, his eyes burning with something primal. “Made for life these are, but cursed to death this is.” He strums lower, his hand dragging slowly across your body, down to where the tension builds in your core. The touch is electric, sending a shiver up your spine as he focuses on the rhythm, keeping you on the precipice of surrender.

His other hand slides down, gripping you tighter, his body leaning into yours, pressing with a force that leaves no space between you. “I will claim everything… and leave you nothing but the taste of me.” His voice is dark, thick with authority, as if he knows exactly how to unravel you, piece by piece.

He moves with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving your chest, watching each rise and fall of your breath. His gaze is hungry, yet controlled, as if savoring every second of the tension building between you. The air feels thick, heavy with his presence and the silent promises of what’s to come.

His hand moves to your waist, fingers tracing delicate patterns along your skin, teasing and leaving a trail of heat wherever he touches. “So delicate,” he mutters, his voice low, laced with a dangerous edge. The intensity in his eyes never wavers, his focus solely on you as he inches closer, making every movement feel like an eternity.

He shifts with sudden eagerness, his movements more urgent now, as if he’s been holding back for too long. His hands grip your body with a renewed intensity, pushing you closer, pulling you deeper into the moment. His breath is heavy against your skin, as if he can’t wait any longer, the primal hunger in his gaze flaring to life.

“I told you,” he breathes, “You make this unbearable, but oh—how sweet it feels.”

His pace quickens, the heat of his body pressing against yours as he loses himself in the rhythm, the hunger now consuming him fully. The once calculated and controlled nature of his touch gives way to something more desperate, more raw, as he takes what he desires, his body moving with a force that speaks of the centuries he’s waited for this very moment.

He leans over, his body still hovering above yours as his gaze drifts to the towering cathedral walls, the ancient stone structures casting long shadows in the dim light. The flickering of candles barely illuminates the cold, hard surfaces, giving the space an almost otherworldly feel. He inhales deeply, eyes narrowing as if he’s lost in the stillness of the space, caught between the centuries-old cathedral and the raw, primal need driving him.

“These walls,” he mutters, “They have seen more than any mortal could fathom. They bear witness to the blood of sacrifices, of souls entwined in ways even the heavens cannot understand.”

His voice lowers to a dark, haunting tone as his hand moves to your neck, his thumb grazing it lightly, feeling the pulse beneath your skin. His eyes darken as he locks onto your gaze once more, the hunger never fading.

“And now, you too are a part of this… legacy,” he adds, his voice almost a whisper, filled with a twisted satisfaction.

He looks down at the velvet sheets, the rich fabric pooling around you both, his grip tightening around you as his eyes burn with an intensity that could scorch the very air. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding as a low growl rumbles from his chest. The sight of the soft, luxurious sheets beneath you only seems to fuel the fire inside him, the contrast between the comfort of the fabric and the raw, brutal energy he exudes.

“This… this must be heaven! All of it!” he roars, the force of his voice echoing off the stone walls, making the cathedral feel even colder and more distant. His hands grip the sheets beneath you with enough force to tear them, the tension in his body palpable as he takes in the sight before him. “You think you’re the first to fall prey to this hunger?” His voice drips with venom, a twisted satisfaction in his tone. “This is the price of being chosen. You belong to me now.”

He leans forward, eyes flashing with possessiveness, his body pressing down on yours as the weight of his words hangs in the air, suffocating, all-encompassing.

The walls around you begin to warp, the once holy and ancient stone now tinted with a sickening red glow, as if the very cathedral itself was being consumed by the hunger he carries within. Jungkook’s breath quickens, his pupils dilating with a dark, insatiable need. The air thickens, as if the building itself is closing in on you, the weight of his presence overwhelming. His voice, now low and guttural, shakes with the intensity of what he’s feeling.

“Do you feel that?” he growls, his hand gripping your waist as he pulls you closer, his body practically vibrating with the force of his need. “The walls, the heat, the blood… everything is drenched in it. And you—” he pauses, his voice a rasp, thick with hunger, “you are the center of it all.”

His eyes flare with an almost supernatural fire, the red glow of the cathedral reflecting in his irises, transforming him into something inhuman, something ancient. Every inch of him seems to burn, his body pressed against yours with an almost frantic urgency. “I can taste it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, his voice vibrating with dark promise. “Your blood, your essence… it calls to me.”

With each passing second, the air grows heavier, the red glow intensifying, as if the entire cathedral is aligning with his desire, his hunger. “You belong to me now. In every way.” His words are both a promise and a threat, his hunger driving him forward, and there’s no turning back now.

His voice turns colder, the warmth of his hunger replaced by a chilling, almost detached tone. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression hardening, becoming more predatory.

“You think this is a gift?” His words hang in the air, sharp and devoid of mercy. “You’re wrong. This is not some offering of kindness. This is fate. And you’re trapped in it.”

You feel a cold shiver run down your spine, your stomach turning as the weight of his words sink in. His gaze doesn’t soften, his eyes colder than ice, and the intensity of his stare makes you feel small, like prey. His grip tightens, a reminder that you are no longer in control, that your fate has already been sealed.

“Your blood, your life… it’s not mine to cherish,” he continues, his tone flat, as if stating a fact. “It’s mine to take. To use.”

He lowers his voice even more, so low it almost vibrates through your bones. “And you? You’ll beg for it, because you won’t have a choice.”

There’s something deep and unsettling in his words, an overwhelming sense that whatever happens next, there’s no escape from this twisted fate he’s weaving. The room feels colder still, the air pressing down on you, and a sinking feeling takes hold in your stomach.

He pulls out, craving another sensation.

He helps you sit up, his hands firm but almost possessive as they guide you into position at the edge of the bed. The movement is deliberate, as though he’s ensuring you remain in his control, your body now fully exposed to his gaze.

Once you’re sitting, he steps in front of you, his figure towering over you, the darkness of the room accentuating the sharpness of his features. His eyes—still glowing with an unsettling intensity—pierce through you, as if reading you, studying every reaction, every breath you take.

There’s a quiet, heavy tension in the air as he doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he observes you, the silence between you both thick with unspoken meaning. His presence alone feels like an inescapable force.

Slowly, he leans forward, bringing his face close to yours, his breath warm against your skin as he speaks, his voice low and commanding:

“Do you feel it?” he asks, almost a whisper, though there’s no doubt that the question holds more weight than just a simple inquiry. His eyes flicker to your lips, and his smirk returns—this time colder, sharper, as if he’s savoring the control he has over the situation. “The hunger… the power… it’s mine, and you will understand that soon enough.”

He pulls back just enough to let you breathe, but the suffocating presence of his dominance remains. His hands hover near you, just out of reach, teasing you with the promise of contact but withholding it for now, letting the tension build.

“You’ll cum for me another night, tonights. My night,” he murmurs, almost to himself, the words carrying an unsettling certainty.

He guides your hand lower—slow, precise—until your palm rests against the thick muscle of his thigh. The heat of him seeps into your skin, and his hand doesn’t let go. Instead, he presses your hand harder against him, making you feel the tension coiled beneath the surface. His thigh is stone—taut, strong, every line carved from need and restraint.

“Feel that?” he says lowly, eyes half-lidded and watching you like prey. “That’s control. That’s patience. And both are running thin.”

He moves your hand slowly, dragging it upward along the hard line of his thigh, closer to where his desire pulses hotter, heavier. His breath catches as your fingers graze higher, and he smiles darkly—teeth just barely showing, the glint of something possessive in his gaze.

“If you’re going to touch me,” he mutters, voice edged with gravel and heat, “then touch me like you understand what I rule, sin, filth and death.”

His hand doesn’t leave yours. Instead, it folds over your fingers, guiding them with slow, deliberate pressure. You feel the weight of him under your palm, the way his breath shudders through his chest as your touch drags along the thick line of him—hard, hot, and pulsing with restraint that’s barely holding.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice deep and full of warning. “Nice and slow. Let it ache.”

He watches your face, red eyes glowing like embers in the dim light, feeding off every twitch of uncertainty, every hint of surrender. His grip tightens slightly, helping you stroke again—longer this time, the motion slick and obscene between your joined hands. His jaw tenses, hips subtly pushing into the rhythm you’re building together.

“You’re doing well, lamb,” he says, tone mock-gentle but laced with hunger. “But this isn’t mercy.”

His hand slips away from yours, slow and reverent, as if this moment deserves to be witnessed rather than controlled. He steps back half a pace, enough to let you work him alone, but close enough that his heat still coils around you like smoke. His eyes don’t leave your hand—not once. They’re dark and wild, glowing red, like he’s watching a sacred ritual unfold.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in awe and hunger. “Bare on your knees, hand wrapped around me like it’s your calling. Do you even realize what that looks like?”

He doesn’t need to answer—his expression says enough. His chest rises and falls heavily, each breath edged with restraint and lust. His thighs twitch under your touch. Still, he doesn’t move. He lets you do it. Lets you touch him like an offering laid at the altar, each stroke a kind of prayer. Your pace—hesitant at first—finds a rhythm, and he groans softly, head tipping back, throat exposed like he’s submitting in return.

“It’s devotion,” he growls, looking down at you again. “You worship without even knowing you do. That’s what I like. Not obedience—belief.”

His abs tighten, hips subtly rolling into your hand again before he forces himself still.

He grips your wrist, stopping your hand mid-motion, his eyes locking with yours—dark and commanding, yet intense with a predatory hunger that hasn’t faded. His touch is firm, possessive, like he’s claiming every inch of your attention.

“Not yet,” he growls, voice low and full of tension. “You think I’ll just let you have it all this easily? No. Not until I’ve had my fill.”

His grip tightens slightly as he leans forward, his breath hot against your skin, hovering near your ear.

“You’re mine to play with now. But you will wait.”

The way he speaks—it’s not just a command, it’s a warning. He’s controlling, testing, pushing your limits with every word, every movement. The air between you thickens, and despite his grip, the room feels alive with the unspoken tension that hums in his touch.

He lets go of your wrist but doesn’t move away. Instead, he watches you, measuring you, sensing how far he can push without breaking.

He glances down at himself, a smirk curling on his lips as he observes the effect his presence has on you. His gaze lingers for a moment, taking in the hard, undeniable evidence of his desire. The way his body tenses, every muscle drawn tight with anticipation, only adds to the power he exudes.

His eyes flick back up to meet yours, sharp and piercing. “Do you see it?” he asks, his voice dripping with dark amusement, a low rasp that carries weight.

He steps closer again, his movements deliberate, measured. His hand gently caresses your cheek, before trailing down to your neck, his fingers barely grazing your skin. He watches your reactions closely, as though reading each shift in your expression like an open book. “You’ve made this difficult, you know,” he murmurs, though the satisfaction in his voice is unmistakable.

As your fingers trace lightly across his abs, you feel the taut muscles beneath your touch, each movement a reminder of the power he holds. His body reacts to your fingers, a subtle tension in his jaw as his eyes follow your hand’s path. There’s a flicker of something dark, something possessive in his gaze.

He watches you with quiet intensity, the air between you charged, almost electric. His breath catches for a moment, but he doesn’t move, not yet. “Careful,” he says, his voice low, almost teasing, though there’s a dangerous edge to it. “Touch me like that again, and you might not want to stop.”

The words are a warning, but there’s something about the way he speaks—calm, controlled—that makes them feel like an invitation. His hand moves to your wrist, not pulling it away, but guiding it gently back to his body. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, an almost possessive gesture, before letting go.

He doesn’t say anything more, but his eyes, dark and calculating, linger on you, as though waiting for your next move.

Your fingers slip down to his waist, brushing along the firm, warm skin just above his hip bones. The ridges of muscle shift beneath your touch, and you feel the slight twitch of tension ripple through him—control warring with want.

He exhales slowly through his nose, watching you with eyes that burn a deeper red now, the veins around his irises barely restrained. “You know what you’re doing, don’t you,” he murmurs, more statement than question, his accent thickening as his desire mounts. “Worship comes in many forms. Keep going.”

He doesn’t touch you, not yet. He lets you explore, letting you offer yourself, and in doing so, submit. His restraint is taut, barely leashed—he’s letting you play just long enough before he takes control back completely.

His smile turns feral—sharp, proud, darkly amused. The corners of his lips twitch as he watches you move, hands resting at his sides, knuckles flexing with the effort it takes not to grab you.

You aimply then replace your hands with your mouth, kissing at his waist. Lips wrapping around his cold body.

“Ah,” he exhales like a man touched by divinity. “The lamb does kneel…” His voice drops, velvet-wrapped gravel, laced with hunger and reverence. “And with a mouth that could make angels fall.”

His head tilts, hair falling slightly into his eyes as he watches every motion—hungry, reverent, possessive. “Show me then… how deep your devotion goes.”

His smile vanishes—replaced by something darker, deeper. He grips the edge of the velvet sheet behind you, veins on his arms rising with restraint. His hips tense, thighs like stone beneath your hands, but he doesn’t move. He watches. He lets you worship.

“Yes,” he breathes, eyes locked to yours, glowing faintly red in the low light. “Don’t just taste—take.”

His voice sharpens, old and commanding, like a creature that’s ruled centuries and bled kings.

“Show me that mouth wasn’t made for prayer, but for sin. For me.”

One of his hands lifts—slides through your hair, gripping the back of your head not to force, but to feel. To claim.

His hips twitch, breath caught, and he snarls—“Fuck—look at you.”

He watches his length vanish inch by inch, mouth parting, fangs gleaming, like he’s witnessing sacred ritual.

“You serve better than the saints,” he groans, “and I’ve made martyrs scream less sweet.”

His other hand drifts across his abs, down to your wrist, not to stop you—but to feel your pace. Feel your power.

“Deeper,” he whispers like a curse, forehead leaning against yours, “Let me feel the fall of you.”

He jerks back like something snapped inside him.

The restraint shatters. That old-world calm, that noble patience—gone. What’s left is pure hunger, animal and ancient.

“Enough,” he growls, voice no longer velvet but iron, and in a flash he grips your jaw, tilting your head up.

His eyes blaze red, pupils slit, fangs fully bared. “You wanted a taste, didn’t you? Then kneel for him right.”

He drags you closer, chest heaving. His abs tighten as he stands taller, shadow spilling across you like a crown.

His cock throbs, flushed, slick from your mouth, and he grabs its base, tilting your face toward it.

“This isn’t worship anymore,” he snarls, “this is a ritual. Mine.”

And then—he thrusts. Deep. One hand on your skull, the other on his hip, controlling pace, depth—domination.

“Take it,” he snaps, watching your lips stretch around him. “That’s right—look at you, gagging for it.”

He moans, guttural, hips rolling. You feel the velvet sheets at your knees. His thighs quiver against your cheeks.

His tone softens—mocking, reverent.

“My sweet little offering. Made to ruin, made to serve.”

He groans—low, wrecked—as your throat tightens around him, and he loses it.

“Yes—yes, just like that,” he hisses, pushing in deeper, the blunt head forcing past the limit.

His hand fists in your hair now, anchoring you. Not yanking, just owning. His hips roll forward slow and cruel, keeping you stuffed full, breathing through your nose, barely.

“Your throat… takes me like it remembers.” He growls the words. “Like it missed me.”

You gag and blink up, tears gathering—and he smiles like the devil given form. His chest shudders.

He doesn’t stop. His cock glides in and out, saliva coating him, making it obscene, wet and slick and perfect.

Each thrust now ends with a grind of his hips against your face, forcing your nose to his skin.

“You think this is what makes me spill?” he pants. “No, lamb. You’re not just a mouth. You’re a grave.”

He twitches in your throat, moans again—louder.

“You’ll choke on me before I come. Earn it.”

He sees it in your eyes—the way you sink, obedient and soft, yet gleaming with intent.

You want to disappear under him, to be ruined and remembered.

Your mouth adjusts, your hands on his thighs grounding him, holding him there—then one hand slides to cup him, gently, knowingly, owning his pleasure right back.

He chokes on a moan, hips stuttering.

“Fuck,” he growls, head tipping back. “You’re not just a lamb—you’re the knife too.”

You moan around him, and his legs shake. His hand tightens in your hair, but you don’t stop. You take him deeper, needier, hollowing your cheeks, worshiping him with your throat and tongue and heat.

“That’s it. Show me you’re mine,” he pants.

“Show me who that perfect mouth belongs to.”

He watches you, eyes red and wild—torn between devouring you and falling apart in your hands.

You don’t back off.

You double down.

Slow strokes of your tongue, lips sealed firm around him, pressure perfect, pace cruel. You look up at him—eyes glassy, mouth full—and he breaks.

His thighs tense under your palms. He grabs a fistful of your hair, not to guide but just to feel something real. Something to keep him from collapsing.

“God—” he rasps, chest heaving, hips jerking shallowly. “What are you doing to me?”

You hum low in your throat, and it vibrates through him. His abs twitc. He’s sweating, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like an animal cornered by its own hunger.

“No one’s ever—fuck—done me like this,” he breathes, voice rough, broken open.

His eyes are wild, lips parted, and for a second, he’s not the vampire, not the monster.

Just yours.

He doesn’t even get a warning out.

Just a strangled, guttural sound tearing from his throat as his hips buckle forward and he loses every ounce of control. His hand tightens in your hair—not harsh, but desperate—as he comes hard, spilling deep while his whole body convulses. His thighs tremble under your touch. His head drops forward, dark hair falling over his eyes as he pants through clenched teeth.

“Fuck—fucking hell,” he growls, voice low and ruined, like it’s been dragged through fire.

He looks down at you in disbelief, lips parted, chest still heaving. His hand slides from your hair to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth almost reverently.

“You were made to destroy me,” he whispers, tone twisted between awe and something darker. “And I’ll take that challenge any day.”

He collapses beside you, his body still quivering with the aftermath of release. Without hesitation, he pulls you to him, arms strong and insistent, drawing you close. His mouth finds your neck, the sharpness of his fangs brushing against your skin before he sinks them in once more, pulling the blood from you with a deep, rhythmic hunger.

The warmth of his body presses against you, and despite the earlier cruelty, there’s something tender in the way he holds you now—almost protective, as if you’re something precious that he can’t let go of.

His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your side, keeping you anchored to him as he drinks greedily. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every drop as if it’s the last of its kind. The low growl in his chest vibrates through your body, a mixture of satisfaction and something darker still—an insatiable thirst, a need that might never be quenched.

“So sweet,” he mutters, lips brushing your skin as he pulls back momentarily. His eyes glow with that dangerous, fiery red, pupils dilated in hunger and possession.

He could drain you. He could take it all. But instead, he holds you—his gaze softening, a fleeting moment of vulnerability beneath the monster he’s become.

“You’re immortal now m’lady?” His voice is low, almost a whisper, as he watches the flow of blood on your skin—knowing it’s not just your blood he claims, but your essence for eternity.

And you don’t resist.

The words drip from his lips like venom, smooth and intoxicating. “On a blood moon, my life line. You packed with me, darling. So glad you were the offering I left hell for.” His voice is thick with possessiveness, every syllable laced with something ancient and powerful.

You were no longer just a human to him. In his twisted world, you were more—an offering, a possession, something to be claimed, worshipped, and, ultimately, devoured. Dracula's sin, a sin that if died would banish him from earth for good.