#Xanthus x reader

[yoursinisforgiven]

TOGETHER, IN DEATH ──

pairing: laurence (xanthus) x reader (pet) 

cw: story isn’t canon accratue (pet’s age), mentions of arranged marriages, mentions of death, laurence is implied to be somewhat older than the reader, unrequited love, takes place in the 1890’s, kissing, reader is lightly implied to be religious, reader is referred as sister maybe twice, mentions of blood, mentions of stabbing, mentions of war.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

“Must I go?” 

Clara asks, her voice barely more than a whisper, laden with a tremor that betrays her composed exterior.

“You’ll be beheaded if you don’t,” Mother replies, her words sharp and matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing the weather, though you know they are nothing but an exaggeration. You hope, at least. But even as the ridiculousness of her statement dances in the air like some cruel joke, you can feel the turmoil knotting in your stomach, tightening the air in your chest.

The marriage—oh, the marriage. Clara, your sister, your closest companion, is to be married to a man whose name you can barely recall. A man, a family, whose purpose in her life is to anchor her to the cold, unforgiving world of aristocracy, to pull her deeper into the muck of status, money, and pride. It feels as though she’s being sold, her hand offered like an auctioned prize for the benefit of the family name. It is all for position, all for reputation. No one cares about Clara’s heart.

You should speak up, shouldn’t you? You should defend her, shout at your mother, try to talk sense into her, tell her there’s more to life than these arrangements, that Clara deserves more than this cold transaction of familial duty. But you know, deep down, it would be a waste of breath.

You had never despised your mother—not truly. Heaven forbid. You knew why she was the way she was. You’d seen her transform in the months after Father’s passing, her grief masked by a hard resolve. Those bitter nights when she’d confide in you, speaking of her struggles, the weight of her decisions, the crushing pressure of a life spent balancing the delicate expectations of high society. She wanted the best, she’d say, for Clara—for you both. Or at least, what she saw as the best. To secure a future, a place in the world, where neither of you would want for anything.

It was admirable, in a way. But it also felt suffocating, as though Clara’s life was already written, her future sealed by the ink of family duty.

You stand slightly behind your mother, not quite by her side, but close enough to feel the oppressive air of her presence. The sound of Clara’s soft, barely audible sigh cuts through the tension, and you glance at her, sitting motionless as one of the maids fusses over her hair. There is something fragile about her in this moment, something that makes your chest tighten. Her dress, too, hangs on the wall, neatly pressed, its satin fabric gleaming in the soft morning light. You can already picture her in it—beautiful, of course. Clara would be beautiful in anything. The dress would fit her perfectly, as it was always meant to. But what good was beauty, you wonder, if it meant being confined to a life that was never truly hers?

Your gaze shifts back to your mother. She’s not looking at you now, her focus fixed on the maid who is trying, and failing, to tame Clara’s unruly locks. You can hear her sharp voice cutting through the silence, as she watches every movement like a hawk.

“Make sure her hair is perfect,” she commands, her tone demanding, but with an edge of impatience.

The maid, one of the more timid servants, fumbles with the strands of Clara’s hair, her hands shaking.

“You’re doing it the wrong way,” Mother snaps, her voice rising a little, irritation creeping in. “The braid should start lower, near the nape of her neck. Don’t you know anything?”

The maid hastily pulls the strands tighter, her fingers fumbling in a way that makes it clear she’s not used to such exacting standards.

“Move that strand there—yes, there,” Mother continues, her eyes narrowing as she inspects every inch of Clara’s hair like it were some prized possession rather than a simple, natural thing. “We can’t have her looking like a farm girl at a royal meeting, can we?”

Clara, bless her, doesn’t even flinch at the criticism. She sits still, her hands folded delicately in her lap, her expression distant. You wonder what she’s thinking in this moment—whether she’s already resigned herself to this fate or whether, like you, she still holds some tiny glimmer of hope that things might change.

But you know better. This is her reality now. And you can only watch, silent and helpless, as your mother continues her meticulous, relentless work, shaping Clara’s future with every pin she pushes into her hair.

──

What a lunkhead.

Though, in truth, the boy—who you had soon learned was named Laurence, had looked rather dashing at that moment, standing in the light of the setting sun as though the world had designed that moment just for him. His hair, the color of freshly harvested straw, caught the golden glow, gleaming like silk spun by the most skilled artisan. His posture, ever so carefully composed, was almost too perfect, as if he’d spent hours rehearsing it in front of a mirror. And that smile—bright, charming, and just a touch mischievous—seemed to have been crafted to make hearts flutter.

Yours, unfortunately, seemed determined to betray you, beating far too quickly for your liking. You glanced away, focusing instead on the lavish dinner table between you, its gleaming silver platters piled high with delicacies. Pheasant roasted to golden perfection, a crown of lamb adorned with sprigs of rosemary, and pastries so intricately decorated they resembled miniature works of art. The table was a riot of excess, every inch of it a testament to wealth and status.

And waste.

You knew with certainty that much of it would go untouched, left to spoil before being discarded without a second thought. You’d seen it happen time and again, the remains of feasts tossed carelessly to the alleys where flies and rats would claim them. You quietly prayed, as you always did, that the street merchants or the hungry children who wandered the edges of town might find their way to it first. It was a small, foolish hope, you knew, but it gave you some comfort to imagine that even the scraps of your world’s indulgence might serve some purpose.

Your gaze flicked back to him—Laurence, the lunkhead in question—who was seated across from you. He was laughing at something Clara had said, the sound rich and warm, effortlessly filling the space. His laugh was the kind that made people turn to look at him, drawn by its genuine charm. But beneath it, you could sense the faintest trace of effort, a carefully controlled performance designed to disarm and delight.

You resented him for it, just a little. Or perhaps you envied him—that easy way he had of fitting into any room, of making himself the center of attention without ever seeming to try. You, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in comparison, always watching, always observing, never quite belonging.

“Stop staring,” Clara whispered, leaning close enough that you could feel her breath against your ear. Her tone was teasing, her eyes dancing with mischief. “You’ll give yourself away.”

“I’m not staring,” you hissed back, your cheeks heating as you turned your attention to your plate. The porcelain was delicate, painted with intricate floral patterns, its edges trimmed with gold. You picked at the food absently, your appetite dulled by the weight of the evening.

──

“This is our eighth bedroom,” Laurence announced, his voice carrying through the cavernous space, bouncing off the high, vaulted ceilings. Though his tone was casual, almost bored, there was a faint lilt of pride beneath it, as though he couldn’t help but relish the grandeur of his family’s estate.

The room was vast, like the ones before it, with heavy velvet drapes framing tall windows that let in muted daylight. The walls were papered in deep burgundy, trimmed with intricate gold molding, and an enormous four-poster bed sat at the center, its canopy draped in silken fabric. The scent of polished wood and faint lavender lingered in the air.

His father, a rather plump, red-faced man with a penchant for barking orders, had delegated the task of showing you and Clara around the castle-like home to Laurence and a boy you assumed to be his younger brother. The two brothers couldn’t have been more different; where Laurence carried himself with a casual elegance that bordered on arrogance, the younger boy trailed behind like a shadow, his gaze fixed on the floor, his lips pressed tightly together as though he feared speaking would be his undoing.

You furrow your brows at Laurence’s words, the absurdity of them pulling your attention away from the sheer opulence of the room. Eight bedrooms? Your gaze flicks to Clara, hoping for some shared sense of incredulity, but she is thoroughly disengaged, her expression one of polite disinterest as she examined the hem of her dress rather than the grandeur surrounding her.

So, you speak. “Was the seventh not enough?”

Your words hang in the air for a moment, and Laurence turns to face you, one brow arching ever so slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His blue eyes—clear and sharp like the sky on a brisk winter morning—meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, you regret saying anything at all.

“Well,” he begins, his voice slow and deliberate, “one can never have too many bedrooms. What if we host a ball and all the guests decide to stay the night? Or perhaps Father wishes to expand our collection of unused rooms.”

His tone is teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a practiced flippancy that feels almost rehearsed. You wonder if he’s said something similar before, if this is the sort of conversation that repeats itself with every new visitor to their home.

“You’d think eight would be enough,” you reply, unable to stop yourself. “Or are you expecting an army?”

This earns a soft chuckle from him, and though you bristle at his amusement, there’s something undeniably pleasant about the sound. His younger brother looks up for the first time, his expression flickering with surprise before quickly returning to its former blankness.

Laurence steps toward one of the windows, gesturing grandly. “An army might find it quite comfortable here. Of course, they’d have to be careful not to scratch the floors. Mother would have a fit.”

His words are light, but you catch the briefest flicker of something else in his eyes—disdain, perhaps, or exhaustion. It’s hard to tell, and before you can think more on it, Clara finally speaks, her tone clipped and dismissive.

“Perhaps you should save the next bedroom for someone who actually needs it.”

It’s a bold statement, and though her gaze remains fixed on her dress, her words land like a challenge. Laurence’s smirk falters for a moment, and you feel a flicker of pride on her behalf.

“Well,” Laurence says after a beat, recovering smoothly, “if you’d like, we can skip the ninth bedroom. Or would you prefer to see the ballroom first?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a strange warmth in your chest—a flicker of something you can’t quite name. Perhaps it’s the way Laurence handles himself, infuriating and charming in equal measure, or perhaps it’s the way the boy—this lunkhead—seems to be trying, in his own strange way, to impress you.

As you follow Laurence and his younger brother down the long, echoing corridor toward the ballroom, Clara’s exasperation begins to leak out. She rolls her eyes—not that the two boys ahead of you would notice—and then lets out an audible groan that ricochets off the polished stone walls.

“You have wine here, yes?” she quips, her voice sharp with impatience.

You whip your head toward her, eyes wide, disbelief etched into your features. “Clara!” you whisper-yell, horrified at her brazenness. The impropriety of it all! A lady requesting wine before the hour of dinner—and so directly, no less.

Laurence and his brother stop in their tracks and turn to face her. Laurence’s expression is unreadable, though you catch the subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Charles, on the other hand, looks completely thrown, his wide eyes darting from Clara to Laurence as though waiting for instruction.

Clara, undeterred, lifts her chin slightly, a faintly rebellious smile playing on her lips. “What? If I’m to endure another hour of ‘ooh, look at this room, isn’t it marvelous,’ I’ll need something to make it bearable.”

Laurence chuckles softly, the sound low and rich, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, far be it from me to deny a lady her comforts.” He turns to his brother, who is still frozen in place. “Charles, why don’t you take Clara to the drawing room and fetch her a glass of wine?”

Charles blinks, his mouth opening slightly as though to protest, but a quick glance at Laurence’s expectant expression shuts it again. He nods stiffly instead. “Of course,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

Clara doesn’t wait for further permission. She steps past you and toward Charles, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. “Shall we?” she says, gesturing for him to lead the way.

Charles hesitates, glancing back at Laurence, who gives a small nod of encouragement. With that, the younger boy turns on his heel and begins walking back down the corridor, Clara following closely behind.

You watch them retreat with a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “I can’t believe her,” you mutter under your breath, but you can’t deny a small flicker of admiration for her boldness.

Laurence, now standing a few steps ahead of you, lets out a quiet laugh. “Your sister is... spirited,” he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“That’s one way to put it,” you reply dryly, falling into step beside him as the two of you continue toward the ballroom.

“Don’t think too harshly of her,” Laurence says after a moment. “In truth, I envy her honesty. Most people—present company excluded—are too afraid to say what they truly think.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, his usual air of playful arrogance is replaced by something softer, more introspective. It catches you off guard, and you find yourself studying his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow—as though seeing him for the first time.

“I’m not sure honesty is always the virtue people make it out to be,” you reply cautiously.

Laurence tilts his head, considering this. “Perhaps not. But it’s rare all the same. And I’ve always found rarity to be... fascinating.”

His words linger in the air as you reach the grand double doors to the ballroom. Two servants stand ready, pulling them open with practiced precision to reveal the sprawling space beyond. Your breath catches at the sight of it—the polished parquet floors gleaming like a mirror, the walls adorned with gilded moldings and frescoes depicting classical scenes, and an opulent chandelier dripping with crystals that caught the light like a thousand tiny stars.

Laurence steps inside and turns to face you, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with something you can’t quite name. “What do you think?” he asks.

You hesitate, torn between awe at the splendor before you and the growing unease in your chest. “It’s beautiful,” you admit softly. “But it feels... excessive.”

Laurence smiles faintly, his gaze shifting to the chandelier above. “Yes,” he murmurs. “It does, doesn’t it?”

For a moment, you wonder if he’s mocking you, but the distant look in his eyes tells a different story—one that you can’t yet decipher.

You hesitate, sucking in a quiet breath before the words slip from your lips, soft but clear. “Would you like to dance?”

The question feels bold, almost reckless, and for a moment, the space between you seems to hold its breath. You can practically hear your mother’s voice in your head, scolding you for your forwardness. A lady does not invite a gentleman to dance—it’s simply not done. But here you are, and you refuse to take the words back.

Laurence blinks, his golden eyes widening slightly as though caught off guard. For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake.

“Dance?” he repeats, his tone filled with a kind of bemused disbelief. He tilts his head, studying you with a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You do realize what you’re asking, don’t you?”

You arch a brow, feigning nonchalance despite the flutter in your chest. “It’s a ballroom, Mr. Laurence. Dancing seems rather fitting.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and unexpectedly intimate in the vast, echoing space of the room. “True, but most people who dance in ballrooms know what they’re doing. I’m afraid I don’t qualify.”

“Surely you’re exaggerating,” you reply, your curiosity piqued by the self-deprecating edge to his tone.

“Not in the slightest,” he says, shaking his head. “My waltz resembles a battle more than a dance, and I’ve left more than a few poor partners nursing their toes.”

You can’t help but laugh at the confession, imagining the usually composed Laurence fumbling his way through a waltz. It’s absurd and endearing all at once. “Well,” you say, stepping closer and extending your hand, “I’m willing to take that risk.”

He hesitates, glancing at your outstretched hand as though it’s some kind of puzzle. For a moment, you think he might refuse, but then he sighs—a quiet, almost resigned sound—and places his hand in yours. His touch is warm, his palm rougher than you expected, a detail that surprises you.

“You’re persistent,” he remarks, a trace of amusement in his voice.

“So I’ve been told,” you reply lightly, a smile tugging at your lips.

He follows your lead, and the two of you move to the center of the ballroom. The chandeliers above cast a soft golden glow over the polished parquet floor, and though there’s no music, the imagined strains of a waltz seem to fill the air.

Laurence places his hand on your waist with a kind of careful reverence, as though afraid to overstep, while your free hand rests lightly on his shoulder. For a moment, neither of you moves. His gaze flickers to yours, a hint of uncertainty in his expression.

“You’re doing fine,” you assure him, your voice gentle.

“Give it a moment,” he mutters, a faint smile ghosting over his lips.

You take the first step, guiding him into the rhythm. At first, his movements are stiff, his steps hesitant as though second-guessing every one. But as the seconds pass, he begins to relax, his posture softening as he follows your lead.

Then it happens—a misstep. He falters, and before he can recover, his foot comes down squarely on yours.

“Oh, blast,” he mutters, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “I told you this would happen.”

You bite back a laugh, the sting in your toes insignificant compared to the sight of his mortified expression. “It’s fine,” you say, though your tone betrays a hint of mischief.

Before he can apologize further, you lift your own foot and carefully press it down on his, mirroring his mistake with exaggerated precision.

Laurence stares at you, startled, before a laugh bursts from his lips. It’s a deep, rich sound that fills the room, warm and genuine. “Was that revenge?”

“Justice,” you reply with a grin, unable to suppress your own laughter.

He shakes his head, still chuckling, and resumes the stance. “Alright, let’s try again. But if I step on you this time, I fully expect retaliation.”

“Fair’s fair,” you agree, the playful edge in your voice making his smile widen.

This time, the dance feels different. The earlier awkwardness melts away, replaced by something softer, something lighter. You catch glimpses of his golden hair gleaming in the chandelier’s light, the faint shadow of a dimple when he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.

It’s not perfect—not by any means. There are still small stumbles and moments where the rhythm falters, but none of that seems to matter. The space between you feels warmer now, filled with laughter and the easy camaraderie of two people learning how to navigate each other’s world, one step at a time.

 “What on earth is going on here?”

The voice of your mother cuts through the air like the sharp crack of a whip, startling you so much that you nearly stumble.

It isn’t just her voice that startles you—it’s the timing of it, the tone, the weight of disapproval that lingers even in her neutral phrases. For a fleeting moment, you stiffen, half-expecting her to march forward and pry you apart from Laurence as though you’d committed some unspeakable act.

Oddly enough, Laurence’s grip on your waist tightens. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Reassuring. Protective, perhaps. You glance up at him, half-expecting to see the same startled expression you’re wearing, but instead, he’s composed. Too composed. His jaw tightens, his golden gaze cool and steady as he turns slightly to face her.

He clears his throat, his voice measured and calm, carrying that noble edge you’ve come to expect from him. “I’ve asked Charles to show Clara to our break room,” he begins, each word deliberate, as though he’s carefully crafting a shield of propriety. “To see herself in a glass of—”

“Water!” you blurt out, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence.

The word leaves your mouth louder than you intended, echoing in the grand ballroom with an almost comical force. Your hands fly to your sides, as though you can somehow will the outburst back into your chest.

Your mother’s gaze snaps to you, her brow arching in that particular way that always managed to make you feel like a child caught sneaking biscuits before dinner. “Water?” she repeats, her tone heavy with disbelief and suspicion.

“Yes,” you say quickly, nodding far too enthusiastically. “Water. Clara mentioned earlier that she was feeling a bit faint with all the... excitement.” You gesture vaguely toward the empty ballroom, as though the mere thought of it might justify your claim.

Laurence shifts beside you, his lips twitching as though he’s fighting back a smirk. “Of course,” he says smoothly, stepping in before your mother can press further. “We wouldn’t want her to feel unwell.” His voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a shared secret that makes your cheeks warm.

Your mother doesn’t look convinced, her gaze darting between the two of you as though trying to unravel some hidden meaning. She takes a slow step forward, her skirts rustling softly against the polished floor. “I trust you’re not letting your attention stray too far from Clara’s well-being,” she says, her tone pointed.

“Never,” Laurence replies, dipping his head in a gesture of deference that would have seemed sincere if not for the faint glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

You suppress the urge to roll your own eyes, instead clasping your hands together and offering your mother your most innocent expression. “She’s in good hands, I assure you,” you say, hoping the words sound more convincing than they feel.

There’s a tense pause, the weight of your mother’s scrutiny pressing down on you like a leaden cloak. Then, finally, she nods, though her expression remains skeptical. “Very well,” she says, her tone clipped. “But do try to keep your... enthusiasm in check.”

“Yes, Mother,” you reply, forcing a smile even as your heart races.

As she turns and glides toward the far end of the room, her disapproving gaze still lingering over her shoulder, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Well,” Laurence murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “That was... bracing.”

You glance up at him, your lips twitching despite yourself. “You didn’t help,” you mutter, though there’s no real heat in your tone.

“Didn’t I?” he counters, his expression far too smug for your liking.

Before you can reply, the soft sound of Clara’s laughter drifts in from the adjoining hallway, accompanied by Charles’s animated voice. The moment feels lighter now, the tension dissipating like morning mist under the sun.

──

The day winds down in a blur, though you’re unsure how it managed to slip away so quickly. The grand halls of the estate seem softer now, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, the earlier tension dissolving into a strange, almost comfortable quiet.

You sit near the edge of a drawing room, Clara reclined on a fainting couch with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her posture far too casual for your mother’s liking, should she appear. Charles sits across from her, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his gaze drifting toward the floor more often than it meets anyone’s eyes.

It is Clara who breaks the silence, holding out her hand toward Charles with a faintly raised brow. “Well? Do you have one for me, or must I suffer the consequences?”

Charles blinks, startled from his thoughts, before reaching into his pocket and producing a small, crumpled peppermint. He hesitates for a moment, his fingers brushing against the wrapper as though unsure whether to actually hand it over.

Clara leans forward, plucking it from his hand with a conspiratorial smile. “Thank you, Charles. You’re quite the savior,” she says, tucking it into her palm with practiced ease.

You watch the exchange with mild amusement, your lips twitching upward. “Charming,” you mutter, just loud enough to be heard.

Charles’s ears turn a faint shade of pink, and he glances at you briefly before dropping his gaze again. Clara, ever perceptive, smirks. “He is, isn’t he? A quiet hero in the making,” she teases, unwrapping the peppermint and popping it into her mouth.

Laurence enters the room just then, his golden hair slightly disheveled as though he’s been running a hand through it. His sharp gaze sweeps over the scene, lingering for a moment on you before settling on his brother. “What’s this?” he asks, his tone light but curious.

“Charles has been most helpful,” Clara replies smoothly, leaning back against the fainting couch as though she has not a care in the world.

Laurence raises a brow, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Helpful, was he?”

Charles shrinks slightly under his brother’s gaze, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “She asked for a peppermint,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And I shall treasure it,” Clara says with mock solemnity, her hand resting theatrically over her heart.

You stifle a laugh, earning a sidelong glance from Laurence. His expression is unreadable, though there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of amusement, perhaps, or approval. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving you to wonder if you imagined it.

As the evening stretches on, the room fills with quiet conversation. Laurence remains seated by the window, his presence steady but unobtrusive, while Charles listens more than he speaks, his quiet nature lending a grounding calm to the lively energy Clara brings. And though the day has been long and filled with its share of frustrations, you find yourself oddly content as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the room in soft shadows.

The hour of your departure arrives sooner than you’d like, and Laurence—accompanied by a quiet Charles—escorts you and Clara back down the grand staircase. The polished wood creaks faintly beneath the weight of so many feet, the sound oddly comforting amidst the low murmur of voices echoing through the halls. As you descend, you can’t help but glance sideways at Laurence, whose posture remains poised yet somehow unyielding, as if he carries the weight of far more than familial expectation on his shoulders.

At the foot of the stairs, their father awaits alongside your mother. His presence is as commanding as it was earlier, his plump figure encased in a finely tailored suit that strains at the seams. He exudes authority, his gaze sharp as it sweeps over the four of you. Your mother stands at his side, her expression neutral but her hands clasped tightly together in front of her—a telltale sign of her nerves.

You notice the absence of another figure, one you’d assumed would be present for such an occasion. Where is their mother? The question lingers in your mind, unanswered and strangely unsettling.

Their father speaks, his voice a booming presence that fills the space. “I trust you found the evening agreeable, Clara, and that my son has proven himself—” he pauses for effect, his gaze sharp as it lands on Laurence—“worthy.”

Clara tilts her head slightly, a fleeting hesitation crossing her face. For a moment, you wonder if she’ll fumble her response entirely, but then she forces a soft laugh, as delicate as a bell. “Oh, yes. He’s... charming.”

You resist the urge to groan, though the slight delay in her words makes you cringe inwardly. Their father, however, seems unbothered, nodding with a small grunt of approval.

Charles, standing just behind Laurence, mumbles a quiet farewell, his voice so soft you almost miss it. You glance toward him, catching the faintest flush on his cheeks as he averts his gaze.

Laurence steps forward next, but not before his father places a firm hand on his shoulder. The squeeze is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s enough to signal something unspoken between them. Laurence’s jaw tightens briefly, his composure unwavering as he moves to stand before Clara.

He bows slightly, his golden hair catching the light in a way that seems almost intentional. When he raises her hand to his lips, the gesture is fluid, elegant, but entirely detached. “It has been a pleasure,” he says, his voice low and steady.

Clara murmurs a polite response, but you hardly hear it. Your heart quickens as Laurence straightens, his hand still lingering on Clara’s for just a moment too long. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, his eyes lift—and find yours.

The moment is fleeting, no more than a second or two, but it feels like an eternity. His gaze is steady, unreadable, and yet it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. You look away quickly, pretending to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle in your skirt. The knot of envy in your stomach tightens, bitter and sharp.

Outside, the cool evening air greets you as the carriage is readied. You keep your focus on the cobblestones beneath your feet, though you feel his presence behind you, lingering as he and Charles bid you and your family a final farewell.

As the horses stir and the carriage door is opened, you steal one last glance back. Laurence stands beside his father, his posture impeccable, but there’s something different now—a shadow of something unspoken in his expression. He watches as you step into the carriage, his gaze following for just a heartbeat longer than propriety might allow.

You look away again, swallowing hard against the unfamiliar sensation tightening your chest, and settle into your seat. The carriage begins to move, the creak of its wheels blending with the distant hum of evening crickets. Still, you can’t shake the memory of his eyes—steady, searching, and lingering far longer than they should have.

──

“I don’t love him, you know?” Clara’s voice breaks the quiet of the room, soft and almost hesitant, as if she’s unsure she should say the words aloud. You flinch involuntarily, the words striking something deep inside you, though you’re not quite sure what it is.

You glance up from the book in your lap, startled by the confession, and find Clara staring at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes distant as she adjusts the laces of her dress. The fabric of her gown rustles softly, a faint, almost imperceptible sound that seems to echo in the silence between you. Her pale hands, slender and graceful, hover over the delicate lacework, smoothing it out with a practiced touch.

For a long moment, you say nothing, absorbing her words in silence. You shift your gaze back toward the door, half-expecting your mother to appear, but the room remains empty. You sigh, relief and discomfort both settling in your chest. “She went to run some errands,” Clara mutters lightly, as though the absence of your mother is of no consequence.

The words, though soft, seem to hang in the air, weighty, as if they were meant for more than just idle conversation. You try not to let your mind wander too far, not to dwell on what Clara might be hinting at or why she would say such a thing now, of all times. But you can’t help it—the silence between you feels too heavy, too pregnant with things unsaid.

Clara turns her head slightly, her dark eyes meeting yours through the mirror. She doesn’t smile, but there’s a quiet understanding in her gaze, as though she knows what you’re thinking—though you’re not entirely sure you know what you’re thinking yourself.

“He’s... a good match,” Clara continues, her voice almost a whisper. “He has everything a woman is supposed to desire—a name, a title, wealth... But I don’t love him. Not the way I should.”

The confession, raw and unguarded, catches you off guard. Your throat tightens, and you can feel the weight of her words settle in your chest, a strange mix of sympathy and something else you can’t quite define.

You set your book aside, your fingers lingering on the pages for a moment before you lay it down. The room is dim, the light from the window casting long shadows over the floor, and the quiet hum of the house seems somehow more pronounced now.

“I know,” you finally say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I know you don’t.”

Clara’s gaze flickers to yours in the mirror, her expression unreadable. She says nothing for a long while, and you find yourself wondering just how much she’s willing to share, how much she’s willing to reveal of the turmoil she’s keeping hidden behind that calm, composed exterior.

“But you do, don’t you?” Clara's voice drips with a teasing edge, her lips curving into a subtle smirk as she watches you from the mirror. Her dark eyes glint with mischief, and the way she leans forward just slightly, as if to catch the truth in the very air between you, sends a flutter through your chest.

You slam your book shut with a sharp snap, the sound far louder than you intended in the quiet room, and turn to face her fully. Her gaze is unwavering, and for a moment, you wonder if she knows something you don’t. You swallow hard, trying to steady the quickening pace of your heartbeat. “I don’t,” you retort, your voice more forceful than you feel, “and had I... had I, it wouldn't be love. That’s absurd.”

The words feel strange as they leave your lips, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself of something you haven’t quite accepted. You cross your arms, the delicate fabric of your sleeve brushing against your skin, and glance around the room. The faint scent of lavender from the bouquet near the window fills your senses, and the soft rustle of the curtains as a breeze slips through the open window does little to calm the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind.

Clara merely raises an eyebrow, her lips curling further in a half-smile, as though she finds your protest amusing. “Is it really? Or is it just inconvenient?”

You feel your cheeks flush, a warmth spreading through you that you can't quite explain. The way she looks at you—knowing, yet not—forces you to confront something you’ve been trying to ignore. The growing tension that has settled in your chest, as much a part of the room now as the antique furnishings and the faint tick of the grandfather clock, seems to press against you, urging you to say more, to admit something you’re not ready to confront.

You shift uncomfortably, wishing for a moment of silence to collect your thoughts, but Clara, ever observant, presses on. “You can deny it all you like,” she says, her tone light, almost sing-song, “but you know as well as I do, there’s something there. Something more than just the polite gestures, the occasional smiles, and those stolen glances that you think no one notices.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You try to push them away, to keep them at bay, but they cling to you like the velvet softness of the curtains against your skin. The room seems to close in, the walls pressing tighter and tighter with each passing second.

You want to argue, to deny it further, but something in Clara’s gaze keeps you rooted to the spot. The playful gleam in her eye, the way she seems to see through you, makes it hard to hold onto the defenses you’ve so carefully built. You’ve spent so long convincing yourself that what you feel is something else—an infatuation, a fleeting fancy—but deep down, you know Clara isn’t wrong. The truth is woven into the very fabric of the air between you, and it’s both suffocating and liberating all at once.

You open your mouth to speak, but your words falter. Instead, you look at her—really look at her—and the weight of it all becomes too much. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, until Clara finally breaks it with a soft laugh, her eyes softening just a fraction.

“You don’t need to say it,” she says, her voice gentler now, though the teasing tone still lingers. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re not fooling anyone.”

You stand there, caught between the desire to argue and the undeniable truth she’s laid bare. You feel as though you're walking a tightrope, one wrong step and everything will collapse. But for the first time, you aren’t entirely sure you want to stay balanced. The pull toward Laurence—however ridiculous, however inconvenient it may seem—is undeniable.

Clara lets the silence stretch on a little longer, her hands brushing over the delicate lace of her dress as if she’s considering something. Then, with a sigh, she turns back to the mirror, her reflection once again becoming the focus of her attention.

 ──

Two weeks had passed since your last visit to the grand estate, and this time, there was an unexpected sense of freedom in the air. You were unaccompanied by your mother, and though a small part of you felt the absence of her hovering presence, you pushed the thought aside. After all, her constant watchful gaze had been stifling, her scripted questions and incessant prodding had only served to make everything feel more like a performance than a genuine interaction. Now, with the pretense stripped away, there was a strange relief, but also a weight—the weight of truth.

Your eyes traced the lush garden that stretched out before you. The moment you stepped foot outside, you were hit with the scent of blooming flowers, a mixed fragrance that was both delicate and heady. The air was thick with the warmth of the afternoon sun, the garden itself a perfect reflection of the grandeur of the estate—a place where nature had been coaxed into a meticulous masterpiece. The stone pathways twisted elegantly through neatly trimmed hedges, leading you past clusters of vibrant flowers that seemed to burst from every corner, as though they were trying to outdo one another in color and size.

You paused as you wandered further, your eyes catching on a cluster of roses—deep, velvety reds and soft pinks, almost too perfect to be real. But among them, one particular rose caught your attention. It was a Juliet Rose, its soft peachy petals kissed with a delicate hue of gold, catching the sunlight in a way that made it almost glow. You bent down, the silk of your skirts brushing the ground as you leaned closer, entranced by its beauty. The petals, so soft and fragile, seemed to whisper a secret just beyond reach, and you couldn’t help but speak its name, “Juliet Rose,” you muttered softly to yourself, unaware of how your words lingered in the air.

“A fellow connoisseur?” Laurence’s voice broke through the quiet, smooth and rumbling behind you. You almost jumped at the suddenness of it, startled by his proximity. You hadn’t expected him to come so close, and instinctively, you straightened up, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the rose, unwilling to meet his eyes.

There was something about him that unsettled you, something you couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the way he held himself—his confidence, his composure—like a man who was perfectly at ease with the world and everything in it. It irked you. You had never been one to easily admire someone who seemed to take everything for granted, who walked through life with such ease, as though he had no real worries. It made you want to push back, to challenge him. But you kept your thoughts to yourself, unwilling to let him know how much his presence bothered you.

You refused to acknowledge the memory that flashed in your mind—how, just days ago, you had watched him kiss Clara’s hand, the display of affection so scripted and obligatory that it nearly made you sick. It had been a mere formality, a token gesture, and yet, you couldn’t shake the image of it. You had been so disgusted by the sight that you had wiped your own hands clean, scrubbing them until your skin was raw, as though removing any trace of the moment would somehow absolve you from the feelings it stirred. 

At that moment, you forced your eyes to drift over to Clara and Charles, who were deep in conversation by the stone bench beneath the large oak tree. The way they leaned in close, speaking in low murmurs, made you wonder just how much they had come to understand each other in such a short time. Clara, for all her teasing, had a way of easing into relationships—her charm could turn even the most reluctant men into allies, and Charles, so quiet and reserved, seemed to fall into her rhythm without effort. You couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was genuine and how much was a simple act for the sake of appearances. But you couldn’t focus on that now, not with Laurence so near. He soon says your name, pulling you from your thoughts.

You turn your head sharply, trying to hide the way your pulse quickens at the sound of Laurence's voice. His tone isn't mocking, like you might have expected. It isn't light or indifferent, either. No, there's something else there—a genuine concern, something foreign in the way he speaks to you. His eyes search your face with an intensity that you can’t escape, as if he's peering straight into the depths of your thoughts, unraveling everything you've worked so hard to conceal.

“I know I upset you—” His voice lingers in the air, thick with a hesitation that only deepens the knot in your chest. He doesn’t make any move to approach, standing a few feet away, but somehow his presence seems to draw closer.

You shake your head quickly, trying to push the uncomfortable feeling down. “I don’t care,” you respond sharply, hoping the edge in your voice will be enough to dissuade him from digging any deeper. “I have no reason to. You are to be engaged to Clara in five months’ time—it’s inevitable,” you add, your words falling out too quickly, too stiffly.

It’s a lie, of course. You can feel it—this weight of something unsaid hanging between you, and Laurence, with his strange, piercing gaze, seems to know it too. His lips twitch slightly as if he’s about to say something, but he holds back, studying you instead. You can see the cogs in his mind turning, working through the mess of emotions you so desperately try to bury.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels thick, heavy with tension that threatens to break. You try to look away, but your gaze betrays you, flicking towards him before hastily averting your eyes once more. Your heart hammers in your chest, the beat erratic as your thoughts spiral in a hundred different directions.

“Is that what you truly believe?” Laurence asks quietly, his voice softer than before, but still firm—like he’s challenging you to admit something you don’t want to face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a quiet recognition that lingers there, even as his posture remains relaxed, his expression unreadable.

You stiffen at his words, irritation bubbling up to the surface. How dare he ask? You wonder, a surge of defensiveness rising in your chest. You open your mouth to retort, but the words stick in your throat, tangled with your emotions. You want to yell at him, to demand why he’s even pressing this point, when it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

But instead, you only shrug, trying to make the gesture casual, as though it’s nothing. “What does it matter? You’ve made your choice, and Clara’s already been chosen for you,” you say, each word falling with a deliberate coldness you hope will shield you from whatever unspoken truth is lingering between you.

Laurence’s gaze softens, the corners of his mouth pulling down just slightly in a way you don’t fully understand. He steps forward, closing the distance just a little, but not enough to invade your space completely. “I don’t think it’s as simple as you’re making it sound,” he says carefully, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "I think you know that."

Your heart skips a beat. There’s something in the way he says it, something that makes you feel exposed, like he’s seen right through your carefully constructed walls. His words hang in the air between you, his understanding so palpable that it feels like a physical presence.

You quickly turn away, your fingers instinctively clutching the delicate lace of your dress as if it will anchor you. This was a mistake.

“Sister!”

The suddenness of Clara’s voice felt like a shock to your system, a welcome disruption to the tension that had built so thick between you and Laurence. You were grateful for it, even though you didn’t show it. You barely caught her words as she called out, her usual self-assured tone masking the underlying unease that had crept into her voice.

“Charles is seeing me to a glass of wine, I’ll be back soon!”

You nodded in acknowledgment, offering a small smile that felt more out of place than you intended. Clara barely noticed, already turning away, her footsteps light and quick as she disappeared around the corner with Charles in tow. A small part of you wanted to join them, to leave the scene behind, but the other part—an unspoken part—felt rooted to the spot, drawn inexplicably to Laurence’s presence.

You turned your gaze back to him, and your breath caught in your throat. There, in the soft golden light of the late afternoon, he stood before you, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes—those deep, piercing eyes—seemed to be peeling away the layers of defensiveness you’d wrapped yourself in. You wished you could turn away, pretend to ignore him, but you couldn’t. The air between you felt charged, like the quiet hum just before a storm.

And then, as though the words had been waiting on the edge of his lips, Laurence spoke. His voice was low, almost hushed, as if he were afraid of the weight of his own admission.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and the words lingered in the space between you for a long moment. The simplicity of the statement took you off guard, yet something in his tone made them feel more significant than they should have been. “This is the closest I’ve been to you.”

You couldn’t help the way your chest tightened at his words. The way he said it—it wasn’t just a compliment, wasn’t just an observation—it was an acknowledgment. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would say lightly, not in the midst of such an awkward, strained interaction. It was as though, in that moment, he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t before, a way that made the distance between you feel both comforting and unbearable.

You felt your cheeks flush, the heat creeping up your neck, and you quickly looked away, focusing instead on the path that lay before you, the uneven cobblestones of the garden walk. But you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze lingered on you, or the way the words he had spoken seemed to echo in your mind. The rustling of the leaves in the breeze felt distant now, as though the garden itself had quieted in anticipation of whatever was about to come next.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched thin, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—no, not entirely. There was something in the way Laurence stood, just a step closer than before, that told you he wasn’t finished.

The air around you felt thick, heavy with tension, as if the garden itself had drawn in a breath, holding it in anticipation of what was to come. You could hear the distant rustle of leaves in the trees, the faint chirping of birds, but it all felt so far away, drowned out by the pulse of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You were standing there, facing him, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Laurence’s presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating. His gaze was intense, focused, as if he were trying to read you, piece by piece. You could feel the weight of it, the way it lingered on your face, on the curve of your shoulders, as though he could see everything you kept hidden.

Your jaw clenched, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, sharp and biting. "You don’t know me."

It was a challenge, a warning—a plea for him to back off, to stop looking at you like that, like he could unravel everything you had carefully tucked away. You wanted to push him away, to run from the heat in your chest, but at the same time, something about his presence, about the way he didn’t look away, made it impossible to do so.

Laurence’s response came softly, but it cut through the air like a blade. “Then allow me to.”

The words hung there, suspended between you, vibrating with something raw. It wasn’t an invitation, not quite. It wasn’t a demand, either. It was something else—an offer, a question, a challenge all wrapped into one. His voice was low, almost intimate, as if he were speaking to you alone, despite the distance between you and the world outside the garden.

 ──

The afternoon sun had begun to dip lower, casting long shadows over the garden and bathing it in a soft, golden hue. The heady fragrance of blooming flowers still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint, cool breeze that seemed to whisper through the trees. Laurence had stepped away from you for a moment, his footsteps light as he wandered through the garden, gathering the perfect flowers for what he had suggested with a small, teasing smile—flower crowns.

You had agreed without much thought, caught between the instinct to retreat and the unexpected warmth that had spread through you in his presence. For a moment, you had nearly pulled away, ready to retreat to your comfort zone, but then you found yourself sitting beside him on the stone bench, your hands automatically reaching for the delicate petals and stems he had offered you. The absurdity of it—this moment of peace in such a tumultuous day—had softened something inside you.

Laurence sat close, but not too close, his fingers steady and sure as he carefully twisted together strands of wildflowers: white daisies, soft lavender, delicate violets, and the occasional bright pop of marigold. The small, neat bundle he had gathered looked almost like a painter's palette, a blend of colors both subtle and bold. His hands moved with a quiet grace, the delicate touch betraying a sense of concentration that surprised you. As he worked, you couldn’t help but notice the small glances he threw your way, not the searching kind from earlier, but something more like curiosity, even fondness. It made your heart stutter, an unfamiliar sensation that settled in your chest.

You focused on the flowers in your hands, as though the simple task could keep you grounded. The scent of jasmine filled the air as you pulled apart the stems, forming the beginnings of your own crown. The soft breeze tousled your hair, and you found yourself smiling at the thought of it. There was something almost peaceful in the quiet exchange, the rustling of petals, the hum of bees that flitted nearby, oblivious to the gentle tension that had lingered between you earlier.

For a while, neither of you spoke, the soft rustle of flowers the only sound between you. Then, finally, Laurence’s voice broke the silence, low and gentle.

“Do you often make these?” he asked, his fingers deftly weaving another flower into the crown, his eyes glancing up at you only briefly.

You shook your head, still a little self-conscious. “I’ve never really done this before,” you admitted softly. “It seems… childish.”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and easy, the sound like music in the stillness of the garden. “I wouldn’t call it childish. There’s something simple, yet…” He paused, looking down at his hands, as though searching for the right word. “Something sincere about it. The way you connect with nature. It’s more than just play.”

You glanced at him, catching the sincerity in his tone. There was something disarming about how easily he had fallen into the moment, as if he had no hesitation in letting down the walls that you both so often kept up. His fingers worked with more ease now, weaving the flowers with a careful rhythm, as though this were not some fleeting activity but a meditative act.

“I suppose I never thought of it that way,” you said softly, carefully adjusting the petals in your hands. Your crown was taking shape now, its delicate structure coming together under your careful touch. You didn’t need to speak to him, not right now. You didn’t feel as if words were necessary. It was a moment, one that existed in its own fragile space, where time seemed to slow. It wasn’t about what came after or how you would explain this moment to anyone else—it was about this, right now, the way his presence felt both grounding and inexplicably light.

Laurence, sensing the shift, turned his full attention to you, his smile softening into something deeper. “There’s a certain calmness in sharing something simple,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes held yours then, unguarded and sincere, as though he was allowing himself to be seen in this small, vulnerable way.

You blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness in his gaze. The words stuck in your throat, a flutter of something unfamiliar stirring within you. Was it possible to feel connected to someone in such an intimate, unspoken way? You weren’t sure, but in that quiet moment, you allowed yourself to believe it was.

The flowers seemed to grow more beautiful in your hands as the crown began to take shape—vivid purples, soft whites, and the sweet pale yellows of the daisies interlaced with one another, forming a delicate tapestry of nature’s offerings. The crown was far from perfect—some of the petals sagged a bit, others were slightly uneven—but it was yours, shaped by your hands with an ease you hadn’t anticipated.

Laurence reached for your crown then, his touch gentle as he adjusted a stray petal. His fingers brushed against yours, the contact light but lingering, and the soft touch sent a rush of warmth through you. His expression held no malice, no hidden agenda—just a quiet understanding, a quiet companionship. He smiled again, a soft, genuine smile that made your heart stutter in your chest.

“There,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender. “It’s perfect.”

You turned to look at him, meeting his gaze for a long moment. The space between you had shifted, and for once, the weight of your thoughts seemed to dissipate, leaving only the soft hum of the garden and the simple connection between you. Your pulse was steady now, the tension you had carried with you for so long easing away.

You both stood, the crowns in your hands, and in that small, fleeting moment, you felt something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time: peace.

 ──

“One cup of sugar—Laurence, that’s salt,”

The kitchen was a sanctuary of warmth, the kind that could only be found in the heart of an old estate. The flickering light from the hearth cast a dancing glow over the countertops, and the air was thick with the comforting scent of butter and vanilla. The rhythmic sifting of flour from your hands felt like a gentle lullaby, the steady motions oddly grounding in the otherwise grand, expansive space.

Laurence stood at the counter next to you, carefully measuring the ingredients with a concentration that seemed out of place for such a simple task. He was tall, his sleeves rolled up, yet there was something endearing about how he fumbled with the measuring cups, his usual composed demeanor melting away in the shared quiet of the kitchen. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked down at the measuring cup in his hand, his fingers still holding the salt instead of sugar.

Laurence blinked, then glanced from the measuring cup to you, a playful glint in his eyes. “How do you know?” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow in feigned innocence.

You leaned toward the counter, your fingers lightly brushing against his as you reached for the sugar. “Would you like to taste it and find out?” Your voice was playful, but there was an underlying warmth to it, a quiet invitation to share something beyond the recipe.

Laurence’s lips curled into a smile, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was considering the idea. His gaze lingered on you, softening in a way that made your heart flutter, and then he let out a small, amused sigh. “I think I’ll pass on that,” he replied with a laugh, setting the salt aside and grabbing the correct ingredient. “But I’m glad you’re here to keep me from ruining the entire batch.”

The warmth between you felt like a delicate thread, pulling you closer, even in the simplest of moments. As he added the sugar to the bowl, you couldn’t help but notice the ease with which you worked together. There was no rush, no pressure, just the shared comfort of two people in a quiet space, finding small joy in the task at hand.

You smiled, watching him as he worked with such earnestness, his movements graceful despite the occasional stumble. The flickering firelight made his features soft, his usual poise giving way to something more relaxed, something more vulnerable. It was a side of him that you hadn’t seen often, and it made your chest tighten with something tender—something unspoken, but deeply felt.

The sound of the spoon stirring in the bowl filled the space between you, breaking the comfortable silence. Laurence glanced at you again, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet understanding.

The batter was finally ready, its smooth consistency a testament to the care and attention you had given to it. You took a moment, your finger lightly swiping across the edge of the bowl, the sweet, velvety mixture clinging to your skin. Without thinking, you brought your finger up to your lips, the familiar taste of sugar and vanilla melting on your tongue. You hummed softly in pleasure, savoring the simple joy of it.

Behind you, you could feel Laurence’s presence—his warmth, his quiet energy—closer than ever. A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, the sound low and almost teasing. “I want to try too,” he muttered, his voice hushed, as though he were unsure whether to interrupt the moment or not.

You glanced over your shoulder, smiling at the thought of sharing the taste. “The bowl’s right there,” you said, with a playful tilt of your head, pointing lightly toward the mixing bowl.

But Laurence didn’t reach for the bowl. Instead, you felt a shift in the air, a subtle change in his stance. The warmth of his breath brushed against the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. His hands, steady and sure, gently turned you toward him. The movement was slow, deliberate, as though he were savoring the moment before it unfolded.

When you met his eyes, there was an intensity there, a quiet hunger that made your heart beat faster. His gaze lingered on your lips, and for a long, breathless moment, neither of you moved. It was as if the world outside the kitchen had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in this suspended moment of soft tension.

And then, without a word, Laurence leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. The kiss was tender, slow, as though he were testing the waters, allowing the moment to build gradually. His hand cupped your face gently, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that took your breath away. It was a kiss that said more than words ever could—more than what either of you had ever dared to speak aloud.

You melted into him, your fingers instinctively curling against his chest. The taste of the batter lingered on your lips, but it was quickly replaced by the sweetness of him—the warmth of his lips, the softness of his touch. There was no urgency in the kiss, just a slow, consuming pull, as if time itself had slowed down, allowing you to savor every second, every soft press of his mouth against yours.

The sudden sound of someone clearing their throat echoed through the kitchen, startling you so much that you let out an involuntary shriek. Your heart leapt into your throat, panic flooding your chest. You scrambled to push Laurence away from you, instinctively turning toward the door, your mind racing with the worst possibilities. It could be his father, returning early from the counsel meeting, or perhaps, even worse, your mother, who had a way of showing up unexpectedly—though both scenarios seemed unlikely given their respective locations. Still, the fear was enough to make your pulse quicken.

Laurence, caught off-guard by your sudden movement, stumbled back, his eyes wide with surprise. But rather than the tension you might have expected, he let out a relieved laugh, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the otherwise quiet room. The tension in his shoulders relaxed, his features softening. "Audrick, you’ve frightened me," he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and relief.

A man stepped into view—tall, with a weary air about him. He was dressed in a simple white coat, the kind you’d associate with a doctor or health aide, though his fatigued expression suggested he had been working long hours. His eyes, heavy and tired, scanned the scene in front of him. They lingered briefly on Laurence, and then, almost reluctantly, moved toward you. It wasn’t an unfamiliar look—his gaze was calm, but there was something searching in it, as if he was assessing the situation more than just observing it.

Before you could find your voice, Laurence spoke up, albeit more hesitant than usual. “Clara’s sibling,” he said, his tone almost apologetic as he looked at you. He then paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “Would you—Not let father know, or anyone for that matter?”

The air in the room thickened with a new kind of tension, and you could feel your throat tighten. Audrick, the man who had startled you, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze flickering between you and Laurence. There was something almost humorous in the way his lips twitched, as if he found the situation both amusing and vaguely awkward. His eyes softened, though, as he looked back at you, giving you a questioning look.

The weight of that unspoken understanding passed between the three of you, but he said nothing more for a moment. Instead, he muttered something under his breath, too quiet for you to hear, before his gaze turned back toward the door. A moment of silence stretched between the three of you, and then, with a gruff finality in his voice, Audrick spoke again.

“I saw nothing,” he muttered, as if sealing the pact between you, his tired eyes glancing once more toward you before he turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen. The sound of his footsteps grew softer with each step, and then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving the two of you alone once more in the quiet room.

The tension in the air finally began to dissipate, but the situation still lingered, hanging between you and Laurence like a delicate thread. You could hear the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth, the soft hum of the house around you, but it all seemed distant now, overshadowed by the unexpected interruption.

 ──

The theater was dimly lit, the soft murmur of voices in the crowd slowly fading as the velvet curtains parted. The stage, bathed in the gentle glow of gaslight, was a fantastical world of bright colors and whimsical costumes. The actors, in their elaborate Victorian attire, brought the absurdity of Alice in Wonderland to life. The White Rabbit darted across the stage, his pocket watch dangling from his waist, while the Queen of Hearts bellowed orders to her soldiers, her red and gold gown fluttering with every exaggerated movement.

You and Laurence sat side by side in one of the private boxes, the ornate carvings of the wooden railings around you offering a sense of intimacy amidst the grand theater. The heat of the room, filled with the scent of candle wax and warm bodies, made the cool evening air outside seem like a distant memory. On the stage, the actors' voices rang out clearly, their performances exaggerated for effect, capturing the wonder and chaos of Wonderland.

Laurence sat slightly stiff beside you, his eyes flickering toward the performance but never fully engaging. His fingers, resting on the armrest, were tense, his posture rigid. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at the audience below, his gaze far off, almost as if he were looking for something—or someone—in the crowd. His lips were pressed together, the tension in his jaw subtle but noticeable.

You studied him for a moment, the playful absurdity of the play becoming a backdrop to the quiet unease radiating from him. His expression, although softening at times with a fleeting smile, never quite reached his eyes.

You leaned slightly toward him, the rustle of your skirts the only sound between you as the rabbit scurried across the stage. "Do you think you'd be able to live in a world like this?" you asked quietly, your voice barely audible over the muffled sounds of the play. "Where nothing makes sense, where there are no rules, no predictability."

Laurence let out a soft, almost absent laugh. "Perhaps it would be freeing," he said, his voice a touch more strained than usual. "But it would also be unsettling. A world without order, where every moment is chaos... It might drive a person mad."

You nodded, your own attention now divided between him and the play. As the Mad Hatter and the March Hare began their nonsensical tea party on stage, you could feel Laurence's tension, the weight of something unspoken between you. His fingers tightened on the armrest again, and the way his gaze lingered anywhere but on you felt like an invitation to ask, to press for more.

But you didn’t. You simply watched as the characters spun their odd tales, their strange dialogue filling the air with laughter and lightness. When you felt Laurence’s hand brush against yours, a simple touch that spoke of comfort and companionship, you didn’t move it away. You let your fingers linger there, offering him the quiet support he might not be ready to ask for.

After a long moment, you turned to him, noticing the faint lines of worry between his brows. "Are you alright, Laurence?" you asked, your voice soft, yet full of concern.

He gave you a quick glance, his face flickering with something unreadable before he smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice dismissing the moment. "Just... lost in thought, I suppose."

But you could tell it wasn’t the whole truth. The lie was thin, a mere veil over the truth you both knew. Still, you didn’t press further. Not yet. Instead, you nodded, offering him a small, reassuring smile. You could feel the warmth of his hand resting against yours, the way he tried to steady himself with the small contact.

As the play unfolded before you both, with its nonsensical characters and whimsical scenes, you let the quiet linger. The absurdity of Wonderland, where reality bent and twisted on itself, seemed to mirror the unspoken tension that clung to Laurence. You didn’t need him to explain. Not now. But you stayed close, offering the silent understanding that you were there, waiting for him to share when he was ready.

The rest of the evening passed in a quiet sort of harmony, the play drawing to its chaotic conclusion as the Queen of Hearts was finally overthrown. Yet, as you sat in the plush theater chair beside Laurence, you both knew that there was another story unfolding just beneath the surface—one that would take time to unravel. But for now, the play, with all its nonsense and whimsy, was enough to carry the moment, and you were content to remain in the silence, waiting for him to share when he could.

 ──

The grand ballroom was quiet, the floor polished to a gleaming shine under the soft light of the chandeliers above. The music, a gentle waltz played by the orchestra, drifted through the room, its melody floating in the air like a delicate whisper.

You stood beside Laurence, your hand lightly resting on his, guiding him into position. He was tall, his presence commanding even in the gentlest of moments, but there was a hesitancy to him now, a slight tension in his posture that hadn’t been there before. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he looked down at his feet, trying to match the rhythm of the waltz.

“Step forward with your left foot,” you instructed, your voice soft and patient, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. His hand, warm against yours, gripped a bit too tightly, though he didn’t seem to notice. “And then to the side. One, two, three…” You moved in time with him, showing him each step. He followed, though his movements were unsure, hesitant.

He let out a small sigh, and you felt it more than heard it, the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both. “I’m not very good at this,” he muttered, his tone laced with frustration, though there was a softness to it. His eyes met yours, a flicker of vulnerability in them before they quickly darted away.

“You’re doing just fine,” you reassured him, gently guiding his hand to your waist as you adjusted your own posture. “Don’t worry about being perfect. Just feel the music, let it guide you.”

Laurence’s jaw tightened, the briefest flicker of something clouding his expression. But he nodded, attempting to match the rhythm once more, though his steps were a bit out of sync. As the two of you moved around the empty ballroom, his gaze occasionally drifted to the corners of the room, like he was searching for something—or perhaps trying to avoid it.

The music swirled around you both, and for a moment, you allowed the motion of the dance to distract you from the subtle tension between you. You weren’t sure what it was that weighed on him so heavily, but you could feel it in the way his steps faltered, in the way he kept looking away, as though he couldn’t fully focus on the dance—or on you.

“Just follow me,” you said gently, a soft smile on your lips, hoping to ease the tension in his shoulders. “It’s just the two of us here. No one else.”

Laurence’s eyes flicked to you then, a brief moment of softness in his gaze before he looked away once more. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “I don’t know why… I can’t seem to focus tonight.”

You didn’t ask him to explain. Instead, you gave him space, not pressing for answers. Instead, you simply guided him through the steps, your hand gently resting against his shoulder, your other holding his, and your feet moving in time with the music. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way the weight on his shoulders seemed to lighten just a little as he followed your lead.

The waltz continued, slow and steady, a soft rhythm that wrapped around you both like a comforting embrace. There was no rush, no expectation—just the quiet, shared space between the two of you. It didn’t matter that Laurence still seemed distant, his gaze flickering to other parts of the room, the faintest trace of something bothering him.

You didn’t press. You simply stayed with him, moving as one, the music filling the silence between you. The dance was as much about trust as it was about steps, and in that moment, you trusted him—trusted that he would speak when he was ready, that he would let you in when he could.

And so, you danced. Each step, each turn, a simple act of connection, of being present with one another. The world outside the ballroom seemed distant, and for those few moments, it was just the two of you, moving together in a rhythm that, while imperfect, was still beautiful.

Laurence’s hand, though still tense, softened slightly in yours as the dance went on, and though you knew something still weighed heavily on him, you could feel him letting the music guide him, if only for a little while. His steps became smoother, and the distance between you both, though still there, seemed a little smaller. And for now, that was enough.

 

──

The soft breeze whispered through the open fields, the scent of wildflowers drifting in the air, mingling with the earthy undertones of the garden. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow that bathed the rolling hills, the colors of the flowers stretching across the vast landscape like a canvas of muted reds, purples, and yellows.

You lay back in the grass beside Laurence, the delicate petals of the flowers brushing against your skin, their sweet fragrance mixing with the faint scent of his cologne. The serenity of the moment enveloped you both, a peaceful stillness that contrasted with the often bustling energy of the estate. Your mother, had she seen you like this, would have fainted, likely scolding you for being so unrestrained, so unguarded, in a place so far removed from society’s expectations. But here, in this quiet corner of the world, you felt free.

You glanced down at the small box in your hands, fingers tracing its edges as you held it close to your chest. Laurence was beside you, his gaze fixed on the sky, his blonde hair tousled by the breeze, the sunlight catching the faintest glimmer of gold in the strands. He was beautiful, almost impossibly so, as if sculpted by the gods themselves—a perfect symmetry, a quiet strength in the way he held himself, a grace that was both enviable and breathtaking.

“Isn’t the view beautiful?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur, barely louder than the rustling of the leaves around you. His eyes, deep and thoughtful, reflected the colors of the sky as he gazed at the horizon, the light catching the faintest glint in his irises.

“It is,” you replied softly, your voice low, almost reverent. You turned your head toward him, drawn to the quiet magnetism he exuded, and as you did, you caught his gaze, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter in your chest. Neither of you spoke for a moment, simply lost in the shared silence, the closeness between you palpable.

It was Laurence who broke it first, his voice gentle but laden with curiosity. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, the small box in your hand suddenly feeling a bit heavier, though it was not the weight of the gift but the weight of your emotions. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I got you a gift,” you said softly, the words catching in your throat as you spoke.

Laurence furrowed his brows, his lips pulling into a small frown, and his gaze flickered to the box in your hands. “I didn’t get you anything…” His voice trailed off, a hint of concern underlying the words.

You smiled, your heart warming at his sincerity. "It's not meant to be an exchange for anything." You reached across the space between you, your fingers brushing against his as you handed him the small box. His eyes softened as he took it, his touch gentle, careful, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile.

He opened the small box slowly, as if savoring the moment, his fingers brushing against the delicate lid before lifting it to reveal the earrings nestled inside. The silver gleamed softly in the light, catching the sun's rays as it reflected off the polished surface. The earrings were a cross, crafted with dainty chains that wove together in an intricate pattern. At the center of each cross was a crimson-like diamond, a deep red hue that shimmered with a quiet intensity—almost as if it held a secret. The design was simple, yet undeniably beautiful, the craftsmanship so fine that each detail seemed to tell a story.

Laurence’s eyes widened slightly as he studied the earrings, a softness passing over his features. His gaze drifted up to meet yours, and there was a quiet understanding there, as if he could sense the intention behind the gift, though words weren’t necessary.

You hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight nervousness in your chest. “You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to,” you said, your voice gentle, almost shy. “And you don’t need to be religious to accept them. Consider it…” You paused, your words lingering in the air for a moment as you gathered your thoughts. “Consider it protection from me.”

The words felt heavier than you intended, but there was sincerity in them—an earnestness that echoed within your heart. You weren’t sure why, but you wanted him to have something that was a symbol of your care, your quiet promise to stand by him. The crimson diamond in the center of the cross, the symbol of strength, was meant to be a guardian, a token of your unspoken commitment to him.

Laurence’s gaze softened even further, the small box still in his hands, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the earrings as if they were something fragile—something to be cherished. His lips parted, and for a moment, he seemed speechless, his thoughts held just beyond reach.

“My father is sending me to war.”

It hit you like a shockwave, the weight of it sinking deep into your chest. You blinked, unsure if you had heard him correctly, your breath catching in your throat. The tranquility of the moment shattered, leaving a silence between you that felt too heavy to bear.

It was as though everything around you— the soft breeze in the garden, the rustling leaves, the gentle hum of distant birds— had all faded into the background. There was only the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, and the painful realization that this had been what had been weighing on him all along.

Had that been the source of the unease you had felt? The quiet distance he’d kept, the way his eyes had seemed to flicker with something unspoken? It was now clear to you, and the knowledge settled over you like a dark cloud. Laurence wasn’t just troubled by the usual conflicts of life; he was facing something far more harrowing, something far out of his control.

You wanted to say something, to comfort him, but the words felt so small, so utterly inadequate in the face of what he was about to endure. You reached out instinctively, your hand hovering near his arm, unsure whether to touch him or not. There was a tremor in your chest, something fragile in the way you held yourself back. You could see the tension in his shoulders, his jaw set tight, as though he had steeled himself for something inevitable, something he couldn’t escape.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he murmured, his gaze downcast, avoiding yours. There was a vulnerability in his voice that you hadn’t heard before, a softness that made the words all the more painful. “But I had to. He’s insistent. He thinks it’s the only way for me to prove myself, to earn my place…”

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, there was a long, aching silence between you both. The air around you felt too thick, too heavy, as if the weight of his words had momentarily crushed the space between you.

You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat grow larger. Despite the pain that knotted in your stomach, you reached for him then, your hand gently brushing against his. The touch was tentative at first, but when he didn’t pull away, you let your fingers curl around his, grounding both yourself and him in the quiet connection between you.

It’s selfish, really—how the tears spill from your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. They fall in hot, silent trails down your cheeks, staining your skin. Your chest heaves with the weight of emotions you can hardly understand, and before you know it, sobs choke their way out of your throat, raw and full of anguish. The sobs feel foreign, almost, as though they don’t belong to you, but in the moment, they’re the only thing you can hold onto.

You want to be strong for him, to offer comfort, but the pain of it all—the thought of Laurence, of him being torn from everything, from you—shatters any pretense of composure. You can’t stop the grief that surges through you, a wave that crashes over every part of you, drowning out all thoughts except for the crushing weight of helplessness.

And then, as if somehow sensing your unraveling, Laurence moves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest with a tenderness that both soothes and breaks you. The warmth of his embrace surrounds you, but the tremors in his body tell you everything you need to know. The weight of his own grief, his own heartache, presses against you like a hidden storm.

It’s only then, as your body shakes in his arms, that you hear it—the faint, broken sound of his own sobs. The quiet, guttural rasp of his pain fills the space between you, and it hits you with the force of a thunderclap.

Laurence, the man who had always carried himself with such quiet strength, is crying too. His tears fall as freely as yours, his chest heaving in time with yours, but there’s no shame in it. No masks, no walls. Just the raw, vulnerable truth of his emotions laid bare in the silence of the garden.

For a few moments, neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the soft cries escaping from both of you, mingling in the air, the shared weight of your sorrow binding you together in a way that words never could.

 ──

You shouldn’t have been there.

You knew that, deep in your heart, though the frantic pace of your thoughts clouded any sense of reason. The infirmary was nowhere near the battlefield, yet here you were, heart racing, legs burning with exhaustion, the weight of fear and grief pulling you forward. It would have been safer, wiser even, to stay back at the estate, to remain in the warmth of Clara’s embrace as you both wept for the life of Laurence—a life that hasn't yet been taken, though you feared, was slipping away with every passing moment.

But the thought of him, lost, broken, in danger—you couldn’t bear it. Your heart refused to remain still, refusing to settle in the face of uncertainty. You had to see him. You had to be near him, just in case.

You ran.

The cold air bit at your skin, the wind tugging at your hair, but you hardly noticed. It was the fear that drove you, the desperate need to be close, to know he was still alive. Every step felt like an eternity, your legs aching, your chest heaving, but there was no stopping now. You pushed forward, not caring how much the world around you blurred, not caring how your lungs burned, how your throat felt dry and ragged with each gasping breath.

In your hands, the blankets were a small comfort, their soft fabric wrapped tightly around your fingers, their warmth a reminder of the safety and love you had left behind. Clara’s presence, too, was a distant echo in your thoughts—her steady calmness, her gentle assurances, her hands holding your own as you clung to her, trying to find some sort of solace in the face of this uncertainty.

But you had to go. You had to make sure he was alright, even if the distance between you seemed insurmountable.

Finally, when your legs could no longer carry you at a sprint, you slowed as the infirmary came into view. The small building looked no different than any other—modest, quiet, tucked away from the chaos of the battlefield—but to you, it felt like the only place that mattered.

You pushed the door open with trembling hands, your breath catching in your throat as you stepped inside, the cool air from the outside rushing in to meet the stale warmth of the room. The scent of antiseptic and herbs filled your nose, but it did little to calm the frantic pulse of your heart.

The sight before you was suffocating, like a vice tightening around your chest, stealing the very breath from your lungs. Your legs went stiff, your body frozen, as your eyes scanned the room, taking in the grim reality of the situation. The air inside the infirmary felt thick, as if every breath you drew was laden with the weight of despair. The harsh scent of blood and antiseptic mingled in the air, but it did little to mask the terror rising in your throat.

There were other bodies—soldiers, men who had been caught in the chaos of the battlefield, their lives now laid bare across the cold, metal tables. The mess of wounds and injuries was overwhelming, but your gaze immediately fell on him.

Laurence.

Your heart nearly stopped as you took in the sight—his body so still, so lifeless upon the table. A bullet wound pierced his chest, its dark crimson staining the once-pristine fabric of his uniform. The wound seemed to be a direct hit to his heart, the blood that soaked around the injury making it clear that there was no time to waste. The stark reality of it hit you like a physical blow, and your vision blurred as you desperately tried to make sense of what was happening.

You dropped the blankets at your feet with a jolt, one of them, carefully prepared for him, a token of warmth you had hoped to bring him—a piece of your love and protection. But now it felt useless, as useless as your voice that caught in your throat.

You shook your head in disbelief, unable to comprehend the sight. You wanted to scream, to do something, anything to undo what had happened, but your body was paralyzed with fear. You opened your mouth to cry out, but the words wouldn’t come. Your breath caught in your throat, and a deep sorrow started to coil within your chest, choking you with its weight.

It was only then that you saw him.

A figure—a man, familiar but distant, standing near a table with a small vial in his hand. The liquid inside was thick, dark, and crimson, almost like blood. He was fiddling with it, as if he had all the time in the world, not even acknowledging the life-or-death situation unfolding just a few feet away.

Your vision sharpened, and a surge of panic gripped you. “Heal him!” you screamed, the words erupting from you in a strangled cry. You rushed to Laurence’s side, your hands trembling as you reached out for him, your heart breaking with each moment that passed.

You touched his cold skin, your palm pressing against his chest, and it felt like the world was closing in on you. The wound was too deep, too cruel. Your breath hitched as you looked at it, unable to fathom that this was happening, that the man you loved was lying here, on the brink of death.

Your gaze flicked to the earrings adorning his ears, the silver cross and delicate chains catching the dim light of the room. The sight of them pierced your heart, an unbearable reminder of the love you had shared, now tainted with the shadow of loss.

The tears came then, hot and unbidden, streaming down your face in a steady flow. You choked on your sobs, unable to control the grief that overwhelmed you. “Please… help him,” you whispered through broken breaths, your voice trembling with desperation. You couldn’t bear to lose him—not like this, not here, not so suddenly.

The man with the vial made no move to assist, still lost in whatever ritual he was performing, his focus elsewhere. Your heart twisted with fury and hopelessness, but you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop fighting for him.

With shaking hands, you pressed a gentle kiss to Laurence’s forehead, trying to hold onto the hope that there was still time, that there was still a way to save him. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in this desperate moment, and you couldn’t help but wonder—would it be enough?

You pressed your forehead against Laurence’s, your breath ragged as you held onto him, the weight of the world crashing down upon you. His body, so cold and still in your arms, felt like the final, unmistakable evidence that he was gone. The blood staining his uniform was a permanent mark, a grim reminder of all that had been lost. You could barely feel the pressure of your hands against his skin, the numbness creeping into your fingertips as if your own heart was freezing over.

Tears blurred your vision, yet through the haze, you could still make out the figure standing at the far end of the room, the man who seemed so detached from the chaos unfolding around him. He was still fiddling with the vial, his movements slow and methodical, as if this was all a matter of routine. The dark liquid swirled in the glass, a thick, ominous crimson that seemed to glint in the dim light of the infirmary.

It was then that his voice cut through your panic, calm, almost too calm for the situation.

“I can help him,” he said, his gaze lifting slightly to meet yours. His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying coldness to it, an almost predatory edge that sent a chill down your spine.

You shook your head, your heart hammering in your chest, as you looked back down at Laurence. The sight of him—so lifeless, so fragile—was unbearable. “Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Just save him. I’ll do anything.”

The man—Audrick, you realized now, though it didn’t matter—took a slow step toward you, the vial still clenched in his fingers. He observed you for a moment, his dark eyes unwavering, before he finally spoke again.

“You are so desperate, aren’t you?” His voice was tinged with something dark, something ancient. “You would do anything to bring him back, even if it means losing yourself in the process.”

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. “What are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. The silence between you both stretched, suffocating in its weight, as though the world itself was holding its breath. Slowly, he stepped closer, his every movement deliberate and unsettling. With each step, the air around you grew heavier, charged with an otherworldly presence. The metallic scent of blood, sharp and overwhelming, curled into your nostrils. It was so thick you could taste it on your tongue, a bitterness that made your stomach twist.

Your gaze was locked on Laurence’s body, still and lifeless, but the dread crawling through your chest had only grown. The blood pooling around him, soaking through his uniform, felt like a cruel reminder of the inevitable. And yet, Audrick continued to draw closer, his presence somehow more oppressive the nearer he came.

He didn’t speak, not yet. Instead, he moved to stand at your side, his eyes never leaving Laurence, the blood-stained figure you were desperately trying to cling to, even though the world was already slipping away from you. And then, without a word, he held it out to you.

The vial.

The liquid inside swirled in the dim light, dark and thick, its crimson hue reflecting something ancient, something far more potent than mere blood. You recoiled, heart racing, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from it. Your fingers trembled as they hovered over it, the weight of the decision pressing down on you, and your mind screamed at you to run, to escape from this madness. But you couldn’t.

It was blood. His blood. And it was the key to everything.

“Take it,” Audrick’s voice cut through the haze, low and cold, like the quiet before a storm. “I can save him.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you dared to glance up at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something far darker, something almost cruel.

“But he won’t be the same,” Audrick added, his voice barely above a whisper. "You cannot save him the way you wish. Not in this world." His eyes lingered on Laurence's lifeless form, the implication of his words settling heavily between you. "But I can offer you another chance. For him. For you."

You felt your breath catch in your throat. What was this? What was happening? Was this real?

The blood—the dark, unnatural blood—burned in your mind like an ember, hot and insistent, demanding a choice. A choice that would bind you to this moment, to whatever twisted fate Audrick had woven for you and Laurence.

And then, almost as if the air itself had thickened with the weight of the question, Audrick’s voice came again, like a whisper in the dead of night, both a promise and a threat. "Would you join him?"

You stared at the vial, unable to process the weight of his words.

“Join him,” he repeated, the words rolling from his lips like silk. “In death. In what he becomes.”

You blinked, your heart pounding in your chest, and for a moment, the world blurred around you. Was this a dream? Was this all a cruel illusion? The grief, the fear—it felt so real, but this? This offer, this vial of blood—it felt like a nightmare.

But Audrick was still there, his cold, unwavering presence standing over you, watching as you struggled to breathe, to think.

“I can save him,” he said again, softer this time, almost coaxing. “But he won’t be as he was. And you…” He let the silence linger, thick and suffocating. “You can join him. Drink from the vial. Become what he will be, what he already is.”

The idea gripped you—terrified, enticed, confused. The desperation in your heart screamed for some way to hold on, to keep him with you, to never let go of the warmth that had once been Laurence. But at what cost?

You held the vial in your trembling hands, staring at the dark liquid that seemed to pulse, alive in its own right. 

You held the vial in your trembling hands, the cool glass somehow more solid than your thoughts, as if it anchored you to this moment. The blood inside was thick and dark, swirling like liquid fire, its presence overwhelming. The weight of what you were about to do crushed down on you, and yet, there was no turning back. Not now. Not when Laurence’s body lay so still before you, and the temptation—no, the need—was overwhelming.

Audrick’s gaze was fixed on you, his eyes unreadable, but his presence so close, so intense. You could feel the pull of him—the certainty, the power behind his words. "You will not be the same," he had warned you. But you didn’t care. Nothing mattered except Laurence. Nothing mattered except holding on to him, to the life that was slipping away.

You hesitated only for a moment, the vial feeling heavier with each passing breath. And then you brought it to your lips, your fingers trembling as you tilted the vial to drink.

The blood was warm against your tongue, rich and thick, and at first, you could taste nothing but the sharp, metallic tang. It burned as it slid down your throat, searing through you, a fire that spread through your chest, down your arms, and into your bones. It was too much—more than you had ever imagined—pulling at something deep inside you, something alive that you had never known existed within you.

But then, the pain struck—sharply, cruelly. You gasped, your chest constricting, a hot, agonizing pressure building within you. Your breath caught in your throat, and it felt as though the very air around you turned to stone, suffocating you. Your vision blurred, the edges of the world around you warping, and in that moment, you realized what was happening. But it was too late.

You managed to choke out a ragged breath, only for it to taste like iron in the back of your throat. Your vision went dim, and your knees buckled beneath you, crumpling to the cold, unforgiving floor. Blood—your own—was spilling from your mouth, staining the ground beneath you. You could feel your heart, heavy and slow, beating in your chest, and you were certain it wouldn’t last much longer.

"You...you..." you gasped, your voice trembling, but the words never fully formed. Your limbs felt heavy, uncoordinated, and everything around you seemed to spin. The darkness was creeping in, pulling at the edges of your mind.

"I'm sorry," came Audrick’s voice, low and soft, like a distant whisper. "This will only work if you’re on the verge of death."

Your breath caught in your throat, and you barely managed to lift your head to look at him. His face was unreadable, his expression distant, but his eyes—there was something in his eyes, something both cold and calculating. He stepped closer, and before you could react, he was holding the vial again, tilting it gently, with an almost eerie grace, to your lips.

"Drink," he commanded, the word so quiet, so final. You didn’t have the strength to resist. Your hands trembled, reaching for it as though it might be your only salvation. You could feel the blood, warm and thick, pouring into your mouth, mingling with your own as you swallowed, forcing it down as though your very life depended on it.

And then, just as quickly, you felt him move closer, his presence overwhelming, as his lips brushed against your ear.

"That's it," he murmured softly, his voice rich with an unsettling calm. "Drink it all." His breath was cold against your skin, and you knew, in some distant part of your mind, that he was a creature of darkness—a being far removed from any reality you had ever known.

But it was too late to stop now.

The blood was a fire inside you, spreading like lightning through your veins. But it wasn’t just warmth—it was something more. Something ancient. Something other. You choked again, gasping for breath as your senses began to fade, each one slipping away from you, one by one.

The faintest whisper of sound reached your ears, and you could feel the world around you growing quieter, more distant. Your vision blurred, the light around you dimming to near nothingness. You tried to scream—tried to call out—but no sound came. Your hearing, too, was fading, the world sinking into a muffled silence.

And then, the smell—the sharp scent of blood, of the air around you—began to dull, as though it too was being swallowed by the overwhelming darkness that was overtaking you. You felt weightless, as though floating in an endless void, and a hollow emptiness began to settle in your chest. Your heart... was slowing. You could no longer feel the pulse in your veins, and the thought of it was almost too much to bear.

“Rest now," Audrick whispered, his voice the last thing you could make out before the final pieces of your world began to crumble away. “I’ll relocate you, please don’t feel betrayed… You’ll cross paths with him soon enough. I’ll make sure of it.”

And then, just like that, everything was silent. Your thoughts, too, began to slip away, fading like the final ember of a dying fire.

But even as everything blurred, as your body ceased to be your own, there was one thought that lingered—the thought of Laurence. His face, his eyes, his warmth. You could see him, feel him, even as your world dissolved into nothing.

Would he be waiting for you?

And with that thought, the darkness claimed you completely.

──

author's note: this is not a recently written work; its been in my drafts for quite a while now. i’m still on my writing break but do eventually plan to come back, i’m so greatful for everyone’s kind words—this fandom is truly the sweetest. 🤍

[thedivinevera]

❦Alternative❦

Your basic yandere x reader story but he is transported in the body of his variant who happens to cheat on you.

Imagine working so hard to make your darling fall in-love to you and you suddenly find out that another version of you in an alternate reality is cheating and wasting the love you blessed to his variant. - yandere!

(This is the more "headcanon" like post than the other one where it looks like a script/ convo of my Au uni)

Part 1 and 2

Yandere!multiple characters x gn reader

Tags: yandere x reader, male characters, established relationship, alternative Universe (Au), no gender reader, yandere au, cheating au, multiple characters

Tw! : Yandere, toxic relationship (2 types), CHEATING, unhealthy obsession, MENTIONED OF SELF HARM, mention of death, mention of murder, using profanity (curse). OOC CHARACTERS

A/N hellooo this is my first time doing a multiple character post (and my first post after a long hiatus,). Honestly there are a lot of fandoms I really want to contribute so I decided to just do this!!! So as a reminder; since this is multiple characters post, expect a lot of OOC

Yandere x reader but he's transported into another alternative Universe, where his variant cheated on you.

Yandere x reader but rather than seeing a traumatized reader (mainly caused by him) he sees an either a begging reader who desperately asks him how he could do this to them or a reader who's cold and seems to just don't give a fuck about him but either way it's far more better than seeing you traumatized and lifeless

Yandere x reader but he's comforting and promising to you that he will never do it again and if that means he would need to be put in a leash, camera in his house, or kill himself if he did it again, then so be it.

Yandere x reader but he killed the person he cheated with and hurt themselves intentionally in the process because his variant (the body) and that person is the reason why his beloved is hurting.

Yandere x reader but he manipulated you to accept him again by letting you see the scars he put in himself because "he" deserves it and put on a show that he's guilty that he couldn't live knowing he hurt you.

Yandere x reader but he's now treating you far better than his variant, of course excluding the fact that he's too possessive and obsessed with you, but hey! Atleast he's not fucking some person behind your back.

Yandere x reader but he never wants to go back to his alternative Universe because as long as you love and care for him he would never want to leave you again.

Yandere x reader but he's so fucking angry because in his world he had done everything to have what his variant have; you and he just waste it for a fucking whore.

Yandere x reader but he almost put himself in self destruction because this body is the same body that hurts you.

Yandere x reader but now everything that he had plan for the future is finally can be put in place.

Yandere x reader but he loves you so much to even think about cheating with you because he thinks that your love is an extension of his life and no matter what happen, no matter how beautiful the person is he would never think of cheating with you ever again .

Yandere x reader but he's ready to be put in lobotomy just to show he would never cheat on you :))

Some meme :)))

[literary-motif]

How Are You Feeling?

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

warnings: references to depression

“Are you feeling alright?” Xanthus asked, putting down his book. The frown on his face was starkly apparent, even from your place curled up on the windowsill on the other end of the room. “The bond— you’re—”

“Fine, love,” you muttered, not turning around to look at him. Autumn leaves were swirling down the trees outside, fog creeping up to the edge of Dontis’ property. “A little melancholy, that’s all.”

He did not believe you, feeling a sharp sting of aching coming from your side of the bond. “My love, you can talk to me anytime.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

[boiledmang0s]

Doodle of my love :3

My traditional art style is way different then my digital art style😭

Fun fact about them- The scarf I draw them in all the time is the first thing they bought after they left their parents

[belladonnadawn]

Point Of No Return

After finding out about your infidelity, Xanthus hatched a plan to make sure that you will not do such thing again. Xanthus x Reader Content Warning: Mentions of torture and violence. (I don't know if I should put yandere since he's just like that apparently.)

Xanthus is inconsolable. After the revelation of your affair came to him, he was left bewildered. You tricked him, you deceived him, you took him for a fool. He knew that the signs were there, but he disregarded it, thinking that his trust in you is bigger than those doubts– a regret that he'll always hate himself for.

A part of him is in disbelief that you managed to cheat on him. He wondered how long this has been going on. Days? Weeks? Months? Either way, the fact that you managed to conceal it was impressive– especially when both of you are tethered by the bond.

He watched as you kissed him goodbye. The kiss lasted too long for his liking. Betrayal swelled in his heart. Xanthus observed you, wanting to know if you feel what he's feeling. Then, you paused. His eyes widened slightly, maybe you will come around. But instead you gave him another kiss before parting.

His fist was clenched tight as he witnessed it. It felt like an insult– a blatant display of mockery. The urge to confront you and let all his burdens out was strong, but he resisted. He's better than that. A cheap confrontation does not cut it. He knew he needed to do more. Something that will assure him that you won't commit this sin anymore for as long as he lives.

Xanthus was known for his swiftness and precision in battlefield and in confrontation. After all, he was a warrior before he was a vampire. The skills that he had were honed by centuries of experience.

He witnessed war, famine, and destruction in his own eyes. But seeing you with that man opened a new kind of pain in his heart. Despite anger and betrayal dominating him, he knew that he can't hide the fact that witnessing your adultery broke something in him.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Your voice drifted him away from his thoughts. “You seem preoccupied,” Sitting beside him, you can almost feel the tension. You don't have to ask why, since you felt like you already know the answer.

Xanthus gave you a weak smile, “Nothing, I've just been exhausted.” He held his card close, not wanting to let you in. Today is not the day where he should reveal his cards. He has a lesson prepared for you and he'll make sure it is something that you won't forget.

You were beyond anxious when Sam stopped answering your calls. He wasn't in his apartment, his office, or a friend's. Searching far and wide, there are no traces of him. You tried to calm yourself down to minimize Xanthus’ suspicion, but it was ineffective.

“What's wrong? Your heart seems to beat out of your chest.” Xanthus pulled you close, “Did something bad happen? I can feel how restless and nervous you are.”

Closing your eyes, you relished in his comfort despite the situation. “I was just thinking about my loved ones in my hometown,” You stated giving a small hint of truth.

He nodded understandingly, “Ah, yes. The fear of the unknown. Do you want to talk to them? I can accompany you.” A sweet smile plastered on his face. Instead of feeling comforted, your anxiety spiked higher.

You shook your head, “Thank you, Xanthus. But I'm fine.” A small smile flashed in your lips as he kissed your forehead.

He is comforting, like a warm blanket on a rainy day. A hint of guilt crept in; you tried to bury it, but before you could a subtle hint of satisfaction filled you. It was strange, but welcome.

“I can appease your mind,” He caressed your cheeks.

“Really?”

“Yes, you should know by now that I'll do anything for you.” He presented his hand out, “Let me guide you, my love.” Warmth spread on your cheeks as you gently took it.

You watched as he gently guided you deeper in his mansion. As you went deeper, you felt his eagerness and excitement. Curiosity filled you as you both halted in front of a door.

Your heart dropped as Xanthus opened the door. No one could've prepared you for what lies ahead.

You felt suffocated as your eyes landed on him. His arms chained to the wall, feet barely standing up, and his face almost unrecognizable. If it wasn't for the subtle rise on his chest, you'd believe that he's dead.

You finally found Sam.

Xanthus stood beside you, “You don't have to search for him. Did I appease you?” He tilted his head, almost wearing a grin.

It felt as if the ground was going to swallow you whole. A mix of shame, shock, and fear coursed through your body. Your secret spilled with a big mess, everything that you did to cover it up broke down.

“Xanthus…” You turned to him, face filled with horror. “I wasn't– it wasn't supposed to end like this.” Your voice falters as he gazed at you with an unreadable expression. But you don't have to know what he feels, you can feel it yourself. The burning and ever consuming rage consumed you too.

“How is this supposed to end?”

“I…” Words die before they can formulate. You weren't prepared for a confrontation, let alone when your affair partner is chained up with your lover's wall. All you know in this situation is lying will dig your grave deeper.

“It was just supposed to be a one time thing–”

“But?” He tilted his head, held back tension evident in his face. “Was he that good?”

His question made you flinch. You bit the inside of your cheek, “He's… enough.”

You spoke the truth. The more you think about it, the more unclear why you got caught up in this affair. Maybe it's the thrill? Maybe it was the normalcy that he brought? After all, being with a vampire is different from being with a human.

“For how long?”

“Four days.”

Xanthus nodded, satisfied at your answer. “I have had him for two days now. Maybe I can let him escape after two more days.” He hummed. “If he can make it out after tomorrow.”

You grimaced at the thought, immensely apologetic on Sam's situation. Sending a man to a grave for lustful nights is something that you never expected to happen.

“Do you want to know what I did?”

Before you could answer, he interjected.

“I took his nails off one by one, bust his kneecaps, broke his fingers, removed some of his teeth–”

“Stop. Please, stop.”

He spoke with such nonchalance, as if recalling his grocery list. It was sick. You feel sick.

Xanthus walked towards you, tilting your head so you can look him in the eyes. “I held back for you. Don't you know that? Even in my rage, I thought about what you would feel. I am considerate towards you. Did you even gave me the same grace?”

You tried to back away, but he only pulled you close. His presence is domineering– overwhelming. Xanthus is inescapable, and you're a fool to try and do so.

“You and I are bonded, until I die– until you die. I don't want any imbeciles trying to take my place. This is the last time that this will happen, understand?”

Leaving you no choice, you nodded. His words engraved in your mind noting the thinly veiled threat. The thought of spending your night with someone other than him now feels unimaginable.

You close your eyes, promising to fully give yourself to him. A devotion and a prayer to avoid such tragedy again. After all, he always has a history to back it up.

Divider: Cafekitsune

[grapesrsogood]

Just thinking about when Love and Xanthus go on dates whether thats dinner dates or museum dates Love is always wandering around happily with a grumpy Xanthus and their 6’3 happy little child trailing behind (Dontis)

Xanthus is grumpy because Love constantly insists on bringing Dontis wherever they go :3

Genuinely love Love and Xanthus and Dontis antics, should i do some head-cannons on them?

Hope everyone had a good x-mas!! :D

[peppymintdreams]

its xanthus' birthday, he doesnt see a point in celebrating, but love does so anyways ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

A Day Worth Celebrating

Xanthus Claiborne x Love

Xanthus sat in his study, the faint glow of candlelight casting long shadows across the room. A book rested in his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in quite some time. His thoughts drifted as they often did on this particular day—a day that had lost all meaning centuries ago.

Birthdays were for mortals, for fleeting lives measured in moments and milestones. For someone like him, whose existence stretched endlessly, they felt redundant, almost absurd. What was another year when centuries blurred into an indistinguishable haze?

The faint sound of footsteps broke through his musings. He glanced toward the door just as Love peeked their head in, a warm smile lighting up their face.

“Hey,” they said softly, stepping inside with their hands hidden behind their back. “What are you doing in here all by yourself?”

Xanthus raised an eyebrow. “Reading, or attempting to. Why?”

Love moved closer, their smile widening. “Because it’s your birthday. And no one should spend their birthday alone.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Love, we’ve talked about this. Birthdays are... irrelevant to me. I see no reason to celebrate something so trivial.”

Love’s expression softened, but they didn’t back down. Instead, they perched on the arm of his chair, leaning toward him. “Maybe you don’t see a reason, but I do. It’s a day that marks the beginning of you. And that’s worth celebrating.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound. “I’ve been around for so long that the beginning feels like a myth. Besides, what would you even celebrate? My survival? My stubbornness?”

“Your existence,” Love said simply. “The fact that you’re here, with me, in this moment. That’s worth everything.”

Xanthus looked at them, his crimson eyes softening. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

“Always,” they replied with a grin. “Now, are you going to humor me, or am I going to have to drag you out of this chair myself?”

Before he could respond, Love revealed what they’d been hiding behind their back—a small, elegantly wrapped box tied with a ribbon. They held it out to him, their eyes bright with anticipation.

“I thought you didn’t care for material gifts,” Xanthus teased, though he took the box from their hands with care.

“I don’t,” they said, “but this isn’t just a gift. It’s something I thought you might actually appreciate.”

Intrigued, he pulled the ribbon loose and lifted the lid. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover engraved with intricate patterns of roses and vines. His initials were embossed in the corner, and when he opened it, he found the first page filled with Love’s handwriting.

“For Xanthus, whose presence makes eternity bearable. May this be a place to hold your thoughts, your stories, and your memories.”

He traced the words with his fingertips, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he looked up at them. “This is... thoughtful. Far more than I deserve.”

“Don’t say that,” Love said firmly. “You deserve everything, Xanthus. And more.”

He set the journal down and stood, pulling them into a gentle embrace. “You have an uncanny way of making me feel human again, Love.”

They wrapped their arms around him, pressing their cheek against his chest. “That’s because you are, in so many ways. And you deserve to be celebrated, even if you don’t think so.”

He rested his chin on their head, holding them close as a rare warmth spread through him. For the first time in centuries, the weight of time felt lighter, the day brighter.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low but sincere. “For reminding me that some things are still worth marking, even after all this time.”

They pulled back just enough to look up at him, their smile radiant. “So, does that mean you’ll let me celebrate your birthday every year?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see.”

But as Love led him out of the study, chattering excitedly about the cake they’d made and the quiet celebration they had planned, Xanthus couldn’t help but feel that maybe—just maybe—birthdays weren’t so pointless after all.

P.S. Hey… hey, you! 🫵🏾 Do you want more Sakuverse gay shit? Hit that follow button and send in a request! You’ll get notifications whenever I post new fics or incorrect quotes or head canons and maybe even a chance to have your OC featured in a story.

[botanbunny]

Breaking Bonds

Xanthus x Reader

-Audric has some notes he needs to take-

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Audric! Your problem is with me..Let them go!!”

Xanthus screamed straining against the chains that bound him. Him and Dontis had been stuck in this room for a day maybe more. Love had gone with Audric and he could feel your panic, your pain and torment, thru the bond.

“Please…” he begged barely above a whisper.

“They can feel what you feel Xanthus, you need to calm down….”

“AND I CAN FEEL WHAT BEING DONE TO THEM!!….you have no idea….the bond…..I can feel it breaking.”

Tears start to stream down his face. “FUCK!!!!” he strains against the chains yet again.

“Oh do lighten up will you..” the door creaks on its hinges as Audric calmly walks forward, hands behind his back.

An almost feral noise leaves Xanthus lips.

“I will kill you.”

“Ohh now see you already tried that and look where that left you.” He smirks as he stops just out of reach. “Besides, I have a gift for you…” hands covered in blood come from behind his back as he places a bloody pile in front of Xanthus’s feet.

A human heart.

“Have you felt it yet?” Licking the blood of his fingers. “it takes a minute for the heart to stop beating but I wanted to see how long the bond lasted after death, thought I should take notes.”

Xanthus couldn’t breathe, the world was ending. He could barely hear Audrics laughter, barely hear anything at all except for the ringing in his ears and the numbness that spread from his chest to his head. Thrashing against the chains that were wrapped around him.

“Now tell me Xanthus, how does it feel to lose the one thing in life worth living for??….this is for my notes after all, so please use complete sentences and talk slowly.”

[c-t-r-l14]

The Song A Dove Sings

—————————-🧡—————————-

Synopsis: You sing Xanthus a beautiful song; one he won’t forget for as long as he lives.

Warning: Mentions of blood.

———————————🧡——————————

As dawn made way for the morning rise, with the orange, pink and red hues rolling over into a sky blue, your eyelids fluttered open to the golden rays of sunlight poking its way through the curtains, and the gentle chirps of the birds roosting in nearby trees. The rays of sunlight that woven its way through the balcony window painted the room in an ethereal golden glow. You were enveloped in the warmness of the blankets, the strong hold of the man you loved most, and the faint, lingering smell of cologne and coca butter. You focused on the hushed sound of his breathing, and the warm air of his breath dancing on your neck. You looked at his peaceful expression, the way his blonde hair fell messily over his pale face, and those long, beautiful eyelashes that so perfectly complimented those stunning ruby red eyes you’ve adored so much. Like most people, you weren’t a fan of mornings—and it’s not for the typical reasons. Before you and Xanthus found each other, you woke up to a gaping cavity in your heart, suffocated by the air of solitude that filled the room. It didn’t matter how brightly the sun shined, how blue the sky was, or how loudly the birds sang; mundanity always hung above your head like a dark storm cloud. Seeing your partner’s face reminded you that you were not alone anymore. With every rise and fall of his chest, with every hushed breath that entered the atmosphere, you were reminded that your melancholic days were fewer and far in between. And so, with your eyelids getting heavier and heavier, yielding to the gentle call of sleep—you nestled further into the warm embrace of the one you loved most in this world.

Until you heard a familiar cooing sound. A familiar chirp—one that echoed in the air; its sound fluttering through the wind, just like the wings of the bird it belonged to.

A familiar song.

Your eyes popped open—any trace of fatigue and weariness melting away. As much as it pained you leave the serenity of Xanthus’ arms, you had to. So, with a quiet groan and a lot of caution, you slowly crept out of bed and tiptoed to the balcony window. And sure enough, there it was.

A Mourning Dove.

Your stomach swirled with nostalgia, and your chest felt heavy. It had been ages since you saw one, and even longer since you’ve heard its hauntingly beautiful call. As the bird sang, you took a moment to admire its muted colors—its little body covered in beige and light gray hues. The corners of your mouth quirked up fondly as you watched the dove’s chest and throat puff out to make each sound.

“Love?” A groggy voice groaned behind you.

You turned around to see Xanthus sitting upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“There’s a mourning dove outside,” you replied.

He got out of bed and walked over to the balcony window.

“Ah. So there is. I haven’t seen one in so long, which makes sense—they aren’t native to the U.K.”

You didn’t answer. You merely watched it sing some more. And although, for a time, the silence between you two was very comforting, you could practically feel Xanthus’ inquisitive gaze.

“I take it that you really like this bird?”

“Yeah. A long time ago, back when I used to live with my parents—a dove that looked just like this one would perch on a ledge outside my window, and sing— once in every blue moon. I know a lot of people think that it sings a sad song, but I never thought so. I always felt comforted, and even a little joyful when I’d hear its song.”

“Is that so?”

You hummed. “I’ve always envied them.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re free; they have peace. I didn’t have that growing up. For my entire life, I was forced to live in fear—always looking over my shoulder, always flinching at every corner. I never let myself fully trust people because I never knew what their true intentions were. It felt like I was…trapped in a cage. And since everyone was out to get me and family, I never really got a chance to actually live my life.”

The cage might’ve been spacious, filled with all the luxuries one could ever ask for—it might’ve been familiar, and full of the people you loved, but…

A cage is still a cage, nonetheless.

“Do you feel free now?” Xanthus asked.

You hummed and rested your head on his shoulder. Dontis was an absolute saint for opening up his home to you two. He’s helped you guys out in more ways in one. You certainly weren’t ungrateful for everything he’s done for you two, but at that point it’d been months since you’ve left his penthouse. Months since you’ve got to try new food, or interacted with new people. Months since you were able to live your life.

Yes, his house was full of luxuriously plush couches, beautiful paintings, and wide flat screen T.Vs, but you still weren’t free. A cage is still a cage. But even after everything you’ve been through, if there was one thing you’d gained—-it was peace. You’ve found peace with Xanthus, and that was enough for now.

“When I die, I think I wanna become a mourning dove.”

Xanthus turned his head toward you. “What?”

“I remember you telling me something about the jokes vampires make when they die. You told me that if you died, you’d come back as a bat. So, I’m telling you now that when I die, I’m gonna come back as a mourning dove. So make sure to keep your ears open;

‘Cause I’m gonna sing you a beautiful song.”

……..

No matter where he went or where he tried to hide, death followed Xanthus everywhere—but it never really bothered him until he met you. Humans lives were fleeting compared to his own, and as fragile as a porcelain tea cup, teetering dangerously on the edge of a high shelf; one nudge away from shattering into numerous irreparable pieces. He never liked thinking about your death, or what’d it be like if you were gone—so he pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, and cherished your presence while you were still around.

But ever since you and him had that conversation, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He didn’t stop thinking about it when he held your broken and bloodied body in his arms—your face drained of any color, your eyes dull and lifeless.

He didn’t stop thinking about it as he tore Audric to shreds after what he did to you. He could still feel the warmth of his blood dripping from his fingers.

He didn’t stop thinking about it when he gave your eulogy, or when he and your loved ones walked to the graveyard.

And he most definitely didn’t stop thinking about it when they lowered your coffin 6 feet into the cold, dark ground.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave your grave—even after everyone left. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, or to mutter any sort of apology for getting you into this mess. For being so careless. For being so damn weak. All he could do was sit in front of your grave, with his face buried in his hands, and sob inconsolably. He’d lost the person he was supposed to protect; his lover, a piece of his soul. And now, he felt incomplete—broken, even. So, all he could do was sit there, and cry until there were no tears left to shed.

Until he heard a familiar coo. A familiar chirp.

A familiar song.

He took his face out of his hands, and looked up; the red, bloody tears still streaming out of his wide eyes. And sure enough, there it was, perched on your headstone:

A Mourning Dove.

Its little body was bathed in beige and light gray hues, its throat and chest puffed out as it sang. And Xanthus watched quietly in disbelief until it was over. He reached his hand out, and the dove perched on his finger. And as soon as the bird made contact, he felt it.

It was you.

You came back to say goodbye to him, one last time.

The dove cooed once more, and flew away—the faint flapping sounds of its wings fading further and further away. He watched as the dove flew toward the sky.

You were finally at peace. You were finally free.

——————————-🧡——————————————

A/N: Ever since part 8.1–when Xanthus jokes about dying and being reincarnated as a bat, I couldn’t stop thinking about what kind of animal listener would end up being. I really, really love mourning doves, and I’ve always thought that they’d be a good fit for listener.

Masterlist

[chol1na]

if you decide not to do anything because you're scared, then things will stay this way forever.

wip:

✮ pickle vs nihongo. (isaac)

✮ sakuverse character’s handwriting.

✮ my little leech (xanthus/lawrence)

✮ relativity (elias)

© chol1na

[vamqyr3]

HI IM HERE I HAVE XANTHUS REQUEST FOR UUUU

could i get xanthus with a male reader with us topping him? like taking over him for once instead of him ruining us ? tysm omg love ur works 😸😸

Hi, Jasper. You kind of actually just sent this in at a great time. Because I’m thinking very complex thoughts. But also don’t read this, I’m embarrassed. (°▽°)

I WANT. I want so badly to shove my fat dick in Xanthus you have no idea. Are you kidding? I need him biblically. Xanthus with a stomach bulge it dosen’t hurt hes a vampire. Nibbling at readers neck trying between thick ass thrusts to break skin but it’s just slobber and breath over your neck. On everything I own grabbing him by his hair (which is one of his canon kinks) and slathering his face with sticky salty cum. I cant I cant. Honest to god I want to fat baby’s in him I can’t I cannot I will not do this anymore. He has to be a slut he wants your attention every still second of every minute, 24/7. “I can’t be with them all the time,” yes you can, yes you will. He wants it he needs it, craves it pines for it, drools over it cries for it. He’s so stoic and put together, controlling in every regard, commanding most of the times he’s alone. Sure yes, he’s fucked reader in the ally a couple of times. Just one change I want to ruin him. Overstim would be a very hard feat to concur. But what if reader strapped a vibe to his raw pinky dick, genuinely chained the pull of his wrists and left a machine to fuck him all day? In a perfect world everything stops to edge him.

I’m deleting this, all of that is wild what am I some kind of slut?

[yoursinisforgiven]

SKIN TISSUE ──

pairing: xanthus x reader (love) x dontis

cw: pwp (so much plot) pure filth. (smut), afab reader, threeway, porn with feelings, mentions of dontis’s listener (hunter) & their father, reader passes out, religious symbolism, mentions of alcohol, xanthus feeds off of dontis, bloodplay, light spanking, mfm aspects, infidelity (i suppose), no use of condoms, breeding without the intentions of pregnancy, anal (reader’s not receiving), spit used as lubricant, multiple orgasms. oral (male receiving) vaginal fingering, penetrational sex, floor sex.

next part!

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The smell of herbs and sizzling garlic filled the air, a quiet symphony in the otherwise silent kitchen. 

Dontis moved with effortless grace, his hands deftly chopping fresh basil, the rhythm of his knife almost hypnotic. “Do you believe,” he asked suddenly, his voice soft but laced with a thoughtful edge, “that people are meant to suffer to understand what it means to live? Or is suffering just… meaningless cruelty dressed up as divine design?”

His words slithered into the quiet, wrapping around your thoughts like vines. You leaned against the counter, watching him work, the question settling heavily between you. “I’m not sure,” you replied, your voice quieter than you’d intended. “Maybe it’s both. Or neither. Suffering changes people, but whether it’s meaningful depends on what we do with it.”

He turned slightly, the faintest smile curling his lips. “Interesting perspective,” he murmured. “Almost pragmatic, but not quite. It sounds to me like someone trying to reconcile chaos with order.” His gaze lingered on you, sharp and unyielding, like he was peeling back the layers of your soul one by one.

As he turned back to the stove, you felt it—a flicker of something foreign, something wrong. You couldn’t explain it, but in that moment, you saw him for what he truly was. A serpent. A deceiver. 

The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.

The thought struck you like a hammer. His every word, his every movement, felt like a calculated strike against the bond you shared with Xanthus. That bond was sacred, wasn’t it? A covenant, a tether blessed by something beyond comprehension. Yet here was Dontis, whispering truths and half-truths, sowing seeds of doubt with his silken voice. His charm wasn’t innocent; it was poison wrapped in honey, tempting you to take the bite that would undo everything.

The thought struck like a lightning bolt, your bond with Xanthus stirring as if in warning. You pulled back slightly, your gaze darting to the delicate bracelet on your wrist—a physical reminder of the connection you shared with him. Dontis’s presence felt dangerous, not because he threatened you physically, but because of the way he made you think, feel, wonder.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “you remind me of something this dish always makes me think of—a delicate balance of bitterness and sweetness. Too much of either, and it’s ruined. But find the right harmony, and it’s perfection.”

The words sent a shiver through you, not because of their meaning, but because of the way he said them, as though he were speaking about you, to you, and not the dish. You realized then, in that fleeting moment, that he was dangerous in a way Xanthus had never been: not a predator, but a temptation. A choice.

“I should check on Xanthus,” you murmured abruptly, stepping back, breaking the fragile thread of the moment before it could tighten around you. Dontis looked up, his expression unreadable, the shadow of a smile still lingering.

“Of course,” he said, turning his attention back to the stove. “But remember—sometimes it’s the choices we don’t make that haunt us most.”

 ──

Surely God had been testing you, testing your loyalty, your endurance. Dontis was an incubus—surely he had been doing this on purpose, right?

His every movement seemed calculated, designed to draw attention, to spark desire, even when you tried desperately not to notice. The way his laughter lingered just a second too long, the way his gaze seemed to pierce through you as if he knew every thought in your head. It was maddening.

Xanthus stood nearby–despite you offering him to sit next to you, he assured he had to keep a ‘lookout.’, a silent sentinel, but his presence did little to ground you against the whirlwind of emotions Dontis stirred. The bond you shared with Xanthus hummed faintly, like a distant melody struggling to break through the noise of Dontis's presence. Was it enough to shield you?

Dontis leaned closer, his voice like silk, laced with both mockery and intrigue. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked, his lips curling into a knowing smile. “It’s not intentional, I promise. It’s just… my nature.”

“Dontis,” Xanthus’s voice cut through the moment, low and warning. “Enough.”

The incubus’s smile widened, but he leaned back, his expression a portrait of feigned innocence. “I’m merely being a gracious host,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You know me, Xanny. I’ve always been accommodating.”

Something flickered in Xanthus’s eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual stoic demeanor, but it was enough to make you wonder.

And yet, as the incubus’s laughter echoed softly, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d already failed just by letting the thought cross your mind.

You swallowed the spit gathering in your mouth. This was one moment of many, and with it, you were able to come to three conclusions.

First, Dontis was absolutely doing this on purpose. There was no mistaking the deliberate way he manipulated the space around him, the calculated charm in his every word and action. This wasn’t just his nature; it was a game, and you were the unwitting pawn.

Second, Dontis thrived on pushing boundaries. He wasn’t merely testing you; he was testing the strength of your relationship with Xanthus, probing for cracks he could exploit. Whether out of amusement or something more calculated, you couldn’t tell, but it made you all the more determined to hold firm

Third, and perhaps most unsettling, some part of you wasn’t sure if you wanted the tension to stop. It was a dangerous thought, one that you quickly pushed aside, but it lingered like a shadow at the edge of your mind. Did this mean you were weak, or simply human?

You glanced toward Xanthus, hoping for a moment of clarity, but his face was unreadable, his gaze fixed firmly on Dontis. The vampire’s presence was steady, grounding, but his silence spoke volumes. He was giving you space to navigate this, to prove your loyalty—to yourself as much as to him.

“You’re quiet,” Dontis remarked, breaking the silence. His tone was teasing, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Deep in thought, perhaps? I do have that effect on people.”

You straightened, forcing a steadiness into your voice. “Some of us value thinking over speaking,” you replied, the words sharp enough to wipe the smirk from Dontis’s face for a fleeting moment—only for it to soon return. 

Xanthus’s lips quirked upward ever so slightly in approval, a subtle but reassuring sign that your resolve had not gone unnoticed. The bond hummed stronger, a gentle reminder of where your heart truly lay, even as the challenges loomed large.

You closed your eyes and leaned back against the couch. Its upholstery was a deep shade of purple—not bright or garish, but rich and sultry, an echo of Dontis himself. It was as though the very fabric of his home was steeped in his essence, every corner of the space designed to draw you further into his world. The soft velvet beneath your fingertips whispered of indulgence, temptation, and secrets better left unspoken.  

The air felt thick, almost tangible, laden with the faint scent of incense and something indefinable—something uniquely Dontis. It clung to you, invading your senses no matter how hard you tried to resist. Even the dim lighting seemed complicit, casting shadows that flickered and danced, teasing the edges of your vision.  

This was more than a house. It was a reflection of him, a stage upon which he played his games with unnerving skill. And you? You were part of the performance, caught between the lure of his charm and the strength of your bond with Xanthus.  

Xanthus, who remained steadfast, a silent protector in this den of sin. The faint hum of your connection thrummed louder now, a lifeline grounding you in the face of Dontis’s relentless pull. His presence was your anchor, a reminder that there was more to you than the doubts and desires Dontis sought to awaken.  

For a moment, you let the tension ease from your shoulders, inhaling deeply as you tried to reclaim a sense of balance. Dontis’s world was suffocating, intoxicating, but it was also temporary. You had endured this long; you could endure a little longer.  

"Comfortable now?" Dontis’s voice broke through the quiet, smooth and amused. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, his expression one of feigned innocence, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his true intentions.  

You didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to unsettle him. Then, with a calm you didn’t quite feel, you replied, “The couch is nice, though it seems a little too fitting for you. I’m not sure whether to find that amusing or suspicious.”  

Dontis laughed, the sound like warm honey with a bitter aftertaste. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning back himself, the picture of ease. “It’s always gratifying to be... unforgettable.”  

From the corner of your eye, you caught Xanthus’s faint smirk, the subtle curve of his lips like a quiet victory. Despite the incubus’s games, you weren’t as easily swayed as he might have hoped.  

The room seemed to exhale with you, the tension loosening its grip. For now, at least, you had found your footing again. But the night was far from over, and in Dontis’s lair, the real test was only just beginning.

 ──

New Orleans was alive with glamour, music, and the tantalizing aroma of food that seemed to waft from every corner. The city was a living, breathing entity, its streets pulsing with a vibrancy that could only exist here. It took no small effort to coax Xanthus out of the sanctuary of Dontis’s home—his carefully constructed fortress of control.

The Trimidainy, had made Xanthus almost painfully vigilant. It wasn’t paranoia, exactly, but a relentless need to maintain constant awareness and control. Xanthus didn’t trust the world beyond his walls, not fully. He had his reasons, of course, though he rarely spoke of his thoughts. Dontis had mentioned it in passing, almost casually, as though it were obvious. “He’s always been that way,” the incubus had said with a smirk, though there was an undertone of something like exasperation.

The streets had an almost ethereal glow, the gas lanterns lining the narrow alleys casting flickering light onto cobblestone paths. Music spilled from every corner—haunting jazz melodies that seemed to weave into the humid night air, enticing you to linger. But there was no lingering with Xanthus. He moved with purpose, his eyes scanning every shadow as though he expected something—or someone—to emerge from it.  

You trailed behind him, the bond between you a quiet reassurance, though his tension was palpable. Dontis sauntered a step ahead of you, his stride languid and almost dismissive, as though he owned the very streets beneath his feet. He tossed a careless smile at passersby, some of whom turned to watch him go, entranced despite themselves. The power he carried wasn’t merely in his nature but in his effortless ability to command attention.  

“Relax, Xanthus,” Dontis drawled, his tone both amused and faintly mocking. “No one here poses a threat to your precious fortress of paranoia. It’s New Orleans. Let the city work its magic.”  

Xanthus shot him a look that could have cut glass but said nothing, his jaw tight. You could feel his frustration like a ripple through the bond, though he held it back with his usual stoicism.  

Dontis chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and turned to you instead. “What about you? Surely you’re not immune to the charms of this place. The music, the lights… the promise of secrets waiting to be uncovered.”  

You glanced around, taking in the sights. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spices, perfume, and something faintly metallic that made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t quite place. It was intoxicating, but also unnerving—like the city itself was alive and watching.  

“It’s beautiful,” you admitted, though your voice held a hint of caution.  

“See?” Dontis gestured at you with a flourish. “At least someone here has taste.”  

Xanthus ignored him, his gaze fixed on a small group of musicians gathered on the corner. Their song was slow and mournful, a melody that seemed to resonate with something deep within you. Xanthus lingered, his posture softening just slightly, and for a moment, you saw a glimpse of the man beneath the armor he so carefully maintained.  

The moment passed quickly. Xanthus turned sharply, his voice low but firm. “We should keep moving.”  

Dontis rolled his eyes but fell into step beside him, though the tension between them was almost visible. “You’re wasting the night,” Dontis said, his voice lilting with exasperation. “There’s so much to see, to experience. Honestly, Xanny, I don’t know how you can live like this.”  

Xanthus didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you expected. “I need to keep them safe Dontis—it is my duty..”  

Dontis raised an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition. He didn’t press further, though his silence felt heavy, as though the conversation had only just begun.  

The three of you wandered deeper into the city, the vibrant energy of the French Quarter giving way to quieter streets where the buildings loomed taller, their wrought-iron balconies casting intricate shadows. It was here, away from the crowds, that the city’s true age became apparent.  

“This,” Dontis said suddenly, his voice softer now, “is where the magic lingers.”  

You looked around, unsure of what he meant, but there was a strange stillness in the air—a feeling that the past was closer here, brushing against the edges of the present. The city seemed to hold its breath, and for a moment, even Xanthus paused.  

“This city has seen things,” Dontis continued, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Things most people can’t even imagine. Blood, love, betrayal… it soaks into the very bones of the place.”  

There was something in his voice, a hint of wistfulness that caught you off guard. You glanced at Xanthus, but his expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed on Dontis as though he were trying to decipher a puzzle.  

“Don’t get lost in it,” Xanthus said finally, his tone sharp.  

Dontis laughed, the sound echoing softly against the walls. “Oh, Xanny,” he said, his smirk returning. “Getting lost is the best part.”  

The tension between them was like a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken words. You felt caught between them, their history a shadow that loomed larger with every step you took.  

“Where are we going?” you asked, breaking the silence.  

“Patience,” Dontis said, his smile sly. “You’ll see soon enough.”  

And so you followed, the city wrapping itself around you like a living thing, its secrets waiting to be revealed. But with every step, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking deeper into something far more dangerous than the night itself.  

──

The further you walked, the quieter New Orleans became, its bustling energy fading into a softer, more intimate rhythm. The narrow streets were kissed by the glow of lantern light, casting warm golden tones over the cobblestones. You followed Dontis as he led you through a labyrinth of alleys and courtyards, the city’s heartbeat slowing in these hidden spaces.  

“Not much further,” Dontis said over his shoulder, his voice smooth and unhurried. His steps were deliberate, his presence magnetic even when he wasn’t trying—or perhaps especially because he wasn’t trying.  

Xanthus followed closely, his posture stiff as always, though there was a subtle shift in him. The tension in his shoulders was less severe, the faintest relaxation in his gait betraying the pull of the city’s charm—or perhaps, something else.  

The three of you emerged into a secluded courtyard hidden behind wrought-iron gates. It was like stepping into another world: a single oak tree dominated the space, its gnarled branches heavy with lanterns that bathed the area in flickering light. A fountain bubbled quietly in the center, its gentle melody mingling with the faint hum of the night.  

Dontis paused beneath the oak, his silhouette a striking contrast to the golden glow surrounding him. “This,” he said, spreading his arms, “is one of my favorite places in the city. Quiet. Private. Beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?” His words lingered, heavier than they should have been, and his gaze flicked to you briefly before settling on Xanthus.  

“I've only showed one other human this place, a hunte—”

Xanthus moved cautiously, his sharp eyes scanning the courtyard before stepping closer to the fountain. “Why bring us here?” he asked interrupting the incubus, his voice low, though not hostile.  

“Because,” Dontis said, his tone softening, “even you, Xanthus, deserve moments like this. Even you can appreciate beauty when you’re not too busy pushing it away.”  

Xanthus’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the fountain, his hands brushing over the stone as if grounding himself.  

You hesitated, caught between the two of them. Dontis stood under the tree, a figure of deliberate ease, while Xanthus sat by the fountain, a quiet storm of unspoken thoughts.  

“Don’t let him intimidate you,” Dontis said, his tone playful but carrying an edge of something deeper. “The fountain is plenty big for two.”  

Three, you thought but held your tongue.  

You moved toward Xanthus, sitting beside him. The bond between you hummed softly, a tether that steadied you even in the face of the tension Dontis so expertly conjured. But tonight, the bond felt different—alive, as if it were its own presence between you. It pulsed faintly, a living thread weaving through you and Xanthus, growing stronger not in opposition to Dontis but because of him.  

Xanthus didn’t look at you, but you felt the faintest shift in him, an almost imperceptible easing of his guard.  

Dontis remained where he was, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree. His gaze lingered on the two of you, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “this city has a way of exposing what’s hidden. Sometimes it reveals things we’d rather keep buried.”  

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, you thought they might have been meant for Xanthus. But when you looked up, Dontis’s gaze was locked on you. It wasn’t the usual teasing glint—it was something deeper, rawer. A yearning that made your breath hitch.  

Xanthus seemed to sense it too, his hand tensing against the stone. “Dontis,” he said, his voice sharp, “whatever game you’re playing, stop.”  

“I’m not playing a game,” Dontis replied, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. He straightened, stepping closer, though he stopped a few feet away. “Not tonight.”  

You looked between the two of them, caught in the weight of the moment. Dontis’s eyes softened as they held yours, his usual smugness replaced with something achingly sincere. “You’re stronger than you realize,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “But even the strong need to be seen. To be wanted.”  

Your heart twisted at his words, the vulnerability in them cutting through your defenses. It wasn’t just a ploy; there was truth in his gaze, a longing that made it impossible to look away.  

Xanthus shifted beside you, his presence a steadying force. His hand brushed against yours—not just a fleeting gesture, but a deliberate connection. The bond between you surged in response, like a second heartbeat, alive and radiant. And for the first time, you understood: Dontis wasn’t unraveling it. He was strengthening it.  

His words, his presence, his relentless push against your walls—they weren’t breaking you apart. They were forcing you and Xanthus to acknowledge the depth of what you shared. And yet, there was something else—a thread of tension woven into the bond itself, something that pulsed faintly in Dontis’s direction.  

He saw it too. You could tell by the way his gaze lingered, not with triumph, but with something quieter. You felt Xanthus’s hand tighten on yours, a grounding force that didn’t deny the truth in Dontis’s voice.  

The night seemed to hold its breath, the three of you caught in a moment too fragile to shatter. You glanced at Xanthus, his eyes dark and searching, and then back at Dontis, who stood before you with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.  

The bond between you hummed louder now, not as a barrier, but as a bridge. It was alive, growing, adapting to encompass truths you hadn’t dared to face.  

In this quiet corner of New Orleans, hidden from the world, the weight of what lay unspoken between you all pressed down like the humid air, heavy with possibility. 

 Music poured from open doorways, laughter bubbled over from shadowy corners, and the aroma of spices and sweet pralines wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine. But in the quiet, tucked-away courtyard where the three of you lingered, the world felt suspended, holding its breath.

Dontis leaned casually against the wrought-iron railing, his eyes glinting in the dim light like dark jewels. “You’ve both become... quite the pair,” he said, his tone light but tinged with something unreadable. His gaze lingered on Xanthus for a moment longer than it should have, a flicker of something in his expression—fondness, regret, maybe both.

Xanthus didn’t reply immediately. His grip on your hand was steady, grounding, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed the unease he refused to voice. “We’re stronger together,” he said finally, his voice low and firm. “That’s all that matters.”

Dontis tilted his head, a smile curling on his lips that was neither mocking nor entirely sincere. “Strong, indeed,” he murmured, his gaze flickering briefly to you, then back to Xanthus. “I can see why you’d hold onto it so tightly this time.”

This time. The words echoed in your mind, subtle yet loaded, like a secret whispered just loud enough to tease but not to reveal. There was history here, intricate and layered, but it stayed in the shadows, unspoken. It made the air between them hum with an unnameable tension, a thread you couldn’t quite grasp but couldn’t ignore.

The bond pulsed faintly within you, alive and aware, as though it too was listening, learning, feeding off the emotions swirling between the three of you. Where you had once thought Dontis was a threat to it, you now felt the opposite. His presence, his words, even the emotions he seemed to draw out—none of it was fraying the connection you shared with Xanthus. If anything, it was weaving the bond tighter, making it stronger, more vivid, more alive. 

You had been so quick to see him as a serpent, a deceiver. A threat to everything you held sacred. Your bond with Xanthus had seemed untouchable—a divine covenant, a blessing etched into your very soul. And yet, Dontis’s words didn’t feel like poison anymore. They felt… like truth. Not a truth that sought to unravel, but one that sought to reveal.

You leaned against the counter, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the window. Was this what the garden was truly about—That’s what he was, the garden. Not the garden itself, but what it represents. Choice. Change, Not the loss of innocence, not the bite of temptation, but the moment where choice created meaning. The moment when free will transformed the static into the infinite.

“Dontis,” you said softly, drawing his attention. His gaze shifted to you, dark and probing, and for a moment, it felt like he could see into the very heart of you. “You’re not as detached as you pretend to be.”

A laugh escaped him, low and velvety, but it lacked his usual sharp edge. “Detached,” he echoed, as if tasting the word. “Maybe I’m just... careful.” His eyes flicked to Xanthus again, something unspoken passing between them before he looked away, his expression shuttered. 

Xanthus’s hand tightened around yours briefly, a silent acknowledgment, though of what, you couldn’t quite say. “Careful is one word for it,” he said, his tone edged but not unkind. “Calculated might be another.”

Dontis smiled, a faint, bittersweet curve of his lips. “And you would know.”

There it was again, that subtle thread of something deeper between them, something steeped in a past you weren’t privy to but could feel in the air, in the way they spoke, the way they moved around each other. It wasn’t hostility, not exactly. It was... complicated.

The tension shifted, not dissipating but evolving, becoming something heavier, more charged. The courtyard felt smaller, the space between the three of you narrowing as though drawn by invisible strings. Dontis straightened, his eyes lingering on you, then on Xanthus, his smile softening into something quieter, something more honest.

“Shall we call it a night?” His voice was smooth, almost teasing, but there was a vulnerability in the way he asked, as though he wasn’t sure what the answer would be.

Xanthus glanced at you, his expression unreadable but his bond with you thrumming faintly, reassuringly. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice steady. His eyes flicked to Dontis, and after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “You’re welcome to join us.”

Surprise flickered across Dontis’s face, quickly masked by a smile that was almost too casual. “How generous of you,” he said lightly, though his voice carried a warmth that betrayed the act. “I’ll take you up on that.”

──

As you walked hand in hand with Xanthus, the city’s nocturnal hum began to fade, replaced by the steady rhythm of your bond. It pulsed with warmth, a living connection that had carried you through trials and doubts. Tonight, however, it felt different—richer, as if the presence of Dontis had become a note woven seamlessly into its melody. Not discordant but... complementary.

The incubus walked quietly beside you, his gaze flickering from the ground to the horizon, then back to the two of you. His usual smirk had softened into something thoughtful, even vulnerable. It was an expression you rarely saw, but one that stirred a strange ache in your chest.

On an impulse, you reached out and clasped Dontis’s hand, intertwining your fingers with his. The warmth of his touch was immediate, steady yet electric. He glanced at you, his lips parting slightly in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, a silent acknowledgment of the gesture’s significance.

Xanthus, on your other side, gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The weight of his gaze settled on the intertwined fingers between you and Dontis, but he didn’t seem upset. If anything, his expression softened as his eyes returned to yours, his own hand grounding you further. The bond, once a private thread connecting only you and Xanthus, seemed to hum louder now, expanding, welcoming. It was alive, growing, strengthened not by division but by the shared energy flowing between the three of you.

The walk back to Dontis’s home felt longer than it was, each step steeped in unspoken words, shared glances, and the tension that coiled tighter with every passing moment. The air carried a charge that was impossible to ignore, a promise of something transformative waiting just beyond the threshold.

As you walked along the cobblestone streets, your gaze wandered to Dontis, whose attention seemed anchored to a bar you were passing. His expression, so often composed of teasing smirks and playful glances, now held something more subdued—something unspoken.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet.

“Nothing,” Dontis replied, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. His eyes lingered on the bar, its old wooden sign faded but still legible. “I just… I met someone there. A hunter. Long ago.”

Your brows furrowed slightly as you studied him. There was something in the way his shoulders tensed, the faint flicker of nostalgia or regret crossing his face. “Go on,” you prompted, sensing the weight of what he wasn’t saying.

He let out a soft laugh, the sound tinged with self-deprecation. “It’s a long story,” he murmured, his fingers brushing absently against the edge of his coat.

“We have all the time in the world,” Xanthus said, his voice low but steady. Dontis met Xanthus’s gaze, and for a moment, the incubus’s carefully crafted mask slipped. His eyes softened, the usual glint of mischief replaced by something raw and unguarded.

──

When you finally arrived, Dontis opened the door with a graceful sweep, his home aglow with a dim, golden light. The warmth of the room wrapped around you as you stepped inside, the rich, velvety scent of incense brushing against your senses. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you away from the outside world.

Dontis turned to face you both, his usual playful smirk replaced by an expression that was unreadable, almost tender. His gaze flickered between you and Xanthus, searching, lingering. “I’d ask if you wanted a drink,” he murmured, his voice lower now, quieter, “but I think that’s not what anyone needs tonight.”

Xanthus took a step closer, his presence as steadying as ever, though his eyes gleamed with something unspoken. “You always were good at reading the room,” he said, his tone soft, yet there was a weight behind the words—a history that hinted at shared moments long buried but never forgotten.

Dontis let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no mockery in it this time. “I try.” His eyes met yours, and the vulnerability in his gaze was startling. “This… whatever this is… it’s not something I want to ruin.”

“You’re not ruining anything,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions brewing inside you. “If anything, you’re part of what makes it stronger.”

The incubus seemed momentarily at a loss for words, his fingers still entwined with yours. Xanthus stepped closer, his free hand brushing against Dontis’s shoulder—a simple touch, but one that spoke volumes.

“We’re all here,” Xanthus said, his voice rich with meaning. “About the past, I’m—.”

“Enough, Xanny.”

The bond between you all seemed to thrum in agreement, alive with the promise of what was to come. 

As the three of you stood in the softly lit room, the atmosphere was charged with unspoken emotions and a palpable tension that seemed to thrum in the very air around you. The bond connecting you and Xanthus pulsed with a newfound intensity, now harmoniously intertwined with Dontis's presence, creating a triad of connection that felt both exhilarating and profound.

Xanthus's gaze met yours, his eyes reflecting a mixture of love and desire, silently seeking your consent for the uncharted path you were all about to explore. Dontis, usually so confident and teasing, now watched with a vulnerability that spoke of his longing to be part of this intimate convergence.

With a slight nod, you affirmed your willingness, and Xanthus stepped closer, his hand gently caressing your cheek before his lips met yours in a tender, lingering kiss. The familiar warmth of his embrace grounded you, even as the excitement of the unknown sent shivers down your spine.

As you parted, Dontis moved nearer, his eyes searching yours for permission. You reached out, your fingers grazing his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, his breath hitching slightly. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was both tentative and deep, a melding of curiosity and suppressed desire that had been building between you.

The three of you gravitated toward the large plush seating area, a silent agreement guiding your movements. In this intimate space, words became unnecessary, The air was thick with tension and anticipation as the three of you settled onto the plush, velvet-covered chaise. The soft glow of the room enveloped you, casting a warm, intimate light over your entwined forms.

Xanthus's hand found yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in a gesture of comfort and connection. His touch was familiar, yet now imbued with a new layer of intensity, a silent acknowledgment of the shared bond that had grown between the three of you.

Dontis, usually so confident and teasing, now watched with a vulnerability that spoke of his longing to be part of this intimate convergence. His gaze flickered between you and Xanthus, seeking, searching for a sign of acceptance, of invitation.

As if sensing your unspoken consent, Dontis shifted closer, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, a delicious anticipation of what was to come. His lips brushed against your neck, a feather-light touch that sent goosebumps racing across your skin.

Xanthus's presence remained a steadying force, his hand moving to cup your face, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so guarded, now shone with a mixture of love and desire, a silent pledge of devotion that transcended the physical.

The air seemed to crackle with energy as the three of you moved together, a dance of touch and caress that was both familiar and new. Dontis's hands explored your body with a gentle reverence, his touch igniting sparks of pleasure that mingled with the warmth of Xanthus's embrace.

As the moments passed, the barriers between you began to dissolve, the boundaries of your individual selves blurring into a single, harmonious entity. The bond that had grown between you and Xanthus now pulsed with a newfound intensity, intertwined with Dontis's presence, creating a triad of connection that felt both exhilarating and profound.

The room seemed to fade away, the outside world ceasing to exist as you lost yourself in the sensations of the moment. The scent of incense mingled with the heady aroma of arousal, Xanthus's eyes, already darkened with desire, flashed with a hunger that went beyond the physical as he gazed upon your exposed neck. His gaze was intense, almost feral, as he leaned in closer, his cool breath ghosting over your racing pulse. You could feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, his arousal evident even through the fabric of his clothing.

"May I?" Xanthus murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble that sent shivers down your spine. At your whispered consent, he didn't hesitate. His lips parted, revealing the glint of his sharp fangs, and then he was upon you, his mouth latching onto the tender skin of your neck.

The sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced - a sharp, intense pleasure-pain that had you gasping and arching into him. Xanthus's tongue lapped at your skin, his fangs piercing, and then the first draw of your blood hitting his palate. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into your own.

As Xanthus drank, you could feel a corresponding ache building between your thighs, a throbbing need that grew with each pull of his mouth. His hips began to move, rocking against yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm that mirrored the cadence of his feeding. The hard length of him pressed against your core, separated only by the thin barrier of your clothing, stoking the flames of your arousal.

As Xanthus continued to feed, his hands began to roam your body with a newfound urgency. He tugged at your clothing, practically tearing it in his haste to remove the barrier between your skin and his questing fingers. Buttons popped, fabric ripped, and then his hands were on your bare flesh, calloused palms skimming over the soft curves of your body.

Dontis, not to be outdone, joined in the fray of disrobing you both. His deft fingers made quick work of the remaining scraps of your clothing, leaving you bare and exposed to their hungry gazes. The cool air kissed your heated skin, pebbling your flesh and making you ache for their touch.

"Exquisite," Dontis breathed, his voice rough with desire. "Even more beautiful than I imagined." 

Lost in the haze of sensation, you barely registered Dontis's movements until you felt calloused fingers skimmed over the swell of your breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks until they pebbled and strained towards his touch.

Dontis leaned down, his tongue flicking out to lace over one straining nipple before drawing it into his mouth. He suckled gently, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. His other hand continued its exploration, drifting lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants to cup your mound.

The dual sensations of Xanthus feeding and Dontis's touch were overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge of a precipice you'd never before approached. 

Xanthus pulled back from your neck, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he licked the last drops of blood from his fangs. His eyes, now darkened with lust and power, roamed over your flushed face, taking in the dazed expression of pleasure that graced your features.

"Dontis," Xanthus purred, his gaze flicking to the incubus who was still lavishing attention on your breasts. "Have you ever tasted the blood of a human?"

Dontis paused in his ministrations, his head snapping up to meet Xanthus's gaze. There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, a hint of the insatiable hunger that was a part of his very nature. "No," he admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Never."

A wicked glint entered Xanthus's eyes, a predatory smile curving his lips. In one swift motion, Xanthus grabbed Dontis by the hair, pulling him up and into a searing kiss. The vampire's tongue delved into the incubus's mouth, forcing the taste of your blood onto Dontis's tongue. Dontis's eyes widened, a low groan escaping him as the unique flavor of your essence flooded his senses.

Xanthus deepened the kiss, his fangs grazing Dontis's lower lip, the coppery tang of blood mingling with the heat of their passion. Dontis's hands fisted in Xanthus's hair, pulling him closer, wanting more of that intoxicating taste.

As the two men lost themselves in each other, you lay back, your chest heaving, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Your gaze drifted over the erotic scene before you Xanthus and Dontis locked in a passionate embrace, their mouths and hands roaming over each other's bodies with a hunger that was both primal and arousing.

The sight alone was enough to reignite the fire within you, and you found yourself arching into the cool air, craving more touch, more sensation. Your hands drifted down your body, fingers teasing over the sensitive skin of your stomach. 

As they explored your body, their own clothing began to fall away, revealing the hard planes and sinewy muscles beneath. Xanthus's chest was a work of sculpted perfection, his abdomen a six-pack of lean, taut muscle. Dontis's body was no less impressive, his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, his skin a warm, dusky hue that spoke of his incubus heritage.

The sight of them, all raw power and barely leashed desire, had your mouth going dry and your heart pounding against your ribs. You reached out, your hands greedy to explore the expanse of their chests, to feel the heat of their skin, the play of muscle beneath flesh.

Xanthus caught your wrist, bringing your hand to his mouth. He pressed a kiss to your palm, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, before guiding your hand lower, over the ridges of his abdomen, to the thick, hard length of him. He was impressive, long and thick and throbbing with a life of its own.

Dontis mirrored Xanthus's actions, taking your other hand and guiding it to his own impressive arousal. The heat of him seared your palm, the silky hardness a stark contrast to the velvety softness of the skin. He hissed through his teeth as your fingers curled around him, his hips rocking into your touch.

You began to stroke them, your grip firm and purposeful, your thumbs swirling over the sensitive heads to catch the beads of moisture that leaked from the tips. Xanthus's eyes fluttered shut, a low moan escaping his lips as you worked his thick length, while Dontis's gaze remained locked on yours, his expression one of pure, unadulterated lust.

As you continued to pump their cocks, Dontis's hand joined yours on Xanthus's shaft, his long fingers wrapping around yours, stroking in sync with your movements. Together, you pleasured the vampire, your combined touches making him shudder and gasp, his hips rocking into your joined fists.

Spurred on by Xanthus's reactions, Dontis leaned down, getting on his knees, his tongue flicking out to taste the weeping slit of the vampire's cock. Xanthus let out a sharp hiss, his fingers tangling in Dontis's hair, holding him in place as the incubus's tongue swirled around the swollen head, lapping up the salty-sweet essence that leaked from the tip.

Emboldened, you joined him—sliding off the plush coach and joining him on your knees leaning in your tongue joining Dontis's in its exploration of Xanthus's thick length. Together, you lapped and suckled at the vampire's flesh, your tongues dancing and twining around his throbbing cock. Xanthus's grip on Dontis's hair tightened, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. You could feel the heat building, the air growing thick with the scent of sex and the sound of panting breaths and pleasured cries. Your own arousal mounted, your core clenching and fluttering around nothing as you lost yourself in the act of bringing Xanthus to the brink of ecstasy. 

You and Dontis worked in sync, your mouths exploring every inch of Xanthus's thick, throbbing cock. Your tongues swirled around the swollen head, lapping up the salty-sweet essence that leaked from the tip, the taste of his arousal exploding on your taste buds. You could feel the heat of his skin, the silky hardness that pulsed with a life of its own as you both lavished attention on his impressive length.

Dontis's hand joined yours at the base of Xanthus's shaft, his long fingers wrapping around the thick flesh, stroking in time with the bobbing of your heads. Together, you pumped and suckled, your tongues dancing and twining around his cock, your lips stretching wide to take him deeper into your eager mouths.

You could feel Xanthus's grip on your hair tightening, his hips rocking into the dual assault of your mouths, seeking more of that exquisite pleasure. His moans and growls filled the air, the erotic symphony spurring you on, urging you to bring him closer to the edge of release.

As you pleasured Xanthus, Dontis's hand drifted lower, his fingers slipping between your slick folds. He groaned against Xanthus's flesh as he felt the evidence of your arousal, your body dripping with need. Two fingers plunged into your hot, tight core, pumping in time with the stroking of Xanthus's cock, the combined sensations pushing you both closer to the brink.

You could feel the coil of tension building in your stomach, your body aching for release as you lost yourself in the act of bringing Xanthus to his peak. Your free hand drifted to your breast, kneading the soft mound, plucking at the hardened nipple, the dual stimulation making your head spin with pleasure.

Xanthus's balls tightened, his shaft throbbing against your tongue as he neared his climax. With a curse, he came undone, his hot seed erupting from the tip of his cock, flooding your mouth and Dontis's in thick, creamy ropes. The taste was overwhelming, the sheer volume of his release making you both struggle to swallow it all.

Throughout his intense orgasm, Dontis continued to stroke Xanthus's shaft, coaxing out every last drop of his release, while his fingers pumped into your dripping core, taking you over the edge with him. 

As Xanthus rode out the waves of his intense climax, his grip on your hair tightened to the point of pain, holding your head in place as he emptied himself into your eagerly suckling mouths..

Xanthus's moans and growls softened to low, satisfied rumbles as the last spurts of his release dribbled onto your tongues. Finally, his grip on your hair relaxed, his hands falling away as he slumped back against the plush of the couch, his chest heaving with the force of his breathing.

Dontis released Xanthus's spent cock, his tongue lapping gently at the softening flesh to catch any stray drops of the vampire's essence. 

He turned to you, only then does he pull his fingers from your core. His eyes glinting with mischief and a hunger that was far from satiated, he brings his fingers to his lips sucking on your arousal from them. "You taste divine together," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble. 

With that, he captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to dance with yours. You could taste the mingled flavors of Xanthus's release on his tongue, the salty-sweet essence making your head spin with renewed desire. As you kissed, Dontis's hands roamed your body, stroking and caressing, stoking the flames of your arousal that had only briefly been banked.

Xanthus watched the erotic display through heavy-lidded eyes, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Insatiable creatures," he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble.

You couldn't help but notice that while Xanthus had found his release, Dontis had not. A flicker of concern crossed your mind, followed swiftly by a surge of determination to ensure the incubus was just as satisfied as the vampire.

Breaking the kiss, you trailed your fingers down Dontis's chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “You have yet to come Dontis”

Dontis's eyes flashed with hunger as he met your gaze, a wicked grin spreading across his face. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel the hard, aching length of his arousal pressing insistently against your stomach.

Rolling onto your back, you guided Dontis to settle between your thighs, your legs falling open in clear invitation. He settled his hips against yours, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, swollen folds, teasing you with the promise of what was to come. You shiver slightly against the carpet of the floor.

As Dontis began to slowly push forward, easing the thick length of his shaft into your tight heat, Xanthus moved off the couch to kneel behind the incubus. You watched, transfixed, as Dontis shuddered, a low moan escaping him as he felt Xanthus's presence behind him. "Fuck," Dontis gasped, his hips jerking forward, driving him deeper into your welcoming body. 

Emboldened, Xanthus spat directly onto Dontis's hole, watching as the saliva dripped down to coat his fingers. Without warning, he pressed a finger into Dontis's ass, feeling the tight ring of muscle clench around the invading digit. He pumped his finger slowly, working Dontis open.

Meanwhile, you wrapped your legs around Dontis's waist, your heels digging into the small of his back as you urged him deeper,

Xanthus worked a second finger into Dontis's tight hole, then a third, pumping them slowly, stretching the incubus. Dontis grunted and moaned, his hips rocking back against Xanthus's hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. All the while, his own hips never ceased their steady thrusts into your hot, slick channel, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the room.

"Enough," Dontis growled, his voice strained with need. "I need more, Xanthus.”

Xanthus chuckled darkly, removing his fingers and replacing them with the swollen head of his impressive erection. "As you wish," he purred, gripping Dontis's hips tightly and pushing forward.

Dontis threw his head back with a guttural moan as Xanthus's thick shaft breached him, the tight ring of muscle stretching to accommodate the vampire's girth. Xanthus didn't stop until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Dontis's ass, his heavy balls resting against the incubus's skin.

You reach a trembling hand up to rub the pad of your thumb along Dontis’s cheek—an attempt at comforting, though you wondered if you found pleasure in the pain.

The dual stimulation of your tight pussy gripping his cock and Xanthus's thick length buried deep in his ass was almost too intense to bear.

Xanthus set a hard, driving rhythm, pounding into Dontis with supernatural strength and speed. The force of his thrusts drove Dontis deeper into you, his cock slamming against that sweet spot deep inside that made you see stars.

"Harder," Dontis demanded, his voice a low, feral snarl. "Fuck me harder, Xanthus."

Growling, Xanthus complied, his hips slapping against Dontis's ass with brutal force, the obscene sound echoing through the room. Dontis soon realized his body was no longer his own as he was used for both of their pleasure.

His cries of ecstasy filled the air, mingling with Xanthus's dark, approving rumbles and your own moans. The room grew thick with the scent of sex and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, the erotic symphony pushing.

Your inner walls clamped down around Dontis's pistoning shaft, gripping him like a velvet vice as your climax crashed over you. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed through you, your body convulsing and shaking, your toes curling from the sheer intensity of your release. You threw your head back, a silent scream of pure rapture tearing from your throat as your pussy gushed around Dontis's cock, drenching his shaft and balls with your honeyed essence.

Your head felt heavy, as though it were submerged in a fog you couldn’t quite shake. A strange, unnatural warmth coursed through your body, seeping into your limbs and making it difficult to move. Panic began to creep in as your vision blurred, the world around you fading into a wash of brilliant, blinding white.

Xanthus chose that moment to lean down, his lips ghosting over the tender juncture of Dontis's neck and shoulder before sinking his fangs into the soft flesh. Dontis cried out, his voice a mixture of pain and pleasure that echoed through the room. His body convulsed as a bolt of white-hot ecstasy surged through him, the sharp sting of Xanthus's bite melting seamlessly into an overwhelming flood of bliss that left him trembling.

The coppery tang of Dontis's blood spilled onto Xanthus's tongue, rich and intoxicating—a taste he savored not out of hunger, but out of pure, unbridled greed. Each pull from the wound was deliberate, each moment a declaration of dominance, and yet there was an intimacy in the act that left Dontis's heart pounding. “Xanthu—!”

Dontis's words dissolve into a guttural moan as his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside you as he found his release. His seed erupted from his shaft, painting your walls with his hot, sticky essence, the sensation pushing him off the edge.

Xanthus groaned above you, his hips stuttering as he rutted into Dontis's spasming ass, chasing his own rapidly approaching climax. The feeling of Dontis's silken walls gripping his cock like a hot, wet fist, along with the erotic sight of your body writhing in pleasure beneath him, was quickly becoming too much for the vampire to withstand.

"Fuck, I'm going to... I can't..." Xanthus grunted, his voice a low, guttural rasp as he teetered on the brink of release. With one final, brutal thrust, he slammed into Dontis's ass, burying himself to the hilt as his orgasm overtook him.

Xanthus threw his head back, unadulterated bliss erupting from his throat as his cock jerked and throbbed, painting Dontis's inner walls. 

As Xanthus's hot seed flooded Dontis's ass, Dontis let out a guttural groan, his body shuddering with the force of his own intense climax. The feeling of Xanthus's thick, pulsing cock throbbing deep inside him, pumping him full of the vampire's potent release, pushed Dontis over the edge once more. His own shaft, still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, jerked and twitched as he found an almost immediate second release, his seed erupting from his cock to mix with the slick fluids already filling you.

As Xanthus's climax began to subside, he collapsed forward, blanketing Dontis's back with his powerful, sweat-slicked body. Dontis welcomed the weight, making sure to keep him upright. 

 ──

How should I hold my soul, that it may not be touching yours? How should I lift it then above you to where other things are waiting?

Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all forgot, with some lost thing the dark is isolating, on some remote and silent spot that, when your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.

You and me—all that lights upon us, though, brings us together like a fiddle-bow drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.

Across what instrument have we been spanned? And what violinist holds us in his hand? O sweetest song.

-rainer maria rilke

──

author's note: said it would take me at least a week and it took me less then a day, true dedication.

[thedivinevera]

XANTHUS NSFW

ALPHABET

Xanthus x reader, Xanthus x fem!reader, Xanthus x afab!reader, vampire x reader, zsakuva! Character x reader

!NSFW ALPHABET!, Vampire x human, established relationship, p and v smut

Tw; NSFW, dirty, dirty, dirty, mention of toys, Nsfw alphabet, wrong spellings, bad writing (seriously)

Xanthus Nsfw alphabet, from a to z all of the sin and disturbingly detailed NSFW information using my bad writing and sleep deprived mind 🥹🥹, live, laugh, love Xanthus

A/n there is no Nsfw audio for Xanthus not like Luca, Andrew and kayson 😔😔✊, i've had like pending series for xanthus and planning to repost my works in Tumblr from my Wattpad which are all zsakuva characters

A= Aftercare (what they’re like after the act)

A 10/10 would fix a bath with you and would cook food or snacks, he's a vampire so even how many rounds you both had done he still has some energy to take care of you, while you had all of her body parts shaking from pleasure and guts rearrange

B= Body part (favorite body part their own or their lovers)

Your neck and lips. Love to take blood on your neck and also love to take kisses. You can make him thirst home by your neck and give him life by your lips. For his, he loves his hand because they're handy ahahhah

C= Cum (anything that has to do with it)

Wants his to be deep in your inside, as a vampire he doest have to worry about you getting pregnant because he's a vampire, he's dead. Dead cannot give birth to another life. If it's yours then he wants it in his mouth. Like your blood, he also loves your white fluids is just as delicious as your blood is

D= Dirty secret (Pretty self-explanatory)

Wants to have a little predator x prey roleplay, you know like he would hunt you as his little prey then you need to hide and he would catch you and would fuck you brainless while he takes blood from you also like to see you depends on him, would love to see you cry and asked him to make you cum. Xanthus secretly loves it when you're dependable to him it gives him power and reassurance

E= Experience (do they know what they’re doing)

Has enough, and probably already tries a decent amount of kink to pleasure you, most of them are just loveless sex nothing more or if there's feeling involved it's something he convinces himself is true, but being with you is everything. Sex with you is like the first sex he's been so passionate, so eager. He always had control over himself when it comes to intercourse but he can't control himself to you, to not just take you right there and here

F= Favorite position

Missionary, cowgirl, and spooning, so he can see your face and have good access to your neck, his favorite is missionary it's the default but to have the privilege to see your face while he fucking you and to also have good access to your neck is such a jackpot for him

G= Goofy (how serious are they)

Very serious when he's trusting to you but once you both finish would catch some hideous jokes and dirty ones that you need to cover your face up, probably joke about how he would pay so much to feel you again and if you're a stripper he would definitely pay a lot just to fuck you. If you like to joke in bed you would get silenced after some deep hard thrust

H= Hair (grooming habits)

The carpet matches the drapes and also it's not shaved bald just long trims you can still see his pubes around the cock it's not that long it's short. He trims quite often, more when he knew that your sex drive is sex driving again

I= Intimacy (in the moment romantic or rough/dirty)

Combination of romantic with roughness I cannot really see Xanthus calling you names mostly because he thinks sex as a very special thing and he cherishes you very well to even dare to call you that also there are some chance that Dontis is probably listening you both, and don't want to get teased again

J= Jack off (do they masturbate and how often)

He didn't do it often, he has a full control to himself and i also doubt that this old man has a high sex drive after all this years and centuries but to be honest he can be easily aroused by you just because it's you

K= Kink (kinks what they like possibly unusual)

This old man is a vanilla with a high strength and stamina, loves to keep it romantic, just kisses and good ol basic ( a/n there's nothing wrong with vanilla sex it's enjoyable as a more flavored one) but he likes to tie you up also like possessive sex, when he get jealous he loves to fix it with sex unless it's a big thing but if it's just some little jealousy then yes. Mostly you're the one who try the kink since he already experienced it

L= Location (where they like to get it on)

In his bed or couch. Just like i said he likes to keep it romantic and everything so i doubt that he likes doing voyeurism

M= Motivation (things that makes them tick/turn ons)

Everything that you do that look very sexual or when you look innocent (reference to the "whiskey") gives him the urge of corruption

N= No (turnoffs or absolutely won’t do)

Hurting you like i mean the legit hurt where you can see some bruises in your skin also don't like threesomes or even letting someone touch you aka voyeurism. He's possessive and he knew that Sharing you would make him act aggressive

O= Oral (receiving or giving and how skillful they are)

By receiving, he wouldn't deny it, he likes it when you suck him under his desk and his eyes roll back because of pleasure and head and back laying down to the leather chair while you choke in him. By giving his the best, just like what i said he likes your cum as much as he loves your blood and kisses. Would overstimulate you with his tongue and its not helping that he's so great at it. 100% would turn into a hungry man when you remove your panty and sit on his face or if you don't like to sit on his face and choke him with you weight then to damn bad he would force you to grind and sit comfortably to his face and would have his eyes look at you with lust and no he don't care if he can't breathe anymore he's already dead remember?

P= Pace (how fast they are and how long they last in bed)

Fast and rough with a little romantic sometimes he also like a slow and romantic pace really depends on what mood are you in

Q= Quickie (do they prefer fast and hard)

Love it sometimes, just sometimes. He loves it when you had a little quickie when he's busy in the gallery and cannot take care of your needs of course he cannot have any other creatures or anyone to satisfy you so he would do anything even making you cum in the private room on the gallery

R= Risk (do they like to try new things)

Would try if you want to try it, just doesn't like having a threesome, gangbang nor just a mention of anyone seeing your body but otherwise as long as you're comfortable then he's ready to cooperate

S= Stamina (how many times they can go and how long each round lasts)

So fucking long, i swear you never saw him being exhausted or tired after many rounds like hell you're already passing out and he still has his pace (a fast and rough thrust). Don't try to be nice and give him the permission to use you as much as he can because while you already pass out many times and wake up with him still thrusting inside you, he still has his pace on the same as the pace from the start

T= Toys (are they game for using sex toys on themselves or lovers)

Ho ho ho. I doubt that he likes using toys a lot i love tot think that xanthus is a boomer and doesn't know how to use technology that's why he prefer writing in a notebook and he just said that he likes writing more than typing because he don't want you to laugh at him for not knowing technology but yeah he would just probably use a little vibrator (which is he loves the effect but hate to use) and a dildo because it's a lot more easier for him (no technology nor buttons needed) after all he just need to pump it down your hole

U= Unfair (how do they tease or do they enjoy suspense themselves)

Sometimes he would tease you but he actually prefers you use him as your personal toy or something like that. Ride him or do everything he's ok with it. Just like what i said he already experienced a lot of kink by himself so he wants you to be the one who explore more so yes he likes to suspense himself you know so you can have more time to try things before he fills you up

V= Volume (are they loud, what sounds, and do they talk)

Sometime quite but sometimes would pant and moan occasionally but otherwise he's not really as loud, He prefers listening to your voice than his

W= Wild card (random sincannon of any sort)

Love it when you use him as a personal dildo he would just lay down to the bed while you bounce to him as much as your heart's content. Loves it when you get jealousy and try to please him by again bouncing on his cock and milking him while you had this coy smile, so innocent like you're not fucking your pussy down balls deep on his cock

X= X-ray (what’s down below in dem pants)

( Holding a ruler) 5 and half inches with a circumference of 2 and half when it's hard. It has a pinkish brown hue his head/ tip is pinkish

Y= Yearning (sexdrive level)

Probably lower than a normal he's already fucking old basically 500 years old ahahhah this grandpa already have his sex drive spend and turn to dust after all this years ahahaah

Z= Zzzz (do they sleep after if so how quickly after)

No, not really, you would but not him definitely he prefer to clean you while your sleeping so you don't feel uncomfortable also give you water or massage your muscles, he has a lot of energy despite all of this fucking and love making so it's not a surprise that he wouldn't sleep fast after you both are finished

Votes are appreciated

[literary-motif]

ENOUGH ANGST !!!! AAAGGHHH I HATE ANGST !!!! So after Isis confirmed the bound, Xanthus said that he will now sleep with love in order to keep them safe. After listener gets comfortable and finally falls asleep. Xanthus keeps staring at them, slowly releasing what Isis said and building a deeper connection to love. Just for Xanthus to hug them and rest with love PLSPLSPLS

My Design

Xanthus Claiborne x Reader

There was something very intimate about sleeping together — literally sleeping together. Xanthus was enthralled with the soft rise and fall of your chest, calming him so thoroughly that he feared it might lull him into the land of sweet oblivion himself. Your eyelids were gently closed, hiding the beautiful eyes he had lost himself in quite a few times since meeting you in that alley. 

He could not believe you had agreed to spend the night. Certainly, his lavishly decorated house — nay, mansion — might have something to do with it. It looked rather nice, he supposed. He was proud of the furniture, his collection of little specialties expanding over many centuries until it consisted of the composition of works he decorated his house with. 

There was an original Böcklin in the study, and a letter his old friend Van Gogh had sent him safely tucked away in the cabinet, next to the volumes of now historical pictures a history student might sell their soul for. 

His bed was very comfortable as well. Perhaps that was the reason that got you to stay, or maybe the thunderstorm raging in the night had made the prospect of walking home rather distasteful. Either way, you were here now, and he was glad for it. 

Isis had been gone for two hours, and his mind was still reeling. The bond was as fascinating as it was utterly terrifying. He had spent centuries living alone, not daring to tie himself to another person because they would wither and fade before his eyes, and now he was entangled with someone who was definitely going to die! 

‘Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch. Yehuda Halevi was right, but instead of the holiness he described at the end of the poem, Xanthus would find insanity when your heart stopped beating. 

How fearful, indeed.

What was this feeling of love he had? How long had he gone without it? Vaguely, he recalled an infatuation at the end of the 19th century — nothing he had ever felt compared to this. 

There was a thread tying you both together, one he could not so easily break no matter how hard he might strain against it. Not that he wanted to, although he supposed part of him did.

Vulnerability never came easy, and now you were his weakness. A weakness. 

You mumbled something in your sleep, and he could not help the fond smile that came across his face. You looked so comfortable with your head buried in the pillows, lying on your side. Unconsciously, you had curled around him, and Xanthus felt the sudden urge to gather you in his arms and make sure nothing mortal or otherwise would ever get the chance to hurt you. 

Something in his chest shifted at seeing your peaceful expression — one that had been missing from his own face for decades. His chest felt warm, and he felt the burning need to protect that had evaded him since he had watched his nephews being lowered into the ground. 

This is love, he realized suddenly, burning, aching, maddening love. What had he become?

What had the bond done to him?

“Xan?” you mumbled, still asleep. His heart could not take it.

“I’m here, love,” he whispered, carefully wrapping his arms around you to pull you against his chest. Your head lay on his chest, and you let out a content sigh, appreciating his affection even from beyond the veil of sleep. “Sleep, I’m here.”

You did not reply, your gentle breathing filling the air again. Distantly, he heard a crack of thunder, lighting striking across the sky in a sudden flash of unloading tension.

Xanthus closed his eyes, listening to your heart instead, hearing it pump the blood through your body. He hoped it would keep beating for a long, long time to come. 

He would make sure of it anyway.

[chol1na]

this was so cute~ i die for soft fluffy content (especially in this community hehe). super well written i loved the format!!!!!

could you maybe write something on xanthus, kayson, or isaac comforting their partner? i feel like they’d have interesting methods hehe~

(ʏᴏᴜ) ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ᴀʀᴍ - ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ☆

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: xᴀɴᴛʜᴜꜱ ᴄʟᴀɪʙᴏʀɴᴇ, ᴋᴀʏꜱᴏɴ ᴍᴀʏᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪꜱᴀᴀᴄ ʀʜᴏᴀᴅᴇꜱ.

i did this in headcanon form if that’s alright lovely <3 i couldn’t decide on who to write for so i did them all :)) !

gender neutral reader as always :)

tw/cw: none!

xᴀɴᴛʜᴜꜱ ᴄʟᴀɪʙᴏʀɴᴇ ･ ｡ﾟ☆ -

• would detect straight away if your feeling upset or a little down (from the bond of course, and he’s a vampire :33 )

• would definitely be the type to quietly ask “are you alright love?” or “what’s the matter?”

• would listen to EVERY word, and i mean EVERYTHING.

• if it was about your feelings, he’d hold your hand while listening and then slowly pull you into a hug, wrapping one arm around your back and the other on your head, rubbing up and down to soothe you.

• if it was about your body / or dysmorphia, he would be the type to kiss gently across the parts where your feeling insecure, and then seal it off with a kiss, to make sure you know he’s being truthful (would probably give you a hug again lol)

• if you were to cry, i feel like a part of him would be upset too. he can’t bear to see you cry.

• would hold your face and wipe away your tears while shushing you, looking gently into your eyes and smiling softly.

• if you needed to cry onto his shoulder, he’d gladly let you, letting you take all the time you need. he knows humans are fragile and need to let out their emotions every once in a while.

• would NOT CARE if you got his shirt soggy, as long as you are feeling better that’s all that matters.

• if you didn’t want to talk or just wasn’t in the mood, BUT still wanted comfort, he’d beckon you to lie down with him on his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you, and draw soothing circles onto your palms slowly.

• wouldn’t mind at all about the silence if that’s what you wanted, he’d probably end up listening to your breathing or heartbeat the whole time anyway <33

˗ˋˏ°• ᴋᴀʏꜱᴏɴ ᴍᴀʏᴇʀ -

• now we’ve already seen him comfort listener a few times in his audios, but i’m gonna list headcanons anyway 🙏

• he’d probably detect it straight away, but not say anything until he’s aware you know that HE knows that your off.

• he’d probably drop hints throughout the day, like silently rubbing circles into your knuckles while holding your hand, or asking “are you alright?”

• would wait until you get home to ask you what’s wrong, as he doesn’t want to panic you in a public space.

• if you were venting and suddenly burst into tears while speaking, he’d pull you in and let you sit on his lap, stroking your hair and gently rocking you back and fourth to calm you down.

• would sit there ALL day listening to you, he just wants you to be happy :((

• if the issue was something he could do about it, he’d get involved and help you sort it out (if that makes sense 🗣️)

• if not, he’d hold your hands and tell you that things will get better, and that it will all work out in the end ❤️‍🩹

• again, would be the type to not care how long you cry, it’s better out than in. he’d wait forever for you, as long as your okay in the end :))

ɪꜱᴀᴀᴄ ʀʜᴏᴀᴅᴇꜱ + *.☽ .* -

• he’d be SO concerned, he’d probably think something huge has happened.

• he’d probably be the dense type that wouldn’t really know what to do.

• if he caught you crying, he’d probably sort of ask questions quickly like “what happened? are you alright? did something happen?”

• poor man is traumatised ☹️

• he’d listen intently, understanding you straight away. he’d probably say things like “i get it.” or “i understand what your feeling.” to try and comfort you more.

• if you wanted a hug, would probably wrap his arms around you, guide your head to his shoulder, and sort of pat you gently on the back ? (he’s trying his best)

• if you were crying onto him, he’d probably whisper things like “it’s okay.” and “it will be fine.”

• would probably ask again if anything has happened, just to make sure.

• if you wanted to stay with him, i don’t think he’d mind sort of cuddling on the couch with you nuzzled into him, just enjoying his presence.

• during this he’d probably put his hand on your head and very slowly stroke your hair.

• would probably make you a drink like a cup of tea or some juice after to hydrate you, and to make you feel better :))

• he’s trying his best okay <33

hi hi i hope this was okay :-)) ive never done headcanons before so this was sort of new for me so im sorry if this is a bit ‘rough’. also this isn’t proof read so please tell me if there are any mistakes <33

requests are open! thank you for reading <33

- jude 🌱

[grapesrsogood]

After Xanthus turned Love (a phew months later)

Just a short drabble that i thought up and decided to try out writing :3

After writing this: YALL ARE GOING TO DIE FROM THIS TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF IM TELLING YOU NOW

Masterlist here

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“Im thinking that maybe we should paint the room a dark green colour? Oh, and we could paint the shutters a darker green to complement it!” I stand beside Xanthus in our new bedroom, we had bought a house a phew weeks back to continue our fresh start together and are considering what colour scheme would work best.

I continue on my rant as i walk around the room aimlessly, “a dark wood book case would look lovely in the corner and having a desk too would be nice,” my excitement grows and i feel Xanthus’s gaze on me as i practically prance around the room, pointing out possible decor and furniture styles.

I giggle to myself, feeling like a kid waking up on their birthday, exited for the day ahead. I turn to look at Xanthus and he’s already looking back, his eyes soft and holding a look that i recognise as intrigue or maybe confusion, he seems to have that look in his eyes more frequently recently.

I move closer to him and turn my whole body to face his, “whats up hun?” I ask as i tilt my head, a soft smile making its way onto my lips and i continue to gaze back at my lover.

“How do you do it?” He finally speaks and im slightly taken aback by his question, “what do you mean?” I ask in return and he looks to the side for a moment.

“You are practically glowing, as you usually are. Your smile is still warm and the comforting tone in your voice hasn’t wavered at all. You are still the same embodiment of life that you were when i first saw you and you are still filled with the same compassion and love, you arent cold or distant or predatory in any way even though your humanity has been stolen from you. I dont feel as though the bond is gone because i still have you, the same you and the you that loved me and saw the good in everybody around you. How do you do it? How are you still so you, when you’re like… me…” his words trail off into silence and my eyes dont leave him for a second, untill his finally meet mine. I bring a hand up to his cheek and he rests his jaw on my palm, bringing his own hand up to cradle mine.

“Xanthus… i love you. Thats never going to change, even if im undead. My humanity doesnt define me, just as being a vampire doesnt either. I choose to love and feel happy and feel alive because even if im not, the world around me is and i want to live with it. Im alive in my heart, and so are you. You love me, you care for people, that isnt proof of your humanity. Thats proof of your life! Thats proof that despite what you’ve been through and what you’ve seen or done, you can still take a breath and appreciate the world around you, the people around you. I refuse to let myself go over something such as death. I dont care because im still myself at heart and thats what really counts.” I dont break eye contact as i see his eyes begin to water and he brings his other hand up to cover his eyes.

“Xanthus, you dont need to hide your emotions, you can pretend being turned changed you, that it took away your right to feel things, but thats not true! You feel just as much as any human. You love just as much as any human. Don’t let any outdated stereotypes about vampires being heartless monsters change that,” i gently tug his hand down and watch as a single tear rolls down his cheek.

He finally talks again, his words wavering and he practically whispered to me, “i love you too.”

I pull him into me carefully, as he buries his face into my neck, soft and quiet sobs coming from him occasionally and his arms tighten around me. I realise then that Xanthus, a 400 year old vampire that claims to be a wise, unfeeling being of the shadows, was simply a man who hadnt felt comfort for over three centuries and just needed a person to really see him for who his is and not what he is to finally feel again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SUPER SHORT BUT AGHHHHH

I LOVE THIS >v<

Words are so fun teehee

Apologies for any mistakes, its late and i want to post this now so i’ll read over it again in the morning

BAIIIIII