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sceletaflores · 6 months ago

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SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp.

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you."

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out."

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat."

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser.

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties.

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin’ wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance.

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark.

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea.

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise.

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question.

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way.

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run.

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more.

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece.

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties.

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide.

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge.

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you.

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers.

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed.

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit.

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes.

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession.

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his.

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need.

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out.

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want.

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control.

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver.

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting.

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls.

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips.

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes.

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again.

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch.

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for.

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust.

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible.

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought.

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls.

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him.

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

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hwnglx · 2 months ago

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pick a pile - your favourite things about your fs vs. your fs’ favourite things about you (detailed)

welcome back, dear reader. let's look into your favorite things about your future lover, and your future lover’s favorite things about you. note that this is a general reading, so not everything will resonate with everyone! it also highlights the positive sides of the connection. breathe slowly, take your time and use your intuition to go with the pile that speaks to you the most. remember to take what resonates, and let the rest flow. *ੈ✩‧₊˚

𓂃⭑ pile 1 ⭑𓂃

your favourite things about your fs

your fs has this ability, to give you a push in confidence. to help you believe in yourself more, and see yourself as the queen or king that you are. they will quite literally shower you in sweet words, are amazing at flattering.

there's this major theme of “you are such a badass and you need to know about it” they will have the ability to change the way you look at yourself, due to them cherishing you so much.

like calling you beautiful no matter which state you're in; after you just woke up barefaced in the morning, while you're getting ready, while you're focusing on your studies or work.

one of your favorite things about your fs, is how supportive they are of you, particularly when it comes to your own individual pursuits and goals.

i can especially see this in regards to decision-making; you might be someone who can struggle making a strong choice and standing behind it at times. your fs has the potential to help you be more sure of yourself, and strongly push yourself forward in a way that gives you a lot of personal success.

in a “don't overthink it so much, just go for it.” type of way. you'll love how they can get you out of your head, and open your eyes to the power you hold.

i can see this translating into numerous areas of your life; career-wise, personality-wise, appearance-wise, socially. you're likely the type of person who just glows in a different way, when they're in love. your friends could probably see something about your aura shifting, in a ✨ beautiful ✨ way.

you love that your fs is quite literally your no 1 fan, the person who makes you feel special, encourages you, empowers you.

i can see them being quite open and unapologetic about their support too. your fs is immensely proud of being with someone like you, so it's likely most people will know about it.

they'll quite literally gaze at you with so much sparkle and admiration in their eyes.

you will love how your fs isn't a person who ever puts themselves above you. they're very fair-minded, and balanced in their approach to your connection.

let's say you gifted something to your fs, it's not unlikely you'll see a surprise present as a thank you on your desk after you come home from work. there's this feeling of always wanting to give back what you give them.

they seem quite generous in terms of their finances, like the type to willingly splurge on expensive things for you.

i don't see the connection being one of extremely clingy or obsessive nature, and moreso one where the two of you are each other's main sources of support, the person you can comfortably fall back on if anything ever goes wrong.

your fs will provide you with this feeling that.. “even if i fail everything in life, this person will love me regardless. life can still be beautiful.” this can give you a renewed and stronger sense of courage, to step out of your comfort zone and take the leap of faith you might've put off for a while.

on a deeper note; i can see your future lover also making you realize you're lovable in every way, regardless of the emotional baggage and wounds you can potentially come with.

there might be some reluctance in you when it comes to laying your soul bare to people and making yourself vulnerable; you might worry it could turn them off, or make them see you in a different light.

i heard the chorus of jb's unstable here “i tried to scare you away, showed you the door, you adored me anyway. when i was broken in pieces, you were my peace of mind.”

you'll love, how your fs will embrace your flaws lovingly, accept your mistakes and still cherish you throughout everything. also, they won't force vulnerability. they'll allow it to unfold.

a lot of deep and heartfelt conversation. i see your fs being good at provoding you with emotional safety, and facilitating an environment, where you don't feel ashamed to talk about your deepest, darkest secrets to them.

and sometimes, you don't even have to say anything for your future lover to understand what you're feeling - they just get it. they'll be at a point where they just know you that well.

your bond will continue to grow deeper and more intimate through the two of you, especially you, learning how it's okay to open yourself up emotionally to a person. they still won't love you any less, or see you as any less than you are.

even if there's problems in your relationship, the depth of your connection always remains. the two of you help understand each other in a deeper manner. there is a lot of significant and meaningful life lessons you can learn from each other.

your fs' favourite things about you

for some of you, you might've been the one who pursued your fs. and they loved that about you.

the beginning of the spread suggests that your fs deeply admires the way you go after what, and who, you want. boldly, unapologetically, and with purpose.

what they love even more is how you continue to show up consistently. you're not just passionate in the beginning; you put in the work to keep the connection stable and growing.

it's something that gives them a sense of security in the relationship. knowing that you're always striving, not just for yourself, but for your shared future.

your fs loves how you communicate and talk to them. a lot of them might find the way you text them very endearing, some of you could text in this very animated and playful way.

they love that you're so witty, and the way things rarely get dull when they're with you. you might poke and tease them a lot, unafraid of talking back in a sassy manner. you just keep them on their toes, and bring a lighthearted spark to the relationship that they adore.

they love how you balance your sense of humor and playful energy, with a strong sense of focus and work ethic. you're fun, yes, but also grounded, driven, and committed to bettering yourself. that blend of personality traits is something they find incredibly attractive.

interestingly, i mentioned earlier how they find your focused expression really cute, and that theme seems to be repeating. there's something about the way you concentrate, that they find completely adorable.

i could see you guys being younger in age than your fs, there could be a cute height difference too, which your fs could tease you about (like you having to go on your tippy toes to give them a kiss and them playing with you by pulling away)

the energy between you two is sweet and doting. your fs sees you as the most adorable person they know, someone who capable of making them smile constantly.

the two of you could potentially be a couple of two fire signs. i'm feeling leo and aries strongly. particularly sun or venus. this connection is vibrant, passionate, and full of strong personalities.

you two could also have 5h synastry.

your fs loves how you match, or even challenge, their fiery energy. you might even be the one humbling them with your sass and confidence. they love that you can meet their intensity without ever losing your own shine.

they also love how you allow them to be their own person. how you don't brake your fs from having their individual pursuits in life. you encourage their passions, support their goals, and celebrate their individuality.

also worthy to note, that your fs doesn't only appreciate that animated side in you, but also cherishes the sense of harmony you bring into you dynamic.

there's something about your energy they find to be very comforting, healing and soothing. like you're their comfort person and safe space, basically.

there's a little bit of this.. “you're the most precious gift of my life” type of love they have for you.

the connection never really feels like it settles or goes stale. even once things should've become familiar, once the spark and excitement should've started to quiet down the way it does for some couples.. somehow, it still feels new.

something about the way you love, or the way you show up in the relationship, constantly breathes fresh life into it.

your future lover doesn't just feel lucky to have met you. they feel lucky to keep meeting new sides of you all the time. they're continuously unfolding new reasons to fall in love with you, over and over again.

being around you reminds them that love isn’t only about fire and butterflies. it’s also about feeling safe, seen and treasured.

in addition, your fs admires your resilience. they love how you aren't one to allow life to break you down, but on the contrary, you find ways to rise above. whether it's through personal challenges, heartbreak, or difficult moments.. you don’t just let yourself be defeated. you keep moving forward.

they love that you're eager to use every lesson learned, as fuel to push yourself toward the next chapter.

your fs sees and acknowledges, how you've weathered your storms with grace, and it's not only something they deeply respect, but something that makes them love you, very dearly.

thank you for reading! i'd love to hear your feedback on what resonated for you <3

𓂃⭑ pile 2 ⭑𓂃

your favourite things about your fs

so to start off this pile, you give me the energy of an introvert, who's usually more comfortable in their own company. being with people might get tiring for you quickly, which is why you like to retreat into your own space at times.

what you will love about your future lover, is how adaptable they are. they're incredibly accepting, open-minded, and tolerant.

they aren't a person who's pushy, intrusive or stubborn; but a person, who's willing to match themselves to you. they'll be ready to adjust to your pace, your comfort levels, your boundaries, and approach you with a comfortingly understanding presence.

you'll appreciate how they rarely take offense when you need space or time alone. they aren't the type to guilt you for withdrawing, they'll simply leave you room to breathe.

your future lover displays an existence that supports you through your journey of finding your best self. someone who helps you understand yourself better.

there is a huge focus on comfort here. your energy is a little heavy. like someone carrying the weight of past pain.. many of you might've been through a lot.. emotionally, mentally, spiritually. perhaps some wounds from your childhood too.

i heard jungkook's seven “weight of the world on your shoulders, i kiss your waist and ease your mind”

this song is a little heavy.. but i somehow kept being drawn to ghostin' by ariana grande. “i'm a girl with a whole lot of baggage, but i love you”

your fs is someone who can help you let go of the past, that might've been weighing on you for a good while. it's almost like, you've been walking through life with all this emotional baggage on your back, and you just carried it by yourself, because you had to, and you didn't know any else. your future spouse will finally lighten it up for you. you will feel more free.

you'll love how your fs provides you with this beautiful feeling of “i finally found my person.”

they have a deeply empathetic energy, with high emotional intelligence. they're emotionally mature. someone who meets you with patience, not pressure.

even if you enter the connection still holding onto certain wounds or patterns, your future spouse won't run from that. they'll stay. they'll help you face what you've buried, and little by little, they'll walk beside you as you heal and uncover new sides of yourself.

they'll open your eyes to the beauty in the world.. in people, in connection, in joy. they'll show you that genuine souls do exist. that you're not too much. that there are people who simply love being around you for who you are.

they might introduce you to their circle, bringing new, healthy friendships into your life.

spirit gave me this metaphor of.. “you've been on the moon this whole time. i will introduce the sun to you now.” and you will be fascinated by the warmth. maybe because you haven't truly felt it in that way before.

it's likely for both of you to have significant water placements. i'm feeling scorpio and pisces strongly. perhaps you're the pisces, and they're the scorpio. doesn't have to be the sun. ofc you could also have conjunctions, and share placements.

there's also a libran way in which they love and approach the world, so i could see them having a libra rising, or libra venus.

i'm also sensing potential eighth house synastry, due to the transformative nature of your relationship. there's a strong theme of you constantly evolving within this bond, shedding layers and becoming more of who you're meant to be. (if you're a pisces rising, libra could fall into your eighth house.)

this person is likely to be more mature than you, maybe older in age. but with that maturity, there's also this sense of them being more in tune with their emotions, as in, they're more comfortable with their feelings.

while reading, i kept feeling the need to speak in a quieter voice, it was almost like there was a lump in my throat.

some of you might struggle speaking up at times, especially when it comes to how you feel. you may have been made to feel like your emotions were too much, or unworthy of space in the past. you may have gone through situations where your voice was purposely quieted. so over time, it became habitual..

this person's existence is like a warm hug, that'll find you right when you need it the most. your future lover will provide you with a sense of gentle compassion.

this love isn't superficial or based on shallow things; it's a love that goes deep, and loves in its entirety. your fs' love is one, that will embrace you with everything that you come with. even the things you yourself have always seen as unlovable.

this can help you to open up your eyes. it's almost like a butterfly, finally being able to see its own beautiful wings.

this union will feel like two people who were meant to be with each other, finally finding to each other, and beautifully completing each other's worlds.

your fs' favorite things about you

the way the two spreads aligned was so beautiful.. i may have shed a tear or two. (yes i actually did i got emotional lol)

so in the first part of the reading, there was some bittersweetness in terms of your feelings of loneliness, that you've carried within you throughout your life.

what's so sweet is, that your fs sees your independence as one of their favourite things about you. it's this feeling of, them seeing what you might condemn about yourself at times, as something genuinely beautiful from their perspective.

in your fs' eyes, there's just something so admirable, about how you've showed up for yourself till now.

you exude a calm and serene presence, one that makes it hard for others to truly get close. as if you're comfortably wrapped in your own quiet world.

this might've been one of their first impressions of you, and what drew them to you from the start.

the energy is strikingly similar to pile 2 from this reading. maybe you could look into it, in case you're more curious about their potential first impression of you.

i keep getting the theme of nature, so there could be a lot settings in nature for your relationship. maybe they first saw you in nature.

interestingly, i keep seeing flower fields and gardens in my minds eye. maybe your first date? or do you use flowery scents? also, something about animals. you might have a lot of love for animals and feel a special connection to them, which your fs finds wonderful.

your future lover might also be incredibly poetic. i could see them comparing you to a flower a lot, and saying slightly cheesy, but lovely things like that. they just see as so beautiful. like a piece of art you can't help but be in awe of.

they see you as immensely intelligent. your future spouse admires how much complexity you hold. how you're not someone who lives on the surface. there's this admiration of the depth your soul has, and how many layers there are to you.

your future spouse loves that you aren't easy to figure out. not because you're hiding, but because you've learned to protect your softness. every step closer to your heart feels like a gift to them, one they don't take for granted.

i can see you opening up to them slowly, and their love growing deeper with each layer they get to uncover. the more they understand you, the more they cherish you.

honestly, they love how much effort it takes to truly know you. might sound weird, but your fs actually enjoys having to put in the work to get past the walls around your heart.

they love it, because it's you. it feels worth it. being rewarded with someone they see as so precious, someone who brings such depth and richness to their life.. nothing else compares. it doesn't feel tiring to them.

random note, but i could see some of you having an earth venus, or maybe saturn in the 7h. in fact, the pisces risings watching this, would have a virgo (earth) descendant/7h 🫵🏻

your fs could have some strong earth placements too, in addition to the water placements.

your future lover's favorite thing to witness is those moments when you break free from your shell. when you let go of hesitation and fully immerse yourself in what brings you joy. they love seeing you light up, completely lost in the moment, expressing your passion without holding back.

if there's one thing they deeply wish to give you, it's the safety and encouragement to feel free. to let your light shine without fear of judgment. they never want you to dim yourself to make others comfortable.

in their eyes, you're a radiant, warm, and uniquely vibrant soul. they're drawn to the moments when your confidence sparks, when you choose your joy over your fears.

i was reminded of the bollywood film “kal ho naa hoo”, where the male lead quietly helps the female lead discover the beauties of life again. and watches her, as she begins to bloom in her own light. he doesn't rescue her.. he simply reminds her of the light she carries, and watches her shine.

note; i also kept feeling drawn to a few songs while being in this pile's energy, you might resonate with some of them:

glimpse of us by joji

just one day by bts

god is a woman by ariana grande

thank you for reading! i'd love to hear your feedback on what resonated for you <3

𓂃⭑ pile 3 ⭑𓂃

your favourite things about your fs

the main energy i'm getting here is that, you will recognize parts of yourself in your fs, which will give you this sense of familiarity with them. even if you don't really know them yet.

you know the feeling when you're looking at someone, and something about them just.. feels like you've known them for years. i could for sure see this being a past life connection too.

one aspect which i could see the two of you bonding over, is both of you being wrapped up in similar circumstances.

this is specific so, take it if it resonates. but when you meet your future lover, some of you might feel dissatisfied with where you're at in life, especially when it comes to the general direction it's going in. maybe your current job isn't truly emotionally fulfilling you.

there's a sense of apathy and emotional numbness. you might feel like you're at a point in life, where your life is just passing by you. nothing really feels all that exciting, it feels stale and stagnant.

this could also be rooted in past heartbreak. it could've caused you to grow more pessimistic, cynical and guarded.

meeting your fs, will feel like a breath of fresh air. they will come to you with a reassuring presence, like you're not the only one who feels this way.

the song the only by sasha alex sloan started playing in my head while reading.

you will love your fs' realistic approach towards the world. this isn't someone who escapes into their fantasy dream world, and has their head in the clouds. they're quite pragmatic, rational, and unafraid to speak the truth when it's necessary.

their lack of filter and honesty might come off as overly blunt to some people. but to you, it's refreshing. it's likely something that will draw you to them.

they're the person who's likely to point out the elephant in the room, while everyone else is walking on eggshells.

worthy to note though, is that i don't see this person being tactless, despite their outspoken attitude. they weigh their words out, but don't water them down.

you love how committed your future spouse is to the things that are important to them. they're the type of person who dedicates all their efforts to what they value, willing to show up, and put in consistent work to achieve their objectives.

your future lover is immensely protective. there is a strong sense of security they can provide you with. someone who just makes you feel like no one in the world can hurt you.

they're quite literally your human shield; the one who will place themselves in front of you, if anyone ever dares badmouthing or attacking you. they do lean towards the territorial side.

there's this feeling of.. after all i've been through, there's no storm i can't face at this point. now even more, with someone steady and loyal by my side, who resembles me in that regard.

in addition, you love the sense of wisdom your fs brings to the table. they might be an older soul, or simply person who's had significant life experiences for their age, which have shaped them into a person who's mature, and full of knowledge about life. they're introspective, and reflective.

this is something you could take note of, as the relationship progresses, and you engage in more deep and layered conversations with them. ones that go beyond the mundane and shallow topics.

i'm strongly getting earth energy, especially virgo or taurus. something mercurial about them, but also grounded and stable. additionally, there might be air energy such as aquarius or gemini, giving them a sharp intellect, wit and eloquence.

both of you read as being on the mature side, but your dynamic also seems very fun.

your future lover has the potential to bring out an inner softness in you, which might've been buried before. there's this sense of feeling younger, more playful, more free, and more hopeful when you're with them. like your future lover reawakening the inner child in you, that genuinely enjoys to live again.

in addition, you'll just feel like you can let loose when you're with your fs, you don't need to put on any act, or worry about what they'll think. you can be yourself in your entirety, and know your lover will adore you just the way you are.

this is random lmao, but you could literally burp around them, hang around with unwashed hair, no make up, pimples, whatever it is.. it'll just be comfortable, and come with a sense of ease, and lightheartedness.

i feel like your current environment might make you feel misunderstood. you might struggle finding someone who shares similar thoughts and outlooks as you.

what your fs can give you, is the feeling of being understood. they have similar principles and values in life as you do, and both of your life-paths align beautifully.

that mutual understanding has the potential to shift your perspective in a more positive light, and help you see things in a more optimistic manner again.

the emotional intimacy between the two of you will be special. there'll be things about each other, that only the the two of you know about. private moments, quiet nights, deep talks. your alone time will be meaningful, and the connection will be one that recharges you, instead of draining you.

i keep thinking of the sentence “being alone, together.”

your fs' favourite things about you

your fs will feel very attracted to you early on. they'll have this impression of you being a beautifully feminine and sensual individual. you'll awaken a lot of desire in them.

it's likely you'll shake up their world from the moment you enter their life. you'll just have a strong impact on them, from the beginning, they'll look at you as someone who makes an impression everywhere they go. like you enter the room, your fs' eyes are fixed on you. constantly. something about you they can't deny.

your future lover, will admire the strength you hold. they'll love that you're a person who can be logical and cut-throat when you really need to. they'll see you as intelligent, witty and strategic. someone who has a quick mind, a lot of intellect. you're just the type of person no one can really fool.

something about the way you communicate in particular, will intrigue them. you give them the impression of someone you can hold immensely interesting conversations with.

there's something about the way you bring a blend of several qualities to the table, which they adore. you can be very mature and rational at times, but they also recognize a down to earth, humble, and incredibly ambitious side to you.

your fs is likely to see you as a person who's always looking to learn more from life, and expand to higher places.

this is very specific, so it might not resonate with everyone, but some of your fs' might be your seniors at work, uni or school. so they look at you in this more “student” type of role.

for others, this could just apply to the grounded attitude you carry. how you're someone who's continuously looking to improve themselves. quite self-critical and hard on themselves, but also not easy to please in general.

your fs will love the sense of peace you bring into the relationship. they'll genuinely appreciate how you're someone who can provide them with the rest that they're in need of at times. solely being with you, makes them calm down.

your existence in itself is a source of comfort to them. their favourite thing to do with you, could quite literally be the most ordinary activities; like laying down at the end of the day, with candles lit, watching some random movie and cuddling. it's then, that they can finally exhale in a restful manner, and completely release their pent up stress.

i could see the both of you being career-oriented, and offering a type of outlet for each other. like you put your nose into your work all day, and look forward to spending the end of the day with each other, in order to just let go of the accumulated, inner tension. there's this beautiful sense of quiet, but strong support you can provide for each other in that way.

(this pile is sooo taurus coded..)

this is something i can see slowly developing as your connection deepens, but your fs is likely to genuinely appreciate you being a good listener. someone who just knows how to make them feel seen, and cared about.

as i said before, i can see the two of you bonding over shared experiences. this unique type of understanding you'll have for one another, is likely to bring your future lover a lot of healing.

the addition of you in their lives, can light their otherwise stressful life up in the most wonderful way. having someone by their side, who they share a genuine emotional connection with, will bring them this feeling of peace.

i just keep seeing this scene in my minds eye, of them looking you in the eyes, and feeling like.. okay, everything's fine again. you give them a sense of renewed hope, and inner strength.

what's worth to note for this pile, is that i probably had the hardest time tapping into the energy of your dynamic. there's just something remarkably private and intimate about your connection.

i really don't see you enjoying to share about it too much with others. when you're together, it feels as if it's just the two of you on planet earth.

the song my love mine all mine started playing on shuffle while i was writing this, might resonate with you guys..

thank you for reading! i'd love to hear your feedback on what resonated for you <3

#kpop tarot #pac reading #pac #tarot reading #tarot community #tarot #personal reading #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a card reading

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moyazaika · 2 months ago

Text

blood in the water.

m! yandere prince x gn! knight reader ♡ mdni 18+

cw — blood, betrayal, obsessive themes, lack of autonomy and unbalanced power dynamics. 2.4k wc.

a/n — well well well

you can barely make him out through the mist.

a heavy and decadent cloud of perfume rolls over the warm waters of the royal banya; makes it difficult to chart your course to where your prince is. you narrow your eyes, glimpse the outline of his frame, solid and familiar, beyond the swirling haze that's descended over the pool's surface.

"moy knyaz," you clear your throat. my prince; the title rolling off your tongue like honey. "i've arrived with the supplies you asked for."

he spares you a glance over his shoulder, the movement causing gentle ripples in the water around him. you think briefly, like a fool, that he will wade to the edge of the pool to meet you where you stand. you lower your head, gaze drawn respectfully low.

"ah, sweet knight." you can hear the smile in his gentle words; that familiar lilt of felicity, all soft at the edges. "there you are; i was almost beginning to worry," he hums. "whatever took you so long?"

"apologies for the delay, my prince." you rest a hand over your heart, imbue as much sincerity as you can in the action. "i will ensure that it does not happen again."

you'd never been in the bathhouse before, so it was difficult not to feel like a stumbling fawn. you'd never had any reason to be in this wing of the palace; seeing as you were the prince's knight, and not one of his personal attendants—and yet, you contemplated quietly, this time he'd called specifically for you.

(the thought of it makes you feel strangely special.)

"very well.” he concedes. “you have brought what i asked for?"

"yes, my prince." you nod, hold out your hands over the edge of the pool. present to him upon your palms, folded neatly and perfumed in his favourite scent, the silver silk he uses during his trips to the bathhouse. you wait, expectantly, for the feel of his fingers swiping the washcloth from your hands—and yet, it never comes.

"dorogaya, you do not intend to keep me waiting any longer, i hope?"

you blink, head still lowered out of respect. "i'm sorry, my prince. i do not quite understand."

"eyes up, sweet knight, and clothes off." he says slowly, enunciating each syllable as one does when speaking to a child; "it seems," he sighs softly, "that i am in need of your ministrations tonight."

never one to go against his words, you raise your head, albeit reluctantly. almost immediately, you meet his tar black eyes. his gaze heavy and stifling, as he observes you lazily over his shoulders. you can't help that your attention drifts down to the prominent corded muscles of his back; the strong, solid shape you only just manage to make out through the soft, dreamlike mist.

he smiles at you so kindly, then, as if he is understanding of your appraisal; the curl of his lips feels dangerously close to an invitation to dip into something far deeper than these waters.

"you are already late," his voice, deceptively gentle for how low it is, brings your attention back to the task at hand, and out of your shameful reveries. you swallow nervously, as he turns back; the air in the banya feels colder, then, when your prince's eyes are no longer trained solely on you. "please, luybov moya. do not make me wait any longer."

my love, my love, my love; how gently he calls for you from the water.

the affections fall from his lips like sweet nectar, and you are so helplessly caught in his tenderness that there are no more questions to be asked, even if they weigh heavy on your mind.

your shirt is the first to go. the intricate buttons of your tunic difficult to undo with shaking fingers. trousers, next. stepping out of the fabric as it falls at your feet. working to loosen the lace of your boots.

tentatively, you dip your toes in the water. it's warmer than it looks. a welcome reprieve, though, from the chill of being undressed. the hair on your skin stands on end when the prince speaks up.

"clothes off," he repeats softly, without sparing you so much as a backwards glance. "i will not repeat myself."

"ah," you look down at the flimsy undergarments you still don; the scrap of decency they provide in maintaining a facade of respect in the presence of the tsar's son. thin fabrics that hide the skin on your back, marred by grotesque scars from previous battles waged and lost and won in the name of your beloved prince. and yet—albeit with trembling hands, you reach for the hem. "understood, moy knyaz."

you let yourself sink into the pool, as it envelopes your bare body whole. it's nice, and warm. welcoming, you think to yourself.

you nervously wring the silk in your hands as the gentle undulations of the water naturally push you closer to the prince; and you're silently grateful for the mist of the heavy perfumes and steam that descends over the banya and nips at (as well as obscures) your scarred skin.

perhaps it is because of this veil that it takes you so long to realise your prince is covered in blood.

you still in your movements—taking in the swirling ink-like clouds of deep red in the cerulean water around him; the spray of dark blood over his jaw, and the muscles of his chest; how it drips, thick like sweet nectar, from his hands—held out towards you.

"moya milaya," he murmurs, watching you through low lashes. his eyes are black like heavy tar. you find yourself stuck—sinking into the quiet darkness before you; "won't you purify me?"

you reach out, closer, press the silk against the inside of his wrist, right above his pulse. you delude yourself into thinking you can feel the steady thrum of life through the touch; but all you're met with is his warm skin, slick with blood. it smears when you wipe it, stains the fine fabric of the washcloth.

"your highness, are you—" your eyes flicker up to meet his, but your hands don't slow in their pace as you scrub him free. concern pulls the edges of your heart and everything threatens to unravel in the absence of an answer. "are you alright? were you hurt? has the physician allowed you to—"

"i am fine, sweet knight. the blood," your prince's lips curl into a knowing smile, "none of it is mine."

"i don't understand, moy knyaz. forgive me for my ignorance, but who did—" you blink, desperately searching his impassive face for an answer. "our enemies? conspirators against the tsardom? an assassination attempt? because i was never made aware of—"

he places his hand over your own. the touch is careful and light, merely a suggestion—

you still immediately.

realise, with dawning horror, that you've scrubbed his skin raw. the blood pools in the water, your insistent, frantic efforts leaving the skin of his forearm all angry and hot and red—markers of blossoming pain. tense muscles, and all. the silk looks as if it has been drenched in ink.

"not of the tsardom," the prince says lightly, 'but enemies still; and i already know you were not informed because i ordered it so."

the threads your heart was hanging on by are pulled too strongly, too soon. everything comes apart. a sense of betrayal, and then a deep-rooted shame, washes over you. you swore you would follow this man to the ends of the world; and yet, he does not even trust you in his darkest hours?

you wish to sink into the water and never resurface from its depths. beg, silently, for the fog to swallow you whole beneath the weight of your prince's gaze.

"apologies," you manage shakily. "i have failed to protect you, my prince. i understand that you find me incapable of serving you for any longer. as your humble knight, i shall—"

"hush."

fingers skimming up your neck, resting at your jaw. the impossibly soft way the prince forces you to meet his eyes, so kind in their own right. so full of mercy.

"bednyazhka," he whispers under his breath. you poor thing. "you worry far too much. it will be the cause of your undoing, one day."

"it is worth it for you, moy knyaz. i would gladly lay down my life for you."

"yes," he murmurs. "of course, that is what you would think. a shame.”

"apologies, i..." you frown. "i do not understand."

he smiles ruefully. "no. of course, you do not." his fingers fall from your face, and you find, shamefully, that you mourn the touch far more than you should. instead, they brush against your knuckles; raw from hours of combat training. he runs his thumb over the broken skin. "seven, sweet knight. this is the number of attempts made on your life in the past week."

you had...

you swallow nervously, coming to terms with the news. the urge to say something overwhelms you (strangely, an inclination to defend yourself) but the words evade you. your throat closes up.

you had no idea.

(find solace, at least, in not needing to wonder about the sorry sort of fates they must have met at the hands of this man before you.)

he swipes the washcloth from you, continues speaking in hushed tones; "our enemies grow restless as we prosper. they want nothing more than to hurt me. previously, i have not had to worry about this, because of you."

"and now?" you whisper.

"and now, luybov moya, my enemies rejoice." he takes your trembling hands in his own, inspects the blood from his skin that now stains yours by carefully turning over each and every finger in his palm. "they have found a way to hurt me." he confesses, "because of you."

the touch is feather light. barely even there.

"do you understand, my sweet knight? you are the reason i prosper, and yet, devastatingly so, the sole cause of my ruination."

the gentle undulations of the water around you has lulled you into a false sense of security. you feel safe in this moment, knowing your prince is in such close proximity. the two of you stand close enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours; breaths in sync, breathing the same perfumed air in—and out.

in—and out.

you almost think you've misheard the prince when he speaks again.

"and this is why i have decided," he says softly, "that you will never pick up a sword again."

his words instantly break the fragile tranquility of the moment like a delicate thread that's been pulled at for far too long—an inevitable snap that still manages to hurt. you shake your head, affronted by the mere thought of such an absurd idea.

perhaps this is some sick jest. surely, he must know? the value of your sword? what it means to you?

you swore an oath to protect the tsar's son. it is an insult to your very being should you fail to uphold this royal promise. you have already let him down enough.

"i can not be of no use to you, moy knyaz."

"that will never be the case." he smiles. "i have many uses for you in mind, moya milaya."

how can he say it so affectionately? my sweetheart falling from his lips as he takes from you the one thing you can never bear to part with.

"but i have always fought!" you protest. frantic, desperate laughter bubbles past your lips. it sounds wrong and forced even to your own ears. he drinks it in, all the same. "i have always wanted to protect you. it is my purpose and duty and—"

who am i without it?

"yes, and i will always cherish you for it, but now, your fight is over."

your prince has always been the most beautiful man in the tsardom to you. out of an unwavering loyalty, you have followed him through the darkest snowstorms and to the most desolate battlefields. you have raised flags in his name and stared down the barrel of your gun to an innocent child for his legacy.

despite it all, he has only ever been your prince; and you, his most trusted knight.

in this moment, though?

the man before you is unrecognisable. he has forgotten who you are.

"the purpose of my life is fighting." you repeat, hoping to remind him of what your sword represents; a plea for him to let you keep it. "it is why i live. it is what i promised to forever do, until the very end of my life—i exist to serve you.”

"and you will." the prince assures you keenly, presents you with a reminder of his own. "there are other ways to serve."

ah—

so this is what you've fallen to.

"you cannot do this," you cling to him. dig your nails into his skin, forgetting the sheen of blood that already lies there; like a thin film. some impossible barrier separating your reason from his actions. "please, my prince. you can't."

please don't turn me into an accessory.

"my sweet knight," he gently pries your hands off of his shoulders, brings your wrist to his lips. he kisses away the blood on your skin as if this display of affection will wash you clean of your shame. "there is nothing you can do to stop me. it has already been done."

it dawns on you laughably late. of course, this is the true reason he called you to the bathhouse; why else would he be waiting for you? what other purpose for your presence—when he's never needed anyone else to purify him?

how foolish of you to think yourself an exception. the silk washcloth floats in the pool's water that gently ripples from all your shaking. it takes effort to hold yourself together and string the words you wish to say into anything even remotely sensible.

yet, you fall short, even then.

"why?" your strength is futile; any attempt to wretch your hand out of his hold fails. his fingers stay wrapped in place, careful not to bruise you with their strong hold—yet completely unyielding to your every effort. "i don't understand."

why would you strip me of who i am? why would you strip me of who i have always been?

tendrils of dark blood swirling in the warm water around you, your prince only smiles adoringly in response. his black eyes are so impossibly shallow as he watches you fall apart before him; and yet you find yourself drowning in them all the same.

"why would you do this to me?"

this is the first time you will hear this answer from the prince, but you already know—

(even whilst he peppers dozens of soft, sighing kisses into your wrist and up your arm, over your shoulder and down, down, under)

—you already know it will not be the last.

"because i love you."

#<3 #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere prince #yandere male #male yandere #yandere male x reader #yandere male x you #yandere x y/n #yandere x darling #yandere tumblr #sergei

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joonsytip · 1 month ago

Text

Beyond the Transcripts || Wonwoo [Teaser]

Pairings: Ceo!Wonwoo x Legal Head!Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers au, second chances au.

Synopsis: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much.

Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours.

Warnings: Themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, minor accident, profanities, heartbreak, secret identity, workplace jargons.

Drop Date: Anyday next month.

Check out the masterlist for THAT'S SHOWBIZ, BABY! Please support all the amazing writers white putting up so much effort!

Thanks to @lovetaroandtaemin, Ally for coming up with this beautiful banner (even after I ate her ears off and made her do several banners for this one), I'm really grateful!

TAGLIST is closed.

Main story out now checkout here!

At the sound of the door closing, your gaze lifts.

Wonwoo walks towards you, in large but steady strides, just as you have remembered. He stands in front of you, at a distance. Your gazes meet and the time stops.

Wonwoo hasn't changed much, his eyes hold the same depth. He, you assume, still likes his hair side parted with locks clipped so they don't fall on his face. The scent of the same perfume lingers in the air, the one which he had always claimed as his signature. The frame of his glasses aren't geometric anymore, he goes with pilot nowadays.

And before your mind could trace back on the memory lane deeper, you decide to slip into the momentum.

Because, he's the man, who had broken your heart, had left you alone to pick up the pieces on your own.

“Mr. Jeon”, you bow to him, giving a small smile. Your heart beats erratically, as you continue to speak, “You must be busy so I won't take much of your time.”

The title you call him by is foreign to Wonwoo's ear. It always used to be strings of sickly sweet nicknames.

He watches the changes time has brought upon you. You no longer seem like the carefree law major from back then. You, no longer are the girl who'd cry over smallest things, speak the first thought that comes to your mind.

While Wonwoo loses touch with the current predicament, you line up several documents on his desk in specific order.

It's exacting because you used to know him so well, maybe even now if he hasn't emerged entirely as a different person. You see the way his eyes are on you but the dilated pupils give away the fact that he's running miles in his head.

So you wait, wait for him to come back to the present, to this moment.

And he does, a few minutes later. You can tell it by the way his gaze locks into yours right away, his lips curling down in slightest.

“How have you been, Y/N?”

His voice strikes a chord in your heart, before it reaches your ear. The voice that you used to love so much, the voice that sung you to sleep on restless nights, the same voice which called when your name, it summoned your soul.

Years of preparation goes down in the trench as you're about to break down at the first set of words you hear from him.

But you can't, you're not the same vulnerable Y/N, who used to strip bare in front of her lover.

“I think we have more important matters to discuss, Mr. Jeon.”, you speak through your gritted teeth.

“But you promised you'd answer all my questions.”, Wonwoo reminds you calmly.

“And this is what you want to know?”

“Out of all things, first and foremost, yes this is what I want to know.”

You find it ironic. Trapped in by his words, you answer truthfully, “I just can't sum up everything but I have been holding it in, thanks to Wonjae.”

Wonwoo perks at the mention of your son's name, well his as well.

“The first document is about me as Wonjae’s legal guardian, consenting to you conduct a DNA test.”, your gaze is gentle as you point at the bunched papers, “I don't want any questions, any fingers raised at my son in future.”

“But I don't–”

“I request you to conduct one.”

Your sharp tone shuts up Wonwoo completely, though not willing, he nods.

His gaze sweeps across the rest of the document which promotes him to ask, “What are the rest of these documents for?”

Your eyes turn somber. You've studied law, practised it. You know all the nooks and crannies and you're a mother who is raising her son against all odds.

“The second document is a contract that states that if you don't want to be associated with Wonjae then the fact that he’s your son will be concealed and never brought up by me. If I ever do so”, you turn the pages and show him the space left blank, “You can fill up the breach statement and penalties in this section, I have left it blank.”

Wonwoo gapes at you in disbelief, “What do you think you're trying to pull here?”, he speaks in a low tone but you can hear the agitation ringing in it, “What do you think of me, Y/N?”

You don't deem it necessary to answer his questions and proceed further to explain the contents of the last document.

“If you have any concerns about me working in your company and see me as a threat or identify me as someone who has the potential of stirring up trouble then you can ask me to resign but under the conditions that I work here until I find another job.”, your attitude has shimmered down from being hyper to nonchalant, now that you have done your part.

Wonwoo observes you in disbelief and at himself in distaste because he's the reason behind the version you are currently showcasing.

“Also, I have prepared the clauses for custody just in case you're willing to share responsibilities in future. I'll bring it to you if you decide to be a part of Wonjae's life.”

You say terms, speak things all in legal language and Wonwoo just listens.

“I would have suggested you to run these documents by your legal team to cite any negotiations or catch any flaws but unfortunately, it would mean that I'd be the person you'll need to work with.”, you smile sardonically, “So it would be better if you contact someone who's not affiliated to this company.”

He wonders if things would have been different if he stayed and in the midst of the storm that whirlwinds in his head, he asks, “Why didn't you tell me that you were pregnant?”

What a simple question to ask. But are all questions meant to have an answer?

“Would you have stayed?”

Silence falls upon.

You give him a knowing smile, “Just when you were leaving, I asked you something, do you remember?”

Yes, he remembers, all of it. The way you had chased him to the station, your face wet, eyes bloodshot from crying. The way you just stood in front of him, mumbling the last question you had as the train entered the platform.

��What if I have something important to tell you, something that could change our lives? Would it make you stay?”

“There’s nothing left to salvage. Nothing's gonna stop me from leaving. This is the end for us.”

It answers his previous question. It makes sense now, he didn't only leave you, he had abandoned his unborn child as well.

Some fences cannot be mended, some bridges can't be cemented. Just like this relationship, which once bloomed beautifully, is now wilted.

→ Do not copy, re-post, translate, or share any of my works on other platforms! All stories are copyrighted, joonsytip. ©️

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kisakis-boyfriend · 7 months ago

Note

Pumpkin emoji!!

(Scenario please)

Kinich with a breeding kink? You can make him AFAB or AMAB idm but I’d like to see him preggers 🤌🏽

Author's Note: After a brief discussion with anon, I decided to make the reader a witch so that they can properly impregnate Kinich (and to comply with the Halloween theme requirement~)

Pairings: Kinich x male reader

Warnings: Male witch!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!Kinich, breeding kink, mpreg, overstimulation, use of the terms "pussy, cunt, boypussy, boycunt"

Witch reader who managed to nab the prettiest partner in the entire realm — a partner who also secretly has a wish to be bred and impregnated.

Witch reader who does his best to cum inside his partner each and every time—to indulge his wish—even though it's biologically impossible… unless?

Witch reader who scours all of the fertility tomes the library has to offer, refusing to rest until he finds a way to do the impossible. Luckily for both of you, there are quite a few spells able to grant someone an ability to do this task.

Witch reader who excitedly shouts “Kiniiich, I have a present for yooouu~!!” as he nearly breaks his own front door down. Kinich has never seen you so giddy, practically bouncing around as you hand him a piece of paper. He carefully unfolds it and reads the contents…

Witch reader flies backwards, tumbling to the ground as his adoring partner tackles him with a hug. Kinich is so happy that he insists you start right away!

Witch reader who wastes no time drawing the corresponding sigil on Kinich's stomach—right where his womb would be, if he had one. After that's done, he draws a similar one on his own stomach—one that's supposed to make your seed incredibly potent. Then it's time to light the candles and use arcane powers to activate the spell.

With his senses heightened, Kinich trembles and jolts at the smallest of touches. Your fingers dance on his skin, lighting the fire within him as your lips connect passionately.

Witch reader whose hips grind against Kinich, more than eager to get to the fun part. Before long, your cock is standing at full attention, and Kinich feels every brush against his vulnerable boycunt. The tension has the dark haired beauty in a chokehold—keeping him alert to your movements as you tease him a bit.

Witch reader who plays with Kinich's dick while lubing up, making sure he doesn't feel neglected anywhere. Unlike his normal self, Kinich is noisy as hell throughout this entire session. Filling the room with his beautiful groans of impatience, and bossing you around until you relent.

“Put it inside already! Don't wait any longer!” he whines. As he asks, you ease your cock inside, squeezing past his ring of muscles until you're comfortably filling his ass.

Witch reader with steadily decreasing control as he bucks his hips with more power than usual. Giving Kinich a small taste of what's coming later~

Witch reader who pistons his hips into Kinich's fertile pussy, enjoying every second of pleasure while the first load of cum fills his hole. The world seems to pause during the minute or so of emptying your balls inside of your darling, relishing the tightness of his cunt as it grips your cock. There's not even a bit of spillage—all of your seed manages to remain in his hole.

Witch reader who doesn't even have a second to catch his breath, since Kinich is throwing his ass back and crying that “It's… not enough–!!” while he impales himself further with your cock.

Witch reader follows his instincts — letting his dick do the thinking. Plowing Kinich roughly until the second load of cum gushes into his delicious boycunt, going in deeper than before. Kinich's knees buckle, and the warmth of your seed finds someplace inside his body that feels unfamiliar. Someplace new.

Witch reader who hugs Kinich so tightly after that round, kissing all over his shoulders and upper back without pulling out just yet. “Fuuuck that was… so intense. Aah… are you ok?” after Kinich wearily replies, you grab his hips and bury yourself up to the hilt in his pussy. “Yeah? Mm good~ You look so pretty right now, I wish you could see yourself when you take my cock~”

Witch reader whose knees almost give in as well when Kinich brings out his own dirty talk; “Harder! Breed me again! Pleeeasssee… I… I need to feel it swimming inside–!” he'll scream. Kinich spreads his ass clumsily while you're pounding him and says in the sweetest voice, “Please let me bear your children…?” — and suddenly, another flood of warmth enters his womb, tipping him over the edge too as he sprays cum on the floor.

Witch reader who cums in Kinich until he passes out bent over your bed, pounding load after load into his new, magical womb; that way he'll have no choice but to get pregnant~

— Bonus! —

Witch reader who treats his pregnant lover with the utmost care; letting Kinich rest while he does all of the work, cooking, cleaning, and whatnot. Making delicious meals for your sweet husband and even feeding him to be extra romantic.

Witch reader who helps Kinich through every stage of the pregnancy, making sure that his lover is healthy and comfortable while he carries a new life inside of him~ 💚

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fluffylino · 8 months ago

Text

angry sex with mean!dom minho

things get heated when the two of yall decide to have a petty argument.

-contains mature themes (minho is mean but its all consensual...sir kink?!?!?)

minho's pissed.

you're pissed.

the atmosphere in the apartment is beyond unimaginable. you came back from university, in a bad mood. sometimes people merely existing made you angry.

you couldn't explain it but you weren't in a great mood at all, and you weren't in the mood to try and make yourself calm down.

minho comes home, half an hour later. quietly entering and slamming the front door behind him.

not even bothering to keep his keys on the glass table with more care. walking right past you to the bedroom.

he has that look on his face when he joins you in the kitchen. drinking the water you had poured for him absentmindedly.

"wash the glass, will you" you mutter, sighing in exasperation. you knew this would only make things worse.

"what?" and his tone gets laced with irritation.

"i had a bad day, okay and i'm not in a good mood" you say to him. leaning back on the fridge.

"yeah? you think i'm not having a fucked up day too?" he spits back, crossing his arms, ready for battle.

"i never said that. stop being so bitchy"

"fix your attitude." minho warns. looking down at his feet before rolling his eyes at your behaviour.

"stop rolling your eyes at me" pointing a finger at him in annoyance.

"don't point a finger at me"

raising an eyebrow at you with a challenging look in his eyes.

"why don't you just go pick a fight with chan or seungmin"

you seethe out, not wanting to argue. if the two of you got more time to calm your nerves this wouldn't have happened.

"pick a fight? what the fuck"

he mutters under his breath. and it makes your eyes burn with tears. now he's mad at you.

"what fucking attitude do i have. i'm sick of dealing with people"

you raise your voice, exhaling heavily.

"and you think i'm not? i just had dance practice for nearly six hours and they told me i needed to do better"

minho says through gritted teeth. running his fingers through his messy hair.

"maybe you do need to do better" you snark back. wanting to get on his nerves just for the hell of it.

"watch what you say."

he warns for the second time and you take it as a challenge.

"or what? you're going to give me a lecture on how to..."

bringing your hands up to gesture quotation marks

"...fix my attitude?"

🐱

"not gonna fight back huh." your mouth opens to curse at him. and he uses it as the opportunity to pull you back.

ramming himself deeper into you.

"fucking brat"

minho grits out, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your sides. grip strong enough to have him holding you up singlehandedly if he wanted to.

"took it too far. i'm a bitch?" his voice shakes when your arms give in. falling face down into the sheets. back arched and ass up. the position makes things more sensitive.

"answer me."

you can't. teething at the pillow while you fisted at the soft bedsheets beside you. trying to ground yourself.

the feeling of his length pushing in and out of you with slow hard thrusts. torturing himself just to torture you.

"answer." eyes widening at the way he lays a sharp slap over your cunt. all while pulling out all the way.

"me."

sliding past your swollen walls with a filthy squelch. his force strong enough to have your whole body jerk forward. gasping in ecstasy.

you shake your head. or atleast try to, eyes rolling back at the strength he uses to meanly shove your thighs even further apart.

till you're practically presenting to him.

"open that smart ass mouth and use your fucking words." his tone dropping. theres a heartbeat of silence as he gives you a few seconds to answer him.

"ah- m-minnie"

moaning embarassingly loud when he slides his hand down the curve of your back. tugging a fistful of your hair, forcing you up on your arms. till you're on your fours.

"minnie? its sir to you. you don't deserve to even call me minho."

scalp burning with a mix of pain and pleasure.

your mind buzzing when he also gets on his fours. body pressing into yours from above.

"who's a bitch now"

minho says in your ear. brushing his lips against your earlobe. it sends a wave of heat straight to your cunt. throbbing uncontrollably around his dick.

the position has you thinking of how pathetic you are. cursing him out, only to be fucked like a dog from behind.

"are you my needy little bitch" hooking his chin on your shoulder. his arms on either side of yours.

thick thighs framing your smaller ones. you feel small under him. small and weak.

"y-yes sir" whispering softly. chest burning with humiliation. he clicks his tongue. not satisfied.

"speak up, mutt."

"yes sir...m'your needy bitch"

fucking the sentence out of you, in a way that has you breathless. arms trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

"taking it like you're in heat."

slowing his thrusts to roll his hips into yours. hitting that spongey spot that has you keening for him.

"next time you act like a fucking brat, don't expect me to be this kind"

he warns, subtly rubbing at the redness on your sides from how hard he was gripping your waist.

you nod vigorously. quietly mumbling apologies.

"is my needy puppy gonna take me all the way in her tight wet cunt hm"

"if i'm your bitch, you're my bitch" you whisper, lightly smacking him on the chest.

"i never said i wasn't a bitch" minho smirks, successfully teasing you.

"y'know i love you, right baby?" he mumbles, kissing your cheek lovingly.

"you're my cute little puppygirl or WAIT MY KITTY CAT!!!"

tada!

2K notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 1 month ago

Text

✑ 𝓋𝒶𝓂𝓅𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒! 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Oh my goodness! Would you look at that—planning to infiltrate not one, but two of the finest, deadliest, and absurdly attractive vampires this side of gothic tragedy?

Vampire!Sol x Reader? and Vampire!Crowe x Reader

You really woke up and chose morally questionable romance and danger kink, huh? Honestly, I can’t even blame you. It’s practically encoded in your family’s bloodline. Truly, a noble tradition.

Sure, there’s a slim chance you’ll end up draped dramatically across a velvet chaise with a love bite that doubles as a blood loss issue. But hey—knowledge requires sacrifice. And if that sacrifice just so happens to involve two devastatingly handsome vampires? Then honestly? You’re just doing your research.

Maybe with a little bit of neck involved~

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

So after stumbling across Waza (aka @alyysahh)'s vampire doodles of Sol and Crowe on Twitter—whew. They’re both fine in ways that should honestly be illegal in most supernatural jurisdictions. Anyway, now my brain won't shut up, and my keyboard is demanding a full-on vampire fic with them. So… thanks, Waza!

You’ve unlocked a new level of thirst-laced inspiration.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: vampire x gn reader! hunter, fluff to smut, predator/prey dynamics, power imbalance, intense emotional bond, dangerous attraction, touch-starved monster, obsession, blood drinking intimacy, feeding scene (vampire), possessive behavior, biting & bruising, “Am I okay for finding this hot?” type of vibes.

You sit alone in the farthest corner of the train car, where the oil lamps flicker just a shade too dimly, and the smell of smoke and old leather hangs thick in the air. The bench beneath you groans with age, as though it resents your presence—one more shadow among many.

Outside, the window is glazed with frost, blurring the wild landscape into smears of grey and white, a watercolor of forgotten hills and bramble-choked trees. This place, this stretch of land veiled in mist and silence, is a ghost’s graveyard—untamed, unwelcoming. The kind of place where old things go to sleep, and where fools like you go to wake them.

The train chugs deeper into the unknown, each rhythmic pulse of the engine echoing like a heartbeat in your throat. Doverhollow. A name scribbled in the margins of your grandfather’s journal, circled twice in a trembling hand. The last known haunt of something that does not die, does not age, does not forgive.

You read those pages as a child, huddled beneath wool blankets with a candle burning low, and you told yourself it was only a story. But the scent of iron has lingered in your lungs ever since.

You wear your deception well.

A traveling scholar, perhaps. A quiet tradesperson seeking land. But every thread of your clothing has been chosen with care—wool dyed in muted tones to avoid reflection, gloves sewn with silver thread along the palms, the stitching fine enough to be overlooked. Beneath your coat lies a reinforced vest lined with ashwood slats, thin as bone.

You carry no obvious weapon, but your boots are weighted, and your left cuff conceals a needle-thin dagger dipped in dried wolfsbane and holy water. Around your neck, a crucifix, tarnished with age.

You are not here to fantasize.

You are here to finish what your bloodline began.

You are not merely a hunter. You are the last heir to a dying archive—a bloodline of seekers, scribes, slayers. Their stories—your stories—fill a satchel at your side, bursting with brittle parchment and ink-blotted pages.

Your family never chased glory.

Only truth.

Every jolt of the rail draws your mind back to the present, to the task at hand—not romance, not curiosity. Execution. And before that? Extraction. The family doctrine is etched into your very marrow: learn everything, then kill. There is no honor in ignorance, no valor in mercy. Vampires are not to be pitied. They are to be understood, documented, and destroyed. Anything less is a failure of legacy.

You’ve spent the last five years living among corpses and folklore, chasing ash trails through forests, interviewing trembling survivors who speak of shadowed lovers and cursed bloodlines. And every page you add to the journal brings you closer to something complete. Something final.

Doverhollow lies just past the next rise.

The last stop on the line.

A village swallowed by trees and time, where light doesn’t linger and roads change when you're not looking. The locals know something ancient lives there. They never say thier names aloud—but your family’s records do.

Two names dominate the text now.

Two figures who could not be more different—and yet, they are woven into the same mythic thread, a duality of horror.

Let’s start with Jericho Ichabod.

The Shadowed Aristocrat. Too elegant to be real. Too calculating to be human. He is not a vampire in the way most are. He does not hunt; he orchestrates. To him, humans are not prey. They are players in a game only he understands.

Some accounts say he was once mortal royalty, undone by vanity. Others insist he is older than the written word. Regardless, his reputation is consistent: he feeds with permission. He seduces with restraint. And when he kills, it’s clinical. Almost kind.

As though death were a favor.

And then there is Solivan Brugmansia.

The Feral Outcast. The other side of the coin. Not elegance, but entropy. Where Jericho whispers, Solivan howls. Born of rot and ruin, Sol is the reason villages go silent. The reason fences go up and prayers return to pagan shapes.

He does not charm. He consumes. A failure, some say—a cursed experiment, abandoned by his kin and left to fester in the woods. But your family knew better. Solivan chooses to be monstrous. He does not hide what he is. He forces you to look.

And then he tears it from you.

They are both here. Somewhere in the dark veins of Doverhollow. And you are not here to flirt with shadows or wax poetic about teeth in your neck. You are here to learn everything—habits, powers, weaknesses, patterns.

Your goal is not just to write their ending in ink. You were never taught to fear vampires.

You were raised to despise them.

Again, the pages of your family’s journals are inked in hatred—centuries of catalogued atrocities, of names struck through with blood and fire, of faces that once wept at altars now worn smooth with time and grief.

Every story your mother whispered into your ear, every scar carved into your kin, was a thread in the tapestry of vengeance. These creatures are not romantic. They are not misunderstood. They are not beautiful. They are disease wearing human skin. They charm to distract, to weaken. And when they feed, they do so with pleasure.

Vampires are parasites, every last one of them. And you’ve made it your life’s work to see them extinct.

That’s the mission. The burden. The vow.

Your goal is to end them.

You’ve sacrificed everything for it. Joy, comfort, safety—gone. You don’t remember what a normal life feels like. You sleep with one eye open, you eat in silence, and you walk through the world like a blade sheathed in flesh.

You’ve crushed your own bones under carriages just to lure a vampire into feeding from what it thought was a dying man.

You’ve buried your heartbeat, learned to still your breath, learned what blood smells like just before the fangs pierce skin. You know how to smile through cracked ribs. You know how to keep screaming when your throat is raw.

Pain is a tool. A language. One you’ve mastered.

And yet, some nights—quiet ones like this, when you’re alone with the rhythm of a train car and the frost creeps across the window—you catch yourself wondering.

Not about death. That doesn’t frighten you.

But about the moment before. The bite...

That liminal instant when your body goes still, the air turns thick, and something monstrous draws near—not as predator, but as executioner. Is it agony? Does it feel like drowning in flame, nerves burning beneath the skin? Or is it worse—is it gentle? Cold lips. A hush. The world dimming like a candle in rain. Some survivors speak of ecstasy, of surrender, of being seen.

You’d rather die a thousand brutal deaths than admit that part of you wants to know. But the thought remains, like a splinter in your mind. You grind your teeth and crush it beneath your heel. That kind of sentiment is what kills hunters.

Curiosity. Temptation. Weakness.

And you are not weak. Because soon, the train will stop. And when your boots strike the frost-bitten earth of Doverhollow, there will be no turning back. No poetry. No mercy. Only war. This cursed village—the last known haunt of two legendary monsters—has been carved into your family’s records for over a hundred years.

Two names. Two beasts.

So ask yourself, hunter—

Will it be Jericho, stepping out of the mist in silk and shadow, his voice like lullabies and knives? Or will it be Solivan, teeth bared, crawling from the forest like a nightmare come to devour you whole?

You may believe you will decide.

However… They always choose you. And when they do?

Make them regret it. Good Luck.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’d heard the whispers in Doverhollow—slurred from wine-loosened tongues at the tavern, murmured with trembling lips at the chapel’s altar, always trailing off just before they reached the name.

The Ichabod Crane.

Most villagers wouldn’t say it aloud, as though the very syllables might summon death through the floorboards. You asked gently, and when that failed, you asked firmly. But fear made them quiet.

You had to find the manor yourself, piecing together overheard conversations and reading the terrain like scripture: the fork in the moss-eaten road, the circle of trees that never swayed with the wind, the subtle hush that fell over the birdsong when you passed a certain stretch of forest.

Apparently, there's a legend the townsfolk like to toss around like an old coin—something about a man named Crane. Ichabod Crane, a schoolmaster by trade, and a coward by nature, if the tale is to be believed. He was said to be deeply superstitious, a man who clung to ghost stories the way some cling to scripture.

Among his obsessions was the tale of the Headless Horseman—a vengeful spirit of a Hessian soldier who lost his head to a cannonball and now wanders the night seeking a replacement.

As the story goes, one evening Crane was making his way home alone, nerves already frayed from some shadow he likely imagined in the trees. And then, there it was—the Headless Horseman.

Cloaked in black, mounted on a jet-black steed, silent but swift. A chase ensued through the woods, wild and terrifying… and then, just as Crane thought he’d reached safety, the Horseman hurled his "head"—a hollowed-out pumpkin—straight at him.

The next morning, all that remained was the shattered gourd and the faint imprint of hooves in the dirt. Crane had vanished, as though the night had simply swallowed him.

Charming. Ridiculous.

You’d heard the story whispered with wide eyes and held breath, as though it carried weight. As though it had teeth. But to you, it was little more than child's theater. A bedtime scare dressed up as folklore. A coward disappears and the town decides he was spirited away by some galloping ghost?

Please.

They mistook you, of course. The villagers. Mistook your silence for naivety, your polite questions for innocent curiosity. They called you a traveler, a scholar maybe, some city person writing books about old superstitions.

You let them believe that.

It was safer—for them and for you. What they didn’t know was how deep the discipline ran in your bloodline. That you were trained by hands calloused from decades of weaponry and ink, that you had studied the anatomy of a vampire before you learned to tie your own shoes.

You were not here to chase myths.

You were here to record them. And, if necessary, end them.

The night of the ball, you dressed with deliberate care. Not too lavish—never enough to draw the eye—but tailored finely enough to pass as nobility from some obscure coastal province.

A beautiful midnight blue outfit, matte to avoid catching too much light, with a neckline modest enough to hide the scar at your collarbone. A delicate silver chain with a charm that looked decorative, however, was in fact sharpened holy steel. You wore your hair pinned, not flowing. Vampires remembered faces; you made sure yours was one among many.

Your scent had been a concern. Human aroma—warmth, blood, sweat—was a siren’s call to their kind. So you masked it. A concoction brewed from dried vervain, crushed rosemary, and elderflower, burned into your clothes with candle smoke. It didn’t erase your humanity. But it made you difficult to place.

To them, you might’ve smelled foreign.

Interesting, but not edible.

The manor loomed exactly as the stories promised: veiled in perpetual moonlight. Its windows did not flicker, despite the presence of flame. The candles within had never melted. The whole structure felt suspended in time, like a dream sustained by will alone. Every stone too clean. Every corner too precise.

There was no dust. No breeze. Only music.

Inside, it was a ballroom carved from shadow and wealth. Gilded mirrors reflected candlelight from chandeliers shaped like inverted spires. The floor—black marble veined with silver—hummed faintly beneath your boots, as if reacting to your pulse.

The guests were exquisite, yes, but strangely subdued. Less than a hundred, each draped in fashion centuries out of place. Their eyes flicked over one another like knives behind lace. Some had fangs bared in mirthless smiles. Others tilted their heads too far to the side when they laughed, as though they had forgotten the gesture had once been human.

You took a drink from one of the passing servers—tall, androgynous, eyes blank with compulsion. The glass was cool in your hand.

Its contents were… strange.

Not wine. Not pure blood either. Diluted. Thick with something metallic but laced with berries, perhaps. Something meant to imitate luxury and sustain, not overwhelm. A vampire's version of a cocktail, perhaps. It made your stomach clench.

You kept to the perimeter, one hand resting lightly on your waist as you feigned indifference. You nodded when nodded to. Tilted your head as the others did. Studied the language of the room. And though your heart kept rhythm with your training, your eyes scanned for him.

It wasn’t long before the music paused.

The hush was immediate, reverent. Every pale face turned toward the grand staircase that wound up from the ballroom floor. And there he was, above them all, dressed in a suit of dark velvet and satin that shimmered like oil in candlelight.

His navy coat buttoned to the neck, that same familiar bow holding his long brown hair in a low tail. His pale brown skin glowed softly under the chandeliers, and his deep blue eyes scanned the crowd as though already bored by it.

“Welcome, all,” he said, voice a quiet blade of silk through the silence. “You may know me as Jericho Ichabod.”

A ripple. A tension. Reverence and dread mingled in the air.

“Welcome,” he continued, smiling faintly, “to my mother’s party.”

A lie, perhaps? Or a fiction he enjoyed.

But the way they responded—bowing ever so slightly, some without even realizing it—you knew this was his court. His gameboard. And you had stepped onto it willingly.

Your pulse ticked once behind your ears.

You never expected your first sighting of Jericho Ichabod to come so… quietly. No dramatic lightning strikes splitting the sky. No chandeliers crashing to the floor. No bat swarm swirling into the shape of a man.

Honestly, a little disappointing, considering the reputation. After all the myths, the journal entries etched in urgency, the dire warnings passed through bloodlines like cursed heirlooms, you envisioned something apocalyptic. You thought you'd meet him mid-hunt or mid-massacre, with your blade drawn and your heartbeat loud enough to attract notice.

Instead, it came like velvet. Like someone folding time into silence.

So a polite vampire, huh. A cordial bloodsucker.

Honestly? What a letdown.

The moment he finished his welcome—“Thank you all for attending my mother’s party,” spoken with the elegance of a man who definitely sounds like him and his mother aren’t close, the last time they possibly saw each other was three centuries ago—you noted the time.

Well past midnight. Time was thinning.

The music had shifted to something strange and ancient, a waltz from a dead language. The ballroom glittered with vampires dressed like rejected Parisian operetta cast members. You? You were wedged into a noble person’s gown stitched from lies and herb-paste.

Definitely not here to tango.

So you slipped out. Graceful as a mouse. Quiet as guilt.

The manor breathed a different air beyond the party walls. No perfume and powdered guests here—just amber, cedar, and the faint, metallic scent of old blood. Not the messy, butcher-shop kind. No, this was aged. Distilled. Vintaged. Artisanal vampire juice. The halls were maintained with the kind of neurotic precision that suggested either Jericho was a control freak or had an entire staff of undead interior decorators.

The carpets were immaculate. The candles—white, beeswax, hand-poured—trimmed to the same level, like soldiers ready for parade. The mirrors were all veiled in thin lace, suggesting vanity or maybe just an aesthetic choice from someone who doesn’t like seeing himself mid-bite.

Every corner screamed curated. The place didn’t feel lived in—it felt preserved. Like walking into a memory that refused to fade.

A mausoleum.

For someone too elegant to die.

You crept like a thief, journal pressed to your side, senses sharp, each step a prayer. The floor groaned beneath your foot just once and you froze, as though sound itself might betray you. And that silence—sharp, stretched silence—wrapped around you like a noose. The manor listened.

Then a voice. Smooth, amused, inevitable. “And who do we have here? It’s always a pleasure to see a new face.”

Your blood froze. You turned. And there he was. Jericho Ichabod.

In the flesh. And oh, what flesh. He didn’t look at you at first—rude, honestly—but his presence filled the hall like cold perfume. He held a wineglass in one hand, of course, and within it? Not wine. Again, definitely not. The red was too thick, too alive. Like a heartbeat in glass. His skin was pale brown, immaculate, ageless.

And those eyes—when they finally turned toward you—were so deep a blue you nearly stepped back. Eyes like drowned gods. Or like they’d seen gods, and decided they were unimpressive.

He didn’t smile to welcome you.

He smiled because he already knew what you were.

You. Human. Intruder. Target. “Ah,” he said smoothly, as if narrating a thought he’d already memorized, “a human came to visit me, after all.”

Your heart skipped. He figured it out?! That fast?! You were about to move, hands inching toward the concealed weapons stitched into your outfit—dagger in your sleeve, crucifix at your collar, stake tucked along your spine.

However, he didn’t attack.

He didn’t grow fangs or sprout wings or go full feral. Instead…

“I’m so happy to finally meet a human!” he said brightly. Genuinely. With a tone you might use when finding a long-lost cousin at a family reunion.

You blinked. “…What?”

He looked at you like you were a birthday present he wasn’t expecting but was thrilled to receive. You, dumbfounded, slowly lowered your hand from your crucifix. He took a sip from his bloodglass, utterly unbothered.

Oh no. You were not prepared for this level of social horror.

You froze. Not out of sheer terror—though, to be fair, your stomach had performed a flawless somersault—but out of something far stranger: awe.

This was not the slavering, clawed monstrosity that haunted the edges of your family's hunting journals. Not the shadow that gnawed on the edges of childhood bedtime stories, the one your mother always described in tones usually reserved for war crimes and taxes. This was not the thing your grandfather chased across swamps with bloodhounds and a blessed musket.

This was… Jericho Ichabod???

The Shadowed Aristocrat. The End of the Line.

The man who made three generations of your bloodline spontaneously develop trauma-based ulcers.

And he was… sipping. Just sipping. Like a man in a very fancy wine commercial. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t leer or hiss or unravel into bats. He just stood there, like some final boss who had been politely waiting for you to stop monologuing. The red in his glass—thicker than wine, lighter than tar—kissed his lips for a moment, then disappeared like a lie told twice.

He blinked, clueless, lashes long enough to cause emotional damage, and asked in a voice as soft as scandal, “Are you a researcher?”

You barely stopped yourself from blurting, "Researcher-slash-hunter-slash-maybe-kind-of-here-to-kill-you-but-not-yet-thanks!" Instead, you nodded. Smiled. Lied through your very noble teeth.

“Yes,” you said smoothly, adjusting your sleeve to hide the silver knife tucked beneath. “I study… um. Culture.”

The moment the words left your lips, Jericho’s entire demeanor shifted—like the sun breaking through storm clouds, like a candle flaring to life in a darkened room.

His pale brown skin, aristocratic features brightened with an almost childlike wonder, his dark eyes sparkling with genuine, unfiltered joy. It was so startlingly pure that for a heartbeat, you forgot he was supposed to be a monster.

"How fascinating," he breathed, the words soft with reverence. His gaze held yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous: the unsettling realization that he was happy to see you. Truly happy.

A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him as he glanced away, as if mentally rifling through centuries of memories. "You’re the first human to visit willingly in… goodness. At least a century." His smile turned wry, tinged with something almost melancholy.

"They usually just run. Or burn things." Then, abruptly, he snapped his attention back to you, tilting his head with sudden, playful suspicion. "You didn’t bring any fire, did you?"

The question was so absurd, so earnest, that a startled laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You hoped it didn’t sound unhinged.

"Nope. All good. Very fireless," you assured him, waving your hands in what you hoped was a convincingly harmless gesture.

His answering grin was radiant—the kind of smile that made you instinctively want to smile back, despite the silver blade hidden against your wrist.

And then he said the thing that sent your mind reeling:

"You’re welcome to stay here. Ask what you like. Learn. I rather enjoy conversation."

The offer hung between you, heavy with unspoken implications. Declining would be suspicious. Possibly fatal. Definitely stupid. But accepting?

Accepting meant access.

It meant prowling the halls of his ancient estate, rifling through his private notes, learning his weaknesses. It meant proximity—close enough to study him, to watch for the right moment. It was hunter’s gold, wrapped in a pretty, bloodstained bow.

Your stomach twisted. You smiled.

"Yes," you said.

And just like that, the game began.

And, objectively, saying yes might have been the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Because Jericho led you down the hallway like a host in a vampire-themed bed and breakfast, gesturing at portraits with gory backstories and candelabras that may or may not hiss when passed.

The manor around you breathed gothic luxury: velvet drapes the color of drowned roses, hallways that twisted like sentences in old novels, and chandeliers that definitely cost more than your entire village. There were carpets so soft you thought you might vanish in them if you stepped too hard. The walls whispered. The doors murmured. And at least two statues definitely moved when you weren’t looking.

But Jericho was all charm. Eerily enthusiastic about your presence, as though you were not a threat in disguise, but a rare bird that wandered in from the forest and started speaking Latin.

So yes, you were a “researcher.”

And yes, you were staying in a manor with a creature known for turning entire ballrooms into beautifully preserved crime scenes.

But damn it, learning about him was simply amazing!!

You told yourself this was for the mission—for the hunt, for the legacy, for the solemn duty passed down by blood. But honestly? After only a few days under Jericho’s gilded roof, surrounded by velvet-curtained windows, echoing marble halls, and enough ambient mood lighting to make a ghost weep, you’d caught yourself doing the unthinkable.

Smiling. Shocking.

Maybe it was the food. Actual, real food, served on silver platters by ghost-pale servants who never blinked. Jericho made certain you had everything: tea that tasted like sunshine through glass, meals seasoned exactly to your preference, and not a single drop of blood in sight—at least not in your courses, unless it was red meat.

You suspected he had someone researching you, which was a mildly horrifying but honestly flattering thought.

You learned that Jericho’s second-in-command, or perhaps co-equal depending on the day. The leader of the Council of Vampires—though you were starting to think that was a title he wore more like a mildly irritating hat than a responsibility.

He held effortless elegance only centuries of boredom and tailored waistcoats could bestow. His long hair was always immaculately tied back with a silver clasp, and his voice could have convinced you to sign a contract in crayon and blood.

He was also, somehow, the most precious thing you’d ever met.

Jericho, despite ruling a cabal of the undead, was almost... carefree. Not quite clueless—he was far too intelligent for that—but curious. Genuinely fascinated by humans, especially you. He asked you questions like a child dissecting their first frog, except instead of tweezers he used charm, and instead of a scalpel he used smolder.

“I bet you’ve brought your journal,” he murmured one evening, leaning over your shoulder. You could feel the heat of him, somehow, though he ran cold. His breath was like the scent of parchment and dusk.

“Do make sure to write this part down.”

You didn’t remember inhaling. You only remembered the way the air curled in your lungs—sweet, lilac, and faintly like rust. And you remembered thinking: I will absolutely write this part down, even if I have to stitch it into my bones.

“Call me Crowe,” he added, voice low enough to lace itself into your spine.

You blinked. Unsure why that felt so intimate. Maybe it was the dropping of formality. Maybe it was the trust implied. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because no one had ever said your name like that before, not like it was a secret worth guarding.

And so you did.

He was noble-blooded, yes, but in a way that almost mocked the idea of aristocracy. He ruled a manor and village below as far as you could tell, bore no crown, and signed no decrees—unless, of course, you counted the blood-pacts he drafted at his desk in a chamber lit by only a dozen blue-flamed candles and what might’ve been moonlight.

But here's the thing: for someone with such a prestigious title, he didn’t… do very much.

Or so you thought.

Until you saw him one night in the war chamber, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sharpening a blade etched with runes so old they hummed in your teeth. His expression was dead calm, focused, and the air in the room pulsed with something that could only be described as violence politely waiting its turn.

Then another time—just yesterday—you caught him reading an entire report upside down while a councilman prattled on. He didn’t even blink. Just nodded thoughtfully, flipped a page, and signed off on something with a flourish so confident you questioned your grasp of gravity.

“Do you even read those?” you asked later, half-joking.

“Of course,” he said. “I read all of them… eventually.”

And he winked. WINKED. Your knees nearly filed for independence.

Despite your better judgment, you were enjoying this—a lot. The manor, the mystery, the intoxicating absurdity of being a human researcher undercover as a guest of the most powerful vampires in known existence. You should have been terrified. You were terrified. But in that way a moth might be, fluttering closer to the flame, knowing it will burn and still daring to dance anyway.

You were here for knowledge.

For duty. For your family’s legacy. That’s your mission.

A sacred duty. A vendetta. A legacy wrapped in silver and regret.

You repeat this every night like a prayer, gripping your journal as if it could anchor your soul. You are not here for flirtation. You are not here for indulgence. And you are absolutely not here for Crowe.

And yet—

He treats immortality like chess, and the world is his ever-expanding board. A bishop move here, a pawn sacrificed there, and every outcome dances right into the palm of his gloved hand. Crowe doesn’t need to win with force. He wins with timing, with elegance, with inevitability.

He’s not gaudy. His presence is refined, curated like a library of forbidden texts. He speaks in sentences you want to underline and annotate. He’ll smile at you like a prince offering a waltz, then say something so cutting your bones will feel it a week later. And somehow? You’ll say thank you.

He manipulates like it’s foreplay. And worse: you like it.

You once asked him about his turning—because, of course, you did. It was late, the air was full of violet smoke from candles that should not have been burning indoors, and he was lounging in that ridiculous armchair like some baroque painting come to life.

“I was born into immortality. At birth, I had no option to accept,” he said coolly, swirling his wineglass of very-much-not-wine. “Anything else is sentiment.”

You had nothing to say to that. Partly because the answer was hollow. Partly because the firelight caught the edge of his profile at the perfect angle and you nearly forgot your own name.

Still, there are cracks. You’ve seen the edge fray.

Just once. One moment. Burned into your memory like scorch marks.

A visiting vampire lord insulted you—openly, for being human, for being weak, for daring to write in your little notebook during a Council session. You didn’t even flinch. But Crowe did.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn’t bare fangs. He just leaned forward and whispered something too quiet for even you to hear. And the lord—an ancient, ivory-eyed monster—apologized. To you. Twice. And then left the room.

You never found out what Crowe said.

And you’re not sure you want to.

He calls you by your name now. Not “human,” not “guest.” And somehow, every time he says it, it sounds like the beginning of a promise you’re not sure he intends to keep.

Crowe’s fashion is a study in danger. Velvet, silk, deep colors layered like smoke. Rings that serve as both decoration and a weapon. Embroidered cuffs laced with language no living tongue speaks anymore. He looks like someone who could sign peace treaties and poison you in the same breath—and you’d thank him for the experience.

Always clean. Always perfect. Always Crowe.

Oh well. That night, everything smelled like lavender and poor decisions.

The manor was unusually quiet. Even the portraits on the wall seemed to be holding their breath as you crept down the candlelit hallway in your nightgown, dagger strapped beneath the folds like some kind of homicidal sleep fairy. Your footsteps made no sound against the plush carpet—Crowe wouldn’t have dared install anything less than absolute silence beneath one’s treacherous feet.

Aesthetic and practical.

You should’ve waited until morning. That’s what the scrolls said. Strike when the vampire sleeps, when the sun hovers just behind the mountains, and his power wanes.

Of course Crowe didn’t sleep. Sleep was for creatures who hadn’t spent the last three centuries buried under an avalanche of immortal bureaucracy.

Instead, he hunched over his desk—a massive, obsidian-carved monstrosity littered with parchment, wax seals, and the faint, lingering scent of ink and old blood. His fingers, usually so elegant and precise, were smudged with the evidence of his toil—dark streaks staining his knuckles where the fountain pen had leaked. Again.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d heard him groan this week alone—not in pain, not in pleasure, but in the kind of bone-deep exasperation only immortal paperwork could inspire.

"Feral outcast," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Always that feral outcast."

Apparently, some rogue vampire—exiled for reasons Crowe had deemed "so egregiously idiotic I refuse to dignify them with explanation"—had decided to make the nearby human village his personal hunting ground. And now, as the de facto—and deeply unwilling—arbiter of vampire law in the region, Crowe was stuck cleaning up the mess.

You observed with mingled amusement and sympathy as he drove his quill into the inkwell with positively uncivilized vigor, splattering droplets of blackest ink across several carefully penned documents. The poor implement trembled from the violence of its employment, as though protesting such ungentlemanly treatment.

"By all the infernal realms," he hissed through clenched fangs, "should I be compelled to compose yet another dispatch concerning territorial demarcations, I cannot be held accountable for my actions."

His aristocratic features contorted into an expression of such profound vexation that one might think he'd been presented with a bottle of inferior claret rather than yet another bureaucratic imposition.

Clearing your throat delicately, you ventured: "Might not the situation be more... efficiently resolved through direct intervention?"

The glare he leveled upon you possessed such withering potency that it would have reduced a mortal of weaker constitution to a fine ash upon the spot. "And abandon this veritable Alp of unattended treaties? The previous instance in which I absented myself for such 'hands-on resolution' resulted in the Eastern Court attempting to renegotiate the Sanguine Tithe Agreements with the most egregious typographical liberties imaginable."

Your eyebrows ascended toward your hairline. "The Sanguine Tithe Agreements?" you echoed, rather stupidly.

"Precisely so," he snapped, his pallid fingers tightening about the unfortunate quill until it threatened to snap. "They resort to such vulgar provocations precisely because they know it vexes me beyond endurance."

With a most theatrical sigh, he seized another parchment from the teetering pile, his crimson eyes scanning the document with increasing horror before emitting a noise that defied proper classification—something between a gentleman's exasperated sigh and a wolf's snarl of frustration.

"This one," he declared with sepulchral solemnity, "has been rendered in some manner of encrypted hieroglyphics that would shame even the most illiterate medieval scribe."

You pressed your lips together with Herculean effort, recognizing that laughter at this juncture might well constitute a fatal error in judgment.

You, however, need sleep. Because you’re human, dammit. And if you had to stay up one more night pretending not to be charmed by a vampire with better penmanship than your thesis advisor, you were going to scream.

This was your ticket out. Your final act.

The dagger at your side gleamed faintly in the dim light, silver chased with runes only you and three monks in Romania could read. You’d spent weeks collecting notes, sketching his habits, charting weaknesses. The final entry in your journal had been written with shaking hands.

Tonight: End this.

You reached his office door and hesitated. For drama’s sake. The moment was meant to feel weighty and final. But instead, the smell hit you first—ink, parchment, burning candle wax, and exhaustion.

The door creaked upon its ancient hinges, groaning as though in protest of what you intended to do. Candlelight spilled from within, soft and amber, casting long skeletal shadows that twisted across the corridor’s velvet-lined walls. The scent of old ink, scorched wax, and ironed parchment curled out like a ghost, welcoming—or warning—you.

Crowe lay slumped at his desk, an exquisite ruin draped in crushed velvet and weariness. His arms were sprawled across a battalion of unopened ledgers, his noble brow pressed against some particularly offensive document.

An ink pot trembled dangerously close to his sleeve, black blood of bureaucracy threatening to stain the centuries-old fabric. One of his rings—onyx, with a crest you’d once sketched in your journal—had rolled from his finger and lay glinting on the floor like a fallen crown.

He did not rise. He did not stir.

He muttered, hoarsely, in flawless but dispassionate, something along the lines of “Fiscalus damnatio.” Which sounded like a curse, if your translation was correct. Something about tax reforms?

You faltered in the doorway.

The dagger beneath your nightgown weighed heavily at your thigh, its runes humming softly with purpose. This was not the tableau you had imagined—not the dark crescendo of betrayal and blade you had rehearsed in fevered dreams. He did not look monstrous.

He looked... exhausted?

And yet, even in his dishevelment, Crowe was beautiful in that dreadful, unearthly way the dead sometimes are. Hair unbound, curling against his pale collarbone, ink staining one wrist where his sleeve had slipped up.

His skin had the pallor of marble left in moonlight, but his cheeks were faintly flushed—perhaps from effort, or perhaps from the flicker of candle flame that danced across him like a lover’s touch. Shadows gathered at his lashes, too dark, too long, like ink drawn with intent.

He opened one eye, slow as a sunrise over a ruined kingdom. That eye, sharp and violet-black, fixed upon you with neither alarm nor amusement—merely a tired, aristocratic acknowledgment.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice like rust over silk. “A midnight visitation. Should I be flattered... or concerned?”

“...Concerned,” you replied stiffly, caught between dread and incredulity.

Crowe let out a sound that might once have been a laugh, then gestured lazily toward the chair across from him without lifting his head. “So long as you’ve brought either blood or death, I’ll not protest.”

You stared.

The infamous Shadowed Aristocrat of the Undying Court, the terror of southern citadels and warden of bloodbound laws, looked like a burnt-out academic choking on paperwork.

You almost pitied him. Almost.

Then he moved. Slowly—so slowly—he pulled himself upright, spine straightening with the grace of something regal and long accustomed to pain. As he did, the folds of his robe shifted, revealing a palish brown throat marbled with faint silver scars. Veins ran beneath like smoke trails beneath porcelain, fragile and unreal. Your gaze caught on them before you could stop yourself.

Your heart—faithless thing—betrayed you with a lurch.

Crowe noticed. Of course he did. His lips quirked into a wry, half-smile. Not cruel. Not mocking. Merely aware. Infuriatingly aware “You’ve come to kill me,” he said. It was not a question.

You swallowed. “What gave it away?”

He inclined his head slightly. “The dagger under your nightgown. Subtle, but predictable.” His eyes flicked lower for the briefest of seconds—then returned, glinting. “That, and the indecision gnawing behind your eyes.”

You stiffened. Gripped the hilt tighter. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Have you?” His voice was quiet now, intimate, like velvet drawn over sharpened steel. “Then strike.”

He was not mocking you. He was not afraid. He simply... was. A figure carved from patience and poise. You could smell him now—paper, dust, clove smoke, and something fainter beneath, like the inside of an old cathedral or dried blood sealed behind glass. The scent of memory. Of ritual. Of endings.

You should have done it. Gods help you, you could have.

But you didn’t.

You simply stood, framed in the doorway like a ghost. And Crowe—damn him—reached for the teapot. He poured with the elegance of a centuries-old host, as though your betrayal was merely another diplomatic footnote in his endless schedule. He pushed the cup toward you across the desk with the disinterest of someone who had once shared tea with kings and assassins alike.

Then he sighed.

“If you’re to murder me,” he murmured, brushing parchment aside, “kindly wait until I finish drafting this blood clause. The Southern Clan has no grasp of proper semicolon usage, and I refuse to die with such incompetence unresolved.”

You stared.

Because of course he said that.

And somehow—Gods help you—he was even more devastating like this: untouchable, unshaken, drowning in ink and elegance. The moment unravelled not with the grandeur of vengeance, but with the absurdity of theatre gone wrong.

“Enough of this,” you hissed beneath your breath.

You stormed across the chamber like a tempest in slippers, seizing the back of Crowe’s grand, high-backed chair with enough force to rattle its gilded frame. It scraped against the stone floor in protest as you yanked it backwards, and he—calm, wretched Crowe—merely tilted his head, one brow arching in dry curiosity, as if you were a mildly interesting opera he hadn’t yet decided to walk out of.

You raised the dagger—your silver blade, etched with runes and soaked in resolve—aiming it directly for his unbeating heart.

But he caught your wrist mid-air.

His grip was iron beneath silk. Elegant fingers wrapped around yours like a cage of manners and strength, firm enough to hold, gentle enough to patronize. His expression was maddeningly composed—infuriatingly indulgent—as though you had offered him a biscuit rather than attempted his murder.

“My dear,” he drawled, low and amused, “you are hardly the first human to attempt my demise.”

His gaze searched yours, that dark blue shimmer behind his eyes catching the candlelight. “Though I must say… You might be the first to stay in my manor this long before doing so. Rather devastating, truly. I had such hopes for our rapport.”

He leaned back, still holding your wrist, speaking with the weary grace of someone who’d once debated philosophy with Aristotle and found the experience a bore.

“Now tell me—are you truly a researcher? Or is this all to satisfy some dreary family destiny? A vendetta, perhaps?” He smiled, slow and knowing. “You have the look of someone trying to finish someone else's story.”

That did it.

“Damn your manor. And your infernal questions.” The words left your lips like thunder preceding a storm, and with a final flicker of resolve, you let the dagger fall from your grip. The silver clattered against the marble floor, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling like the sound of a chapel bell tolling at an unholy hour.

Then—before he could say anything clever, before his aristocratic smirk could form fully—you lunged forward. Your hands gripped the rich velvet of his coat, and with the impulsive defiance of someone long past their limit, you bit him.

Right on the shoulder.

Through fine brocade and centuries of cultivated detachment, your teeth sank in—not deeply, but with intent. A petty rebellion. A scholar’s fury in its most absurd form.

Crowe stilled… then—laughed.

A melodic, honey-warm laugh, rolling from his chest with unguarded amusement. It wasn’t the laugh of a vampire lord. It was something wickedly human. His whole body shuddered with it as he clutched at your waist, entirely too delighted.

“Oh, heavens above,” he gasped between chuckles, “are you truly biting me?”

“You’re damn right I am,” you growled, tightening your grip on his collar.

“Stop—please—it tickles,” he wheezed, head falling back, utterly unbothered. His laughter echoed off the stone like wind through crypts, playful and maddening.

You fixed him with a gaze that burned with righteous indignation, your cheeks aflame with a mortification that curled hot in your chest. How dare he restrain you thus—his hands firm about your waist as though you were some wayward creature in need of correction!

The very insolence of it set your teeth on edge, his grip at once unyielding and... disturbingly tender, as if he feared harming you even as you sought to wound him. The contradiction made your pulse thunder in your ears, a traitorous heat rising beneath your skin.

And so you struck again.

This time, your teeth found the elegant column of his throat—that pale, unguarded expanse where the veneer of his immortal composure lay vulnerable. The skin was warm against your lips, deceptively human save for the ancient blood that flowed beneath.

You bit down with deliberate intent, no half-hearted nip of petulance, but a claiming pressure that spoke of primal challenge. A growl rose unbidden from your chest, something raw and feral that cared nothing for propriety or the centuries of cultivated restraint that separated your kind from his.

Crowe went utterly still.

Not in shock. Not in protest. But in perfect, breathless silence.

Then—slow as honey dripping from a spoon—he released a shuddering exhale. A sound escaped him then, low and velvet-dark, trembling through the scant space between your bodies to resonate along your very bones.

It was neither gasp nor moan, but something far more revealing—a crack in his usual polished demeanor that laid bare a truth more intimate than any touch. The sound hung between you like opium smoke in lamplight, thick with unspoken meaning.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly at your waist. A silent concession. A wordless surrender. Then his grasp upon your wrist slackened, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as though overcome by some unseen force.

His eyelids grew heavy, those dark brown lashes—like strokes of charcoal upon alabaster casting delicate shadows across his pallid cheeks. For but a fleeting moment, the carefully cultivated veneer of centuries slipped away, revealing something startlingly vulnerable beneath.

You beheld him then—not as the ancient predator, nor the aristocratic puppeteer of shadows, but simply as a man undone by the fire you had so recklessly kindled within him. A most satisfying revelation, you thought. Let him know the disquiet of being cornered. Let him savor the chaos he so often orchestrated from the shadows.

As you withdrew but a fraction, your gaze meeting his with defiant triumph, he moved with the languid grace of smoke curling about a candle's flame. His hand, no longer restraining, but guiding, slid from your wrist to cradle your palm with unexpected tenderness. You felt the whisper of his breath first, then the dreadful, exquisite pressure of his fangs.

"Allow me to demonstrate," he murmured, his voice thick as honeyed sin, "what constitutes a proper bite."

The penetration was sharp yet elegant, a violation executed with such precision it bordered on artistry. Your breath caught most indecorously as warmth blossomed from the wound, spilling into his waiting mouth.

Your knees threatened to betray you as the sensation—at once foreign and strangely intimate—coursed through your veins. The initial sting melted into something far more dangerous, as though he were unraveling your very being thread by silken thread.

Crowe hummed against your flesh—actually hummed—as he drank, the vibration sending peculiar tremors along your nerves.

"How curious," he mused, his lips brushing your skin with each syllable, "that so natural a human would dare bite a creature such as I." His voice, dipped in velvet darkness, curled about you like the finest smoke.

With deliberate slowness, he withdrew, a single crimson droplet glistening at the corner of his mouth. His tongue—that wicked, knowing instrument—captured it with unhurried relish. He regarded you then, his gaze burning with an intensity that set your very soul aquiver—at once fierce and tender, terrifying and wondrous.

"Your blood," he confessed, the words a dark benediction, "is nothing short of extraordinary."

The admission hung between you, thick as the scent of copper and desire in the air, and you realized with startling clarity that this was no longer about retribution, but something far more perilous. A game had been begun from which neither of you could now withdraw.

You found yourself, still astride him, your knees pressing into the damask upholstery on either side of his thighs, your body cradled in his grasp—not with the savage possession of a predator claiming prey, but with the reverent delicacy of an antiquarian handling some precious artifact.

His hand cupped the slender column of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, worshipful circles over the frantic flutter of your pulse. The other ascended the delicate architecture of your spine before stilling, as if overcome by the sacrilege of his own touch.

His face—that alabaster mask of aristocratic composure—dipped forward to rest against the swell of your bosom, just above the pounding rhythm of your heart.

No feral pounce came, no bestial snarl as in the gothic tales of your youth. Instead, a shudder wracked his frame, his breath catching like silk snared on brambles. Those elegant hands—cool as marble and just as finely wrought—settled at your waist once more, drawing you down into his lap with the solemn care of a priest elevating a sacred chalice.

For a suspended moment, he remained thus—his ear pressed to your breast, listening to the vital drumbeat of your mortality as though it might cleanse him of some ancient stain.

"I..." The word emerged ragged, scraped raw from some deep well of restraint. "I must beg your forgiveness. To have taken even that meager taste without your explicit blessing... it was unconscionable." His fingers trembled against your flesh with a vulnerability no artifice could feign. This was no carefully constructed seduction, but raw hunger swaddled in centuries of forced civility.

"You smelled..." He paused, the words a whisper against your décolletage, "like ambrosia given form. Like honeyed histories and sun-warmed sea salt. Like some long-lost vintage meant to be savored across eternity."

You remained silent, the embers of your earlier fury still glowing hot beneath your ribs.

Crowe lifted his gaze then, those blue eyes—usually so composed—blazing with naked yearning. "Might I..." The words seemed to pain him, each syllable a confession. "Might I partake properly?"

There it was—supplication from a creature who had not knelt in centuries. He phrased it as one might a sacred invocation, as though the act of tasting you were not some carnal indulgence, but a holy rite. The very air between you seemed to thicken with the weight of his plea, heavy with the promise of both sacrilege and salvation.

"It has been... decades," he admitted, the admission seeming to pain him, "since I last tasted pure human vitae. What passes for sustenance now is but a pale imitation—diluted with fear and political necessity." His aristocratic nose wrinkled in distaste. "Many of my kind have turned to animal blood, yet..."

A pause, then the quiet blasphemy: "I would sooner drink ink."

Your throat constricted at the revelation, the implications coiling like smoke in your chest.

"My court survives on scraps," he continued, his voice taking on the weary cadence of a ruler bearing ancient burdens, "ever since that wretched exile destroyed our carefully laid plans for coexistence. The system we envisioned—protection exchanged for willing sustenance, a civilized accord between our kinds—lies in ruins."

His fingers at your neck remained gentle, their pressure never crossing into cruelty. "The humans demand peace, and we comply - not for harmony's sake, but survival's. And so we starve... with dignity."

A revelation dawned, sudden and cold. "I have kept them from you," he confessed. "Some of my subjects... they have attempted to approach. Several came dangerously near."

The pieces aligned—the cold receptions, the hissed imprecations, the predatory gazes in shadowed corridors.

"They despise you," Crowe stated plainly, his breath cool against your skin as he rested his brow against your collarbone. "Because they have been forbidden from touching what they most desire." His voice dropped to its softest register yet, the words vibrating through your very bones.

"And I... I detest them for coveting what I myself crave."

Then—with a vulnerability that would have been unthinkable mere moments before—he repeated his plea, the words a velvet-wrapped supplication:

"I entreat you..."

It unmoored something in you. You’d never heard a vampire beg. You’d never heard a man beg for you. Not like this. Not trembling. Not wrapped in centuries of self-control, only to come undone in your lap.

Your family would call this betrayal. A disgrace.

You were supposed to uncover his secrets, not offer your blood like an oath. But… weren’t you already lost? You’d stepped into this manor with a purpose. And now…

You reached up, slowly. Deliberately.

Hands finding the tie at the top of your nightgown. And in the silence between heartbeats, you began to undo it. The fabric slipped from your shoulders with a whisper, baring skin bathed in candlelight. You tilted your head just slightly—exposing the fragile line of your throat and shoulder.

Then you met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Go ahead,” you said.

Crowe inhaled sharply. Almost reverently.

His hands moved again, but now—gently. One arm curled around your waist, the other resting on your bare back, pulling you closer as if he feared you might vanish.

Then, he pulled back—not to bite, but to look.

His hands, cool and deliberate, slid upward from your waist, fingertips brushing over the soft curve of your ribs, past the dip beneath your sternum, toward the hollow just below your collarbone. He touched as if reading braille on a sacred text—curious, but careful. Possessive, but polite.

His dark blue eyes, like ink dropped into moonlit water, roamed your exposed skin not with hunger, but fascination. He paused at your neckline, his thumb grazing the thudding pulse there, and smiled—not smugly, but with quiet delight. As if you were something rare and delicate. Not prey. Not even a gift. A discovery.

"Every vampire," he murmured, his voice like crushed velvet drawn across polished alabaster, "develops certain... predilections." The words curled about your ear with deliberate slowness.

"The neck, naturally, remains the popular choice. Dramatic. Visceral. Poetic in its vulgarity." His lips brushed the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, the barest suggestion of contact. "But I have always found it rather... gauche. Like shouting one's desires in a cathedral."

His hand rose with the grace of a conductor preparing his orchestra, cradling your cheek with unexpected tenderness as he guided your head to expose that secret place where jaw meets throat.

"I prefer more... discreet geography," he confessed, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your nape. "Places that whisper rather than scream. Places known only to me."

You felt the whisper-soft drag of his nose along that exquisite hidden curve behind your ear—that delicate junction where vulnerability and pleasure intertwine. "Here," he breathed, the word a benediction, "is where the music lies."

Then he struck.

The penetration came not as pain, but as gradual surrender—a firm, insistent pressure yielding to warmth, then to the most extraordinary sensation of being gently unraveled. And oh, the sound he made—that choked, reverent moan vibrating against your skin like a cello's lowest register.

The arm about your waist tightened possessively, while his free hand wandered your contours with astonishing care, kneading the tension from your lower back, tracing idle patterns along the flare of your hip—as if every touch were both apology and worship.

"You taste," he gasped between draws, his usually polished voice fraying at the edges, "like ambrosia undiluted by terror or artifice. Like life itself distilled to its purest essence."

The wound tingled rather than ached, his mouth—warmed now by your vitality—sealing the small breach with surprising tenderness. A final kiss, feather-light, was pressed to the offended flesh—a silent benediction for the gift you'd granted.

"Should you wish me to cease," he murmured against your skin, his fingers interlacing with yours in silent covenant, "you need but squeeze my hand. This privilege is yours to grant or withdraw as you see fit." The words held the weight of sacred vow, his entire being poised in perfect stillness—a predator willingly leashed by your consent.

You nodded slowly. Then, he moved again. Slow. Searching.

His lips traced a slow, deliberate path along the delicate arch of your collarbone, his dark gaze lifting to meet yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce through centuries.

"I shall be most judicious in my indulgence," he vowed, the words a velvet caress against your skin. "Small drinks, taken from varied founts - this is the way to preserve your strength, your clarity." The promise hung between you, weighted with unspoken devotion.

Before you could summon a response, he descended further, his mouth finding that tender juncture where bodice meets flesh.

Not yet claiming, merely... worshiping. His lips brushed the spot with reverence, as though committing every contour to memory, tracing invisible cartography across your being.

"This place," he murmured against your flushed skin, his breath cool as moonlit silk, "might next receive my devotion, should you permit it?"

You found yourself adrift in sensation, your arms wound about his neck as if he were the only anchor in a sea of dizzying pleasure. Your very blood seemed to sing beneath his attentions, and in that moment, you comprehended the exquisite paradox of being undone—not violently shattered, but tenderly unraveled, like some precious tapestry yielding its golden threads one by one.

Between each lingering kiss, between every measured draw of his lips, he whispered praises that coiled about your soul like incense smoke—words that made you question whether this was mere seduction or some ancient rite; whether it constituted sacrament or something far more perilous than either of you dared acknowledge.

Crowe paused, his dark eyes searching yours with unsettling perception. "You tremble still, my dear," he observed, his thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath your eye with heartbreaking gentleness. That aristocratic mouth curved into a knowing smile, faintly wicked at the edges.

"I do so hope it isn't fear that moves you thus."

You parted your lips to respond, but your normally assured voice—that sharp, commanding instrument—failed you utterly. The words lodged in your throat like forgotten verses in some arcane tome.

"I..." A breath, then the quiet confession: "It isn't fear." Your voice wavered, yet held an undeniable strength. "I fear you not, Crowe."

His gaze didn’t waver. His hand rested gently on your cheek now, thumb brushing the warmth there as if trying to soothe something deeper than nerves. “I’m…” You bit your lip, then exhaled, eyes fluttering closed for just a breath. “I’m enjoying it. What you’re doing. More than I should.”

The confession dropped between you like a shattered relic from the altar of your family’s expectations. Generations of warnings and doctrine—of bloodlines and destinies and solemn purpose—faded like old ink in the lamplight.

Crowe’s expression softened into something unreadable, eyes still dark and endless. And you?

You leaned forward—because something in you had shattered, some last fragile thread of resistance snapping under the weight of his presence. The air between you was charged, thick with the scent of him—old books, ink, and something darker, something primal.

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but the magnetic pull of his body, his lips, his hunger.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision—a desperate, bruising press of lips that tasted of salt and copper, your own blood still staining his mouth, now smeared between you like a vow.

His response was immediate, a growl vibrating against your lips as he kissed you back with a ferocity that stole your breath. The careful control he’d shown before was gone, replaced by something raw, something more starving.

His hands, once reverent, now gripped you with possessive urgency, fingers digging into your hips as if he could fuse your body to his. You felt him everywhere—the hard line of his chest against yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing you, the unmistakable press of his arousal against your ass as he pinned you to the desk.

The polished wood was cold beneath your fevered skin, a sharp contrast to the fire licking through your veins. The scent of parchment and ink rose around you, mingling with the heady musk of desire, of sweat, of him.

And then—his teeth.

A sharp, delicious sting as he bit your lip, just hard enough to draw blood. You gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming, devouring. The pain melted into pleasure, a dark thrill racing down your spine. His fangs grazed you again, a teasing threat, a promise of more.

One palm cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other slid down your spine, pressing you flush against him.

And oh, you could feel him—the hard, insistent ridge of his arousal pressing against your stomach, the way his hips rolled forward just slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch. His lips curved into a smirk against yours, pleased at the reaction he drew from you.

"You feel that?" he murmured, voice rough, each word a slow drag of sound against your kiss-swollen mouth.

"That’s what you do to me, dearset.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, nails scraping lightly over the fabric, and he groaned, low and deep, before capturing your lips again. This time, his teeth grazed your bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to tease—a silent promise of what he could do if he wanted to. His tongue soothed the sting, then plunged back in, claiming your mouth with a hunger that left you dizzy.

You could feel the hard line of his body against yours, the way his hips pressed into you with deliberate, tantalizing friction. Every roll of his pelvis sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and before you could stop yourself, you were grinding against him, shameless, desperate for more.

A low, rough laugh escaped him as he felt your need, his hands tightening on your waist. "Impatient, darling?" he murmured against your lips, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, not when his tongue swept into your mouth with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. Instead, your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, trembling as you worked them open one by one, revealing the smooth, heated skin beneath.

His hair, usually tied back with that infuriatingly perfect ribbon, was your next target. You tugged it loose, letting the silken strands slip through your fingers before giving it a gentle, teasing pull.

He groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a moment, you revelled in the power of it—the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on you tightened almost painfully. "Cheeky," he growled, but there was no real reprimand in it, only heat. Only hunger.

In one fluid motion, he had you turned, your back pressed against the cool, polished surface of his desk. The wood was smooth beneath your palms, the scent of aged parchment and ink wrapping around you like an intoxicating haze. His body followed, caging you in, one knee nudging between your thighs as he leaned down, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse.

"So sweet," he murmured, teeth scraping lightly over your throat. "So fucking perfect for me."

You arched into him, a whimper escaping your lips as his hands slid down your sides, his touch searing even through the thin fabric of your nightgown. And then—

The sharp, unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

Your nightgown split beneath his hands, the delicate material giving way as he bared you to his gaze, to his touch. A gasp tore from your lips, not in protest, but in stunned pleasure at the way his fingers followed the ruin of silk, skimming over newly exposed skin with agonizing slowness.

His palm settled between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the desk—not with force, but with an unshakable certainty that made your body arch instinctively toward his.

"You don’t know what you’ve started," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "But I’m going to show you."

And as his mouth traced the curve of your spine, each kiss a slow, worshipful brand, you realized—you didn’t just want him to.

You needed him to.

His hands turned you with effortless dominance, flipping you onto your back so you could see him—really see him. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark hunger in his eyes as he drank in the sight of you sprawled across his desk, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. His lips curved into a smirk, slow and knowing, as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight.

Then, with deliberate intent, he hooked his hands beneath your knees and spread you open, baring you completely to his gaze. The air was cool against your heated skin, making you shiver—or maybe it was the way his eyes darkened, the way his tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he studied the slick evidence of your desire.

He exhaled, slow and controlled, his breath ghosting over your most intimate flesh, teasing before he’d even touched you.

"This," he murmured, voice thick with reverence, "is my favorite place to drink from the bold ones. But you—" His fingers traced idle patterns along your inner thighs, his touch feather-light yet searing.

"You’re the first who’s ever dared to let me." And then his mouth was on you—not where you ached for him most, but close enough to make your hips jerk in helpless anticipation.

His lips brushed the delicate skin of your thigh, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat before his fangs sank in, just deep enough to draw a single, crimson bead to the surface. The sharp sting melted into pleasure as he lapped at the wound, his groan vibrating against your flesh.

You whimpered, fingers twisting in his long hair beneath you, but he only chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Patience," he chided, blowing softly over the wet trail his tongue had left behind. The contrast of cool air against your fevered skin made you gasp, your legs trembling around his shoulders.

His fingers slid between your thighs then, parting you further, and the sound he made—low, almost feral—sent a fresh wave of heat pulsing through your core. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and desire.

"You’re dripping for me."

You arched off the desk with a desperate moan, but he pressed you back down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm but not unkind. "No, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb circling your hipbone in slow, maddening strokes. "Not yet."

His lips returned to your thigh, kissing, nipping, licking—each touch a brand, each flick, each suck of his tongue a promise. He took his time, savoring the way your breath hitched, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

When he finally, finally closed his mouth over your aching core, it was with a groan of pure indulgence, his tongue sweeping through your folds in one long, luxurious stroke.

"I need more of you first," he murmured against your flesh, his words muffled but no less potent. "Trade for a trade. I’ll give you what you want—let me have this, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of." His teeth grazed your clit, just enough to make you cry out.

"I’ll make you scream my name as you come from my mouth alone."

And then he was true to his word, his tongue circling, flicking, devouring you with a precision that bordered on sinful.

Every stroke was calculated, every suck deliberate, until your back was bowing off the desk, your thighs clamping around his head as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside you.

He took his time with you—not because he lacked hunger, but because he savored the way your body yielded beneath his touch, the way every gasp and whimper spilled from your lips like a prayer meant only for him. His mouth was a slow, deliberate torment, tracing paths of fire across your skin before finally—finally—settling between your thighs with the reverence of a man kneeling at an altar.

And then his tongue was on you, in you, a wicked, knowing thing that laved and teased and ruined you with unbearable precision. He knew exactly how to draw out every sensation, every trembling plea—when to flick lightly over that aching bundle of nerves, when to press deep inside you with a groan that vibrated against your flesh.

Your fingers twisted in his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor yourself as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, until you were shaking apart beneath him, your breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.

"Please—" you begged, the word fracturing into a moan as he sucked gently, his tongue circling in relentless, devastating strokes.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t hurry. He drew out every second of your unraveling, his grip tightening on your hips as your back arched, as your thighs trembled around his head.

And when your climax finally crashed over you, violent and sweet, his name tore from your lips in a broken sob—a sound he swallowed greedily, his mouth never leaving you, drinking down every pulse, every shudder as if you were the only thing that could sate him.

Only when you lay boneless, your body still quivering with aftershocks, did he finally lift his head. His lips glistened with the evidence of your pleasure, his dark eyes burning with possessive satisfaction as he gazed down at you.

"Mine," He whispered, the word a rough.

His tender claim against your fevered skin. And in that moment, you were his—completely, irrevocably. The scholar, the avenger, a hunter who had walked into this room with a plan—she was gone, melted away under the heat of his touch, the weight of his desire.

There was only this: the way his lips traced the curve of your spine in slow, worshipful kisses, the way his hands gentled over your trembling flesh, as if memorizing every inch of you.

You didn’t want to be anything else.

You didn’t need to be.

My godddddd. Writing this? Crowe as a vampire is devastatingly beautiful—not in a cruel way, but in that aching, slow-burn kind of charm that ruins you politely. He carries himself like a gentleman carved from dusk and candlelight, voice dipped in honeyed silk, eyes warm enough to forget they’ve watched centuries pass.

There’s a sweetness to him—dangerous, deliberate, the kind that lures you in with kindness before you even realize you're falling.

He doesn’t need to seduce; he simply exists, and suddenly you’re wondering what it would be like to taste forever at his side. Like, He’s such temptation wrapped in good manners.

Such lethalness, yes, but oh so soft when he smiles.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The train clattered along the aging rails like a dying heartbeat, steady but strained, echoing through the hollow hills that ushered in the edge of forgotten lands.

You sat still as stone, shoulders cloaked in a threadbare coat, the brim of your hat tilted just enough to veil your face from any inquisitive glances.

Your gaze was fixed upon the fog-brushed window, watching as the world turned slowly grey. Trees blurred by like sentinels in mourning, each one older than the rails that cut through them.

You were bound for Doverhollow.

A name that settled in the bones like cold iron. Not many spoke of it with ease. And those who did, whispered—as if the village itself had ears buried in the soil. You had heard of the sickness running through it: not of body, but of spirit.

A corruption that threaded through the bloodline of monsters too old to rot. Vampires. But not just the usual breed of noble parasites. No, among them was said to be one worse. A fallen one. An outcast even among predators. And you had come to see him for yourself.

Not out of curiosity.

But judgment.

Still, there was one place in particular that drew your thoughts more than the looming specter of the manor you were fated to infiltrate. A place not carved of stone and candlelight, but of wild soil and whispers. The forest.

They called it Brugmansia Grove, though the villagers themselves seemed reluctant to speak the name aloud. Foreign on their tongues, as if borrowed from a language meant only for medical texts and old botanical poison books. It lacked the softness of folk speech—it was not something they named, but something they endured.

But you knew the name.

You knew it in ink and pressed leaves, in the brittle pages of your family's hunting manuals. Brugmansia—the Angel’s Trumpet. A flower shaped like a bell tolling for the dead. Beautiful, pendulous, and gleaming with quiet threat. A plant of dreams, hallucinations, and gentle deaths that mimicked sleep. Its scent alone, in the right concentration, could lull the lungs into forgetting to breathe.

You were not frightened.

Hardly.

The world of plants had always been a thing of logic and precision to you. The nightshade family was like a roster of old friends and deadlier enemies—Belladonna, with her ink-dark berries; Datura, that bold-flowered liar; Mandragora, moaning beneath the soil like a buried sin. You knew where to touch, what to taste, when to retreat. You respected poison—but you did not fear it.

And yet the forest itself…

It called to you.

Not merely as a hunter, not even as a scholar, but as something more primal. The way ruin calls to fire. There was a challenge in its quietude, in the layered silences between rustling branches and ghost stories. They said the trees remembered what men forgot. That spirits lingered long after the screams faded. Some said it was cursed. Others claimed those who entered the Grove came out changed. If they came out at all.

You leaned into your thoughts with a wry smile.

If you were to carry the burden of your family’s legacy—these endless hunts, the bloodlines measured in stakes and sorrow—then you would at least choose your path within it. Not all duties had to be dreary.

Killing the outcast would be your offering.

Your reckoning. Your intellectual pursuit. A necessary violence, perhaps—but one you intended to savour.

Where your ancestors treated monsters as mere blots on family honor, you found them…fascinating. Terrifying, yes. But fascinating. The old men of your bloodline sat in ancestral manors and counted their victories by fangs preserved in jars and journals scrawled in the margins with trembling ink. You had read them all—by candlelight, beside glass cases of faded relics and ruined bones.

And in all those pages, the words bled the same: Kill. Contain. Cleanse.

But not you.

You would do this your way.

There was a seduction in danger. And if you were going to be burdened with a legacy written in silver and blood, you might as well carve your own legend from it. No prayers. No permission.

If the rumors held even a grain of truth, then the creature that now skulked in the shadows was no ordinary vampire. He was something worse. An exile. A deviation. Even among the nightkind—who bowed to no mortal order, he was whispered of with contempt. Not merely a rogue, but an error. A mistake they had tried to forget.

Which made him all the more perfect.

For your research. For your reputation. For your amusement.

You imagined his death as something intimate. Surgical. Not a frenzied stake through the heart, but a dissection of the soul. You would learn what made him different—what made even his own kind cast him out—and then you would end him. Precisely. Methodically. Beautifully.

And if you had to walk into a cursed forest to do it, so be it.

The Gove, A name the villagers spoke with bitten tongues and lowered eyes. A place swathed in poison and perfume, where the Angel’s Trumpets drooped from twisted branches like a thousand listening ears. They warned you that people vanished there. That the trees hummed with voices not quite human. Those who entered the Grove either lost their way or, worse, forgot they ever had one.

But you were not afraid.

The Grove would not break you. It would reveal him to you.

And when it did, you would watch the fear rise in his inhuman eyes as he realized: he was being hunted. Not by torch-bearing villagers. Not by trembling priests. But by someone colder. Smarter. Hungrier.

You laced your gloves tighter, checked the weight of your blade once more, and turned your face toward the trees ahead.

Let him be as strange as they claimed. Let him be strong. Twisted. Terrifying. You only smiled at the thought.

It would make the kill worth remembering.

The path began as little more than a suggestion. A deer trail, perhaps. Or the outline of something older—something man-made long ago, now half-swallowed by moss and memory. You followed it with your coat drawn close and your senses keening, your boots whispering across roots and damp leaves as the forest narrowed in on you like the mouth of a beast.

The deeper you walked, the stranger the world became.

Every tree here leaned at odd angles, as though ashamed of their own growth. The air was heavy with the ghost-sweet scent of Angel’s Trumpets, blooming from twisted boughs in reckless abandon. Their pale, drooping bells swayed like warning signs, like a thousand little nooses. You knew the poison well—tropane alkaloids, delirium-inducing, deathly—and yet here they were, growing wild, unchecked, an entire forest intoxicated.

And then the decay began.

Old fences emerged from the brush like skeletons, half-swallowed by ivy. Rusted iron gates hung crookedly from hinges that no longer served their purpose. Further in, you passed what might have once been cottages—stone husks choked in vines, their windows glassless, their doors bowed inward. No life stirred here. Not animal, not bird. Even the insects seemed to avoid the place.

And there it was.

The manor.

Or something attempting to be one. It rose before you in the clearing like a half-finished thought—less a house, more a ruin that had been forced to keep breathing. The stone was weather-stained, the structure leaning slightly, like it was tired of pretending. It wasn’t large. Smaller than the average manor, if such a thing could exist.

Still, there was something deliberate in its lines. The shutters, though broken, had once been elegant. The façade had detail beneath the grime. A past life. A forgotten purpose.

So this is where the outcasts dwell, you thought. In haunted groves and collapsing dreamscapes.

Not castles. Not crypts. Not even homes. Just… remnants.

You circled it, scanning for entry. The front door was warped and bolted from the inside, clearly unused. But the eastern wing was thinner, slighter, and a gnarled birch tree had grown up close to its flank. Closer inspection revealed a second-story window, just above the overgrown eaves. Unlocked, if you were lucky.

You climbed.

The bark bit your palms. The branches creaked under your weight. But you moved with quiet precision, and luck—for once—was kind. The window gave with a groan, and you slipped inside like breath into a crypt. And landed�� not in a bedroom. Not a hallway.

But a gallery??

You stilled, crouched, heart thudding not in fear—but in confusion. The room was long, narrow, wood-paneled. Dust-laden beams curved like ribs above your head. And all around you—on the walls, from floor to ceiling—were paintings.

Not the sort you’d expect in a decrepit manor. These weren’t portraits of sullen ancestors or landscape studies from the surrounding village. No, these were... strange. Familiar in style, unfamiliar in subject.

One painting showed a woman with no eyes, her face serene, surrounded by white moths in a black void. Another depicted a cathedral submerged in water, fish swimming through its shattered stained glass. Another—a skeletal figure cradling a sleeping child, their heads identical.

You stepped forward slowly, awe overtaking calculation. The brushwork was stunning. Meticulous. There was pain in it. Love. Obsession. This was no random collection—this was a compulsion, a gallery curated by something ancient and deeply lonely.

You exhaled.

Was this the outcast’s doing? Or his madness made manifest?

Either way… You had found something precious. And you were inside it now.

You moved deeper into the gallery, each step muffled by a thick layer of dust that blanketed the wooden floorboards. The air was heavy with the scent of aged oil paint and something more elusive—a metallic tang that stirred memories of old wounds and forgotten battles. The paintings on the walls grew increasingly surreal, depicting scenes that seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of your vision.

A narrow hallway beckoned, its walls lined with more of the unsettling artwork. You proceeded cautiously, the silence pressing in around you like a shroud. Then, from a partially open door at the end of the corridor, a soft, rhythmic sound reached your ears—the gentle swish of a brush against canvas.

Peering through the doorway, you saw him.

You had nearly forgotten how to breathe.

There, hunched high on a ladder, man—slight and pale, absorbed utterly in the art blooming beneath his fingers. His back was to you, focused intently on a large canvas. But the moonlight from the tall, grime-smeared window cast his silhouette in ghostly silver. It clung to his edges like frost.

His black hair, streaked with green, cascaded over his shoulders, partially obscuring his face. He wore a white tunic and black trousers, the simplicity of his attire contrasting sharply with the vivid chaos of the paintings that surrounded him.

The painting he worked on was unlike any you had seen before—a swirling maelstrom of color and form that seemed to defy logic and perspective. It drew you in, compelling you to step closer, your earlier caution momentarily forgotten.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just… painted. In long, obsessive strokes that held a devotion so intense, it bordered on sacramental.

You tilted your head.

The scene on the canvas was striking—an unfinished portrait, awash in muted tones. The subject: a man sinking underwater, mouth open in a silent scream. Red ribbons of blood curled from his fingers like ink in water. And within the water? Reflections of faces. Watching.

Jesus.

You’d read vampire profiles that were less disturbing than this.

And just as you debated whether to interrupt or let him continue to paint his existential crisis in peace, the brush slipped. “Ah—shit,” he muttered, snapping from his trance and nearly toppling backward on the ladder.

You barely had time to blink before he lost balance completely. The ladder tipped. His coat flared like wings. And the elegant, tortured artist came crashing down in an undignified tangle of limbs and groaned curses.

Reflexes kicked in. You stepped aside, and he hit the ground with a thud that echoed through the gallery.

You peered down at him, blinking slowly.

“...Are you a vampire?”

He groaned, flopping like a dying spider on the hardwood. “Depends who’s asking.”

Without waiting for a proper answer, you dropped a knee onto his chest and pinned him in place. He wasn’t exactly fighting back. In fact, he looked more annoyed than alarmed, and maybe a little embarrassed—though it was hard to tell with his mess of paint-streaked black hair covering half his face.

That’s when your eyes met. And stopped.

Central heterochromia.

The kind of rare detail most people would miss. But you didn’t miss much. His eyes were rings within rings—burnt orange at the center, bright and crackling like fire behind glass, ringed in a deeper crimson that caught the light like blood in water. A predator’s eyes. And yet...

They blinked up at you with the distinct expression of someone who’d just been caught napping during a lecture and now regretted all life choices.

“I was going to offer you tea,” he said eventually, voice dry. “But now I’m reconsidering.”

You arched a brow. “I climb through a second-story window like a thief and your first instinct is to make tea?”

“Well, I didn’t know you were a thief,” he said, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smirk. “Could’ve been a hallucination. Wouldn’t be the first time the fumes from oil paint brought me visitors.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying very hard not to be charmed. It wasn’t working. “Name,” you demanded, pressing just a little more of your weight down.

“Solivan Brugmansia,” he said, with the dramatic flair of someone announcing a stage name. “Please call me Sol, like Solitude, possibly Sorrow. Not Solidarity—I’m a terrible conversationalist.”

You stared at him.

He blinked back. “You’re not one of the guards from the fancy manor, are you? Because if you are, tell them leave me be.”

“I’m here to kill you.”

He grinned. “That’s fair. Want to do it before or after I finish this painting?”

And God’s help you, you actually hesitated. This wasn’t how hunts were supposed to go. Sol looked very comfortable for a man pinned to the floor.

“Before you kill me,” he said, voice airy as he lay there like a martyr in a painting, “could I request not to be smothered? I have delicate lungs.”

You squinted. “Shame. I was thinking of crushing your ribs next.”

“Oof. Also, that’s fair.”

You didn’t budge. Instead, you narrowed your eyes, letting silence drag like a blade across the room. Moonlight spilled through the cracked glass, pooling in silver puddles over the dusty floorboards. Paint-scent and turpentine hung thick in the air, mingling with something fainter. Not rot. Not blood. But something old. Animal. Forgotten.

Slowly, reluctantly, you eased off of him.

He sat up with a groan and a flourish, brushing dust from his coat and checking his limbs like a man who’d done this before. Too many times. “So,” he said, peering up at you with that maddening half-smile, “what’s your name, mysterious window invader?”

“I ask the questions.”

“Oh, of course you do,” he said, sighing with theatrical sadness. “The dynamic is very clear. You: strong, silent, and scowly. Me: misunderstood artist who may or may not eat people.”

You crossed your arms. “So you admit it.”

He blinked. “Eat people? I didn’t say that.”

“But you might?”

“Well, you might kill people for sport.”

You stared.

He smiled wider. “See? It’s rude when someone jumps to conclusions.”

You took a slow breath, knuckles itching around the dagger still strapped at your thigh. “Are you the outcast I’ve been hearing about?”

His head tilted. Just slightly. The way a fox tilts its head at the rustling in the brush—half amusement, half assessment. “Depends who’s asking,” he said again, but quieter this time.

You stepped forward. “Don’t play riddles. Vampires aren’t supposed to be here. You’re off the map. And yet you’ve got a whole forest, a half-rotten gallery, and a painting habit that looks like a journal entry from a madman.”

Sol stood slowly, the light catching again in his strange fire-and-wine eyes. He was taller than you expected. Lean. Pale as bone, and barefoot—because of course he was. One of his sleeves had ripped in the fall, and he didn’t seem to care.

“Is that what they call me now?” he asked softly. “The Outcast?”

“It fits,” you replied coldly. “You’re alone. You’re eccentric. And according to a few surviving locals, something in the woods likes to rip the memories out of people’s heads and leave them wandering blind.”

“Oh, that,” he said, waving a hand. “Those were accidents.”

You raised a brow.

“...Mostly.”

You took a step closer. “So it was you.”

He looked at you. Really looked. Eyes narrowed, but not cruelly. He was reading something behind your face. Most people didn’t even try.

“No,” he said at last, voice too calm. “It wasn’t me. But I know what it was.”

“And?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said, smiling with all the misplaced confidence of a man holding a teacup in a burning house. “But only if you stop looming like a tax auditor. Or at least have the decency to pretend you’re here for something romantic.”

You stared at him. You’d come to the Grove expecting to find a monster. A real one. Claws, blood-stained mouth, maybe a shrine made of bones and teeth. Something that looked like it crawled out of the kind of story children weren’t supposed to hear.

Instead, you got him.

Sol. The so-called Feral Outcast.

The creature feared by villagers and whispered about by candlelight.

And he looked like the kind of man who could barely win a fistfight with a clothesline.

When he fell from the ladder after spotting you—a dramatic crash of limbs, paintbrush, and what appeared to be an entire apron covered in dried acrylic—you had your knife at his throat before he could even finish a sentence. But the moment he blinked up at you with mismatched eyes—amber inside, red on the rim—you found yourself hesitating. Not from fear. From confusion. Because honestly… this? This was the guy?

You stared. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, or maybe a decade. His hair was mussed like he’d rolled out of bed and into an explosion of linen and dust. His shirt was inside out. His socks didn’t match.

This was your monster?

“Are you the outcast?” you asked him, still looming with calculated menace.

He gave you a half-hearted shrug from the floor, still blinking. “Depends. Am I in trouble?”

“I came to kill you.”

“People say that to me a lot.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, voice painfully dry. “You’ve got the glare of a person with trust issues and a sharp object. And I love that for you.”

You stared at him, expression flat as slate.

Sol blinked. “Fine. No jokes. Just... one thing first.”

Your muscles coiled as he reached slowly behind a canvas, one hand raised in some mockery of peace. You were ready for a blade. A blood vial. A wand, even. Anything remotely threatening.

What you got was… A fucking teacup.

Porcelain. Chipped. Painted with tiny roses like something out of a grandmother’s estate sale. Still warm.

“I did make tea,” he said, tone far too smug for a man currently at the mercy of someone considering various methods of decapitation. “You’re welcome.”

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or sigh. Maybe both.

Honestly, probably both.

Still, out of sheer anthropological curiosity—and perhaps a dash of disbelief—you allowed him to shuffle awkwardly into what appeared to be a lopsided sitting room. If one could call it that. It looked like an opium den and an antique shop had been dropped into the middle of a tornado. Broken mirrors, misshapen chairs, a couch that was more spring than cushion. And in the middle of it all, a dainty porcelain set… with actual tea.

You sat.

Reluctantly.

Across from a vampire who looked like he once considered macaroni art a legitimate career path.

He poured you a cup with the solemnity of a priest offering confession. You didn’t drink it at first. You just watched him, silently, taking note of his posture, his tone, the strange calm that blanketed his every movement.

No madness. No fangs. No snarling.

Just tired. Slightly twitchy. And weirdly polite.

“Well?” he asked eventually, sipping his own cup with pinky raised, the sheer audacity of it nearly causing an aneurysm. “Aren’t you going to interrogate me? Judge me? Accuse me of crimes I probably committed in a fugue state?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a pathetic-looking vampire for someone nicknamed The Feral Outcast.”

He looked genuinely offended. “Rude.”

“It’s not an insult,” you said. “It’s an observation. You look like you sleep in your own grave for fashion reasons.”

“I do! It’s very grounding.”

Your fingers twitched. “You’re seriously not going to try to kill me?”

He tilted his head. “Are you serious about killing me?”

You said nothing.

“Fair,” he said. “In the spirit of transparency, I’ve had worse dates.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“You’re in my house. Drinking my tea. With a weapon between your thighs. It feels like a date.”

You slammed your teacup down. He didn’t flinch. “You’re insane.”

“I am an artist.”

You didn’t know whether he was faking the eccentricity or if it was somehow real—and if it was, what kind of creature survived the wrath of both man and vampire by being this absurd?

Still, you decided to remain.

Not because he wasn’t a threat.

But because you weren’t convinced either way.

And frankly, if you were going to kill someone, you might as well know what flavor of strange you were erasing from the world. Plus, the tea really wasn’t bad. Disturbingly floral. Lightly sweet. With a hint of something you suspected was stolen from the herb garden outside. (Sol insisted it was “just a touch of dried angelica” and not, as you originally accused, powdered grave moss.)

So again—reluctantly—you stayed.

The manor, if you could even call it that, wasn’t exactly in peak condition. Most rooms looked like they'd been furnished during a single, half-hearted attempt at being civilised… then promptly forgotten. Mismatched chairs, moth-bitten curtains, walls with peeling paint and suspicious claw marks. The plumbing made unsettling noises that resembled moaning whales or distant death rattles. You learned not to question it.

But you didn’t want to risk leaving either. Doverhollow’s villagers were already side-eyeing you like a walking plague, and checking in and out of an inn would only invite more attention. Not to mention, Sol had made it oddly comfortable.

He’d offered you a room without a hint of hesitation. It smelled faintly of turpentine and something… nostalgic, like old paper and lavender. There were books stacked on the floor, some still bookmarked mid-paragraph. A forgotten shawl hanging from a chair. And a closet full of clothes that didn’t match Sol’s aesthetic at all.

Which, of course, led you to wonder: who the hell had lived here before?

Old owners? Guests? Ghosts?

You didn’t ask. Yet.

Sol had wandered off after tea that night, muttering something about “needing to finish a piece before it lost its teeth,” which sounded either deeply poetic or mildly concerning.

You’d given up trying to parse his metaphors. He was one of those people who probably journaled in riddles and cried while watching candle flames.

Still, when you found him later—alone in what he referred to as his “studio of emotional decomposition”—you caught him perched on a stool, brush in hand, face slack with serene focus. His usual energy, that chaotic whirl of eccentric quips and inappropriate tea etiquette, was replaced by something quieter. He painted like he was unraveling something buried in his chest.

You didn’t disturb him. Much.

“So…” you began, leaning against the dusty doorframe. “You actually do art. I thought it was a performance thing.”

He didn’t glance up. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Honestly, I haven’t decided yet.”

His brush moved in slow, purposeful strokes. “Give it five more minutes. It gets impressive right before I ruin it.”

You stepped closer. “You're quiet when you're alone.”

“I am alone,” he said dryly, though there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his lips.

You stood there watching, arms crossed. “You paint a lot of ruined churches.”

“They’re metaphorical.”

“For what?”

“My soul.”

You snorted. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Only in the mornings and when someone’s judging my symbolism.”

Still, you kept studying him, filing observations away like puzzle pieces. He was colder when alone, not cruel, but clearly the kind of person who lived more in his own head than in the world around him. But when he talked to you—when he let himself talk—he became almost… alive. Animated.

Smart. Sharper than expected. The kind of clever that didn't just answer questions, but quietly twisted them back on you.

“You read, don’t you?” you asked.

“Religiously,” he replied, wiping his brush on a paint-stained rag. “Mostly Poe. The man understood the importance of emotional mess.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: you cry to The Raven and pretend it's about your tax situation.”

“Only on Wednesdays.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Briefly. Silently. You hated it. Then, because you were still a hunter, and still you, you stepped closer and asked more questions. Quiet ones. Calculated ones. You watched how he reacted to every inquiry—about his past, his exile, the rumors surrounding him. You studied the twitch of his fingers, the flick of his eyes.

Not because you trusted him.

But because you were researching him.

This was fieldwork. Observation. Dissection of personality through shared air and shadowed silences. And you had to admit: for someone nicknamed The Feral Outcast, he was... surprisingly tolerable. Weird. But tolerable.

Later that night, you found yourself lying in bed with a notebook on your stomach and a half-sharpened pencil tucked between your fingers. The room was dimly lit—just enough moonlight leaking through the warped window to give everything a pale silver wash. The walls creaked as if the manor itself was muttering to you. Or sighing. Or dying slowly.

You didn’t care.

Your boots were off. The sword was still in reach. The tea, long gone cold.

And on the page in front of you?

Sol’s face. Well—most of it.

You weren’t a professional artist, but you weren’t completely without skill either. You’d spent enough time studying people from behind books and barrels to know how to render a decent likeness. And yet... his features were proving annoyingly complicated.

You’d only drawn one of his eyes so far. The other you left blank, almost intentionally. Central heterochromia was a pain in the ass to get right. The orange inner ring was easy enough to sketch. It was the outer ring—the deep, blood-crimson red—that made you pause. It looked like it should be threatening. But on him? It just looked… exhausted. And slightly irritated. Like a tired cat that hadn’t slept in eighty years.

You sighed.

Added some under-eye lines. Then added more. The man had the kind of eye bags that could carry groceries. Or guilt. Or both.

You sketched the line of his mouth next. Slightly too wide for his face. Subtle downturn when he wasn’t smirking. And, of course, you didn’t forget the lip rings—two small, black metal hoops resting at the corner of his lower lip like punctuation marks on a particularly smug sentence. You stared at the drawing for a long moment.

Then scribbled “why is he like this” in the corner.

Still, you’d learned more about him over the last couple days than you expected. Sol, as it turned out, was only turned a few decades ago—young, by vampire standards. Barely out of the coffin, metaphorically speaking. His turning had been messy, quiet, and unsanctioned. He was, as he said, “an artistic casualty of someone else's immortality crisis.”

That sounded like nonsense until you realized it probably wasn’t.

He'd shown you the gallery again in daylight. Well, daylight filtered through thick curtains and dust-choked air. Each painting he walked you through like a docent in a museum made for the clinically unstable. But it was fascinating, hearing the stories from his perspective.

One canvas was a swirl of reds and blacks—unintelligible from a distance, but up close it showed a woman screaming in silence. “That one,” Sol had said, pointing with a brush, “was about my first heartbreak. Or maybe a plumbing issue. Honestly, could be either.”

Another showed a forest burning in reverse—flames curling back into trees, ash turning green again. “That one’s just for drama. Gets me attention. Real crowd-pleaser.”

You'd expected all of it to be melodramatic.

You hadn’t expected it to be so… beautiful.

Still, you noted something darker, quieter, beneath all the color and flair. Most of his pieces—gorgeous as they were—had some unsettling, gruesome undertone. Like beauty and horror were two threads sewn from the same needle. You got the impression he wasn’t painting what he wanted to see—but what he couldn’t stop seeing.

You also discovered that holy relics actually burn him. You'd confirmed this during a brief “oops I dropped this conveniently near your hand” test with a silver cross. He’d yelped like a kicked cat and then tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, brushing it off with a scoff and a mutter of “how very traditional.”

You watched him later, rubbing the burn through his sleeve when he thought you weren’t looking.

He said he didn’t care. But you had the suspicion he missed warmth—sunlight, fire, the casual, unthinking kind of touch humans exchanged without flinching. You never saw him reach for a blanket or bask in the sun. He simply... sat. As if comfort was something remembered, not expected.

And then there were the horses.

Oh, the damn horses.

You had not expected that. It started when Sol insisted—insisted—on taking you to the village edge. Said it was for “an extremely serious errand.” You’d prepared for anything: blood rituals, secret meetings, maybe a hidden cache of weapons.

Instead, you found yourself standing at a rickety fence, watching Sol practically vibrate with joy at the sight of a large, mildly confused brown mare.

He pressed his cheek against the post like a love-struck teenager. “Look at her. Just look at her. Do you see that mane? That’s a mane of dignity.”

You stared. Then stared harder. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious about horses,” he said, eyes wide with religious devotion. “They are majestic, noble creatures. Unlike people. Or Crowes. Crowes are little shits.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

Still, you documented the whole thing in your notes that night, right under “possible weaknesses: holy relics, sunlight, excessive emotional damage… also, equine fixation?”

You underlined that part twice. Then, as you stared at the page, at the half-finished sketch of his face, you found yourself wondering:

Was he a threat? Maybe. Was he dangerous? Possibly. Was he, at the very least, absolutely out of his mind? Unquestionably. And yet—somewhere between the tea, the burnt skin, and the rambling monologues about Gothic literature and “emotional rot”—you’d stopped seeing him as a target. And started seeing him as a question you wanted to solve.

With maybe just a little affection.

…Or an exorcism. You hadn’t decided.

Understand, from two weeks ago, give or take a dramatic moment or two, you had seen another side of Sol.

You’d just returned from the village, arms full of human necessities—bread, salt, soap, and tea boxes. You were exhausted, sore, and slightly damp from a freak drizzle that smelled like mold and regret.

You only wanted to drop the bags, maybe nap, and not have to remind yourself for the fiftieth time that you were technically cohabiting with a literal vampire.

But, as was becoming alarmingly common, peace had a tendency to trip over itself and die on the porch steps. You heard the shouting before you reached the path back to the manor.

It was coming from the outer edge of the manor grounds—angry, fearful voices flung into the wind like rocks through glass. Villagers. You ducked low, instinctively going quiet, your pack rustling like a traitor with every movement. You made your way forward with caution, slipping between brush and shadow.

And there he was. Sol.

Standing at the edge of the rotting garden path, teeth bared, hands twitching like claws, looking positively feral in the twilight glow. His shirt rumpled, hair a windswept mess of midnight tangles.

The villagers had come in a group—pitchforks and torches included, because apparently clichés were alive and well—and they were yelling about you. Your name. Your disappearance. Your proximity to the “monster in the woods.”

One of them actually screamed, “You’re under his spell!”

Which would have been flattering if it wasn’t so stupid.

And Sol? Sol was not amused.

His voice had dipped into something low and horrible, rolling like thunder under his skin. His fangs were longer than usual—exaggerated, beastly, like some instinct had slipped free of its leash. And the sound—a growl, wet and sharp—came from deep in his throat. You swore you saw the foam.

Realization clicked into place like a lock snapping shut.

He was starving.

You’d never thought about it before. He didn’t eat around you. Didn’t ask. Didn’t even mention hunger. You’d assumed he fed on animals or—worse—wanderers. But now that you were looking, really looking, you realized how pale his skin had grown. How his hands trembled sometimes. How his eyes lingered just a moment too long when you rubbed your neck or rolled up your sleeves.

So, of course, you did what any sensible, level-headed hunter would do in the face of a semi-rabid, half-starved vampire glaring down a mob.

You yelled at him. “Hey! Sol!”

He twitched.

You stomped forward like an irate cat owner confronting their pet about the shredded curtains. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

The grove had gone silent in the aftermath, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. The scent of smoke and damp leaves clung to the air, mingling with something older—ash, rot, maybe a hint of regret. The villagers stood frozen along the winding dirt path, torches sputtering uncertainly in their trembling hands.

Their eyes were still wide, caught between the horror they thought they were prepared for and the reality they’d just witnessed: a vampire foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog... and you, very calmly, yelling at him like an overworked babysitter at the end of their rope.

Sol blinked, visibly disoriented, the snarl frozen on his face as if even he wasn’t sure how it got there. His hands trembled—not from rage anymore, but like a man surfacing too quickly from drowning. The wild look in his mismatched eyes faltered the moment your voice cut through the fog.

"Am I going to have to throw holy water at you?" you snapped, stepping forward with the unmistakable energy of someone done.

Sol recoiled slightly, as though the words themselves had the power of exorcism. He let out a wheezing noise that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so strangled, caught somewhere between mortified and mildly offended. He stumbled a step back, shoulders sagging under the weight of self-awareness.

Meanwhile, the villagers—armed with their shaky pitchforks, crooked lanterns, and far too many accusations—suddenly looked like schoolchildren caught misbehaving in front of a substitute teacher.

They glanced from you to Sol, and back again, slowly lowering their torches as the scene rapidly devolved from horror movie to uncomfortable farce. No one really knew what to do when the monster got scolded like a misbehaving cat.

They began to shuffle away, awkward and whispering, their righteous fury unraveling with each reluctant step. One of them actually muttered, “Well, they seems fine,” as though that made any of this normal.

You watched them disappear down the path with narrowed eyes, arms folded across your chest, radiating the kind of exasperated authority that could scare a demon into doing the dishes.

Once they were gone, you turned back to Sol.

He was still standing there, arms limp at his sides, looking like someone who had just realized they’d screamed at a houseplant for three hours straight. His hair was a wild mess, and there were faint smears of dried paint on his sleeves. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and hanging off one shoulder like he’d either gotten into a fight or simply forgot how clothes work halfway through an artistic spiral.

“You okay?” you asked, deadpan.

“Define ‘okay,’” he replied, scrubbing both hands over his face like he could physically wipe the embarrassment away. “Because I am emotionally compromised and mildly ashamed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You were foaming.”

“I was not—” He paused mid-protest, poked the corner of his mouth with a finger, then sighed. “Okay. A little. Maybe. Minor foaming. Barely noticeable. Artistic foaming.”

“Sol.”

“I’m trying to have dignity, please.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When’s the last time you fed?”

He grumbled something low and vaguely ominous in a language you strongly suspected was dead and buried for good reason. Probably Latin.

He sighed again, with all the melodrama of a poet being told to get a job.

“It’s been... a while.”

“You don’t say.” You crossed your arms tighter. “Sol, you absolute cryptid. You have to eat. Preferably not me.”

He gave you a look that was far too amused for someone who had just been publicly humiliated. “That’s very considerate of you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious. This isn’t some tragic vampire novella where I hold your hand and cry about your internal conflict while you starve. I’m not going to nurse you back to health.”

“That’s a shame,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glinting with mischief even through the lingering haze of bloodlust.

You were already grabbing him by the arm, dragging him away from the scene before he said something even more ridiculous. “Come on. Before you start biting rocks.”

He let himself be led without resistance, mumbling something about how “biting rocks” used to be a metaphor until now. His steps were unsteady, like the adrenaline hadn’t fully faded yet, but the feral glint in his eyes had dulled—for now.

You couldn’t believe this was your life.

You—descendant of a renowned lineage of vampire hunters, trained in the art of elimination since you could walk, raised on tomes thicker than your wrists and lessons whispered over the clink of silver blades—were here. Living in a haunted fixer-upper with warped floorboards, faded wallpaper, a suspiciously squeaky third stair, and one artistically foaming vampire who once nearly bit a villager for yelling at a goose.

What had your ancestors died for again?

You flopped back on the creaky mattress, exhaling a sigh sharp enough to cut glass. The ceiling above you bore faint water stains shaped vaguely like screaming faces, which felt a little too symbolic. You tried not to read into it.

This wasn’t what you’d come here for. You were supposed to find the vampire outcast. Kill him. Study the corpse. Write down notes. Collect samples. Behead something for science.

And yet... here you were. Journaling at midnight. Drinking lukewarm tea. Drawing the outcast’s stupid pretty face because you claimed it was “for documentation purposes” even though you shaded his lips a little too carefully.

You told yourself it was still a mission. That maybe Sol was a threat, hiding behind sarcasm and horse trivia. That you were still gathering intel. But when you closed your eyes and let your mind wander...

You wondered. Was this mercy? Or was it just madness?

Maybe Sol was a project. A weird, semi-feral, poetry-quoting, eyeliner-smudged art cryptid of a project. A riddle in oil paint and broken windows. And the longer you stayed, the more the lines blurred between hunter and... something else. Confessor. Companion. Confused housemate.

Gods help you, but you weren’t entirely mad about it.

Then—tap.

Your thoughts snapped like a twig underfoot. You froze.

There it was again—faint, deliberate. A sound so soft most would miss it. But you were a hunter, trained to hear a needle drop through blood-soaked snow. Your senses sharpened instantly, a slow burn of tension sliding down your spine.

You slipped from bed in silence, sock-covered feet brushing across the dusty floorboards like a shadow. The manor was sleeping. Or at least, Sol was. Probably.

The hallway stretched before you like a throat waiting to swallow. Moonlight filtered through cracked windows in thin, bony beams. The wallpaper here was peeling, revealing older patterns beneath like a fossilized second skin. You kept to the edges of the walls as you moved, slow and steady.

The noise had come from below.

The wine cellar.

Of course it was the wine cellar. Because that was the obvious choice for mysterious noises in an already-cursed house.

You descended the steps without a sound, each one creaking like a guilty conscience. The air grew colder as you moved downward, damp and still and clinging to your skin like a warning. The scent of old cork and earth hit your nose, mingled faintly with something else—sharper. Iron.

Nothing.

The door creaked open only slightly—just enough to let you peek through the narrow sliver into the cold, stone-lined wine cellar. And what you saw next, well...

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the smell of dust or the stale, metallic tang of spilled blood on old stone. No. It was him—Sol—standing under the flickering light of a hanging bulb, shoulders drawn taut, his back to you like a statue carved in fury. His silhouette looked larger than usual, haloed by the faint fog of his breath in the cold cellar air. And in front of him—

Another vampire.

But not like Sol.

The creature slumped against a support pillar, long brown hair matted with blood, one eye swelling shut. Blue eyes glared out with defiance even as his body sagged, beaten, twitching. Blood pooled beneath him—thick, dark, and glistening like tar. You could see broken wine bottles on the ground, their contents mixing with gore. The place reeked of it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Sol’s hand was dripping red, knuckles split and raw from repeated contact with bone. You watched as he stepped forward again—slow, deliberate. His boots crunched on shards of glass. Every movement screamed violence restrained by the thinnest leash.

You had never seen Sol like this.

You didn’t have to guess what had happened. The scene was a painting in brutality, and Sol had signed it in blood. And the way Sol looked at the other vampire… it wasn’t just anger.

It was disappointment. Loathing. Familiarity. He tilted his head, like he pitied him. “Don’t go out like this now… Jericho.”

His voice was low, nearly gentle. The softness made it worse.

You barely breathed. Jericho. The name had appeared once in your journal—scrawled in a rushed script beside a faded quote about vampire reformers. If you recalled correctly, he was one of the loudest voices pushing to rebuild relations between vampires and humans. A public figure among the remaining nobility.

And he had just called Sol the one who ruined it all.

Sol took a slow step forward, wiping his bloody knuckles against his shirt without urgency. “You always did like pretending you were some holy messenger,” he said, voice flat, not even amused.

“All bark. No bite.”

Jericho let out an ugly, wet cough and spat blood on the floor between them. “You’ve broken the laws, Sol. Again,” he hissed, trying and failing to straighten up. “You have a human here. I heard it from the villagers.”

He bared his fangs with weak defiance, eyes glinting through the bruises. “They say the Outcast took a human for himself. Keeping them like some sick little pet. Do you even hear yourself?”

That’s when Sol moved—fast, sharp, with a snarl that barely made it past his teeth. His hand shot out, grabbing Jericho by the collar and slamming him back into the support beam hard enough to crack the stone. You flinched despite yourself, pulse thudding in your ears. His voice changed—lower, guttural, something wild pushed too long into the dark.

“They’re not a pet,” he snarled. “They’re smarter than you. Stronger than you. And ten times more valuable than the entire dusty little cabal you suck up to.”

You stared, frozen behind the door.

He was defending you.

But there was something else in his voice—familiarity. Regret. Resentment. The rhythm of old wounds being reopened. Old friends? Perhaps worse… That thought churned your stomach.

Jericho let out a wheeze that could’ve been laughter if it wasn’t soaked in pain. “You killed a human who used to own this manor, didn’t you?” he rasped, voice like broken glass. “Lost control. It’s what we do.”

Sol went still. Deadly still.

His eyes darkened, and when he spoke again, there was no humanity in his voice. Just a quiet kind of ruin. “Yes,” he whispered. “I lost control. Once. And I’ve paid for it every second since.”

His posture shifted slightly, like a weight pressed into his spine. “But I didn’t lure them here. I didn’t hunt them. I didn’t lie. I gave them a choice. Shockingly, they stayed.”

Jericho bared his bloodstained teeth.

“That makes them yours. You’ll burn for it, Outcast. You’ll die like the rest of your kind. It’s only a matter of time.”

Your breath hitched. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to back away, to pretend you hadn’t seen what was about to happen.

But you didn’t. You watched.

Sol was silent, his gaze locked onto Jericho with a stormlike intensity—dark, electric, dangerous. His hand still cradled Jericho’s bruised jaw, his thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles over the blood-slicked skin in a cruel parody of tenderness.

You could almost believe it was gentle—if not for the tension coiled through Sol’s body, wire-tight, every muscle rigid with restraint. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes hollowed out by something far deeper than hunger. Something ravenous. Something primal.

Then he leaned in.

Jericho flinched—just barely—as Sol’s lips brushed the column of his throat. Not biting. Not yet. Just… lingering. Breathing him in. Savoring the heat of his skin, the pulse thrumming beneath it.

A low sound rumbled in Sol’s chest, something between a growl and a sigh, before his tongue flicked out—slow, deliberate—dragging a wet, searing stripe along the curve of Jericho’s neck.

The air in the cellar grew thick, suffocating.

Then he bit.

Not with the careful precision of some romanticized vampire myth, but with brutal, animalistic force. His teeth sank in deep, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat as he claimed, as he took.

Jericho arched against him, a choked moan spilling from his lips—more pain than pleasure, but laced with something darker, something hungry between them.

His fingers scrabbled weakly against Sol’s arms, nails digging in as blood welled up in thick, crimson rivulets, spilling over his collarbone, staining his shirt. Sol held him down with one hand, the other braced against the stone wall, his muscles taut with the effort of control—or the lack of it. There was no finesse here, no ceremony.

Just need. Raw, relentless, consuming.

And the sounds—God, the sounds.

The wet, desperate drag of Sol’s mouth against Jericho’s skin. The ragged hitch of Jericho’s breath as Sol swallowed, as he fed, each pull drawing another broken noise from the man beneath him. The slick, obscene sound of blood being drawn, of lips sealing over the wound, of Sol’s low, shuddering groan as he drank deeper.

You stood frozen, your spine pressed to the wall behind the door, your pulse hammering in your own throat. You’d seen vampires feed before. You’d been trained for it—diagrams, studies, clinical detachment.

But nothing could have prepared you for this.

The heat of their bodies, too close, too intimate. The way Sol’s free hand slid into Jericho’s hair, fisting tight, yanking his head back to expose more of his throat.

The way Jericho’s breath came in ragged gasps, his lashes fluttering, his body trembling between resistance and surrender. And worst of all—the shameful, molten heat coiling low in your stomach.

Why did it have to look like this? Why did it have to sound like this?

When Sol finally ripped his mouth away, it was with a vicious snarl, lips glistening—not just with spit, but with blood. Jericho’s blood. The metallic tang hung thick in the air, mixing with the sweat and the raw, primal energy radiating off Sol’s heaving body.

Jericho collapsed beneath him, boneless, his once-smug face now slack, his breath shallow.

Unconscious—or maybe something worse.

Sol loomed over him, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven bursts, his knuckles white where they clenched at his sides. The blood on his mouth wasn’t just smeared—it was art. A dark, violent masterpiece painted in strokes of crimson, stark against the pale fury of his skin.

And god, it was hot.

The way his tongue flicked out, just once, tasting the remnants of the fight. The way his jaw tightened, muscles flexing as he swallowed hard, like he was forcing down something far hungrier than blood.

Then he spat—a sharp, dismissive motion—right beside Jericho’s ruined face. The sound of it hitting the stone echoed in the damp cellar, a punctuation mark to the violence.

“Still not the same,” he growled, his voice rough, edged with something wild. Something untamed.

His fingers trembled slightly as he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood in a way that only made him look more dangerous. More feral.

The hunger wasn’t gone—no, you could still see it lurking in the depths of his darkened gaze, a bottomless pit of need that refused to be sated. But there was more now. Something deeper. Something worse.

Rage. Grief.

A storm of emotions that twisted his beautiful, brutal face into something unrecognizable. Your pulse hammered in your throat, your skin prickling with a dangerous mix of fear and something far more reckless.

You weren’t supposed to see this. You weren’t supposed to want to see this. But here you were, standing in the dim, flickering light of the cellar, the scent of iron and sweat wrapping around you like a second skin.

One thing was crystal fucking clear:

Sol was dangerous.

And you?

You were in way too deep. You needed to run. Now.

Boots barely made a sound against the cold stone as you bolted up the cellar steps, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The stale, iron-scented air chased you all the way through the narrow corridors of the manor.

Shadows flinched and twisted in your periphery, hallways stretching like old bones, groaning beneath your frantic footsteps. You moved fast, half-tripping on the warped floorboards, hands scraping along the chipped wallpaper like it might steady you.

You had to get away.

Not from the manor. Not even from Sol—not yet.

From what you saw. That hadn’t been just hunger.

That was a vampire unrepentant.

You reached your room in a storm of panic, slamming the door shut behind you with a breathless gasp and throwing the bolt. The quiet that followed was deafening. Only your pulse filled your ears as you fumbled toward your bedside table, pulling open the drawer where your dagger should’ve been.

Gone.

No. No no no no—

It was always there. Always. Silver-inlaid, blessed, sharpened just this morning. A blade passed down through generations. You were never without it.

You spun around, scanning the room like maybe it would materialize out of the air, maybe you were too panicked to see—

The air in the room turned thick, charged with something electric—something dangerous—the moment you heard his voice.

"Looking for this?"

Low. Calm. A velvet whisper curling against the back of your neck like a lover’s touch.

You froze. Every muscle in your body locked tight, your breath hitching in your chest as the realization crashed over you: He was here. Inside your locked room. Behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the predatory stillness of a creature who had all the time in the world.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—you turned.

Sol stood there, your dagger dangling carelessly from his fingers, the blade catching the dim candlelight in lazy, mocking flickers. The door was still bolted behind him, untouched, as if the lock had never existed. As if the rules of the world bent to his will.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

You took a step back without thinking, your body moving on instinct, your spine pressing into the cold wall behind you.

He looked different now. The blood was gone from his mouth, wiped clean, but his shirt was still damp with it, clinging to the hard lines of his chest in dark, rust-colored stains.

His hair was tousled, wild, as if he’d run his hands through it in frustration—or maybe just hadn’t cared enough to smooth it back into place after the violence in the cellar.

But his eyes—those ancient, fathomless eyes—held you in place.

They weren’t angry. They weren’t cruel. They were knowing.

"You shouldn’t run in old houses," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. "You’ll wake the ghosts."

You tried to speak—tried to summon fury, fear, anything—but the words withered in your throat. Your body trembled, not just from the cold, but from the horrifying understanding settling deep in your bones: He knew.

He’d known you were watching. Maybe from the very beginning.

Maybe he always knew when you were near.

"You..." Your voice was a broken thing, barely audible. "You knew they were trying to change. Jericho... he wanted peace. I read it. I wrote about it—"

Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. He just let you speak—or stammer, your words faltering under the weight of his gaze.

"And you..." Your jaw clenched. "You killed the one chance vampires had to change how the world sees them."

"No," he said, the word a blade of ice. "They killed it. Years ago. When they cast me out. When they made me a monster and left me in the dark to rot." His fingers flexed around the dagger, his knuckles whitening. "This world doesn’t want redemption. It wants a myth to fear."

Another step forward.

Another step back—until the wall met your spine, unyielding.

"And you stayed," he mused, tilting his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he was unraveling. "You stayed in my manor. Slept in the bed of the dead. Ate the food of the damned. You laughed with me. Drank my tea."

"Because I thought you were different," you snapped, your voice gaining strength—or maybe just desperation.

"I am." Another step. Now he was close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, could smell the lingering copper on his skin, the faint, intoxicating trace of Jericho’s blood still clinging to his breath. "I didn’t hurt you. I never lied to you. Everything I am, you’ve seen. And yet here you are, daggerless, terrified, and still here."

The wall was cold against your back.

His body was a furnace in front of you.

"You don’t get to play the victim, hunter," he murmured, his voice dropping to something intimate, something dangerous. "Not when you walked into the crypt willingly." He lifted the dagger between you, the edge glinting near your throat—not a threat, but a question.

"I’m not going to hurt you," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper. "But I need to know something..."

Then he leaned in.

Close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips. Close enough that you could taste the danger on him. His voice was a dark, velvet rasp against your skin. "Are you still here because you want to kill me... or because you don’t know what you’d do if I was gone?"

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was a living, breathing thing between you—and you weren’t sure you wanted to know anymore. You didn’t breathe. You’d seen death before—dealt it yourself, even. But this was different. This was Sol not as a cryptid or a misfit... but as a predator. Cold. Calculated. And utterly furious.

And something about it…

You hated that you noticed it—but it was hot.

In a terrifying, morally questionable, “am I okay?” sort of way.

Sol exhaled slowly, like dragging the air into his lungs cost him. He finally pulled away, taking a step back, and for a moment, the space he left behind felt too empty. His chest rose and fell like a war drum had just gone quiet. He wiped the side of his temple with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his pale skin like war paint, and dragged shaky fingers through his hair—still matted, still wild.

His eyes, however, were crystal clear.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

There it was—guilt, flickering like a dying ember in his expression. But not regret. He didn’t regret what he did to Jericho. He regretted that you saw it. That your illusion, whatever you had told yourself about him, had fractured like glass.

“I didn’t kill him,” Sol added after a beat. “If that helps. He’s not dead.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you could yet. Your hand ached to reach for your missing blade even as your body leaned just a little—too much—toward him. Conflicted didn’t even begin to cover it.

Sol watched you with an unreadable expression. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Tired. Like an old record warped by heat and time.

“This manor... wasn’t mine. I didn’t inherit it. I took it. After its owner tried to feed me to a group of nobles for fun. I killed him in that cellar. I didn’t lie about that either.”

You blinked.

“You stayed anyway,” he continued, voice rough. “You stayed after the gallery. After I told you sunlight burns. After I told you about the horses, for gods’ sake. You stayed even when the villagers whispered. Even when you knew what I was.”

His eyes met yours again, and for a heartbeat, you saw the predator slip back behind the curtain. He looked… vulnerable. Just a little.

“But if you’ve changed your mind,” Sol said, voice barely audible now, “then go. No one’s stopping you. I won’t.” The dagger lay between you, abandoned on the table like it meant nothing.

You weren’t sure if it still meant anything to you, either.

Yet, your fingers curled around the dagger before your brain even caught up with your body.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sudden lunge, no clash of steel. Just a slow, deliberate grasp as if reclaiming something that had always been yours. Cold metal kissed your palm, grounding you in a way nothing else could. Sol watched you take it, and to your surprise—he let you.

For a moment.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said again, but this time there was something different in his tone. Less calm. Less patient. His eyes never left yours, but his hand moved—not for the dagger, but for you. His fingers curled lightly around your wrist, just enough pressure to still your next movement.

“I just need…” His gaze dropped for the first time, and his voice frayed like a thread pulled too tight. “I need something from you.”

You frowned. “Let go.” He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer. Just enough for your shoulders to tense against the edge of the wall behind you. His other hand moved with practiced ease—curling around your arm, guiding the dagger hand downward, not to disarm you exactly, but to… reposition you.

A sleight of hand hidden behind honesty. And before you could process the shift, he had your sleeve pushed back—exposing the pale stretch of your wrist under the flickering candlelight.

“Sol.” Your voice was sharp. A warning. A question.

But he wasn’t listening anymore.

“I haven’t fed properly in weeks, like you asked those days ago,” he whispered, staring down at your pulse like it was a thing made of starlight and sin. “You saw what I did to him. You think I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m sick. And starving. I tried to wait. I really did.”

You were about to pull back—to shove him away, to scream, to do something—but he moved first.

Fast. Desperate.

His mouth pressed to your wrist with a strange reverence, as though he were kissing it first. The cold brush of his lips sent a shiver jolting through your spine. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

You weren’t sure if it was fear or adrenaline or both. But then his fangs sank in—sharper, deeper than expected—and pain flared bright and white behind your eyes.

You gasped.

The sound that escaped you wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even fully a cry. It was something darker. Something shameful and involuntary. A sound you immediately regretted making.

Sol’s grip tightened around your wrist—not to hurt, just to hold you steady—as he drank, slow at first. Controlled. But then it changed. Like the hunger had finally caught up to him and overpowered restraint.

You pressed your free hand against his shoulder, nails digging in, trying to stay grounded through the burn in your veins. The sensation wasn’t just pain—it was overwhelming. Heat flooding your chest. Dizzy, electric wrongness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. You hated that your knees buckled slightly.

You hated that he noticed.

Sol made a low noise in his throat—half growl, half sigh—and pulled back just enough for the air to touch the bite. Blood welled up slow and sticky along your skin, and he stared at it with wild eyes. Guilt, desire, hunger. Everything crashing together in that one unspoken moment.

Then he looked at you.

And everything in his expression screamed apology even though his mouth never moved. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, voice ragged.

You stepped back. Quickly. Clutching your arm.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to. I—gods, I didn’t mean to.” His voice cracked. “But you smell like warmth. Like life. I thought I could take just enough.”

Silence stretched between you like the tightrope it always had been. The bite throbbed like a second heartbeat. And suddenly, everything felt too small. The room. The candlelight. Him.

You needed air.

You needed to figure out if you were going to run—or stay?

Your fingers twitched around the dagger’s hilt—barely. A weak, instinctual movement. Your body didn’t have the strength to finish.

Everything began to slip sideways—like the walls were melting or the floor had been pulled out beneath you. The candlelight dimmed, blurred, twisted into strange shapes. You blinked slowly, trying to fight it, trying to hold on to something—the desk, the dagger, his name in your throat—but it all crumbled at once.

And then you fell.

Or you would have—had Sol not already been there.

His arms wrapped around you with startling ease, catching your body against his chest like you were nothing more than a breath being exhaled. You didn’t even feel the impact.

One moment you were standing, breathless… the next, you were weightless in his hold, your head tucked against the warm line of his collarbone, eyes fluttering closed against your will.

Sol froze.

Not because you passed out—no, he’d expected you to be weak after feeding. But this? This? The total collapse? The way your pulse slowed to a vulnerable crawl beneath your skin? It hit him differently. It hit him hard.

“…Damn it,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp, dark and unreadable.

He shifted his grip, careful not to jostle you as he lifted your wrist again. The bite wound gleamed red and angry in the light, the skin already starting to bruise with that distinct violet hue—fragile and raw. He turned your arm slightly, examining it with the cold eye of someone both fascinated and horrified.

“You really are different,” he murmured. A smirk touched his lips, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathed. But it wasn’t cruel. It was curious.

“I barely touched you,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “One bite and you’re out cold? Either I was hungrier than I thought… or you were far too generous.”

He leaned down slowly. Dangerously. Letting his breath wash over the curve of your throat—just like before, but this time there was no pretense. No restraint. Just hunger tinged with something unspoken. Not lust. Not quite. But need. Something deeper. Primal. Inhuman.

He inhaled deeply.

You didn’t stir. Not a twitch. Not even a protest.

“You smell like survival,” Sol whispered against your skin. “Like firewood and old blood and silver. Like you shouldn’t trust anything that breathes.”

And then his lips brushed your neck—not to bite, not this time—but as if tasting the ghost of what he’d taken. A pause. An indulgence. Reverent, almost.

But the moment didn’t last.

He pulled back, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. Still holding you close, Sol moved toward the bed with purpose, laying you down gently, though his eyes never left your face.

He hovered over you for a moment longer, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest, checking to be sure your heartbeat hadn’t dropped too far. Steady. Warm. Alive. Relief twisted through him like a slow knife. And yet… he couldn’t stop staring.

He needed you.

God help him—he was done pretending.

The moment his hands found you, there was no hesitation, no carefully constructed restraint—only raw, unfiltered hunger. Sol moved with the lethal grace of a predator staking its claim, his body pinning yours to the mattress with delicious inevitability.

His fingers worked with devastating efficiency, stripping away your clothes like a man unwrapping something sacred, something his. The fabric whispered against your overheated skin—the brush of silk, the drag of cotton—before being carelessly discarded, pooling on the floor beside the bed like fallen petals.

His touch was a study in contrasts—fire and ice, reverence and ruin. Every graze of his fingertips left invisible brands in their wake, as if he needed to map every dip and curve of your body beneath his hands. His palms skimmed up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts in a slow, maddening circle before his mouth finally—finally—found you.

And oh, his mouth.

Sol kissed his way up your body like a man starved, his lips trailing a path of searing devotion along your trembling flesh. You could feel the cool metal of his tongue piercing—a wicked contrast to the heat of his mouth—as he laved attention over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly, teasingly, just enough to make your breath hitch.

He lingered at the hollow of your throat, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin there, the subtle click of metal against flesh sending a shiver down your spine.

But he wasn’t done.

His mouth moved lower, lower—each kiss a brand, each nip a promise. When his breath ghosted over the swell of your chest, hot and damp, you arched into him with a whimper.

His tongue flicked out, the piercing dragging in a slow, torturous circle around one peaked nipple before he sealed his lips over it, sucking gently. The dual sensation of soft warmth and hard metal had your fingers twisting in his hair, your hips lifting off the bed in silent plea.

Sol chuckled against your skin, the vibration rippling through you like liquid heat. “So sweet…” he murmured, the word a rough caress as he switched his attention to your other breast, his tongue piercing tracing lazy, maddening patterns until you were gasping, writhing, utterly at his mercy.

And God help you—did you even want him to stop?

You gasped when his fangs found you.

A sharp, sweet sting—just above your nipple, where the skin was softest. The pain melted instantly into pleasure, your back arching as he groaned against you, his tongue lapping at the tiny wounds in slow, deliberate strokes.

He kissed around the sensitive peak, his lips brushing feather-light, maddening circles until you were shuddering, your fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were stained crimson, his eyes black with want. You were moaning softly, conscious, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his bite.

"You shouldn’t have stayed," he whispered, his voice rough, raw—more to the shadows than to you. "You knew what I was. You knew what I’d done. But you stayed."

His expression was a storm of contradictions—guilt and hunger, awe and something darker, something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name. He dragged his gaze over you, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin, your heaving chest, the way your pulse fluttered wildly at your throat.

Sol’s fingers traced idle, teasing circles over your skin, his touch light enough to make you shiver, deliberate enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb flicked over your nipple, once, twice—just to watch it stiffen beneath his touch, just to hear the soft, involuntary gasp that escaped your lips.

It wasn’t long before he moved, his body shifting with predatory grace as he climbed onto the bed behind you. His hands were firm as he adjusted your position, turning you so your back pressed flush against his chest. You could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his body molding against yours, his skin searing where it met yours.

And then—the slow, deliberate slide of fabric as he rid himself of his pants, his cock springing free, heavy and hot against the curve of your ass. The sensation sent a jolt through you, your pulse stuttering as he let out a low, satisfied hum against the nape of your neck.

His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The movement was gentle, almost tender, but there was no mistaking the command in it.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice rough with restraint, his breath warm against your lips. "Tell me to walk away, and I will."

His words were a challenge—a test. And yet, you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not when his other hand was drifting lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before sliding between your thighs with a possessiveness. Not when his cock pressed insistently against you, a silent promise of what was to come.

Sol chuckled darkly at your silence, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured, before his teeth grazed your earlobe—sharp, teasing, claiming.

A half-ragged moan tore from your lips as he rocked against you, the friction maddening, perfect. His hands were everywhere—tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, dragging you harder against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

Then his teeth grazed your shoulder—sharp, teasing—before he bit down.

You cried out softly, arching into him as pain and pleasure collided in a white-hot burst. His mouth was searing, his tongue lapping at the blood welling from the wound, drinking you in with a low, possessive groan. Every pull of his lips sent fire racing through your veins, your body trembling, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more.

He rutted against you, his cock hard and insistent through the fabric of his pants, grinding against your hip in rough, relentless strokes. You could feel the hunger in every movement—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into your flesh like he wanted to consume you.

“Fuck,” he snarled, tearing his mouth from your skin, his lips stained crimson. “You smell and taste even better than I imagined.”

You woke to the slow, searing drag of fangs along the nape of your neck—a claiming, a warning, a promise. Sol’s arms were locked around you, his body a cage of heat and hunger, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of centuries. His breath was a dark chuckle against your skin as he ground his cock against your ass, already hard, already needing.

"Pathetic," he murmured, the word a velvet scrape of amusement as he bit down—not enough to break skin, not yet, but enough to make you gasp. "Look at you. Still here. Forever mine."

You should have fought. Should have screamed. But your body was already arching into him, already begging for more, even as your mind reeled. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your hip before dipping lower, teasing, taunting.

The moment his teeth sank into your shoulder—sharp, sudden, punishing—you knew there would be no mercy tonight.

"You thought you could run?" Sol’s voice was a dark growl against your skin, his breath hot as he bit down again, harder this time, drawing a whimper from your throat.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, body arching beneath him as he held you down with nothing but the weight of his body and the unrelenting press of his hips. "You thought I’d let you go after what you saw tonight?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Because he wasn’t here for words.

He was here to ruin you.

Sol moved with a frenzied, almost desperate rhythm, his cock driving into you with a pace that left no room for thought, no space to breathe. Every thrust was a claim, every snap of his hips a reminder—you were his. The wet, filthy sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your choked gasps and his low, satisfied growls.

He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t let you catch up. He just took, fucking you with a brutality that bordered on reverence, as if he could carve his name into your bones with sheer force alone.

His fangs dragged down your spine, slow and deliberate, savoring every flinch, every shudder he pulled from you. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with cruel precision, circling just there, just enough to make your hips jerk, your body tightening around him—but never enough to give you what you needed.

"Sol—" you gasped, voice breaking.

"Say it again," he demanded, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise, his voice rough with hunger. "Say my name like you mean it."

And then—

Pain.

Blinding, exquisite pain as his fangs sank into your back, piercing deep. The sharp sting melted instantly into pleasure so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

Your vision whited out, your body seizing as you came with a scream muffled into the pillow, your muscles clamping around him in helpless, shuddering waves.

Sol didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips bruising as he chased his own release. His mouth never left your skin, drinking you in, swallowing every moan, every broken sound you made as he dragged you back from the edge only to push you over again.

"Mine," he snarled, his voice raw with possession.

And when he came, it was with your blood on his tongue and your name like a curse on his lips, his hips stuttering against yours as he spilled deep inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.

Afterward, as you lay trembling in the wreckage of what he’d done to you—limbs weak, skin marked, breath still uneven—Sol traced the bites and bruises he’d left with something almost like reverence. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, fingers skimming over the evidence of his hunger, his ownership.

"Pathetic," he murmured again, softer this time.

But the way his thumb lingered on your pulse, the way his eyes darkened as he watched the slow rise and fall of your chest—

It almost sounded like a prayer.

Sol’s hand slid around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to claim. His fingers pressed just beneath your jaw, tilting your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. There was no escape now. No pretense. Only the raw, electric truth of what he was about to take from you.

“You should have run when you had the chance,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your lips.

Then he moved—swift, effortless, predatory. One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other braced against your back, and suddenly you were weightless, swept off your feet as if you were nothing. As if your resistance meant nothing. The bed met your spine with a soft thud, the sheets cool against your feverish skin.

He didn’t give you time to think.

In one fluid motion, he was above you, knees caging your hips, his body a heavy, intoxicating press against yours. The heat of him was unbearable. The power of him was worse. You could feel every hard line of him, every controlled flex of muscle as he settled over you, his weight pinning you in place.

“Look at me,” he commanded, fingers tightening just slightly on your throat.

You obeyed.

His eyes were filled with red in the dim light, pupils blown wide with hunger—but not just for blood. No, this was something deeper. Something worse. The kind of hunger that didn’t just want to consume you.

It wanted to ruin you.

His free hand dragged down your body, slow and deliberate, mapping every curve, every shuddering breath. The fabric of your clothes was an insult—he made quick work of it, tearing, peeling, unmaking you until there was nothing left between his skin and yours.

“You thought you could hunt me?” His lips brushed your ear, his voice a velvet snarl. “Sweet thing. You don’t even know how to beg yet.”

Then he took you.

There was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just the brutal, unforgiving thrust of his hips, seating himself inside you with a groan that vibrated through your bones. You arched, gasping, nails digging into his shoulders—but he didn’t let you adjust. Didn’t let you breathe.

He moved.

Each stroke was a punishment. A promise. The bed rocked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall in time with his merciless rhythm. You were unraveling, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his waist.

“That’s it,” he growled, his hand still firm on your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make your vision blur. “Let go. I want to feel you break.”

You were close. So close.

And then his fangs grazed your pulse.

A sharp, sweet pain—bliss and agony tangled together as he bit down, drinking deep as his hips never slowed. The world tilted, colors bleeding at the edges, your moans turning ragged, desperate.

You were losing too much. You were giving too much.

But it didn’t matter. Because as the darkness crept in, as your body shuddered beneath his in helpless, overwhelming pleasure, one thought flickered through your fading mind:

At least you’d pass out before he was done.

Bro writing this? Sol as a vampire? DAMNNNNNNNNNNN—when did he get that fine? Like, be serious. I don’t even like Sol like that, hence why I still added, his yandere tendencies, his arrogance, his smug little smirk, the way he talks and somewhat begs like he's already owned you in three past lives—normally, that’s not my taste.

But the fanart? It did something unholy. Now suddenly I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, writing him in scenes where he’s still toxic, still dangerous, still so him… and yet somehow, it’s hot. Like fine fine. Like, I hate that I get it now, fine.

He’s the kind of beautiful that pisses you off in a way. Like, the kind where you’re glaring but your pulse is faster, and your morals are losing a debate with your instincts.

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back crowe #the kid at the back sol #solivan brugmansia #jericho ichabod #tkatb #tkatb crowe #tkatb sol #the kid at the back vn #crowe ichabod #crowe x reader #sol x reader #sol brugmansia #tkatb vn #tkatb smut #tkatb head canons #tkatb x reader

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bleramind · 1 year ago

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Tag limit did me dirty lol.

Illuminated presents: THE JAGUAR

This attempt at a pitch was officially REJECTED so I'm posting it here as well!

#oh I feel you about rejection #but I don't think you should give up just yet ?#clearly this means a lot for you to have put so much effort into a pitch !#so I suppose I'll give my thoughts on this pitch to give you feedback !#I love the art style !#but the action where he breaks out of the bindings (and his method of doing so) don't quite read clearly to me--#does he just pull the hooks out of the wall through sheer force ? is there some part of the interaction that I didn't catch properly ?#maybe foreshadow the break through his thoughts or more talking with miss bliss to visually explore the scene #and slow down a little #I think the “guatemala” panel (the very first one) could use a background to firther set the scene #where are we in guatemala ?#maybe an exterior shot of the temple #the final pages do leave several interesting questions !#are they doing this regularly ?#is it a roleplay dramaticized through the comic or actual canon ?#what's the recurring theme between chapters #if there would be multiple ?#is it capitalist colonial white “ceo” vs latino Indiana Jones style archaeologist #or is it dramaticized bedroom roleplay ?#or is it all a front for their relationship which runs deeper ?#I'm curious as to how they see the inherent divide in their work and where the chemistry originates from #but on a more logistical “pitch” side #did you provide any extra information in the pitch that wasn't presented here ?#because I'm genuinely curious #like is this an example chapter in its entirety or just the broad strokes ?#how is the publishing schedule looking like for adding more ?#I'm reaching tag limit here so I'll be briefer than I want to be #I'm curious as someone trying to break into the market myself trying to learn more #but also as someone who likes your work ! more importantly as someone who likes your work.#mera

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butterfliesandwendigos · 9 months ago

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𖥔 ࣪ ᥫ᭡ꗃ⋆࣪. BEFORE PT.2 — Josh Washington

SUMMARY — after you discover josh mid-psycho prank, he prevents you from watching his wrongdoings. he takes you, passed out and unconscious, to a secluded cabin on the mountain, convinced he’s keeping you away from his plan. the wendigos strike, leaving you trapped until rescue arrives. you reunite, sparking intense feelings between you two.

W/C — 8.9k.

NOTES — lots of until dawn lore, slow-buildup, set in both present and post until dawn, themes of drugging, mania, filthy smut (i think this one might be more smutty than the first😏).

PART ONE | PART TWO

You stir in the warmth of Josh’s lodge bedroom, the lingering scent of cedar and woodsmoke wrapping around you like a blanket. The walls are adorned with framed photos, capturing memories of happier times before tragedy cast a long shadow over the Washington family’s lives. A fire crackles softly, one that you don’t remember lighting, it's flickering flames lulling you more profoundly into sleep, away from the tension that hung in the lodge since the fateful night the group reunited.

But all that changes with a piercing scream.

You bolt upright, heart racing as the echoes of panic fill the air. Your friends—you recognise their voices even through the disorienting haze of sleep. Swinging your legs off the bed, you feel the chill of the wooden floor against your bare feet. Anxiety coils in your stomach as you pull on your sweater and leggings, the familiar scent of Josh lingering in the fabric.

“Josh?” you call softly, but the room is silent, except for the shouts. With a sinking feeling, you reach the door, the foreboding weight pressing down on you.

The lodge is dark, with shadows looming as you navigate through the narrow hallway. Each scream grows louder as you descend the staircase, your breath quickening with each step. You can feel the oppressive atmosphere thickening around you, almost suffocating.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and hesitate, the basement door slightly ajar. The screams have ceased, replaced by an eerie silence that makes your skin crawl. Mustering your courage, you open the door and descend into the dimly lit basement.

The air is cold and heavy, suffocating in tension, wrapping around you like a vice and making your stomach churn. Flickering lights cast chaotic shadows against the stone walls, and as you step deeper into the space, you spot a figure standing in the centre—a silhouette you recognise all too well. It’s Josh and he’s wearing… dirty, old overalls?

“Josh!” you call out, your voice echoing off the walls. But something is dreadfully off. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge your presence. He stands motionless, his back to you, staring at something unseen, his posture rigid and unyielding.

“Y/N,” he finally speaks, his voice low and unsettlingly calm, as if the warmth of human connection has slipped away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“What’s going on?” you ask, unease creeping into your voice. “Where are the others? I heard screaming.”

He turns slowly, and you recoil at the emptiness in his eyes as if he’s lost somewhere far beyond reach. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head. I’m not letting you be a part of this. You shouldn’t even be here; you should be upstairs sleeping! I even set a fire for you to help you sleep better.”

“Well, it’s kind of hard to sleep when I hear people screaming bloody murder,” you shoot back, your pulse quickening, fear gnawing at your insides. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing is going on! Would you drop it already?” he snaps, his frustration boiling over, a wildness flickering in his eyes, sending chills racing down your spine.

“Why are you acting like this?!” you demand, stepping closer, your anger igniting the air between you. You catch sight of his hands trembling, fingers twitching as if desperately trying to suppress something dangerous.

“Because I’ve done something terrible and sadistic, and none of the others are ever going to have anything to do with me again! That’s why you cannot be a part of this!” he exclaims, his voice rising, an unsettling mania building in his frightening and heartbreaking tone.

“What did you do, Josh?” you ask, your heart pounding as fear and anger collide, a storm within you.

“Please, just go upstairs and stop asking questions,” he pleads, his voice strained, panic threading through his words, twisting your stomach in knots.

“Josh, this is insane! You can’t just—” you start, but he interrupts, urgency threading through his tone.

“No! You don’t understand! I can’t let you see this,” he insists, his eyes darting around the room as if haunted by unseen phantoms. “It won’t be pretty, and I don’t want you to get caught up in it. I can’t lose you too. Please, you have to go back upstairs.”

Your heart drops as you approach him cautiously, studying how his shoulders are tense, poised on the brink of collapse. “Josh, please, talk to me,” you plead, stepping closer. “We can figure this out together.”

In a sudden, frantic motion, Josh steps back, shaking his head vehemently, a manic energy radiating from him that makes you instinctively recoil. “I don’t need your help! I don’t need anyone!”

You grab his arm, your grip firm as you prevent him from retreating. “Are you serious? Was this trip your way of getting into my pants? Because you sure find it easy to drop me straight after sleeping with me!”

His eyes widen in shock, the hurt flashing across his face, but you’re too consumed by anger to back down. “You think this is easy for me?” he retorts, his voice trembling. “I’m trying to protect you from this mess!”

“By shutting me out?” you fire back, your heart racing with fear and fury. “By walking away? That’s not protection; it’s selfishness.”

He stares at you, his expression shifting from defiance to despair. “Y/N, please…” His voice cracks, and for a brief moment, you catch a glimpse of the boy you fell for—the one who would never turn away from you, no matter the circumstances.

“You don’t know what they did,” he murmurs, a haunting smile ghosting across his lips. “You weren’t there. They took everything from me.”

Conflict swirls in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the fight within him begins to waver. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he finally admits, his voice breaking under the weight of his anguish.

He hesitates, and you see the pain etched deep in his expression. “I’m giving them what they deserve,” he replies, the weight of his words heavy and dark. “They took everything from me, and I won’t let them take you away too. Please, go back upstairs.”

The moment's intensity hangs between you like a taut wire, the darkness closing in. You stare at Josh, grappling with the dichotomy of the man you love and the stranger he’s become. “What do you mean, ‘giving them what they deserve’? Who are you talking about?”

He clenches his jaw, refusing to answer, the inner turmoil evident in his strained features. You step closer, desperate to bridge the chasm between you. “Josh, you can’t just shut me out like this. I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of losing you.”

The flickering light casts eerie shadows across his face, and in that moment, you see the pain that’s etched into his features. “You don’t understand,” he whispers, voices low and raw. “You can’t understand what they did. It’s not just about me anymore. I have to finish this.”

“Finish what?” you press, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “What’s going on down here? If you’re in danger, I want to help you. We can face it together.”

He shakes his head violently, tears brimming in his eyes, an unsettling fear radiating from him. “You think it’s that simple? They’re not just people; they’re monsters. They took everything from me, and now it’s my turn to make them pay. I won’t let you be a part of this. You deserve better.”

“I don’t care about what I deserve! I care about you, Josh!” Your voice rises, echoing off the cold stone walls, desperation lacing your words. “Don’t push me away. If you think isolating yourself will keep me safe, you’re mistaken. It’ll only push me further away.”

The tension in his shoulders eases for a moment, and you see a flicker of hope in his eyes. “Y/N…” he starts, but then he falters, the wall around him hardening again. “I can’t let you get involved in this. You don’t know what I’m capable of. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

You take a deep breath, grounding yourself in the gravity of the situation. “Then let me help you figure it out. You can’t do this alone, Josh. You’re not alone anymore.”

He turns his back to you again, and your heart sinks, a wave of despair crashing over you. You want to scream, shake, and make him see reason, but instead, you take a step back, trying to breathe through the rising panic. “Josh, please, I’m begging you. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. If this is about revenge, then it’s going to consume you. It’s not worth it.”

His silence is deafening, the shadows creeping closer, wrapping around him like a noose. You inch forward again, unwilling to let the distance grow. “What did they take from you?” you ask gently, your voice barely above a whisper, hoping to pierce the dark veil enveloping him.

He hesitates, and you see the battle raging in his mind. “They took… they took my sisters,” he finally admits, his voice cracking under the strain. “They took my family, and I wasn’t there to protect them.”

Your heart aches for him, the depth of his pain crashing over you like a tidal wave. “I’m so sorry, Josh,” you murmur, tears stinging your eyes. “But this isn’t the way to make it right. This won’t bring them back.”

“I don’t want them back,” he snaps, but the anger is undercut with sorrow, the edges fraying. “I just want them to pay for what they did. I want to feel something—anything but this empty rage inside me.”

You take another step closer, heart racing as you reach out, your hand brushing against his arm. “Then let me help you. Don’t let this rage destroy you. You’re stronger than this. We can find another way to honour their memory.”

He turns to face you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, the turmoil within him still raging but beginning to soften. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, vulnerability etching across his features, deepening the ache in your heart.

“You won’t,” you promise, stepping closer, your voice resolute. “We’ll find a way through this. Together.”

For a heartbeat, it feels like the walls around him might crumble, but then he pulls away, shaking his head. “No, I can’t risk it. I won’t let you be part of this darkness.”

You take a deep breath, the cold air filling your lungs as you try to steady yourself against the gravity of it all. “Then what? You’ll just shut me out? You’ll go through this alone?”

For a heartbeat, it feels like the walls around him might crumble, but then he jerks away, shaking his head with wild desperation. “No, I can’t risk it. I won’t let you be part of this darkness.”

You take a deep breath, the cold air filling your lungs as dread settles in your chest. “Then what? You’ll just shut me out? You’ll go through this alone?”

His eyes are wild, flickering with an inner conflict that twists your gut. “I don’t know how to just… let it go.”

“Then don’t let it go alone,” you plead, reaching out to cup his face in your trembling hands, your heart racing in the thick, oppressive air. “You can’t do this alone, Josh. We can face it together. You don’t have to carry this weight by yourself. Let me be with you.”

The tension in his frame wavers for a moment, and you catch a glimpse of hope igniting in his gaze. “I wish I could just go back to being normal… to being happy,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with regret and a hint of mania.

“Then let’s work on that together,” you urge, your hand still on his face, your fingers brushing against the stubble of his jaw. “You don’t have to lose yourself in this darkness. Let me help you find your way back.”

The silence stretches between you like a taut wire, the world's weight pressing down. As you stand there, staring into his eyes, you see the flicker of a fragile spark amidst the storm of his despair.

“Okay,” he finally says, his voice breaking slightly, urgency threading through his words. “But you have to promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” you reply, heart pounding.

“Promise me you won’t give up on me, no matter how far I fall,” he whispers, the vulnerability in his eyes cutting straight through to your heart, the weight of his desperation almost palpable.

“I promise,” you say, tears welling up. “We’ll get through this together, Josh. I won’t let you go.”

He nods, a single tear escaping down his cheek, but the spark of hope quickly dims. “I’m scared,” he admits, his voice trembling, the manic edge returning, his eyes darting around as if haunted by unseen horrors.

“I know,” you reply softly, wiping the tear away with your thumb. “But we’ll face that fear together. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

The tension crackles in the air, thick and charged, as Josh’s vulnerability battles with something darker within him—your heart races as you stare into his conflicted eyes, desperate to bridge the chasm between you. Without thinking, you close the gap, your breath mingling with his.

At that moment, something shifts within Josh. He hesitates, then, without warning, he pulls you into his arms, enveloping you in warmth and safety. The weight of the world slips away as you lean into him, seeking solace in the embrace.

But then you sense the urgency in his movements, the frantic energy surging beneath the surface. The outside world fades, and all you can feel is the moment's intensity. Without even realising it, your lips find his. The kiss is tentative at first, exploring the vulnerability you both share. But as the heat between you builds, it transforms into something urgent and desperate—a frantic plea for connection that speaks to the chaos swirling around you.

You melt against him, feeling him respond as he deepens the kiss, pouring everything he thinks into that moment. His lips are warm and inviting, igniting a fire inside you, and you lose yourself in him. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as if trying to erase the distance between you.

But just as abruptly, he pulls away, breathless, his forehead resting against yours. “Y/N,” he whispers, his eyes filled with a manic intensity that makes your heart race. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in now. Not with this. After is a different story; I’ll tell you everything.”

The chill of his words slices through you, and reality crashes back in. “Josh—”

Before you can finish, he reaches into his pocket, confusion turning to dread as you see him pull out a small cloth. Your stomach drops, panic surging through you like icy water.

“Josh, what are you doing?” you ask, your voice shaking, a sense of dread coiling tightly around your chest.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, anguish etched across his face, his eyes wide and frantic. “I have to protect you.”

Without warning, he lunges forward, pressing the cloth against your mouth and nose. Instinctively, you struggle, fear coursing through your veins as the suffocating scent of chloroform envelops you. You claw at his hands, desperation surging, but your body betrays you as darkness seeps into your vision.

“Josh, no!” you gasp, but your words dissolve into silence, swallowed by the overwhelming haze. The frantic look in his eyes pierces through the fog, revealing the chaos of his spiralling mind.

“Just for a moment,” he murmurs, his voice distant and strained, tinged with a frantic urgency that sets your heart racing. “Don’t be scared; I’ll take care of you. I’ll make it right, I promise. I need time—just a little time to fix this.”

And then, with a final, shuddering breath, everything fades to black.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The soft crackle of firewood breaks through the heavy silence, pulling you from unconsciousness. Your eyelids flutter open, and it takes a moment for your surroundings to come into focus. The flickering flames dimly lit the small cabin, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls. You sit up, disoriented, your muscles stiff and aching as you take in the cozy but foreign space.

You glance down to find yourself wrapped in a thick blanket, and underneath it, you’re dressed in an oversized jacket that smells faintly of Josh—woodsy and warm. It swallows you whole, the weight of it grounding you as you scan the room.

An array of snacks is laid out on a small table nearby: bags of chips, a few granola bars, and a thermos of hot cocoa, steam rising in lazy curls. The sight is strangely comforting but does little to quell the unease gnawing at your insides. Where are you? What happened?

As your mind clears, you push the blanket aside and swing your legs over the bed's edge, feeling the cabin floor's coolness against your feet. You spot a piece of paper propped against a half-burned log in the fireplace. The neatly typed letters starkly contrast the rustic chaos around you, and you rise to retrieve it, your heart pounding in your chest.

You unfold the letter, your eyes scanning the words with growing anxiety:

Y/N,

If you’re reading this, you’re awake. I know you’re confused and maybe even scared. I’m so sorry for what I did to you. I couldn’t think of any other way to protect you. I had to get you away from everything.

I’ve spent so long planning this, and I know it sounds wild—because it is. I wanted to pull a prank on my friends. I wanted them to be scared, to experience that heart-pounding rush of fear that comes when you think your life is in danger, but I never wanted them to be hurt. I didn’t want them to suffer like my family did. I wanted to make a point, to show them how fragile life can be, but they didn’t see it that way.

So, I dressed up as a killer—in those overalls you saw me in. I spent weeks piecing together the costumes, researching horror movies for inspiration, and trying to channel the terror that would haunt their dreams. I used fake blood, a mask, and everything to make it feel authentic without crossing the line.

When I saw the genuine fear in their eyes, it twisted something inside me. It was as if I had become the monster I was pretending to be. I realised then that I had pushed things too far. I lost sight of the line between fun and horror, and once you cross that line, there’s no going back.

When I saw what they did to my sisters, how could I resist this? How could I let them go on living their lives while mine was shattered? So, I created a nightmare for them, a taste of the horror that took everything from me. But now I realise it’s too late for regrets.

I know I’ve gone too far and can’t undo what I’ve done. I didn’t want you to be part of this madness, Y/N. You deserve better than this chaos.

You are my light in the darkness, and I can’t bear to lose you too. I just needed time to figure things out, to find a way to make things right.

Please forgive me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Love,

Josh.

You read the letter twice, each word slicing through you like ice. Shock gives way to anger, fear, and overwhelming sadness. Josh’s intentions may have stemmed from a place of love, but his actions were reckless and dangerous. He had crossed a line, dragging you into the depths of his madness.

Setting the letter aside, you wrap the jacket tighter around yourself, feeling its weight as if it holds pieces of him—his warmth, scent, and shared memories. But now, those memories feel tainted, overshadowed by what he’s done.

You pace the small cabin, anxiety bubbling up as the reality of your situation sinks in. You’re alone on Blackwood Mountain, isolated from the world, and he’s somewhere out there—lost in his turmoil.

Your heart races as you wonder: How far has he gone? You approach the window, peering into the darkened woods surrounding the cabin. The trees loom like sentinels, shadows creeping ominously in the dying light.

You can’t just wait here. You have to find him. You have to make him see reason, to pull him back from the brink before he loses himself entirely to the darkness. Gathering your resolve, you take a deep breath, trying to steady your shaking hands.

With newfound determination, you head toward the door, knowing you must find Josh and confront him about his choices—before it’s too late.

You take a deep breath, heart pounding as you inch toward the cabin door. The stillness of the night is oppressive, a suffocating blanket that wraps around you, making every instinct scream for you to turn back. But you push through, determined to find Josh, to confront him about the madness he has unleashed.

As you swing the door open, the icy air hits you, and the moonlight spills into the cabin, illuminating the expanse of snow-covered ground outside. You step out, every nerve in your body on high alert. The forest looms around you, shadows twisting in the pale light.

Suddenly, a chilling howl echoes through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. You freeze, straining to see through the darkness. That’s when you glimpse it—a creature, grotesque and otherworldly, its long limbs twisted and elongated, eyes glowing like embers in the night.

Panic surges through you, an instinctual fight-or-flight response kicking in as the creature turns its head, locking its eyes on you. In that moment, all rational thought vanishes. You stumble backward, heart racing, and slam the door shut behind you. Adrenaline propels you into the small cabin as you dart toward the nearest hiding place—the bed.

You drop to the floor and scramble beneath it, your breath quick and shallow. The world around you blurs into a haze of terror, and you press your back against the wooden frame, curling into a ball as the sound of the monster’s snarling fills your ears. You feel utterly powerless, trapped in the darkness of your hiding place, time stretching endlessly as the creature stalks outside.

Hours pass, each minute feeling like an eternity. The monster’s guttural growls echo through the night, haunting you with the promise of violence. You clutch the blanket around you, trying to drown out the sound, waiting for dawn with a desperation that gnaws at your insides.

Finally, a faint light seeps through the cracks in the cabin walls, signalling the arrival of dawn. You let out a shaky breath, still too terrified to move. But just as the first rays of sunlight touch the ground, a loud explosion rips through the silence. The ground shakes, and the monster’s screams suddenly fall silent.

You stay hidden, frozen in place, unable to comprehend what happened. The panic tightens around you, and even though the creature is gone, you can’t bring yourself to leave the safety of your hiding spot. What if it comes back? What if there are more?

The hours go on, and the sun climbs higher in the sky. You hear distant voices, the sound of people calling out, but fear keeps you rooted beneath the bed. You don’t want to face the outside world after what you’ve just seen.

Finally, the door creaks open, and you hold your breath, heart racing as footsteps approach. “Y/N?” a voice calls out, but it feels distant, like a dream. “Are you in here?”

Others join the voice, and the panic swirling inside you melts into a fragile hope. You wait, listening as they search the cabin, calling your name, until one of them finally crouches down beside the bed.

“There you are,” It’s a search team member, their face a mix of relief and concern. “You’re safe now. Come on out.”

With trembling limbs, you crawl out from your hiding spot, feeling the sun on your face for the first time since the nightmare began. You’re enveloped in the warmth of a rescue team member, the world flooding back into focus, but your mind is still reeling.

“Where’s Josh?” you ask, your voice shaky.

“We’ll take you to him,” the rescuer replies, helping you to your feet. “He was found in the mines. He’s hurt, but he’s alive.”

“The mines? What mines?” You ask the rescuer, beyond confused.

“Your friend ended up down the mines. All of your other friends are saying some monster attacked them,” the rescuer replies.

“I saw it, too,” You whisper.

The relief floods through you, but it’s tinged with a deep sense of foreboding. It was real; the monster was real. You weren’t going crazy.

As you’re escorted back through the snow, the reality of the night’s horrors sinks in. You catch glimpses of the chaos left behind—the aftermath of the explosion, the remnants of the monsters. When you finally reach the makeshift medical station set up for the search team, you scan the area, your heart racing as you spot Josh sitting on a cot, looking dishevelled and lost. He’s staring blankly ahead, his eyes hollow, as if he’s not truly present.

“Josh!” you call, your heart in your throat as you rush forward.

He snaps his gaze to you, confusion clouding his expression, and for a moment, you fear he won’t recognise you. “Y/N?” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me! I’m okay!” you reply, urgency threading through your words as you reach him.

He stands abruptly, eyes wide as he takes a few hesitant steps toward you, as if afraid you might vanish again. “I thought… I thought I lost you,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into an embrace that feels both desperate and protective.

“I was so scared, Josh,” you admit, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I saw this thing, and it was right outside the cabin. I thought I’d never get out.”

His grip tightens around you, his breath hitching as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “I was worried about you. I thought they’d get you. I’m so sorry for leaving you there.”

“You saved my life by leaving me there. I had a place to hide,” You tell him, giving him a scared smile.

His eyes search yours, wild and frantic. “Are you here, or is it all in my head? I’ve been in this hell for so long, I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

“I’m real, Josh,” you assure him, cupping his face in your hands. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

As the weight of your words settles between you, you see a flicker of clarity return to his gaze. “You have no idea how much that means to me,” he breathes, and without warning, he scoops you up into his arms, spinning you around as relief washes over him.

“Josh!” you exclaim, laughing and crying at once, overwhelmed by the mixed emotions. “Put me down!”

But he holds you tightly, his expression fierce with affection. “No, I won’t let you go. Not again. I was so worried about you and those things out there. I can’t— I can’t lose you like I lost them.”

You pull back from the embrace, searching Josh's eyes for anything that reflects the boy you knew before this nightmare began. “What about everyone else?” you ask, your voice steady despite the uncertainty. “What happened with the others?”

His expression darkens, the shadows of grief and guilt flickering across his features. “They tied me up after I confronted them,” he admits, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I was… This thing took me, and my sisters were there and—“

You nod slowly, recalling Josh’s note, where he dressed up as a killer to scare his friends during a camping trip. “Josh, they’re gone. They couldn’t have been there,” you remind him gently.

“No, Hannah was there. She was one of those things,” he replies, his voice thick with remorse. “It’s my fault that everyone is here… I could’ve gotten everyone killed.”

“Josh, you didn’t know,” you reassure him, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “What happened with those monsters wasn’t your fault. How were you supposed to know what would happen?”

He looks away, his gaze distant, haunted by the memories. “It’s still my fault. I led everyone here. When I saw those things… I was terrified and left you all alone to face them.”

“You didn’t leave me behind on purpose. You thought you were protecting me,” you say softly, trying to keep his gaze locked onto yours. “But you need to understand that you need help, Josh. I know what you did was because you’re grieving, but seriously… drugging me? You could have just told me what you were doing. I understand why you did it.”

He nods, tears pooling in his eyes. “I know. I’m so lost right now. I can’t even tell what’s real anymore. I’m scared that if I close my eyes, I’ll see them again—my sisters, the monsters. It’s all jumbled in my head.”

“Then we’ll get through this together,” you assure him, your voice strong. “But you have to let people in. You need to talk to someone who can help.”

Just then, a medical team approaches, their expressions severe but sympathetic. “Josh, Y/N,” one of the paramedics says, his voice steady. “We need to take you both for a check-up. It’s protocol after what you’ve been through.”

You nod, your heart racing as you follow Josh’s lead toward the makeshift medical station. “Do you think the others will be okay?” you ask him, glancing back at the chaos surrounding you—the remnants of the explosion, the hushed voices of searchers, and the growing concern etched into their faces.

“I hope so,” he replies, his voice wavering. “But I don’t know. I was down in the mines for so long. I don’t even know if they knew I was gone.”

As the medical team checks you both over, the atmosphere shifts slightly, tinged with relief and anxiety. They examine your injuries and ensure you’re both stable, then refer you to a hospital for a more thorough check-up. After an eternity of tests and questions, you finally get the green light to leave.

“Hey,” Josh says as you both stand outside the hospital, the sunlight peeking through the trees. “You okay?”

“I think so,” you reply, giving him a tentative smile. “Just… still processing everything.”

He nods, his expression solemn but determined. “I just called a taxi… do you wanna return to mine?”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you agree, feeling a slight weight lift as you follow him. The drive is quiet, each of you lost in thought, but the familiar contours of his neighbourhood provide a strange sense of comfort.

When you finally reach Josh’s home, he hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the knob. “Are you sure you want to come in? I understand if you changed your mind.”

“I want to be here,” you say, your heart pounding as you step closer.

He nods, opening the door and stepping inside, the familiar scent of home washing over you. As he closes the door behind you, the world's weight outside feels slightly lighter, if only for a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about many things,” he says quietly as you sit on the couch. “About the prank and my sisters and how I could have responded to everything better.”

He sits beside you, leaning against the couch as he stares at the floor. “But I just don’t know how to move forward. Everything feels so twisted and wrong.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” you promise, reaching for his hand and intertwining your fingers. “One step at a time.”

Josh looks up, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. “Thank you, Y/N. For being here. I don’t deserve it, but it means everything to me.”

“You deserve it,” you insist, squeezing his hand. “We all deserve a second chance.”

The two of you sit in comfortable silence, and while the shadows of the past still loom over you, the warmth of each other’s presence offers a flicker of light in the darkness.

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across Josh’s living room. The chaos of the past few days still lingered in the air, but it felt different here—more intimate and safe. As you sat on the couch, your fingers intertwined with Josh’s, you couldn’t help but glance around at the familiar yet altered space.

“I can’t believe you wore those ugly overalls last night,” you teased, breaking the silence. “They made you look like a redneck farmer.”

Josh chuckled, his mood lifting slightly as he recalled the memory. “Hey, they were fashionable! At least for a psycho prank gone wrong,” he replied, a smirk on his lips.

“Fashionable? Really?” You grinned at him, teasingly nudging his shoulder.

“Okay, fair enough. But I thought the whole ‘creepy psycho in overalls’ thing was semi-accurate for a crazed killer,” he defended, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a smile.

“It was not giving psycho killer,” You laugh, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. As you both shared a moment of laughter, Josh’s playful demeanour took on a different edge. He leaned in closer, mischief sparking in his eyes. “You know, you might think you know what a psycho looks like,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “but I could show you what it looks like.”

Before you could fully process his words, he playfully reached for your neck, his fingers wrapping gently around it, creating a tension that sent shivers down your spine. “Just a little squeeze,” he whispered, a smirk on his lips.

Your heart raced, caught between the thrill of his teasing and the underlying intensity in his gaze. “Josh…,” you breathed, half-laughing, half-breathless, the playful edge of his words tinged with something more profound.

As you gazed into his eyes, a strange heat surged through you, an undeniable thrill that coursed through your veins. You found yourself leaning slightly into his grip, an instinctual reaction that did not go unnoticed. A flicker of realisation crossed Josh's face—a mix of surprise and intrigue.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave, the teasing lilt now laced with something more intense. The corner of his mouth curled into a knowing smirk as he subtly tightened his grip just enough to draw a soft gasp from you.

Your heart raced, and the realisation hit you hard. The thrill of danger mingled with an unexpected desire, and you couldn’t deny the rush it gave you. “Maybe I do,” you admitted your voice barely above a whisper, challenging him even as your breath hitched.

Josh’s eyes darkened, a spark of excitement igniting between you. “You’re going to have to be careful with that,” he murmured, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You never know how far I’ll take it.”

Josh leaned in and kissed your neck, his tongue tracing the curve of your jaw and sending shivers down your spine. His hands found their way to your body, touching you in all the right places and sending more shivers through you. He sucked on your neck, his teeth lightly grazing your skin and making you moan softly.

His eyes bore into yours, dark and intense, as he slowly lowered himself to his knees before you. The atmosphere around you seemed to fade away; the only sounds now were the rustle of leaves and the distant call of wind, all background noise to the thrumming tension between you two.

"Lie back," he commanded softly, but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice. You obeyed without hesitation, your heart pounding as you stretched out on the soft, mossy ground. The coolness of the earth seeped into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat building inside you.

Josh positioned himself between your legs, his gaze never leaving yours. He ran his hands up your thighs, his touch firm yet deliberate, sending electric jolts through your body. A predatory smile spread across his lips as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your inner thighs.

He began with gentle kisses, trailing them up your thighs, each one sending delicious tingles through your core. His fingers moved expertly, tracing patterns on your sensitive skin, teasing you with their nearness but not entirely granting you the relief you craved. He knew exactly how to build the anticipation and keep you on the edge.

Josh's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he pulled your leggings off, revealing you clad in your panties. He pulls them to the side, gently running his fingertips above your hole, admiring the shine his actions elicit.

He lowers his face slowly, wrapping his lips around your clit, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub with expert precision. You quietly cried out, the sensation overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain. He worked you with relentless intensity, his mouth and tongue creating a symphony of sensations that left you breathless.

"Fuck, Josh," you moaned, your fingers digging into the moss beneath you. "That feels so good."

He didn't respond verbally, but his actions spoke volumes. His fingers joined the assault, slipping inside you with ease, filling you just as thoroughly as his mouth was devouring you. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge, the orgasm building like a tidal wave within you.

But just as you were about to crest, he pulled back, his fingers retreating from your aching pussy. You whimpered in protest, your body trembling with need. "No, please," you begged, your voice raw with desperation.

"Not yet," he said, his voice a deep growl. He kissed his way up your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When he reached your neck, he bit down gently, a sharp bite that made you gasp. "I'm going to make you wait, make you ache for it," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin.

His hand returned to your centre, his fingers sliding back inside you with a needy groan. He played you like an instrument, his touch both rough and tender, pushing you right to the brink but never allowing you to fall over. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice dripping with approval. "So desperate, so needy. I love it."

The humiliation, mixed with the arousal fueling your desire even further. "Josh, please," you pleaded, your voice breaking.

"Not yet," he growled, pulling his fingers free again. "We're not done here."

He shifted position, his mouth descending on your clit again, but this time with a ferocity that left you gasping for breath. His tongue worked relentlessly, driving you mad with need, while his fingers teased your entrance. The combination was maddening, a whirlwind of sensations that had you repeatedly crying out his name.

"Please, Josh, let me come," you begged, your body tensing as the orgasm loomed large.

"Go ahead," he challenged, his tongue flicking over your clit in rapid, staccato bursts.

You couldn't hold back any longer. With a cry of release, you came hard, your body convulsing beneath him as waves of ecstasy washed over you. He didn't stop, his mouth and fingers working in unison to draw out every last drop of your climax until you were left quivering and spent, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.

The first orgasm started to wash over you like a wave in the ocean, and you let out a soft moan. But Josh didn't stop. He didn't stop sucking your clit.

Josh’s lips lingered on your clit, his tongue flicking rhythmically as he drove you deeper into a haze of pleasure and pain. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave crashing against your senses, leaving you breathless and desperate for release. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he devoured you with relentless intensity.

“Josh, please… I can’t…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with a mixture of pleading and ecstasy. Your hands moved instinctively to push him away, but his grip only tightened, his eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding ferocity that sent shivers down your spine.

His tongue pressed harder, circling your clit with expert precision, drawing out every gasp and moan from deep within you. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on torture, each stroke of his tongue sending electric shocks through your body.

With one final flick of his tongue, he drew out a strangled cry from your throat, the orgasm hovering just out of reach. Your body trembled with the effort of holding back, every muscle straining against the overwhelming pleasure.

You watched as his eyes darkened with lust, the predator in him coming to the surface as he took what he wanted from you.

His mouth never leaves your clit, sucking harder, his teeth grazing lightly against your sensitive nub, the sharp sting mixing with the pleasure to create a heady cocktail of sensations.

You cried out as the orgasm tore through you, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you gasping for breath. Your legs shook uncontrollably, your muscles spasming as the aftershocks rippled.

Josh didn’t stop. He kept his mouth locked onto your clit, milking every ounce of pleasure from your shuddering form. You could feel your juices flowing, coating his chin and dripping onto your thighs, a sticky testament to your surrender.

Your mind reeled, the sheer intensity of the experience pushing you to the edge of sanity. But there was no escaping him, no way to deny the primal pull of his dominance. You found yourself arching against him, desperate for more, even as your body screamed for rest.

“Josh… please… too much…” you moaned, your voice barely coherent. The overstimulation was becoming too much, the constant barrage of pleasure threatening to overwhelm you completely.

And then he was there again, his tongue finding your clit once more, the pressure perfect as he guided you toward another peak. Each flick of his tongue, each suck of his lips, brought you closer to the edge until you were teetering on the brink again, helpless to resist.

With a strangled cry, you came again, your body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you like wildfire. Your pussy clenched around his tongue, pulsing with the force of your release.

But Josh wasn’t satisfied with just three. He kept going, his mouth relentless as he pushed you toward yet another orgasm. The world narrowed down to the sensation of his mouth, the taste of your arousal, and the sound of your cries filling the air.

Your mind blanked, lost in the sea of pleasure he had created. All thought fled as you obeyed, riding the wave of sensation until you were thrown into another explosive orgasm. Your body jerked and twitched, your cries echoing through the room as you shattered yet again.

Your vision blurred, your body trembling with exhaustion and pleasure. You could feel the sticky mess of your juices coating his face, dripping down onto your thighs.

“Josh… please… no more…” you begged, your voice weak and strained. The constant onslaught of pleasure had left you drained, every muscle quivering with the aftermath of your multiple climaxes.

Before you could protest, his mouth was back on your clit, his tongue flicking mercilessly as he drove you toward yet another orgasm. The sensation was almost too much, the sheer intensity of it pushing you to the edge of comprehension.

“Josh… please… stop…” you pleaded, your voice breaking as you reached the limit of your endurance. The overstimulation was too much, the constant barrage of pleasure threatening to break you apart completely.

But Josh was relentless. He held your gaze as he drove you to the edge, his eyes burning with a dark fire that refused to be quenched.

“Okay,” Josh says, pulling his mouth away from you. He gets off his knees, stands up and walks to the other side of the room, sitting on a single-person couch.

“Why are you sitting there?” You ask him, your voice weak and quiet.

“You told me to stop, so I did. If you can’t handle me, I’m happy to let you rest,” He teases, defiantly sitting with his arms crossed. You could tell he was playing games with you, wanting to bring you to the edge and beyond over and over again.

He’s still sitting there, and you’re still lying on the couch. You haven’t moved, not even a little bit. Your whole body is quivering from the overstimulation and pleasure he put you through. And now he’s sitting on the other side of the room, teasing you and playing games with your body.

“I didn’t want you to stop,” You say, finally finding the energy to speak.

“Then why did you tell me to stop?” He asks, looking at you with a raised brow.

“I… I… I don’t know,” You whimper.

“Are you sure you’re ready for more?” He asks, standing up now and walking back to the couch.

“I’m sure,” You say. You’re begging to have him inside of you. You’re begging for more. You’re begging for anything and everything he’ll give you.

He reaches out and grabs your thighs, pulling you to the edge of the bed and standing in front of you. Your legs fall to the sides as he bends down to kiss you, his hand trailing down your thigh to your pussy.

He pushes two fingers in you, curling them upwards and rubbing against your g-spot. You feel yourself building up to another climax that’s different from the others.

“Josh,” You moan.

“Yes, baby,” He replies.

“You’re going to make me cum again,” You say to him.

“That’s the plan,” He says, his voice soft as he speaks.

You feel the wave wash over you, building up and then letting go. You feel a flood of fluid flowing from your pussy as the climax washes over you, making Josh’s fingers slide out of you with extreme ease.

“Fuck, Y/N,” He whispers. He pulls his fingers out and smears the juices around his mouth and lips, tasting you and swallowing the liquid gold down his throat.

He pulls your legs towards him, spreading you apart so he can fit his body between them. He leans down and kisses you again, your juices still on his lips and tongue. Josh removes his clothing, displaying his toned body and thick cock.

“Come here, Y/N,” He says, sitting down and patting his thighs. He lifts you slightly, sitting you in his lap, making you straddle his cock with your legs. He slides his cock into your pussy and starts to bounce you up and down on his lap.

You lean forward and kiss him, feeling another orgasm building in your lower belly, but it’s different from the other ones, your tolerance to orgasms building up higher than you thought possible.

“Oh god,” You say. “Oh my god.”

“Just a little longer,” He says. Your eyes widen, and your mouth opens in a silent scream as you come again.

“Good girl,” He says. He smiles at you and starts to rub your back. “I want to see you cum more.”

You’re so weak you can barely hold yourself up, but that doesn’t stop him. He holds you up for you, fucking you hard and deep. You feel another climax coming on and let out a loud moan as it hits you. Josh grunts in your ear.

“Cum for me,” He says. “Cum all over my cock.”

You feel the heat wash over you, and you clench around him. He picks up the pace, fucking you so hard your juices are flowing down his cock and onto his lap. You feel like you’ve cummed too much that you can’t take anymore.

But he doesn’t care. He just keeps going, fucking you harder and more profound than you thought possible. He’s still holding you up, not letting you rest.

“Cum again,” He grunts. “Cum for me.”

You do as he says, cumming again and clenching around his cock. His breathing gets faster and heavier.

Josh’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he thrust more profoundly and more complexly. The rough, dominant manner in which he was taking you sent a thrill through your body, making your skin tingle with anticipation. His breath was hot against your ear, his voice low and commanding. “You’re mine,” he growled, each word punctuated by another powerful thrust. “And I’m going to fill you up so good, you’ll feel me for days.”

Your body responded involuntarily, clenching around him as he continued to pump into you. The sensation was overwhelming, waves of pleasure crashing over you with each of his movements. You could feel the strain in your muscles, the way your legs trembled slightly from the intensity of it all. Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps, and you could hear the slick sounds of your bodies sliding together, mingling with the occasional grunt or moan that escaped Josh’s lips.

He captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading your mouth as forcefully as he invaded your body. His taste, mixed with the salty sweat of exertion, was intoxicating. You could feel his hardness pressing against the walls of your pussy, every part of his cock rubbing against you in just the right way to drive you wild.

The smell of sex filled the air, a heady mix of sweat, arousal, and the earthy scent of the forest. It was intoxicating, making your head swim with desire. The sound of your moans and his grunts echoed around you, the noises blending into a symphony of pleasure.

Josh’s pace began to change, becoming more erratic as his control started slipping. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles bunched and flexed with each movement. His thrusts became less controlled, more primal, as he drove himself into you with abandon.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his voice strained. “So tight, so wet… I can’t hold back much longer.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the knowledge that he was so close to releasing sending a fresh wave of excitement through you.

“Do it, Josh,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. “Fill me up… please.”

“I’m cumming,” He grunts out. He leans back on the couch and pulls you down onto his cock, fucking you from beneath. He feels so good. Your muscles are too weak to hold yourself up, so he does it for you, pulling you up and down on him.

He let out a guttural groan, his body tensing as he began to come undone. With one final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his hips slamming against yours as he came hard. You could feel the warmth of his release filling you, his cum flooding your insides as he held you tightly, his grip almost painfully strong on your hips.

The sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of being full, of having him inside you in such a possessive, consuming way. You could feel every pulse of his orgasm, the way his cock twitched and throbbed within you. The heat of his seed spread through you, making you gasp at the intensity of it all.

Josh’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving as he continued to hold you down, his body pressed tightly against yours. You could feel the sweat dripping from his brow and his heart pounding against your back. The aftermath of their intense coupling left you both breathless, the world seeming to spin around you.

“God, that was… incredible,” Josh murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. He loosened his grip on your hips slightly but still kept you pinned beneath him, unwilling to let you go just yet. “You took that so well… so perfectly.”

You could feel the remnants of his orgasm still pulsing inside you, the warm, sticky sensation making you squirm slightly. The feeling of being filled, of having him so deep within you, was intoxicating. You wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped in his arms, connected to him in the most intimate way possible.

“Josh…” you whispered, your voice shaky with emotion. “That was…”

“Shh,” he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips. “Just enjoy it while you can. I’ll be filling you up again by the end of tonight.”

His words sent a thrill through you, the promise of more making your heart race. You could feel the beginnings of arousal stirring within you again, the aftershocks of their previous climax still lingering.

He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you tight. You lean back into his embrace and let his body envelop you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I never want this to end,” he says.

“I don’t either,” You reply.

He kisses the top of your head again, and you both relax, basking in each other’s presence. You’re so happy like you’ve never been happier in your life. You know this is where you’re meant to be, and you’ll never want it to end.

You lean back on his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the world wash over you. You know he’ll never leave your side and protect you from all harm. You love him with all your heart.

And you know he loves you, too.

#until dawn #until dawn fanfiction #josh washington #josh washington x reader #until dawn josh #josh washington smut #josh until dawn smut

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paintedwritings · 27 days ago

Text

Missing In Action

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 8.2

Summary: When Azriel doesn’t return from a mission on time, Y/n does her best to find him. (Sorry I’m no good at summaries)

Warning/Notes: Angst?????????? I don’t really know how to categorize my posts, but there is brutality and dark themes in this one (Death, kidnap etc.). So read at your own discretion, if there’s any warnings I need to add, please let me know. Hope you enjoy!!

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Time dragged slowly by, a dusting of moonlight peeking through the ornate windows that allowed for a beautiful view of Velaris. Homes and businesses alight with fae of all kinds, night had always been the best time of day to witness the beauty of Velaris. It was a view that, typically, Y/n would be in awe of, sitting in a comfortable lounge while reading her favorite romance novel and sipping a smooth chamomile draught.

A warm, calming way to spend each of her nights.

Tonight couldn’t be more different.

The room absorbed the light menacingly, devouring it whole and leaving nothing but cold, miserable darkness. The normally inviting aroma now sat heavy in her stomach, the chill of the room engraving itself into her bones. The last time she had been in here, Azriel had been with her– the first time in weeks she had allowed herself to be near him, to revel in his presence.

He had been trying to soothe her, finding her in a state of disarray from one of her more tragic reads. Tears streaming down her face, heavy breathing faltering when he reached out and tried to capture her tears with his thumbs, a task far more difficult than he had realized. If she hadn’t been so distraught, she may have noticed his incandescent gaze, and the slight tilt of his lips, as he tried desperately not to let her see his smile, looking on in wonder at a girl so emotionally fraught by fictional characters, that his shadows had woken him in the middle of the night to try and offer her comfort.

Tonight she paced the length of the room, her long silk robe chasing after her feet with each step, the uncoordinated way her body moved causing her to trip quite a few times. Her hands had run through her hair over and over again, eventually she had started pulling it out. The small pile, now clasped desperately in her hands, the only thing providing any sort of warmth to her frost-in-cased body.

Azriel was late.

He should have been home hours ago.

A few days ago, Rhys had received reports concerning dozens of Illyrian women and girls going missing in some of the smaller Illyrian camps nestled along the outskirts of the Steppes. Rhys had been especially concerned because Devlon, the War Lord of Windhaven– a larger Illyrian camp– had been the one to report the women as going missing. Ordinarily, the wretched male, who thought women belonged inside completing chores and bearing children, would never show an ounce of concern for the lives of a few women. But when women started disappearing in his camp, the man had finally decided to do some investigating, enlightening Rhys when he realized how big of an issue this had become.

The women had started disappearing three days prior to their meeting, there had been no information on their vanishings, no screams or witnesses to any acts. The camp would reawaken for their day, only to realize that family members, all women, had disappeared in groups of three sometime during the night. One group each night, nine total from Windhaven.

After the first night, Devlon had ordered even more of his men to stand guard, not that it made much difference–Illyrians were a warrior race, born and bred for fighting and protecting their kind– The added patrols and enforced curfews hadn’t changed anything, no one had seen anything. The women had been present before bed and then… poof, gone, as if they were never there at all. No bodies had been found, nothing to indicate foul-play.

Digging deeper, Devlon had somehow managed to find six other camps, small ones, that had the same issues going on, but for far longer. As far as the Inner Circle could track, the first disappearance had occurred four months prior, only one woman vanishing at a time. It seemed, the longer time went on without anyone connecting the dots, the more confident the culprits had become, eventually becoming efficient at kidnapping women in troves.

To say that Y/n’s heart felt like it had been carved out and skewered would be an understatement. How could they have not known about this? Sure, the smaller camps weren’t usually heard from all that often, only being visited on the rare occasions that something important had come up and needed to be addressed. Cassian visited all the camps, but there were so many, that sometimes it took months to get back to one’s he’s cleared. Not to mention Azriel’s spies, they did all sorts of things for the Spymaster, and she knew that he kept some in the War Camps to ensure that women were being properly trained.

But– in the past six months Azriel had been working more, with the threats of the Mortal Queens and Koschei, everyone had been working overtime, she supposed that perhaps, now had been the perfect time for these sick sadists to infiltrate, they were distracted, and had let things slip through the cracks so easily. Too easily, a menacing voice in the back of her head spat.

As Azriel’s second-in-command, a spy trained for two hundred years under his wing, she should have been more present, should have helped Cassian with his trips to the camps, she should have pushed, done something.

Y/n couldn’t stop the bile that rose to her throat, having only a moment to find the nearest potted plant before losing the contents of her stomach into the poor shrub.

Rhys had sent Cassian and Azriel to the camps immediately, the two leaving not more than thirty minutes after their meeting with Devlon had begun. She hadn’t been enlightened on the exact details of the mission, but she could make an educated guess based off of the years she’d worked with the Inner Circle. No doubt, Cassian and Azriel would split up, both men death-incarnate and capable of hitting more areas quicker, if not slowed down by having to visit one at a time. They would have had to question people, search nearby areas, look for anything that could give them some sort of lead. Devlon would stay and help in Windhaven, and Azriel and Cassian would each take three of the smaller camps, the latter traveling to the camps that had been hit first.

Cassian had come back earlier today, his face grave and sullen, but ultimately with no further information that could help with the women’s whereabouts or who had taken them. He had found out, however, that the camps he visited all had one thing in common: they all conformed to the order of having women train with little to no fuss. They were all camps that had a proactive approach to the change in the law. Devlon may have given Cassian and Rhys issues regarding the women training, but the past month, he had been on top of it, hadn’t been forcing women to complete ungodly amounts of chores before having mere minutes left for training.

Could this all stem from a group of people who truly despised the idea of women learning how to protect themselves, learning how to fight? Y/n knew they existed, had seen first hand how cruel men could be in the face of a well-trained female, someone who could put their disgusting and misogynistic views on full display for all to see.

Shaking her head, she tried to remain focused. Amren and Mor were working on the details, Nesta scrying for any information she may be able to find. Y/n had had the unfortunate task of holding down the fort at home, making sure that Nyx and the people of Velaris remained unharmed while everyone else did their best to put an end to this nightmare.

She hated having to stay behind while everyone else, all of her family, put their lives at risk, while those poor women could be injured and in need of help.

Things had really taken a turn for the worst when Cassian had returned, though, without Azriel. The Spymaster apparently never showed at their meeting location, Cassian waiting hours for him to no avail, he’d eventually reached out to Rhys, letting him know Azriel was MIA. The High Lord, worried about both of his brothers, had told Cassian to return home, that they would all reconvene to go over their next steps.

That’s where they are now. Rhys and Cassian heading the conversation, Feyre trying to soothe a devastated Nyx, the boy still too young to understand what was happening, but his instincts helping him sense the worry of those around him. Elain sat quietly in the corner, tears streaming down her beautiful face, hands clasped so tightly on her skirts the knuckles had turned white. Nesta scryed at the table, butting in every now and then with her thoughts on the conversation. Mor stood leaning over the scrying board, the space under her hands creaking as she tried to get more information from Cassian about his visits, fury a clear mask on the blonds face as she kept shooting looks over to Amren where she sat quietly at the end of the table, taking everything in.

Y/n stopped pacing, standing before the window, doing her best to calm her rushing pulse and her rapidly-growing lack of control.

Each tick of the grandfather clock seemed to be mocking her. Laughing at her each second that her friend remained missing. Somehow she had let Rhys and Feyre convince her that leaving in the middle of the night to try and find him wouldn’t do any good. Something about it being dangerous, she had stopped listening once she realized they wouldn’t allow her to go, trying to leave despite their qualms. It was only when she realized that the House of Wind agreed with them, slamming any doors she tried to go through in her face, that she had calmed herself down enough and just started panicking, instead.

Azriel always came home, he never missed check-ins or drop-offs, out of all of them, he had always been the most vigilant. So where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he contacted anyone? Not even a shadow had made itself known in the hours he’d been gone. In two hundred years, this had never happened. Azriel was her boss, her senior spy, the person she trusted most with her life, a family member she held so close to her heart, she had almost been able to convince herself he meant the same to her as all her other family members did. That somehow he didn’t hold her entire being in his hands without even knowing it. Anything to ensure the solidity of her place within his life.

He had never not contacted her if something went wrong, so where is he? Her mind screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, everything swam around her, hitting her in every direction, not a singular thought being able to finish before the next knocked it from its place.

She grabbed at her scalp again, her eyes closing as a blinding pain shot through her chest, her skull, panic clawing up her throat like a beast finally being released after years of captivity, consuming all her senses.

Someone was screaming.

She thinks it might be her.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Y/n had a secret.

One she had been trying to bury in the deepest crevice of her soul for months, to hide from her family, from him.

For years, she trained under Azriel, learning how to fight, how to lurk around corners, how to bleed into the background. He taught her how to gut a man without getting a lick of blood on her, and how to hit a moving target with so much force it knocked grown men clear off their feet.

One didn’t simply train under the terrifying Spymaster of the Night Court and not accomplish dangerous and difficult tasks. She was one of the best, good enough to be considered his second, a place amongst her family she had earned, and is grateful for.

Of course it helped that she had the ability to read and elicit emotions, an empath of sorts. She could visualize a person’s emotion and pluck it right out of them, she had been able to help people rid themselves of fears and anxieties, had been able to feed into the warming emotions that helped a person heal. On the opposite end, however, the side she honed so thoroughly, she could cut a grown man down with a simple flick of her wrist, sat a far scarier beast. One she rarely allowed to surface out of fear of falling victim to herself.

Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian had found her when she was twenty-two, beaten and left for dead on the edge of an embankment, clinging to life so loosely they hadn’t been sure she was even still alive until their fae hearing heard the faintest pulse. The roaring of the river nearly blinding them to the noise.

Rhysand hadn’t even taken a moment to consider bringing her back with them and helping her heal, allowing her safe sanctuary for however long she needed. He hadn’t expected anything from her. He was the first man to give her something without expecting anything in return.

After months of getting to know the much smaller Inner Circle and trusting Rhys enough to tell him about her abilities, he had offered her a job that she accepted with little to no other information. She could still remember the grin that had lit up her High Lord’s face, laughing about how he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her how much she’d be making. It hadn’t mattered, she’d wanted to prove herself to them, to these wonderful people who had helped her grow, and she would make the same choice over and over again.

So, when she found out about her mating bond with the Spymaster, it had complicated things. She hadn’t been surprised, she had actually thought they might be mates for long before the bond snapped. She had always felt a sense of security with Azriel, something that everyone else in her life had to earn, something that usually took months, if not years. But, with him it had always been as simple as believing him, as feeling like she knew him deep in her soul. Which, she supposed she did.

But, being Azriel’s mate complicated so many aspects of theirs and their families lives. For one, he’d been pining over Morrigan for centuries, ridiculously obvious for someone who called themselves a spymaster, but she digressed. Then, when he finally seemed to move on from her, Elain had entered the picture. Sweet, innocent Elain who liked speaking to plants and baking.

In all honesty, Y/n had mastered the art of acting like she didn’t care so effectively, that one day, Azriel stopped being her first thought in the morning, and the last one before she fell asleep. She had gained control of a beast that had run rampant for the first few decades of knowing him, something he had helped train her to do without realizing. To her, it had been worth more to keep their friendship and working relationship, than risk losing him all together because of a pitiful crush a young girl had on her mentor.

Everything had changed nine months ago, though. Apparently, she discovered, if you keep a beast chained long enough, it will eventually break free– and bite her right in the ass in the form of a mating bond.

Gods, the Mother certainly had a sense of humor.

Azriel had been sparring with Cassian the moment the bond snapped. She had found herself having to remind herself not to think about Azriel in any way other than a friend more frequently, as of late. Doing her best to avoid the male at any given moment.

So, when she noticed him in the training ring that morning, she tried to spin on her heel, intending to get as far away as possible. The absolute last thing she needed was to witness Azriel in his half-naked glory. Sweat and sunlight gleaming perfectly off of his skin, gaze alight with unfiltered arrogance as he pushed the General Commander closer and closer to the edge of the ring. His fist connected with Cassian’s face so swiftly, he had the male cursing at the crunch his nose made, doing his best to ignore the blood as it slithered down his face.

Y/n had stopped, only for a moment, but it was long enough for Azriel’s gaze to connect with hers, his eyes widening at the sight of her, the first time in weeks he had been able to get her to meet his gaze. And, unfortunately for the Spymaster and his second, that moment of distraction allowed Cassian to punch Azriel so hard he’d careened backwards, falling on his ass.

When Cassian’s fist made contact with Azriel’s face, the bond had snapped, her world completely tilting, her hand having to grasp the door’s frame to avoid falling on her ass like her mate. She had lost control of her breathing, fighting the instincts to go to him, to help him, to beat the hell out of Cassian for daring to lay a hand on her mate.

She could hear a ringing in her ears as the small golden thread had made its way from her heart to his, fighting against her hold on the door, as she did her best to keep her feet firmly planted where they were. She thought she might’ve heard her name being called, not daring to look back and see both men’s eyes on her shaking figure.

She had used her abilities then, and shoved her emotions down, down, down. She had planted them deep within her soul, far enough that she ran the risk of not being able to find them again, but it was a risk she had to take to get herself out of this moment without completely falling apart… or jumping Azriel. Or bashing Cassian’s teeth in.

For nine, agonizing months she kept this secret to herself, didn’t allow herself to think about it, held it far enough away that she had started questioning whether she imagined the entire thing.

Then she’d cross paths with the shadowsinger, something she never seemed to realize he tried so desperately to make happen, and it would all come rushing back. A cycle that kept repeating over and over again.

One that sucked the life from her each time it made a reappearance.

It didn’t matter how far she ran from her problems. They always seemed to catch up.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Her head lay on something soft, voices surrounding her on all sides as she slowly came to.

“If nothings wrong with her, why was she screaming like that? Why did she pass out?” A steel voice demanded. Rhysand.

Gods, why did her head hurt so badly?

“She had a panic attack. It overwhelmed her body so much her mind took control when she couldn’t, it’s a safety mechanism built into all of us.”

“You didn’t hear her, Madja,” That sounded like Cassian, panic clear in his voice. She groaned inwardly, she hadn’t meant to add more stress to her family’s already full plates. She tried to sit up, but her body didn’t seem to be connected to her thoughts. “Her screams were so painful, I’ve never heard anyone scream that way.”

Madja sighed, her hands roving over Y/n’s arms, a warmth encasing the places she passed, making it hard for her to stay awake.

“Y/n isn’t like the rest of you, her abilities make it harder for her to separate her emotions from those around her. She feels things ten times more than the average fae, she can’t help it–it’s a part of her gifts. She has had episodes like this in the past, but she’s usually better at containing them, keeping them to herself so as to not worry you lot.”

The silence was deafening. Murmuring that she couldn’t make out floated above her, why were they speaking so low? It made it hard to eavesdrop.

Madja told the truth, this happened more than she cared to admit. It was difficult for her to read the emotions from those around her without mixing them around with her own, sometimes feeling like an outsider in her own body. She had gotten better at it with age and practice, but when in high-stress situations like this– her mate missing– she was basically a ticking-time bomb. It also didn’t help that she had been confined in a small space with eight people feeling varying degrees of intense emotions.

If she had been thinking more clearly, not so worried about what was happening, she would have noticed the signs. Her clammy hands, the cold that seemed to bite at her skin, the headache that seemed to thicken with every passing moment… her inability to breathe properly.

Yes, this had happened so, so many times. It never got easier.

And, she had kept this information from most of her family, not wanting to worry them, or make them feel like she needed to be taken care of. She knew they wouldn’t hold it against her, but that hadn’t changed the fact that she hadn’t wanted to feel dependent on them, or as if she were taking something from them by asking for help.

Azriel had known, though.

They had traveled together for centuries, completing hundreds of stress-inducing missions together. He always helped her through them, offering soft touches and kind words as he held her through the worst of it.

She felt tears stream down her face.

“Have you found him?” She asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Blinking her eyes open, she tried to sit up, her head spinning at the motion, nausea rising once more. A hand– who she could only assume was Madja– held her firmly down, a chastisement rolling off the older fae’s tongue.

Her family seemed to hold their breath, none quite sure how to respond, how to let her down, she guessed.

Rhysand is the one who finally spoke, ever the High Lord, “Not yet, we haven’t been able to get a good reading on him, and I can't reach him via his mind, his shields are firmly in place.” He paused, contemplated his next words, “Some of us are about to head out to search–”

Y/n sat up, ignoring the roaring in her skull, the pinpricks dancing along her vision, “I’m going.”

“Absolutely not,” Mor said, her worry evident in her voice. “You’re hardly in any state to be out there searching for something we don’t even know what is.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, more venom in the words than she had ever used to speak to a member of her family. “He is out there, and I am not about to sit back and wait for information while my mate could be lying dead somewhere.”

She spoke without thinking, without realizing what she said. Standing up, shoving the dizziness down. “Madja said I’m fine physically, I can get my abilities under control for a few hours, I’m going.”

Her family all stared at her, mouths agape, the House finally seemed to agree with her, as if taking pity on the poor women. It laid leathers out for her to quickly change into.

“You know?” Cassian whispered, as she headed towards an empty room to change in, the three words stopping her in her tracks.

Rhys’s head snapped towards Cassian, disapproval written all over his features.

Oh gods.

She turned to face the male slowly, “What do you mean?” Her words were clipped, terrified of the meaning behind his words.

Cassian clamped his mouth shut, something burning beneath his gaze as he looked anywhere but at her.

“We can discuss that later, we need to hurry,” Rhys jumped in, shutting down the line of questioning entirely.

She wanted to push him, to make them tell her what they knew. But, he’s right, there were more important things going on. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.

She did not look back as she left, she’d be able to interrogate her family later, once everyone was home and safe.

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Y/n searched deep within her for that thread she had discovered all the months ago. Dug and pulled and ripped pieces of her soul away until she found where it had been buried.

The golden thread had withered, since the last time she allowed herself to feel it, it’s once strong warmth now dull and frigid as she acknowledged it.

Please, I know I was selfish and ignored the bond you blessed me with, but– but I need to find him, and I may be the only person who can. Please, let this work.

She gave a silent prayer to the Mother, hoping that her plan would work, it was the only one they had.

She gave the thread an experimental tug, a small pull that she was sure wouldn’t rip the poor, desolate thing.

She didn’t feel anything.

Desperation frosted her soul.

Her eyes shut tight in concentration, she felt Feyre take her hand, a silent offer of support. They had decided that Y/n would pull on the bond, see if she could feel where it attached on the other end. Rhysand would occupy a space in her open shields so that the two of them could winnow wherever it led.

It took a few more tugs, Y/n feeling better about how hard she could pull on the bond. The longer she acknowledged it, the more it seemed to blossom with life, with a warming sensation lighting her chest.

Surely that meant he couldn’t be dead. It would be a cold, useless cord attached to her soul if that were the case.

She felt Rhysands talons scratch lightly across her mind, as if soothing her thoughts, being in her mind allowing him full access to her worries.

Then she felt it, a feeling that caused her to jolt forwards, her body falling forwards at the sudden intrusion within her chest, Rhysand barely managing to hold her still where they stood, his hand clasping her upper arm, ready to winnow them at a moment’s notice.

She had felt a tug.

Her gaze snapped to Rhys’s, her confusion evident… Did that mean he knew? That he felt the bond, too? Was that what Cassian had meant, that Azriel already knew of their bond? Did he not want it? Y/n’s thoughts raced around her head so quickly she felt Rhys tense, trying to keep her grounded, focused on the task at hand.

Try it one more time, Y/n, I should be able to follow his lead. Rhysand spoke in her mind, his voice effectively scattering her spiraling thoughts.

Caressing that bond once again, she tried sending her fear and worry down it, hoping if he realized how worried they all were, he’d have the courage to respond again.

Then, the world turned to stark darkness, her body held tightly against Rhys’s side as he winnowed them away.

Her feet landed on cold, hard ground. A twig snapping beneath her boots as Rhysand released her, making sure she was steady on her feet.

Taking in her surroundings, blades in hand, head more clear than it had been in days, she allowed her instincts to take over, to guide her.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Blood and rot permeated the air, her nose involuntarily scrunching as it tried rejecting the acrid smell. The brutal cold soaked her skin, causing goosebumps to rise beneath her leathers, the warmth of the fur-lining doing little to keep out the bite of the harsh winters in the Illyrian Steppes.

Then her gaze locked on a large field, mounds of dirt and open holes scattered along the plot, and she swore– were those bodies lying next to some? Her hand came to cover her mouth, anger, fear, hatred all seizing within her body.

Where is Azriel?

Rhysand moved before she did, beelining for something she had yet to acknowledge. In the center of the field, the plots of unbound earth seeming to circle it–in an almost ritualistic way– stood an alter, an Illyrian male pinned to it, knifes displayed in his wings, the blades imbedded so deep in the wood that they had no trouble holding up the two hundred pound male. His cries of agony had sputtered off into small, near silent whimpers.

And stood before him, raging darkness swarming around him chaotically, stood Azriel. Truth-Teller in hand, blood covering every inch of his body.

Y/n moved without thinking, her mind chanting at her to get to him, to make sure he was okay. Why is he standing? He should be sitting down if he’d sustained major injuries. Why didn’t he seem to care that his safety mattered to his family?

Why hadn’t he told them where he was?

She tried to shut that voice out of her mind, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions, none of them knew what had happened to the Spymaster in the last three days. She could only imagine the horrors he’d witnessed. The way this would haunt him for years to come.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she and Rhys had both crossed the field, meeting Azriel in the middle.

The shadowsinger did not address them, some of his shadows coming to greet her, their usually warm nature towards her all but gone as they tried dragging her closer to their master, eating the distance between the two.

She knew Rhys had already begun speaking to his brother, trying to figure out what in the Mother’s name was going on here, how this had happened.

That didn’t stop her from stepping towards her mate, though. Making sure there were no other fae around but the three of them, and the bastard who hung before them. There were bodies scattered around, she closed her eyes briefly as she realized they were women. Illyrian women with their wings ripped off.

Vomit climbed up her throat, grief washing over her. Azriel’s head whipped in her direction, concern lining his features as he took her in, his gaze roving over her as if she had been the one missing in action for hours.

She could smell the blood on him, but thankfully, none of it seemed to belong to him. She took a breath, taking a step closer to her mate. He seemed to watch her like a hawk, as if one wrong move could send either of them fleeing in the opposite direction. Then he turned back to Rhys, a viscous look on his face.

“You brought her here?” He snarled, the first words she had heard him speak in days. Neither she or Rhys missed the accusatory tone laced with his exclamation.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, she does what she wants.”

“I’m right here,” she hissed, “And I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you overgrown bats.” Irritated at how they were speaking about her as if she were incapable of defending herself.

They ignored her. Protective instincts seeming to lead Azriel’s words into battle.

“They are kidnapping and sacrificing women, Rhysand, and you brought her here. What if I didn’t have it under control, what if she got hurt, if they got ahold of her?” He demanded, the words flying out of his mouth like acid.

Truth-Teller remained in his scarred hand, slightly worrying over the safety of their High Lord, Y/n reached for him. Her hands met his, slowly peeling his fingers off the hilt one at a time. He tensed, turning to look at their hands. His death-grip on the blade made it nearly impossible, but as she set the weapon free from its confines she slid her fingers into his. Squeezing once, twice, three times, relaxing only slightly from the feel of his skin against hers. She didn’t care that his hands were covered in blood, standing next to him had been the only time today she felt any semblance of safety.

His eyes bore into hers, an anguished expression passing over his features quickly before his usual stoic, uncaring mask slid back into place. He turned back to Rhys, still intent on fighting about her as if she weren’t right here.

She rolled her eyes, focusing rather on their surroundings, keeping an eye out just in case.

At least he hadn’t let go of her hand.

Maybe he felt just as safe holding hers, as she did holding his.

She could allow herself to pretend that he was hers in this moment, even if only briefly. His hand tightened around her, pulling her slightly closer to him.

“She’s your second, and not once, in two hundred years has she ever needed to be coddled, why would that change now? Neither you or I would ever let anything happen to her,” The High Lord gave his Spymaster a meaningful look. “I couldn’t very well tell her no when she is the reason we could find you.”

Azriel swallowed, his back rigid, his shadows were surrounding her figure, covering every inch of her skin that they could reach, almost as if to hide her from the nightmare they were living in.

Rhys stepped forward, a pleading look in his eyes, as if begging for his brother to understand. “I was worried about you, brother. She was worried about you. It’s not fair to keep her from things, dangerous as they may be, to ease your peace of mind.”

She recognized some of his words. Reminiscent of something she had once told him when he’d kept the dangerous nature of Illyrian pregnancy in high fae women from Feyre.

She smiled at her High Lord, appreciation and love for her friend– her family– shining in her eyes.

Azriel’s gaze locked on hers once more, “Stop looking at him like that,” his teeth gritting together, “Please.” He ground the last word out, as if remembering to be respectful in his out of control male instincts.

She sighed, sending an apologetic glance to Rhys before scowling at Azriel. They were definitely going to have to talk about the bond now. She groaned.

Anger remained evident on Azriel’s face throughout the exchange, but–she knew it wasn’t aimed at her or Rhys–well, maybe a little towards their High Lord– She knew that he was angry with the situation with how far out of control this had become. Before he could open his mouth and piss her off further she spoke to him softly, but firmly.

“You’ve been missing for hours, Azriel. We have all been going out of our minds with worry, trying to get in touch with you. We didn’t know if you were alive or injured or safe. If I did that to you–” she couldn’t help the catch in her voice, eyes leaving his, his stare too intense.

“You would skin me alive, ban me from missions for– for forever, probably.” Head shaking, she had to take a step back, dropping his hand in the process. Maybe the extra space would allow her to gather herself. “I would have never done that to you. Especially knowing we’re–” A tortured sentence that she cut off, too scared to say the words aloud, or to him, at all. “I certainly wouldn’t stop you from entering a situation just because it’s dangerous.”

“You don’t understand–” He shook his head, his eyes pleading.

“Then explain it to me!”

She knew they shouldn’t be doing this here, that it would be far more appropriate to have this conversation in the safety of their home. And without an audience.

But, he had terrified her today, so much so that she had thrown all disregard out of the window, she had a panic attack that she was still feeling the effects of, despite her insistence on coming. She wanted answers, and she’d be damned if she waited until he could practice his responses, or quell the demons swarming from within him that made his filter disappear.

He looked away from her, a tick in his jaw as he searched for his patience, his words.

Rhys stood back, watching the male hanging from the altar with unwavering hatred. Y/n assumed he was using his Daemati powers to see if there were any survivors as his brows pinched in concentration, sweat lining his face. Trying to give them a bit of privacy.

“I am not upset that you are here because I don’t think you can protect yourself. I am not even upset that you are here, I know you can take down any threat that so much as breathes in your direction.” He took a long, dragging breath, his hands tightening at his sides. She could see how desperately he searched for what to say, the male wasn’t exactly known for explaining himself or his feelings.

“But, my brother who knows what you mean to me,” A sharp look pointed towards said brother, “who is worried about my safety, my life, didn’t stop to consider what would happen to me if anything were to happen to you,” he shook his head disbelievingly, landing softly against yours.

Understanding flashed across both Y/n and Rhysand’s faces, the latter no longer looking at his brother with irritation, but rather empathy. If anyone knew the struggles of mate bond, it would be him.

“Okay,” she said softly, a silent acceptance of his anger. She clasped his hands with hers, her eyes relaying that they would talk more about this later, when they weren’t surrounded by death.

Azriel bowed his head, a submission that signified his understanding of what she meant. His apology. She could feel his guilt, his sorrow for how the day had turned out. She tried to understand his thought process, tried to understand that he had probably been so caught up in putting an end to this and finding information out, that he hadn’t realized how much time had passed, hadn’t even thought his family may be worried for his safety.

Her eye twitched, just slightly. He never seemed to realize what his absence did to those who cared about him, always believing he was expendable, that his fate didn’t matter. It made her sick.

Finally offering an explanation, he loosened a breath, hair falling forward. His chin dipped, shame coating his features as he whispered, in a broken voice, “they’re all dead.” A despairing agreement from Rhys, the only response.

Y/n’s eyes shut tightly, her body tensing as what she already feared became a reality.

“They ripped their wings off in a sacrificial ceremony to the old pagan deities. Sixty-seven Illyrian women and girls, slaughtered because of these sadistic occultists,” he snarled the last words, aiming them towards the male that hung loosely before them, his breaths becoming slower and shallower the more time that passed.

So low that if they hadn’t had fae hearing they never would have been able to decipher his words, he spoke, “Our Gods need to feed just as yours do.” A terrifying, wet sounding laugh bubbling out of his throat.

Horror spilled into her, her fingers flexing against her own blades, willing her to carve this sorry excuse of a male to pieces and feed them to the monster who lived in the pit of the library.

Instead, she settled for eating his fear. She ignored the disapproving sound coming from Azriel as she took a step closer, wrapping her power around the fear the Spymaster had brought forth in this disgusting fae. She stroked and exploited that feeling, heightening it so abruptly that the front of his pants became coated in piss as he trembled. She watched as life began draining from his eyes, the strands of his hair rotting into a blistering white color as she ripped every happy and pleasant emotion from his being. Leaving him with nothing but a cold empty shell of fear, guilt, shame, hatred, and disgust. She wanted this male to die more than she had ever wanted anything, how dare he play God, taking these women from the safety of their homes and then justify their deaths with his religious fanaticism bullshit. She wanted to be the last thing he saw, pride taking over as he realized that he would meet his end at the hands of a woman, not the two males standing at attention behind her.

He began thrashing, cursing her until he finally ran out of breath.

“We need to get the others, we have a long day ahead of us.” Rhys said softly, anger behind his violet eyes for what his people had endured right under his thumb.

They would need to identify the women, and then return their remains to their families, set up proper barriels and commence funerals for each and every one.

Things would need to change, protocols put in place, and Y/n wanted to be leading those changes, wanted to be the one to ensure the safety of women within the Illyrian race, they had suffered for far too long at the hands of men. And, Y/n would do anything to ensure that something like this never happens again.

Rhys met her gaze, nodding his head in understanding and agreement. They would figure the details out later.

Dawn crested over the mountain side, the early morning rays of light making the devastation of this place all the more noticeable. It was then she noticed the mass grave set to the south of the field, it wasn’t filled with bodies, though.

No.

It was filled with wings.

✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧

Two weeks had passed since that day in the Illyrian Mountains.

Days and nights blending together in a blur as the Inner Circle worked hard to smoothly put everything back in order. At least, as much as they were able to. Massacres like this weren’t easy to fix, especially when it came to reassuring their people that they were safe and could rely on the court officials who had let them down in so many ways.

Y/n had been so busy she hadn’t had a chance to see Azriel much the past few weeks, the spymaster busy with his own tasks for rebuilding. He and Cassian had been responsible for tracking down any members that hadn’t been present the night Azriel had found the women–using information he’d fileted out of the Illyrian male he’d kept alive.

He’d explained how he came to be in that clearing to them once he returned home, a dark, haunted look lingering behind his hazel eyes.

It had taken a day and a half for Azriel to find where the women had been taken. Following a lead from one of the young Illyrian women in one of the smaller camps. Her sister had gone missing along with two other women a few weeks prior to the Spymaster’s arrival. They had been playing in the woods when the young girl lost track of her sister, only to find her in a dazed state, a strange symbol drawn on the back of her neck in what looked like blood. Not able to get any information from her, the young women had made their way home. The next morning she had awoken to her mother’s frantic search for her eldest daughter.

The young girl had drawn the symbol for Azriel, she’d done her best to remember it after the weeks that had passed. His shadows scouring nearby areas for anything that resembled the symbol. They had come across the altar, calling for Azriel in an agitated state.

He hadn’t realized what he’d stumbled upon before he’d had to take action. He hadn’t had time to reach out to Cassian, making the decision to continue on alone, afraid that any time wasted would lead to more devastation. When he arrived, most of the women had already been killed. But, six or seven still remained, barely breathing from the days of torture they’d endured. Once the men responsible had realized the Spymaster of the Night Court had found them, they began slaughtering the remaining women ruthlessly, trying to stop any of them from getting out alive.

Az had killed seven of the men, ending their miserable lives too swiftly for his liking, but he had managed to keep one of them alive long enough to question him. Thoroughly. That was when Rhys and Y/n had found him.

She knew he blamed himself for the women who had died once he arrived, that their screams haunted him in the night. She had been swarmed by nightmares the past few weeks, a mix of his and her own. Unable to escape the hell that her subconscious locked her into each time the moon came out.

She hadn’t gotten much sleep the past fourteen days.

After six days of following leads and tracking the men down, both the Commander and Spymaster were positive that they had captured all of those who remained, now wasting space in the latter’s dungeons beneath the Hewn City where she had no doubt they’d receive far worse treatment than they’d ever been able to deal out.

Going over new laws and ordinances that Rhys, Feyre, Amren, and Y/n had worked religiously on the past few weeks, the war camps finally seemed to be finding their rhythm again, daily life going on as it once had.

They still had a lot of work to do, but they were making progress, and they had to take what victories they could, no matter how little.

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More weeks passed by, some so quickly she hardly noticed the growing chasm in her chest. Others passed slowly, as if her life were passing by her in slow motion, waving as it went. Leaving her behind without so much as a second glance.

Initially, she and Azriel hadn’t seen or spoken to each other because of how busy they’d been. But, work had slowed down marginally, allowing for the Inner Circle to breathe a little more freely, and Azriel still avoided her like she had the Illyrian flu.

If she passed him in the hallways he quickly dipped into his shadows before she could call out to him, he avoided her regular training times all together, and did his best to go on solo missions, claiming to Rhys he needed to remain focused.

His behavior was really starting to get on her nerves.

If he didn’t want this bond, then, as much as it would break her heart, she’d rather have him suck it up and just tell her. Dragging out a brutal crushing of souls just seemed cruel and unnecessary.

Stuck in some never ending limbo that she couldn’t seem to find the way out of. She’d tried tugging on the bond, only to be met with a cold, bitter resistance.

She still had no idea how long he’d known about it for, or how he’d found out, or why instead of telling her, he had told Rhysand and Cassian.

It’s not as if she were mad at him, she had kept the bond a secret, too. But, she had done it out of fear of losing someone who had never once shown romantic interest in her. She had done it out of fear of disrupting her family’s dynamic so wholly, they may never be the same.

She had always wanted the bond with Azriel. She would take the scraps off his plate if it was all he ever offered to her. There just hadn’t been a world in which she could imagine him ever loving her the way she loved him.

Now all of her fears were coming true the longer he avoided her. Their friendship might as well be in the can, he hadn’t spoken to her for weeks, and even before then there had only been a few times over the past nine months they’d interacted normally.

And, well, that had been her fault.

Y/n halted in her path to the library, stopping so swiftly, air kissed her cheeks and hair in a windowless hallway.

Azriel had only been avoiding her for five weeks. Before he had left for the Illyrian Mountains, he had always been around, chasing after her shadow in the light of day, looking for her in the crowds of people, always making it difficult for her to go more than a day without having some sort of contact with him.

He had wanted to be around her despite what, she now realized, was an infuriatingly annoying dance of avoidance she had subjected him to for months?

Gods, what was wrong with her? Who handles adult situations that way? How could she possibly have felt any justification in her anger towards him. He was only doing what she had done, and it had been for a significantly shorter amount of time. If anything, she deserved this.

Did he think that she hadn’t told him about the bond because she didn’t want it? Had he known about the bond for months like her, trying to figure out if it had snapped for her yet? Was he avoiding her because he thought it was what she wanted?

No, no, no, no.

That sounded so much like something Azriel would do that she physically cringed as the thought thundered across her mind.

She needed to fix this. She had to track down the Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the most elusive fae alive, and keep him from slipping from her grasp.

Thankfully, Y/n had been trained by the best.

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar fanfic #cassian acotar #rhysand

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marsprincess889 · 6 months ago

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The differences between women of the three Venus nakshatras:

If you're one of them, I suggest you read them all, not just yours. Most will read Bharani first, then P. Phalguni and lastly P. Ashadha, but a more interesting order would be P. Phalguni-P. Ashadha-Bharani.

Bharani:

The birth of Venus_ the intense and transformative place that determines the journey.

The most passive energetically, perhaps the most visibly defensive. Focused on self-preservation, on deeper causes of their desires, wants, needs, attachments and love, and protective of their energy while relentlessly using it to get "what they want". More compassionate then Purva Phalguni, for example.

The themes of Bharani are physical creation, preservation and decay, along with the overarching rules or "mysteries" behind beauty, desire, attachments and love. Since it's Venus channeled personally, and connected to the sign of Aries/the active manifestation of Mars and the first house, it IS Venus, and so it lays the foundation for the other two. What that means is that one of its main concerns is secrecy and gatekeeping necessary for cultivation of everything that Venus represents, more so than other Venusian nakshatras.

It's also the only one that is Outcaste(Mleccha), which gives it enormous power and energy free of conventions. There is also en extreme sensitivity here that is not present in the other two. There's an awareness of energy and the core essence of everything that leads to the understanding or embodyment of "the ultimate", whatever that is.

Bharani women are embodyments of mother nature. They seek someone who can give them exactly what they want and need and nothing else. There is definitely a broad worldview that is naturally deep in them_ Bharani is an elephant yoni nakshatra, it has deep and profound memory, and some consider it the last nakshatra (most consider its yoni consort_ Revati as the last nakshatra, so that's some great insight into Elephant yonis). Despite this broad and deep view, Bharani women have a determination and a drive that can translate into an intensity with a "one track mind". Intensity and depth is in them almost always.

Definitely have the potential to be spiritual, because of a love for depth and an understanding of purity. Their yoni consort_ Revati is perhaps the most spiritual nakshatra, connected with the theme of "Godhood". Bharani's spirituality can be fused with romantic or sexual love and manifest as fierce devotion. They have an inability to tolerate "impurity"_ the error or fault between worlds and energies between them, for example, between the inner substance and the outward manifestation, or between the masculine and the feminine, between this world and the other. This can translate to a radical love of and demand for honesty and justice.

Balance and harmony are necessary for Venus but its sign rulership of Mars is the energy that drives them and in a sense, grants identity. The fusion of foundational energy of Venus with the active Mars is the theme of sex and death so prominent in this nakshatra. Life is the result of the sexual act but the culmination of that act is called "a little death". Love and desire drive sex so they also drive life and death. So, if Venus is the equilibrium and the balance then Mars is the other side_ the need for release. Together, they grant life and rule over the two components necessary for existence_ identity and the loss of it through love. Bharani is about defining existence itself, their own or of the world, through love.

Bharani women can act in a very enthusiastic and driven way, but also have a side to them that is extremely serious, to an extent that neither Purva Phalguni or even Purva Ashadha really reach.

Archetypically they represent the "damsel in distress" or "the princess in the tower". Bharani is something or someone nearly impossible to get or even find, which could be also associated with its symbolism of the yoni. It's also connected to the Holy Grail, or "The Philosopher's Stone" (that one was said by Claire Nakti recently and I have always gotten that vibe energetically from Bharani but could not articulate why. It makes so much sense though. This can also be another confirmation of why I associate Bharani with Rapunzel's tale so much).

Another archetype that they remind me of is the princess with high standards in fairytales that is so common. A similar one would be a young women who is fearlessly defiant, especially about choosing her own love.

Out of all Venus nakshatras Bharani women need gentleness the most, since's it's the most high tension/triggering placement among them. Bharani women can feel defenseless and abused, especially from harsh or crude(mostly masculine) energies. This ironically increases their defensive nature and a need for protection, despite being naturally gentle and passive. There's a clear difference between when a Bharani women is given her justice and when she is not. Their fierceness and gentleness are, in truth, the same in spirit.

Bharani moons Claire Holt, Gaia Weiss, Isabel Lucas

Purva Phalguni:

Out of the Venus nakshatras, Purva Phalguni is the one that is the least expressive emotionally. At least, not obviously. They too feel a lot, but their Sun rashi rulership grants them an "unbothered" nature.

So Purva Phalguni is the Venus nakshatra of pure unashamed enjoyment. They have clear preferences and after establishing the foundation in Bharani, Purva Phalguni is free to be prideful about their love. It's connected to ease, contrasting Bharani, which is more full of melancholic beauty and the meaning of struggle.

Purva Phalguni women are connected to material things and love it. Their personality is more "Sunny" than other Venus nakshatras. It's the most "neutral" Venus nakshatra. Definitely very sexual along with Bharani. The difference is that Bharani is represented by the yoni and the passive feminine principle, but Purva Phalguni is represented by the phallus and the active, masculine assertion of self through Venusian themes. In this way, they have a connection that is reaffirmed by the "special relationship"(traditional texts say so) between their yoni animals_ the rat and the elephant.

Women of this nakshatra, being the feminine representatives of the nakshatra of masculine assertion, have a friendly and easygoing nature, due to being relaxed. They have an energy of being "provided for", but they're still ruled by the planet of mutual exchange(Venus), so they're very giving in their own way. They like to pamper their beloved with gifts and/or attention, they love to feel special and make them feel "special"(Leo/Sun rulership) in return. Their tendency towards fun (5th house association) makes them a memorable presence. They do love spotlight more than Bharani and Purva Ashadha.

One interesting association of Purva Phalguni is discernment, which leads to their tendency of favoritism. Bharani and Purva Phalguni both love being passive in a sense of having someone take the reigns that helps them relax into a receptive, feminine role but they both also love to give back. Bharani is more receptive though, hungrier and harsher than Purva Phalguni, which is more relaxed and willing to give. Because of this, in a way, Bharani and Purva Phalguni women might become great friends with each other.

Charisma is a big thing here, due to Leo/Sun/5th house associations. Venus here is expressed through soul identity(Sun) and shown in the most adorned light among all three Venus nakshatras.

An important association of Purva Phalguni is procreation. Bharani as also explicitly associated with the sexual act and bringing a life, but Purva Phalguni focuses on the pleasure aspect of it, on the leisure and continuing the bloodline. Its yoni consort_ Magha is associated with family trees and bloodlines and is also fully in Leo(5th house/children association). Bharani on the other hand, focuses on immortality of love, attachments and transition between worlds, and sex for them is the ultimate point of change.

Even though they're the most outwardly stoic and act the most unaffected out of the three, they're also most prone to dramatics. There's a side to them that loves to show off and display, even if they don't show everything to everyone.

The dramaticism is for self-confidence and enjoyment(mainly, their own). It's not a placement that is concerned with gossip or everyone else's lives. Quite the contrary. If they don't like you, they will just pay you no attention. In this way, they're the least personal of Venus nakshatras. They have an aversion to anything unnecessary(kind of similar to how Bharani can't tolerate impurity) and outward harmony and empowerment is essential.

The archetype that Purva Phalguni women represent is the loving wife/girlfriend or "the spoiled lady". Purva Phalguni is Brahmin(highest) caste and is associated privilege and the ease that comes with it. Partnerships are important to them(the second stage of civilization/others. Bharani is the first stage of the individual, and Purva Ashadha is the third stage of universal). They can also be seen as "the nice rich girl", but that one is not necessarily true. They value politeness and manners but they themselves are not nice as much as they're unbothered. They're just not mean. The combination of Venus and Sun ensures that they're too focused on themselves and their wants to care about most others. In short, they live by "I am what I love".

Purva Phalguni moons Taylor Hill, Jane Birkin, Mia Wasikowska

Purva Ashadha:

Venus nakshatras all embody classical traits that are associated with the planet's archetype, but none are directly associated to the Goddesses Venus and Aphrodite like Purva Ashadha. This is the nakshatra of Venus' universalization. Being in the sign of Sagittarius (ruled by Jupiter), it has an inner desire to share its Venusian ideals(Sagittarius/9th house) with others.

Bharani is intense fire, Purva Phalguni is the fertile earth, Purva Ashadha is the relentless waves of water.

One obvious difference between Purva Ashadha and the other two Venus nakshatras is the lack of sexual associations.

When Venus is filtered through active Jupiter(sagittarius/9th house), then the action is sharing or spreading it. After the birth(Bharani) and the hedonistic pleasures(Purva Phalguni), Venus is ready and has an inner desire/neediness to make itself be heard.

The drive to spread its influence on this level is not present in other Venus nakshatras. Purva Ashadha women too know the importance of privacy, secrecy and gatekeeping, but they've come to a place where they've realized that beauty, love and all that is most precious cannot exist in a vacuum, but also cannot be ruined by what is below it in value. So the natural manifestation of that curcumstance is a constant tug of war between secrecy and sharing, between shutting off and spreading outwardly. Eventually, or sometimes immediately, they realize that they need allies to maintain their "Venus"(beauty, love, aesthetic preferences, all of them tied to morals and idealism), and then maybe, after strengthening, they can conquer all that is unworthy(in their eyes) together.

They can be extremely careful with who they choose to associate with, since to these women, people are either allies or enemies. In the end, whether they like to pretend otherwise or not, that's what it comes down to. They try to not show that they're trying to silently influence you, trying to get you to see that what they value is better or superior, that they'd like people to back them up in that way. It's still a Venus nakshatra, so they move in silence, but out of all Venus nakshatras, they're the most likely ones to break that "I'm just minding myself" Venusian attitude. They can become really triggered in general when something touches their ideals.

In friendships and with acquaintances they observe to see if they're worth trying to influence. Overall, these views may be why they like the idea of cliques or elitism that much.

Purva Ashadha women can be melancholic and intense like Bharani, but Bharani has a nature of fiery anger(active Martian/1st house/Aries), while Purva Ashadha is softer and watery. Another commonality they have with Bharani that Purva Phalguni does not is a creative drive to bring something out into the world. While in Bharani that manifests as literal birth/death and karmic changes, Purva Ashadha has a need to birth ideas, ideals, creative projects.

Their tendecy to look for allies and gather strength is further explained by its title as "the former victorious" one. It can be associated with revolutions, how the power of masses(Jupiter) empowered by fierce idealism(Venus-Jupiter) can grant said people victory. Their yoni consort_ Shravana, is associated with extreme receptivity and hearing everyone/everything. In this way, it is clear why they are consorts of Purva Ashadhas, who desire allies, support and victory.

A commonly manifested attitude among them is "others just will not get me"(that rarely is true irl). Jupiter, they rashi ruler, is connected to Godhood and their yoni_ Vanar, is a being from other dimentions. This might inspire a sense of superiority but also generate a feeling of alienation.

The most fitting archetype for them would be "warrior princess" or the "alluring siren". The siren's association with this nakshatra is quite famous. Purva Ashadha is another Brahmin caste nakshatra. Bharani has associations with fighting and aggression too but they do it on a more personal level. Purva Ashadha wants to fight with and for masses, backing what they fight for together.

Purva Ashadha moons Hailee Steinfeld, Astrid Berges-Frisbey and Liv Tyler

#vedic astrology #astrology #nakshatras #astrology observations #sidereal astrology #astro notes #astrology tumblr #bharani #purva phalguni #purva ashadha #venus #venus nakshatras #venusian nakshatras #planet venus #venus women

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aventurineswife · 9 months ago

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‘Cause I'm a jealous, jealous, jealous boy | Part 1

Synopsis: How do they react when someone flirts with their significant other?

Tags: Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Protective, Flirting, Dark Undertones, Romantic Tension

Warnings: Mild possessiveness, subtle manipulation, slight intimidation, jealousy, dark themes, possible emotional manipulation

(Part 2)

Sunday

Sunday's golden eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the unwanted attention being directed at you. He observed for a moment, his dignified demeanor never faltering. However, the subtle tightening of his jaw betrayed a deeper emotion simmering beneath the surface.

With graceful steps, he approached, his halo casting a faint glow behind his head as he effortlessly inserted himself into the conversation. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder, fingers cold yet reassuring. "I see you’ve caught the attention of someone who doesn't understand boundaries," he said, voice dripping with a twisted kindness. The flirtatious individual faltered under his gaze, the intensity of his golden eyes—sharp and knowing—dismantling any sense of power they might have held.

"Allow me to guide you somewhere... more peaceful." Sunday murmured to you, leading you away. His grip, though gentle, carried an unmistakable possessiveness. His twisted desire to shield you from discomfort played out in his actions—control, protection, and escape from the harshness of such interactions.

Yet behind the composed facade, there was a flicker of possessive jealousy—he would never admit it openly, but the notion of anyone causing you discomfort stirred a dark satisfaction in ensuring they never approached you again.

Dr. Veritas Ratio

Dr. Ratio’s gaze flickered toward the scene, noting the discomfort painted across your features as the unwanted attention continued. His lips curled into a smirk, an amused scoff escaping him as he closed the distance between you and the offender. The sheer confidence in his posture made his presence impossible to ignore.

"You seem... intellectually challenged," Ratio remarked bluntly to the flirt, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and condescension. "You see, my partner isn’t interested in primitive gestures of attraction. They prefer stimulating conversation, something you appear incapable of providing."

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close with an air of smug satisfaction. "Allow me to demonstrate what true compatibility looks like." His words, though cutting toward the flirt, were meant to reassure you. Ratio didn't bother hiding the possessive undercurrent in his tone.

In his mind, you were already his equal, intellectually and emotionally, and there was no room for such trivial distractions. His jealousy manifested not in anger, but in a pointed display of superiority, ensuring no one would dare challenge his place beside you.

Aventurine

Aventurine watches the flirtation unfold from across the room, his smile still present but with a hint of something darker behind it. His magenta and cyan eyes flicker with amusement, though his gaze lingers on your discomfort for a moment too long. Slowly, he saunters over, his every step deliberate, like a high-stakes poker player revealing a winning hand.

“My, my,” he begins, slipping an arm around your waist as he pulls you close. The flirt freezes under his penetrating stare. “It seems you’ve miscalculated,” he says, his tone smooth as velvet, yet there's a razor-sharp edge beneath the surface. “You see, this one belongs to me.”

Aventurine lets the words hang, watching the flirter with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. His fingers play absentmindedly with one of his golden rings, the subtle gesture adding to the tension. “And I don’t share my investments.”

The flirter takes a step back, realizing they’ve lost this particular gamble, and mutters an apology before disappearing. Aventurine chuckles softly, turning to you with a playful smirk.

“Honestly, darling,” he says, adjusting the collar of his overcoat, “the nerve of some people, thinking they can play a hand they’ve already lost.” His eyes gleam mischievously as he leans in closer, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. No one dares touch what’s mine.”

There’s a flicker of possessiveness in his tone, subtle but unmistakable, as though you were a precious prize he wouldn’t let anyone else even attempt to claim. Though his demeanor is playful, you sense the jealousy simmering beneath his charm, a silent reminder that in Aventurine’s world, risks are calculated, and he never gambles on what he’s already won.

(If this gets 10 likes/hearts, I'll post a suggestive fic of Sunday and Part 2 of this 🤭)

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

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A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Chapter I: The Hour Behind the Bullet | Chapter II

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Word Count: 5k>

Warnings!: Angst, Violence, death, and execution scenes, Themes of trauma and grief, Gunfights and post-apocalyptic survival elements, Moral dilemmas, revenge, and justice themes, Mature romantic/emotional content, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of a story where Joel Miller has not yet appeared, but his shadow lingers in every line. His name is a whisper—etched into the back of a watch, a secret that stretches from the darkness of the past into the vengeance of the present. It doesn't just delay the encounter with Joel—it builds it into an unforgettable, strikingly dramatic moment. The reader knows the meeting is coming… but never when, how, or in whose hands it will unfold.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

As the moon vanished with the first light of morning, the mist still lingered on the mountainside. The air was dry, but the sharp chill remained; the earth had not yet shed its nightly frost.

With a bow on your back, a knife on your belt, and mud clinging to the soles of your boots, you walked silently. “Two hours, maybe three,” you said in a low voice. “But it hasn’t gone far.”

Footsteps behind you were followed by muffled laughter.

“My God, Y/N, did you just tell time from tracks?” Nico bent down to examine the ground with you. The sleeve of his jacket was torn, but his smile was intact. “Hunting with you always wrecks my self-esteem.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you said, without turning your eyes. “You’re the one who brings the noise, the jokes, the troublesome sounds…”

Nico placed a hand over his heart. “Was that a thank-you I just heard?”

“You’re welcome to imagine it that way.”

You stood up. Bow on your back, knife on your right hip. You wore a waterproof cover sewn from the sleeve of your father’s old jacket. He had been of the hunter breed, and you were determined to carry that legacy.

The tracks led you to an old gravel bed by the river. Small footprints stuck in the mud.

Not a rabbit. A fox.

“Eyes open, Nico,” you said. “This isn’t just a fox. There are feathers on the ground. This animal was attacked before. We’re in a predator’s territory.”

Nico drew his knife. “You mean a Clicker?”

“No. I know those tracks. This is different. Maybe a lynx. Maybe a hungry wolf. Be careful.”

You crouched, focusing on the scent. There was a faint smell of blood, mixed with damp earth. Your hand went to the head of your arrow. You were tense, but exhilarated. The dance within the hunt always fascinated you.

About an hour later, you reached a forest clearing. The trees thinned out, and the sky began to show itself.

At the edge of the forest, in the shadow of a tree, you spotted a grazing deer.

“A pair,” you whispered. “Female and male.”

Nico squinted. “Which one do we take?”

“The female. Slower. Her meat will be more tender. And the male won’t charge if we don’t threaten him. We need to stay unnoticed.”

You readied your arrow. Placed your left knee on the ground. Pressed your elbow firmly against it. Raised the bow with your left hand, and drew the string to ear-level with your right.

You held your breath.

Thwip...

The arrow pierced the deer just beneath the neck. The animal staggered, then collapsed. Nico’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every time… you blow my mind.”

You smiled and stood up. “Well… you’re allowed to be a little impressed.”

“Being impressed by you might be dangerous.”

You set up camp by the riverside that night. As the meat cooked over the fire, Nico watched you.

“I just don’t get it… how this world still manages to make you happy.”

You shrugged slowly. “Because there’s still a sky. I still have a friend I can smile at. I can still breathe. It’s that simple.”

Nico sighed. “Finding someone like you in this world feels like a miracle.”

You smiled, but your eyes drifted to the horizon.

In your gaze, there was a shadow your subconscious refused to name.

But tonight, there was no past.

Only firelight, laughter, and the warmth of survival.

The deer was tied securely with two strong ropes. Hung by its hind legs, it dangled slightly off the side of Nico’s horse. Its hide was still intact; the surface lightly salted to stop bleeding and keep flies away. That had been your suggestion. Salt not only preserved but also kept the meat from spoiling during travel.

“If we don’t make it to Redhill in three hours,” you said, tightening your horse’s reins, “this meat’s going to turn sour. I’d rather not have my father scolding me over dinner.”

Nico grumbled as he balanced the load on his own horse.

“Not just scolding… Don’t be surprised if he sends us to fix fences. Last time we were only ten minutes late.”

“And we hauled hay for three days,” you said, smiling with embarrassment. “My spine is still plotting revenge.”

As you crossed a narrow rocky path, stones crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. The sun was slowly pulling back behind the mountains, casting long shadows. The road to Redhill used to be a hiking trail. Now it was a lifeline—overgrown with weeds and scattered with forgotten footprints.

“Your father…” Nico said quietly, “has he ever offered you leadership? I mean… has he ever thought you’d take his place one day?”

You tugged the reins gently, slowing your horse. “My place is with the bow, the tracks. His is with people—untangling knots in their minds. My father keeps Redhill standing because he knows when to be soft and when to be firm. I haven’t learned that balance yet.”

Nico nodded, his gaze wandering to the horizon. “But you… when I watch you, I see exactly what a leader should be.”

You paused. His words echoed through the quiet forest like a bell. Then you offered him that familiar smile. “Because of what you just said, I might make you carry rocks until morning.”

Nico laughed and lowered his head. “There’s no punishment worse than you.”

“Oh, believe me, there is,” you said, narrowing your eyes and turning back to the riverside trail. “But right now, I’m bored. Too much silence.”

You took a deep breath. Your voice was soft at first, then carried over the wind. From the depths of a fallen world, you began to hum a song from long ago:

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

Nico rolled his eyes but smiled. He knew how much you loved to sing that song. He joined you.

As the horses moved on, even the birds seemed to sing along. Until Redhill appeared on the horizon, your laughter raced the wind. Just another evening. A quiet, simple, ordinary journey home.

But none of you knew.

None of you.

This would be the last peaceful journey you ever shared.

The path through the canyon leading into Redhill was familiar; the sound of hooves on dirt, the intermittent calls of birds, and the scent of earth carried by the drifting breeze... Everything was as it should be. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to realize something was wrong.

The deer was the prize of a two-day hunt. These kinds of tasks had become routine over the years. In a self-sustaining community like Redhill, surviving the hunt was only half the job—preserving the kill was just as vital.

You were in the lead, Nico behind you. The young man had talked endlessly like an impatient child; about his new bow, how he’d outshot you, how the second deer was still out there somewhere… But something was bothering you. Whenever you approached the Redhill valley, you could always catch the scent of fresh smoke drifting from between the hills. Burnt wood, simmering stew, a lit pipe... That smell wasn’t there this time. Only damp earth and silence.

“Y/N?” Nico asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Is it just me, or... are the sentries gone?”

When you fell silent, the silence itself felt like a scream.

The wooden archway at Redhill’s entrance stood ahead—its painted emblem half-burned. The watchtower beside the gate was empty. No laughter or whistles from above like usual. No children, no women, no crates of tomatoes... It was as if everything had vanished all at once.

“Maybe it’s harvest time. Everyone’s in the back gardens?” Nico said, hopelessly.

You didn’t answer. You dismounted in a swift motion; the stones beneath your boots weren’t dry—they were laced with ash. As your eyes scanned the valley, more came into focus. Broken fences, an overturned wheelbarrow… and then… blood.

Without another thought, you started walking. Nico followed, but your steps had slowed, grown cautious. Your hand instinctively went to your knife. You searched for a threat—but the threat was gone. Only the aftermath remained.

It didn’t take long to find the first body. It hadn’t been covered. The face was charred. A knife stuck out from the back. You didn’t recognize them, but the handmade Redhill clothing was familiar—crocheted edging, handwoven fabric.

The second... the third...

Your legs carried you on their own now. They trembled, but you kept walking. And then, in the center of the courtyard, in front of a still-burning tent, two figures appeared. Reuben and Caleb. Reuben’s arm was in a sling, his face smeared with blood and ash. Caleb had his rifle leaned against a wall, his head buried in his hands. When they saw you, their eyes widened.

“Y/N…” Caleb said as he stood. “Goddamn it…”

“What happened?” you asked. Just two words. But the crack in your voice carried a weight nothing else could.

Reuben tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Attack... The Vultures...” he said. “Marcus Flint was leading it himself.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t hear them. Only saw the movement of his lips. Redhill had been attacked.

Your eyes scanned everything. Trampled fields. Shattered fences. Broken doors of shelters. It looked like an army had passed through. But Redhill wasn’t a battlefield. It was your home.

“My father?” you asked. Your voice sounded like it came from someone far away.

Reuben lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t fall. Something inside you—a cold, sharp feeling—held you upright. In this world, falling was a luxury. And you no longer had that luxury.

“Take me to him,” you said. Your voice came out steady and cool. It didn’t shake. But something inside had snapped, like a wire pulled too tight.

Caleb stepped forward quickly. “No, Y/N… No. That’s not something you want to see,” he said gently, panic flickering behind his calm tone. “Remember him the way he was. As a leader… as your father. Don’t see him like this.”

You looked at him. Your eyes were cold, but a storm raged behind them. “Get out of my way, Caleb.”

“Y/N, please. His body… it’s unrecognizable. You don’t want to remember him like that.”

Reuben stood a step back, waiting for your decision. Unlike Caleb, he knew you. You weren’t weak. You never were.

You stepped forward, locking eyes with Caleb. “I’m his daughter,” you said, your voice like lead. “And if Redhill’s legacy is mine now\... then I will see the truth with my own eyes. Now move.”

Caleb looked away, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped aside. Over his shoulder, he looked at Reuben.

Reuben nodded slowly. “Come with me,” he said. “Be ready.”

Ready? What did that even mean now? Wasn’t surviving without being ready the very essence of this world?

Reuben led you to a cold shelter behind the stone storage buildings. The door hadn’t been this heavy even when the place was used to store medicine. Inside, it was dim. And there he was.

Your father.

Lying there, half-covered by a dark blanket. His hair was dusted with ash. His beard matted with dried blood. His eyes were closed. One side of his face was unrecognizable—bruises, shattered bones... But the other side... still him.

Your knees gave out, but you didn’t collapse. You knelt beside him. Your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket back a little more. A massive lump formed in your throat—one you couldn’t swallow.

Your hand reached out and took his. Still warm. Thick, callused hands… The ones that first taught you how to handle a bow. That pointed out spring herbs, that rested on your shoulder when you made small triumphs… the hands of a leader.

“Dad…” you whispered. Just once. Knowing it was the last time you ever would.

Tears fell from your eyes, but there were no sobs. Your tears were silent. You were strong, but not ice. That day, the child in you died. And something else took her place: the beginning of a leader, shattered but standing tall.

After a while, you stood up. Your heart in pieces, but your shoulders squared. You turned to Reuben.

“Where are the rest of the dead?” you asked.

“We managed to gather a few,” he said. “But more might be under the rubble…”

“We’ll find them. Every last one,” you said. “Tomorrow. At dawn. We’ll hold a ceremony—for them… and for my father.”

Reuben bowed his head. Caleb looked at you from behind, his eyes still wet.

“Y/N…” he said in a hushed voice. “You… you’re now…”

You turned to him. Met his gaze.

“No,” you said. “I’m not ‘now.’ I’m still his daughter. And I’ll remind the world what Redhill means.”

When you stepped outside, the sun was beginning to set. Long shadows stretched across the valley. Ash and silence. But you walked. With each step, you became someone else.

The funeral… wouldn’t just be for the dead. An era was ending, and something else was beginning.

At dawn, as the sun lit the ridges of the valley, Redhill was wrapped in silence. The sun was rising, but yesterday’s cold still clung to the air. A coldness that came from deep inside.

You walked toward the main square, repurposed from the old quarantine center, every step echoing beneath your boots. The mud beneath your soles clung with a mixture of blood and ash. But your stride never faltered.

You wore a dark brown leather jacket—your father’s. Its inner lining still stained with blood. The scent of it had nearly broken you as you put it on. But you’d endured. Because you were no longer a daughter. You were a leader.

The people had begun to gather in the square. Women, children, elders… The wounded and the quiet fighters. Some carried arms in slings, others leaned on sticks. The same expression on every face: a fog of grief and fear.

The dead were laid side by side on a carefully prepared platform in the center of the square. Your father’s body was at the center. A single torch burned above his head. Nothing else. No flowers, no ornaments. This world was now made of simplicity.

When you stepped forward, there was a moment of silence before you spoke. The wind wrapped smoke around you as all eyes turned your way.

You took a deep breath. You could hear your own heartbeat. Then you spoke. “They were our companions. Our neighbors. Our brothers and sisters.”

Your voice didn’t crack. Your eyes didn’t water. Every syllable struck like a hammer. “When my father founded this community, he said survival wasn’t about fighting—it was about being together. He brought order to this land. He brought safety. We’ve protected the life we built here for years. But now\... they’ve taken it from us.”

You lifted your head. The eyes of your people met yours. In them, a spark began to burn.

“The Vultures didn’t just go after one man—they targeted a whole people. They stole bread from a child’s hands. Gunned down the sick and the old. These are not enemies. They’re filth. And we... we will not stay silent.”

Your words echoed off the stone of the square. A child cried somewhere in the distance. A woman bowed her head in silence. But most of them—most of them now held something else in their eyes: fury. A fury ready to act.

“Their leader, Marcus Flint—he tried to quench an old grudge with fire. He thought burning us would end it. But Redhill rises from ashes. And now I, as my father’s daughter, will carry on the fight he left behind. We will not only mourn our dead. We will not forget them. We will speak their names alongside justice.”

The crowd fell silent. Then Reuben stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“Daughter of Y/F/N... Y/N. I know you. I see your father’s fire in your eyes. I stand with you. Just as I walked with him, I’ll walk with you.”

Caleb, on the other hand, took a hesitant step back. His eyes scanned the area, filled with worry, yet also the fear of being left behind.

“Y/N... this path... it could cost us even more. The Vultures aren’t an easy target,” he said.

You turned to him. Your shoulders straight, your gaze unwavering. “What more can we lose, Caleb? I lost my father. My people are dead. Our land is scorched. All we have left is our honor. Should we give that up too?”

Caleb fell silent. He lowered his head. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright... damn it. I’m with you. But we’re going to make a good plan. No rushing in blind. With our minds. Just like your father would’ve done.”

Reuben stepped forward. “First, we track The Vultures’ movements. Pinpoint their locations. We don’t strike… we dismantle. We isolate their leader. Then, you’ll be the one to end Marcus Flint.”

You narrowed your eyes and looked out toward the horizon. It was like a map formed in your vision. The dark towers of The Vultures… their arrogant laughter… your father’s final breath… That feeling inside you had evolved beyond vengeance. This was the first step toward justice. And Redhill would rise again—with you.

As evening fell, the mist leaning against the hills of Redhill slowly began to swallow the rest of the camp. Torches flickered like trembling flames, casting long shadows between the cabins. Most of the community had withdrawn into silence after the funeral, mourning their losses in solitude. Many were still under the spell of your morning speech. But you carried the weight of those words now.

The small wooden cabin you were in had once been your father's "map room." His old papers still lay on the desk; dried ink stains and yellowed notes remained. An old plan of Redhill, tucked into the corner of a map, was still in place. Your fingers traced the borders he once drew. Fragmented memories spun in your mind like clipped reels of film.

The door creaked open. Reuben entered. The old jacket on his shoulders had faded to the color of dust over time. His hands were covered in mud, sweat lined his brow. His face was as hard as ever, but tonight his eyes were soft. The loyalty he had once shown your father had shifted into a quiet respect for you.

He walked toward you and let out a heavy breath.

"People expect things from you now," he said. "Not just your name... but his resolve, his heart."

You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you think I have that in me?"

Reuben furrowed his brows. He paused, then nodded.

"Sometimes you're even more. But I can't ask you to be anyone else now. So... you need to know the truth."

You sat up straighter, perched on the edge of the desk. Your hands rested on your knees. You waited.

"You keep asking why the attack happened..." Reuben began.

"Marcus Flint, the leader of the Vultures, claimed our community was hiding a criminal. He said the man was a FEDRA agent. That he escaped and found refuge here."

You frowned.

"I never saw anyone like that. No one's sought shelter here recently. And if he was FEDRA, why pick Redhill? Would he really risk that much for a group hundreds of miles away?"

Reuben nodded.

"I know. I thought it was nonsense too. But he needed an excuse. There was bad blood between him and your father—goes back years. In the early days of the outbreak, they worked together for a time. But they clashed over a trade deal—meds and food. Your father stopped Flint from selling out his own people."

Your eyes fixed on a point in the room. Something stirred in your veins—heavy like poison. Flint’s name was no longer just a threat—it had become a personal wound.

"So this attack... it was old revenge," you said.

"Yes," Reuben confirmed. "It was his way of settling the score."

You both fell silent. The only sound in the room was the wind whistling outside. Cold air crept through the cracks in the ceiling, brushing your shoulders.

Reuben turned to leave, but paused at the door. He looked back at you over his shoulder. There was hesitation in his eyes. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I’ve got one more thing," he said quietly.

"It was by your father's body. I don't recognize it, but... maybe you will."

He stepped closer and opened his hand. Inside it was a wristwatch. Its metal band was scratched, its glass cracked—but it still resisted time. You took it. It was cold. Its weight seemed to come not just from metal, but from the burden of the past.

You turned it over.

An engraving: J.M.

You didn’t move for several seconds. Time itself seemed to stop. Your fingers traced the letters. The mark of a stranger... yet the only clue found beside your father’s blood.

"I don’t know what it means," said Reuben.

"But I felt you should have it."

Your eyes remained locked on the watch. Narrowed. You repeated the letters in your mind again and again.

J.M.

That watch was a whisper of fate. Maybe a name. Maybe the gateway to hell. But now, you had a target.

And you would find him.

Two months later...

The sky that morning was a pale, ashen gray. The earth still bore the marks of blood and gunpowder. But Redhill was breathing. Wounded—but not dead.

Y/N stood at the top of the wooden watchtower, overlooking the valley. Beyond the thorny bushes, broken fences, and ruined cabins, there was an effort to be reborn.

Caleb, working on wires pulled from a broken radio transmitter, spoke without looking up.

"If we can reroute communications to the northern outpost, maybe we’ll learn where Cascade’s storing the old meds. That’d be good leverage for trade."

"Set up the line, but be cautious. Not everyone out there trades," you said. Your voice was firm, but warm. Leadership sometimes weighed heavy on you, but you didn’t show it.

Reuben entered, making marks on a map as he walked.

"Y/N, the boy from the north is back," he said. "The scout you sent."

"Rory? Send him in."

The door opened and Rory entered—sun-scorched, tired-backed, but sharp-eyed. Young, but seasoned in the field.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding.

"What did you find out about the Vultures?"

"Strange things. Their headquarters doesn’t seem as stable anymore. We used to hear constant chatter over the radios. Now… almost silence. A lot of Flint’s people have left. There’s even a rumor—he clashed with his own men."

You listened to Rory’s words in silence. Then leaned forward, fingers pressing the table.

"We need confirmed intel, Rory. If Flint’s alive, he’s still a threat."

Reuben added,

"And if he’s weakening, that’s our window."

Caleb, more cautious, frowned.

"But what if it’s a trap? What if they want to lure us out?"

You raised your head, eyes hardened.

"If they killed my father to provoke me or this people, then they already chose war."

A few days later, under your leadership, a secret meeting was held. Maps, radio data, Rory’s hand-drawn sketches of their base were spread out before you. Where Marcus Flint was last seen, which lookout towers were still active, which water routes had been cut—everything was being charted.

You pressed your finger against a point on the map.

"We’ve pushed them this far. Now they’re on the brink of collapse. We need to wait for the right moment… but if we wait too long, they’ll regain their strength."

Caleb nodded.

"When do you plan the attack?"

"Two weeks from now. I’ll send Rory out again. If Marcus is at the compound and we can strike a deal with someone on the inside, we’ll open a door from within. If not, we’ll infiltrate from the north."

Reuben smiled.

"That’s how your father used to do it. He’d read the enemy first, then end the fight with a single bullet."

You dipped your head slightly. Inside, you carried both the burden and the strength of walking in your father’s footsteps. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It was about Redhill’s future.

***

The wind whipped violently at the flag hanging on the border of Redhill, nearly tearing the fabric apart. The sky was covered in that hazy orange that comes just before darkness falls, as if even the sunset sensed the coming reckoning. In the center square of the community, there was a flurry of preparation. Weapons were being oiled, knives sharpened, bags packed. Every movement was silent but purposeful, because everyone knew: this wasn’t a mission—it was a journey of vengeance.

You had just returned from the old medical center. The first aid kit on your shoulder was filled with collected pain-relieving herbs, antiseptics, and bandages. Reuben and Caleb were waiting for you at the large map table.

"The first team will enter from the west at oh-three-hundred," Caleb said, pressing his finger on a red-marked spot on the map. "The second team will sneak in through the old warehouse door on the north wall. Rory said it’s still unguarded."

Reuben nodded. "There’s also someone inside they've made contact with. Someone Rory’s been in touch with... Might buy us a few minutes."

You placed your hands on your hips, looked at the map for a moment, then raised your eyes and met theirs one by one.

"Remember, Marcus Flint will die. But this isn’t just about him. We’re doing this for Redhill. For my father. For our people."

Reuben bowed his head, eyes shimmering with a sorrow almost proud.

"Your father built Redhill from nothing at your age. Now you’re rebuilding it."

When night fell, Redhill sank into silence. A team of twenty—the best warriors and trackers you had chosen yourselves—mounted their horses and rode eastward in silence. Aside from the soft clatter of hooves on earth, no sound broke the stillness. The moon split the sky like a blade, painting your path in silver.

You remained silent during the ride. Sitting tall on your horse, your hand rested on the shortbow at your side. Countless memories clashed in your mind: your father's voice, Caleb’s doubts, Reuben’s support, Rory’s intel… and the wristwatch. The one that started it all, engraved with those cursed letters: J.M.

After five hours of silent travel, you made camp near an old watermill. Rory had already gone ahead to make his final contact with the insider. The rest of the team knelt, checking their gear one last time. You scanned the entire group carefully.

At first light, you reached The Vultures' camp.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. The cabins were in disrepair, most of the watchtowers broken down. Rory had been right—Marcus Flint had lost most of his forces. Something had collapsed from within. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

The plan worked perfectly. The north warehouse door was still unlocked. While Caleb and three others slipped in from the north, you and Reuben entered from the west.

Behind the cabins, the space was littered with scattered rubble, rotting crates, and toppled barrels. It was as if time had forgotten this part of The Vultures' camp. But you hadn't. You lowered your footsteps as you moved forward, stepping into the narrow path leading to the backyard. Your shortbow, slung over your shoulder, was ready at your fingertips. Reuben was on your left, and young but fearless Nico on your right. Each of your breaths was silent but sharp. This wasn’t a walk—it was the beginning of the end.

The first guard was on the roof of the cabin to the left. As he turned his head to scan the surroundings, you suddenly drew your bow. Your fingers, guided by muscle memory, pulled the string to your ear. You held your breath. One second. Two. Three.

Shhhft.

The arrow hissed through the air like a snake and sank into the guard’s neck. He fell backward without a sound. The thud of his body hitting the roof jolted the camp like a disturbed ant nest.

"They saw us!" Nico whispered, but you were already in motion.

Two men burst from the cabin to your left. They held modified rifles, barrels rusted but deadly. As they fired the first shots, Reuben pulled you down by the shoulder. Bullets whizzed past just above you, followed by his return fire.

"Down!" Reuben shouted, bracing his rifle on the rooftop edge and taking aim.

The first man was thrown back with a bullet to the forehead. You handled the second one. You dropped to a position parallel to the ground, released your hand from the shortbow, and pulled the silenced pistol from your belt. Aim, breathe, trigger.

Tak!

The man hit in the shoulder staggered for a moment, then collapsed to the ground with a scream. His weapon fell from his hand. When you reached him, your eyes met. He was about to say something, but you stayed silent. Instead, you pressed the silencer to his head and finished the job with a second shot. This wasn't mercy—it was resolve.

“Nico!” you shouted. “On the right! Two just came out from the entrance!”

Nico was young but agile. He’d learned archery from you. He turned to the target, drew his arrow, and released it. The first man was hit in the shoulder, the second in the chest. They collapsed in front of the barrack.

“The camp's almost empty!” Nico called out, breathless. “These are just Marcus’s leftovers!”

“So they still don't take us seriously,” you said, your eyes locked on the large building at the center of the camp. “That’ll be their last mistake.”

As you passed between the shacks, three more men appeared. One had a shotgun, the others charged with knives. The first bullet came from Reuben’s gun, bringing the shotgun-wielder down. You slung your bow onto your back, gripped the knife from your belt in a reverse hold, and rushed in.

The first attacker swung at you before reaching, but his move was clumsy and fueled by rage. You ducked and drove your knee into his thigh. As he stumbled, you buried the blade into his abdomen. When you pulled it out and turned, the second attacker’s punch grazed your face. You rolled backward, bounced up from the dirt, and struck back quickly. You pinned him to the ground with your knee on his chest and pressed the blade to his throat.

Nico was wrestling with the last man. He was tall, trying to overpower Nico. In a blink, you intervened, stabbing the man’s knee. He fell with a scream, and Nico struck his head with a rock.

Silence. Only distant gunshots from the rooftops. And slowly, even that faded.

Reuben rubbed his shoulder, looking at you. “You’re not your father’s daughter. You’re the war itself.”

Your face was cloaked in shadow. The dirt and blood on you had become a warrior’s blessing. But your eyes... they still mourned your father. Even in the heart of revenge, they searched for ways to remain human.

There were almost no obstacles left between you and Marcus Flint.

The office building was one of the strongest structures in the Vultures' camp. Built years ago, its concrete foundation still held, but the walls were moss-covered and the windows shattered. The front door was ajar. One hinge had fallen to the ground, the other creaked with the wind. This was the place where Marcus Flint made decisions, where lives were determined. But now it felt more like a tomb, devoid of his footsteps.

Your gun was in your hand. The cold metal clung to your palm, heavy with sweat, rage, and the weight of a long journey. Reuben and Caleb had stayed outside. This confrontation was yours alone. It was your father’s blood that had been spilled. You needed answers.

Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Then a voice came from inside the office. “Close the door,” it said calmly. “The wind’s messing with my thoughts.”

You stepped in. Gun raised with both hands, you locked onto your target. “Marcus Flint!” you said. Your voice cracked, but your resolve did not falter.

The man behind the desk looked up. His hair, a reddish shade of brown, was streaked with gray. His face was stern, the corners of his eyes lined with fatigue. He sat proudly, but his spirit had aged more than his body.

“Marcus is gone,” he said. “I’m Cutter. The last remaining owner of this structure.”

Your finger trembled on the trigger. “Don’t lie to me. Marcus is here. I came all this way for him. Where is he?!”

Cutter smiled faintly. He leaned back, nudged some empty casings on the table with his fingers. “Marcus is dead,” he said. “Last month. Drowned in his own filth. Took his pride with him.”

Your throat tightened. It wasn't supposed to end like this. You wanted to look into his eyes, steal his breath, then pull the trigger. But now someone else sat before you. And in his eyes, there was not death—but truth.

“How?” you asked. Your voice dropped slightly, but the determination remained. “Who killed him?”

Cutter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. In the end, he became a victim of what he created. False alliances, shattered decisions... This place wasn’t a camp anymore—it was a swamp. Your attack was just the final blow.”

You took that object from your backpack. The watch. Rusted, the glass scratched. You didn’t strap it on your wrist, you placed it in your palm. Showed it to Cutter. “This,” you said, “was found beside my father’s body. There’s something carved on the back.”

Cutter recognized it without looking. His eyes widened slightly, but were quickly replaced by quiet acceptance.

“Joel,” he said. “Joel Miller. I recognized the watch. Never met a man so obsessed with time. If he dropped it... he must’ve thought he made a mistake.”

The blood drained from your face. You hadn’t heard that name before. “Who is he? Why was the watch with my father? Did he...”

Cutter lowered his head, silent for a moment. Then he stood from his chair and looked out the window. At what remained of the camp.

“Joel Miller was a mercenary. But not your average killer. Quiet, precise, did everything his way. Marcus hired him to kill your father. Joel did the job. But... he disappeared right after payment. As if... the weight of what he did broke him.”

You swallowed. “So... he’s the one who killed my father?”

“Yes,” said Cutter.

The words hung in the air for a while. The watch in your hand was no longer just an item. It was the key to a door leading into the past.

"Joel Miller..." you murmured to yourself. The name left a sharp taste on your tongue; metallic, rusty, like blood.

Cutter was still by the window. His shoulders were slumped. His voice held no triumph, only exhaustion. “Look. Flint is dead. He was your father’s enemy. He had him killed. Now he’s buried too. The score is settled.”

He slightly turned his head, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know there’s no redemption for what we did here. But… you’re different. You think like a leader. For Redhill’s future…”

“Stop,” you said, low but sharp. “Did you see that day?”

Cutter didn’t answer.

“Did you hide? Did you run? Or did you watch my father get shot?”

Cutter’s lips twitched. “I want to protect you,” he said. “Like everyone who died here, I fell apart too. I just wanted you to know that.”

You stepped forward. The grip of your gun fit so well in your hand, it felt fused with your bones. The watch was still in your pocket. It weighed you down—but not as much as the burden you carried inside. Like a curse flapping its wings in your chest.

“I will find Joel Miller,” you said. Your eyes no longer trembled. “And I’ll find out what happened that day. Turns out it wasn’t just Flint. The man who executed my father had a name. A voice. A breath. And now, that breath belongs to me.”

Cutter nodded slowly. “If you’re going to find Joel…” he said quietly, “pray he doesn’t recognize you… or that he does.”

You paused. There was a threat in those words, in Cutter’s voice—a lingering fear that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a warning. Joel Miller was the kind of man whose name burned itself into memory, who made lips dry when whispered in the dark.

“Who was he?” you asked. “Who was the man who killed my father?”

Cutter clenched his jaw. “He spoke with darkness. Sometimes he didn’t even know who or why he killed. You make a deal with him, he gets it done. But he always leaves a trail of blood behind. Flint made a deal. But Joel was never anyone’s dog. Maybe he killed Flint too. Maybe his conscience caught up. But… that conscience buried a lot of people.”

Cutter stepped back. At the end of his words, it was like a weight had fallen from his shoulders. He was waiting. For mercy. Forgiveness. Maybe just to be spared.

But you only looked at him for a moment.

“That man executed my father,” you said. “Neither Flint’s rotten orders nor your aged guilt can change that. My father built Redhill with hardship. But I was the one who buried him.”

And you pulled the trigger.

Cutter’s head slumped to the side. His eyes stayed open in surprise, as if even in the end, he couldn’t believe it was your hand that sent him off. When his body hit the floor, silence swallowed the room. No triumph, no grief… only that sharp clarity creaking in your bones: Nothing could stop you now.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. The watch… was still in your pocket.

Your footsteps echoed as you left the office. Your eyes weren’t on the darkness—they were fixed on the horizon of vengeance.

Now you had a target. Joel Miller.

And you… would not speak to him. You would not forgive him.

Outside, Reuben and Nico were waiting. Their eyes immediately fell on your gun, on your blank expression.

Nico stepped closer. His brows were furrowed, but there was a trace of relief in his eyes. “Is it over?” he asked. “Marcus… is he dead?”

You didn’t answer.

Reuben exhaled deeply. “Y/N… What happened in there?”

Instead of replying, you reached into your pocket and pulled out the watch. Slowly, carefully. Your fingers brushed the metal for a moment. Then you handed it to Reuben.

“Joel Miller,” you said. “That’s the name of the man who actually killed my father. Marcus died during the riot here.”

Reuben’s face turned pale. His hand trembled as it hovered around the watch. “That name…” he said. “It sounds familiar. But…”

Nico stared at you in disbelief. “What are you saying? Flint gave the order, didn’t he? That bastard paid the price. Fate punished him for you. And you…”

You cut him off. “There’s no such thing as fate,” you said. Your gaze was fixed, like a dusty desert horizon. “Only choices. And I’ve made mine. This isn’t over.”

Nico couldn’t make sense of the silence that surrounded you. There was a mixed sense of victory on his face, but your expression was far beyond triumph. Reuben, however, understood everything. He slowly took the watch in his hand, felt its weight, then handed it back to you.

“This isn’t just his watch anymore, is it?” he said. “For you… it’s the key to a new war.”

You nodded. “I found it next to my father’s body. Cutter said Joel was the one who executed him. Even if it was under Flint’s orders, he pulled the trigger. And that doesn’t mean it’s over. It means this is just the beginning.”

Reuben slightly bowed his head. “Y/N... Revenge can be poison. You carry a fire in your heart for years. I trust your leadership, but… you’re not going to turn this into a blood feud, are you?”

...

On the road, the horses’ hooves kicked up dust as you rode toward Redhill. The sky was still gray, but there was something else on the horizon this time. What had happened in Marcus Flint’s town was still fresh in everyone’s mind, but the images in your head were older: your father’s face, dried blood, the watch placed in your hand, and Cutter’s final words.

You were riding in front, eyes locked on the horizon, your lips pressed together. But those behind you read the silence differently.

Caleb was the first to speak. His strong voice cut through the dry air. “Y/N. You didn’t just avenge your father today. You carried the weight of all Redhill. You fought for all of us.”

You slowed your horse, glanced back slightly, but didn’t reply.

Rory rode his horse beside Caleb’s. The young man’s eyes were shining. “When the town burned. When Flint’s men tied the children to trees and dragged the mothers away—we couldn’t do anything. But today... today, something finally changed. People will hear about this. Redhill is no longer alone.”

Voices started to rise behind you. You weren’t the only ones who stormed that town. A few more fighters from Redhill had come, all watching you.

An older woman, Mellie, spoke in a whisper, but her voice was clear: “Your father stood up for us. Now you carry on where he left off. But your road is long. If you’ve taken this bitter decision on your shoulders, don’t leave it unfinished.”

Reuben looked at you from over his shoulder as you pulled gently on the reins. Your horse stopped. From the mountainside, the distant lights of Redhill came into view. You slowly turned around, your face glowing in the red of the setting sun. Your eyes turned to your people, your companions.

“When my father died,” you said, your voice rough as gravel but steady, “all I had left was a watch. A clue. I followed it. I chased it. I killed Cutter. But behind that watch was another name. Joel Miller. And that name opened the door to another story, soaked into the soil of these lands.”

Your lips parted again, your gaze returned to the horizon. “This isn’t my path anymore. It’s the path Redhill walks now. And you... you’re putting it on my shoulders. Like a stone, heavy and sharp. But if this is truly your war too... then I’ll walk it to the end.”

Those looking at you bowed their heads. Rory placed a hand over his heart. Mellie nodded, wiping her tears away.

Reuben slowly approached, took your reins. “You won’t walk alone, girl. You won’t kill alone. This will be Redhill’s final farewell. And we’ll be the witnesses to that farewell.”

As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Redhill’s lights drew near.

But in your eyes, a darker, more distant light was burning now:

The memory of Joel Miller. And the final day when you would face him.

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