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speaknow-sw · 20 days ago

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THE POET AND THE ROSE Content : no smut just Anakin being himself. Age gap ? Anakin is 30 you’re 21. Vaginal touch and breast play. 3.7k words.

꧁ Chapter 1 : A Treaty in Vows ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"They say the pen is softer than the sword, Yet neither have mercy for hearts of stone. I write not to conquer, but to endure, To whisper to shadows when I’m alone."

The clash of swords had long faded into memory, replaced by the measured beat of war drums. The French and British armies had bled each other dry over countless seasons, yet no victor emerged. The French Empire, once unyielding, now sought peace, not for lack of strength but out of weariness. Across the sea, the British, proud and unbowed, saw no other way forward.

And so it was that the fate of two nations rested not on the battlefield but in the fragile vows of marriage.

General Anakin Skywalker stood in the drafty war council chamber of a French outpost, his imposing frame dwarfing the room. His armor gleamed faintly in the torchlight, though the marks of countless battles marred its surface. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched behind his back as he listened to the terms of peace being read aloud.

"The King offers his daughter, the Princess, in marriage," the envoy concluded, his voice careful, almost hesitant.

Anakin’s lips curled into a grimace. He turned to Obi-Wan Kenobi, his second-in-command, who leaned casually against the stone wall, his expression betraying none of the mirth Anakin knew lay beneath.

"So this is what our victories amount to? A wife." Anakin’s tone was clipped, laced with disdain.

"It’s a union, not a surrender," Obi-Wan said lightly, though his eyes were sharp. "An end to the bloodshed, Anakin. Isn’t that what we’ve fought for?"

Anakin growled under his breath, pacing the room like a caged lion. He was a man of war, forged by the fires of battle, not the silken threads of diplomacy. The thought of binding himself to a woman he’d never met, for a peace he wasn’t sure would last, set his teeth on edge.

"She better be under fifty," he muttered, earning a snort from Obi-Wan.

"Knowing your luck, she’ll be a saint. Or worse, she’ll be kind."

Anakin shot him a glare but said nothing. The decision was not his to make. He was a soldier, bound to his king’s command, and the decree was clear.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

"To bind two nations with a golden ring,

A fragile thread between war and peace.

But peace is no gift—it is a battle of its own,

A sword wrapped in silk, waiting to pierce the heart."

Westminster Abbey was a grand, sprawling structure, its high arches and marble columns whispering of a legacy far older than France’s green hills. The air was heavy with incense, the murmur of the gathered crowd muted by the solemnity of the occasion.

Anakin stood at the altar, his back straight, his hands resting loosely on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. He had traded his battle-worn armor for fine but unfamiliar attire: a dark tunic edged with gold, a heavy cloak draped over one shoulder. Yet even in finery, he looked out of place, a predator among prey.

He kept his gaze forward, ignoring the curious eyes of Roman nobles who whispered behind painted fans. His thoughts were a tumult of irritation and resignation.

The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open, and a hush fell over the crowd.

The princess entered, her form veiled in a cascade of ivory silk. She moved with practiced grace, her steps measured, though Anakin noted the faintest tremor in her hands as she approached.

When she reached the altar, Anakin risked a glance at her. He could see nothing of her face beneath the veil, only the outline of her delicate figure. She was smaller than he’d imagined, her presence dwarfed by the weight of her ceremonial robes.

The priest began the rites, speaking in both French and the English tongue. Anakin’s responses were curt, his voice a deep rumble that carried through the hall.

Finally, the moment came.

"You may lift the veil," the priest intoned.

Anakin's hands hovered over the delicate fabric of her veil, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd expected to feel nothing, a sense of detachment from this forced union. But as his fingers brushed against the silk, he felt a jolt of electricity course through him.

Slowly, he lifted the veil, revealing her face inch by inch. Her eyes were the first thing he saw, a vivid color that seemed to pierce right through him. They were wide and luminous, framed by long lashes and set in a face of such beauty it took his breath away.

Her hair was a cascade of curls, tumbling down her back like a river of water. Her lips were full and pink, parted slightly as if she were holding her breath.

Anakin found himself staring, unable to look away. He'd seen many beautiful women in his life, but none who had affected him like this. It was as if the very sight of her had stolen the air from his lungs.

"You're... you're beautiful," he heard himself say, the words rough and awkward.

She blushed, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice soft and melodic.

The priest cleared his throat, breaking the spell. "The ceremony is complete. You may now be presented as husband and wife."

Anakin blinked, coming back to himself. He took her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. It was small and delicate, a sharp contrast to his own rough, battle-hardened hands.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

"Princess," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"General," you replied, your tone measured but soft.

As they turned to face the crowd, Anakin felt a strange sense of pride well up inside him. This woman, this stranger, was his wife. The thought was still foreign, almost surreal. But as he looked down at her, saw the way her eyes shone up at him, he felt a flicker of something else.

Hope.

Perhaps this union, forced though it may be, could be more than just a political arrangement. Perhaps, given time, it could be something real. Something meaningful.

But Anakin knew better than to hold his breath. In his world, there were no guarantees. Only the harsh realities of war.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

”Bound by vows of gold and stone,

Two strangers stand beneath the crown.

The weight of peace, a heavy throne,

Where swords are lowered, yet hearts may drown.”

The reception was held in the grand hall of his castle, a sprawling room lit by dozens of chandeliers dripping with crystal. Long tables were laden with silver platters of roasted meats, ripe fruits, and delicate pastries. Musicians played softly in the corner, their strings and flutes weaving a delicate melody that was nearly drowned out by the chatter of the guests.

General Anakin Skywalker stood rigid at the altar, his jaw set, his expression an unreadable mask. He loomed in the sea of French grandeur, his presence at odds with the refinement of the occasion. The fine clothes he wore—a dark blue tunic trimmed with gold—felt foreign, a costume draped over the hardened warrior beneath. His scarred hands rested on the hilt of a ceremonial sword, though his instincts yearned for the familiar weight of the blade he had carried through countless battles.

Around him, the French elite murmured behind fans and jeweled hands, their gazes drifting to him with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. He could hear their whispers, faint and venomous.

"A barbarian…" "He doesn’t belong here…" "And she is meant to marry that?"

Their words did not bother him; he had grown used to such scorn. What rankled was the reason he stood there. Marriage. Peace. He was a soldier, a man who lived for the battlefield, not for the political games that followed.

Finally he sat at the head of the table, his new wife beside him. He had barely spoken to you since the ceremony, unsure of what to say. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, the noise of the room grating against his nerves.

You were quiet, your gaze fixed on the goblet of wine in your hands. The soft light of the chandeliers caught the gold in your hair, making you appear almost otherworldly. Anakin found himself stealing glances at you, though he quickly looked away each time you shifted, afraid you might catch him.

"You’re brooding again," Obi-Wan said, leaning toward him from the next seat over. His tone was light, but his eyes flicked meaningfully toward you.

Anakin scowled. "I’m not brooding."

Obi-Wan smirked. "You are. Perhaps you should try speaking to your bride instead of glaring at your wine."

Anakin shot him a look that could have melted steel, but before he could respond, a sharp crash echoed through the hall.

All eyes turned toward the source of the noise—a French noble, Lord Aulbry, red-faced and unsteady on his feet, had knocked over a goblet. The wine spread across the table like blood, pooling near the edge.

"How fitting," the noble slurred, his voice loud and cutting. "A barbarian at the head of our table."

The room fell silent.

Anakin’s jaw tightened, but he did not move. You stiffened beside him, your fingers tightening around the stem of your goblet.

"Peace, Messire," one of the French officials said hastily, rising to calm the situation. "Tonight is a celebration, not a—"

"A celebration of what?" the noble sneered. "Of our empire’s weakness? Of selling off our princess to a savage?"

Anakin’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but you placed your hand lightly on his arm. He glanced at you, surprised by the gesture. You gave a small shake of your head, your expression unreadable.

"I suggest you hold your tongue," Anakin said, his voice calm but dangerous. His gaze locked on the noble, who faltered under the intensity of his stare.

The noble muttered something incoherent and stumbled back to his seat, and the tension in the room eased, though it did not dissipate entirely.

You leaned toward him slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you," you said, your tone careful.

"For what?" he asked, equally quiet.

"For not drawing your sword."

He allowed a faint smirk to cross his lips. "It was a near thing."

The castle chamber assigned to them was warm, lit by the soft glow of a roaring fire. The heavy wooden door closed behind them with a resounding thud, leaving them alone for the first time.

Anakin moved toward the hearth, shrugging off his cloak and tossing it onto a nearby chair. He could feel your eyes on him, though you said nothing.

"Does this room meet your standards, princess ?" he asked, his tone dry as he turned to face you.

You stood near the bed, your hands clasped before you. Out of the elaborate wedding attire, you seemed even smaller, dressed in a simple nightgown of white linen.

"It is fine," you said quietly. Then, after a pause, you added, "You may call me as you like, sir."

He arched a brow, and saw roses embroidered on her gown. "My rose, then."

"And what shall I call you?" You asked, surprising him with your directness.

"Anakin will do, or my husband." he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with expectation. Anakin felt the weight of the evening press down on him. He had no desire to take you roughly right now—not out of indifference, but because he could see the tension in your posture, the faint nervousness in your eyes.

Instead, he moved toward you slowly, as if approaching a startled doe. When he reached you, he took your hand in his, his calloused fingers brushing against your softer ones.

"You’ve been through enough today," he said gruffly. "You needn’t fear me."

Your gaze searched his, and something in your expression softened. You nodded, a small but significant gesture of trust.

He guided you to the bed, but instead of undressing you, he took a seat beside you and began to unlace your tight shoes. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as though you were something fragile.

"You don’t have to—" you began, but he interrupted you.

"Let me," he said, his voice softer now.

The flickering light of the fire cast a warm glow across your face, illuminating the delicate features that had captivated him since the moment he'd lifted your veil. As he knelt before you, gently removing your shoes, Anakin felt an unfamiliar tenderness stir within him.

"These shoes look uncomfortable," he murmured, his fingers brushing against your ankle as he worked. "I'm surprised you managed to stand through the entire ceremony."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. "It's not the first time I've worn them, my husband."

The formal address sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the weight of this union. But as he looked up at you, saw the way your eyes shone with a mix of nervousness and curiosity, he felt something else. A spark of connection, however tenuous.

"Anakin," he said softly, his hand still resting on your foot. "Please, call me Anakin right now..."

You nodded, your cheeks flushing slightly. "Anakin," you repeated, as if testing the name on your tongue.

He rose to his feet, his hand moving from your ankle to your waist. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, but there was a strength beneath it that spoke of the warrior he was.

"You're trembling," he observed, his thumb rubbing small circles on your hip. "Are you cold?"

"No," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I'm just... nervous."

Anakin's heart clenched at the admission. He knew all too well the fear of the unknown, the anxiety that came with stepping into uncharted territory. But he also knew the power of vulnerability, the strength that could be found in laying oneself bare.

"There's no need to be afraid," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "We have all the time in the world to... get to know each other."

The last words were laced with a hint of suggestion, but there was no pressure in his tone. Instead, there was a promise, a silent vow to take this journey together, one step at a time.

He drew back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "May I ?” He asked, a hand on the thin strap of your linen gown.

Anakin's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the air between you. He could feel the weight of the moment, the anticipation that seemed to crackle like electricity.

But there was no rush, no need to force the issue. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your throat in a feather-light kiss. The touch was innocent, almost chaste, but the scruff of his jaw sent a shiver down your spine nonetheless.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I find myself at a loss for words."

His hand slid from your waist to your back, drawing you closer. The heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your nightgown, a reminder of the man beneath the armor.

"Tell me," he continued, his voice low and husky. "What do you want, my rose?"

The question hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Anakin knew he was treading on dangerous ground, that one wrong move could shatter the fragile trust that had begun to grow between you.

But he also knew that this moment, this first night as husband and wife, was a turning point. A chance to build something real, something lasting.

You took a shaky breath.“Anything you’d like me to have, husband…”

Anakin's heart raced at your words, a heady cocktail of desire and tenderness surging through him. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Are you sure, my rose?"

Your breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping your lips. It was all the encouragement he needed.

Anakin's hands slid down to your waist, his fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him. He could feel the heat of your body, the way your curves melted into the hard planes of his own.

"I want to worship you," he murmured, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. "To taste every inch of your skin, to make you writhe with pleasure."

His hands roamed lower, cupping your buttocks and squeezing gently. The thin fabric of your nightgown did little to hide the heat of your skin, the way your body responded to his touch.

"Tell me what you need," he urged, his voice rough with desire. "Tell me how to please you."

Anakin's own need was a throbbing ache, his cock straining against the confines of his trousers. But he held himself back, determined to focus on your pleasure first.

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "I want to hear you, my rose. I want to hear you cry out my name."

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your nightgown higher and higher. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your muscles quivered beneath his touch.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your core. "Do you want me to touch you here?"

Anakin's own breath was coming in ragged gasps, his control hanging by a thread. But he held back, waiting for your response. This was your journey, your pleasure. And he would follow your lead, no matter where it took him.

His scruff ghosted against your shoulder. “I fucked many whores senseless in brothels…but never thought I’d have an angel to satisfy. This is the culmination of my mere mortal life…to have you in my arms, quivering from the pleasure I’m giving you …how lucky I am to be alive right now.”

Anakin's words washed over you, a heady mix of reverence and desire that sent shivers down your spine. You felt cherished, worshipped, like a goddess being praised by a devoted supplicant.

"Anakin," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. "Please..."

It was all the encouragement he needed. With a low growl, Anakin swept you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down gently, his body covering yours as he hovered above you.

"You're my angel," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. "My very own heavenly creature, sent to grace my mortal life."

His lips found yours in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep as he claimed your mouth. You responded with equal fervor, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him closer.

Anakin's hands roamed your body, mapping every curve and hollow. He pushed the straps of your nightgown down, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

"Beautiful," he breathed, his fingers skimming over the sensitive flesh. "Perfect."

He lowered his head, his tongue flicking out to taste your nipple. You arched into him, a low moan escaping your lips as pleasure coursed through you.

Anakin lavished your breasts with attention, his mouth and hands working in tandem to drive you wild with need. Your hips bucked against him, seeking friction, but he held you down, his weight pinning you to the bed.

"Not yet, my rose," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I'm not nearly done with you."

His hand slid down your body, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You trembled beneath him, your body aching for his touch.

"Please, Anakin," you whimpered, your voice barely recognizable to your own ears. "Please…husband..."

With a low groan, Anakin obliged. His fingers delved between your folds, finding you slick and ready. He stroked you slowly, his touch maddeningly gentle.

Suddenly a knock echoed “General, the French renegates attacked a village, we need you as fast as possible.” A voice spoke urgently through the thick wooden door.

The knock at the door jolted you both out of your passionate haze, the harsh reality of your situation crashing down upon you. Anakin cursed under his breath, his expression hardening as he sprang into action.

He quickly fastened his armor, the tender lover of moments ago replaced by the fierce warrior you knew him to be. You watched him through narrowed eyes, your heart pounding in your chest.

How could you have let yourself be swept away like that ? This man, with countless deaths on his hands, had touched you with such tenderness, had made you feel things you'd never felt before. It was a betrayal of everything you stood for, everything you believed in.

"I have to go," Anakin said gruffly, his voice devoid of the warmth and affection he'd shown you just moments before. "Your people have attacked a village. I need to lead my men."

You nodded stiffly, wrapping the sheets tighter around your body. "Of course. Duty calls."

Anakin paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face. "Princess..."

"Go," you said firmly, turning away from him. "Save the village. That's what you're good at, after all."

The bitterness in your voice was unmistakable, and Anakin flinched as if struck. But he didn't argue, didn't try to change your mind. With a curt nod, he left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You were alone, your body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire. But it was tinged with shame, with the knowledge that you'd betrayed your principles for a moment of pleasure.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. You were stronger than this, better than this. You wouldn't let a man, no matter how charming or skilled, make you forget who you were.

But even as you tried to convince yourself of your own strength, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind. A voice that wondered what might have been, if you'd given in to the passion that had burned between you.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker

"A fleeting touch, a ghost, a flame, A breath that whispers your quiet name. The silk of your skin beneath my hand, A treasure I cannot yet command.

I burn for what I cannot claim, This ache, a tether, this want, my shame. Your gaze, a wound in my chest both sharp and sweet, A battlefield where I’m brought to defeat.”

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #evie writes #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader

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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 9 months ago

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1: PRIYA & JAMIE

MASTERLIST > Next chapter

You love your best friend but you can't find the courage to tell him. It doesn't matter because things are perfect between you... until they aren't. Everything changes the day Bucky introduces you to his new girlfriend.

Word count: 3.1k

Warning: angsty feelings, jealousy, feelings of betrayal, Bucky... Barnes is a warning

Sticks and Stones was your favorite place. Not because of the amazing meals, or the roaring fireplace that made the winter evenings warmer, or even the stone oven that produced the most scrumptious pizzas. No, it was because once a month, you shared a meal with your best friend, James Buchanan Barnes. You jovially referred to it as date night, the one night you were guaranteed a time alone with your best pal.

Normally when you arrived, you'd find Bucky waiting patiently for you, having ordered his and your favorite drinks. But today, you'd been out in town, enjoying some time off from work and you'd arrived early. You were pleased that for once, you'd be able to return the favor.

"Darling!" Victor, your usual waiter greeted you. "You're here early! Beat Mr Bucky to the punch today! Want me to bring the usual?"

"Yes please, Victor! Thanks!"

You glanced around, making yourself comfortable as you waited for Bucky to arrive. Victor brought your drinks and you couldn't resist taking a sip of the fruity house wine that you always enjoyed. You savored the taste and tingly feeling of it slipping down your throat. There was an instant feel of comfort and familiarity in the setting and you smiled dreamily, lost in the moment.

The time you spent with Bucky was very special to you. When you weren't out risking your lives and watching each other's backs for S.H.I.E.L.D., the two of you tried to spend your free time together. Truth be told, you were harboring feelings of more than simple friendship for the super soldier. The bond you shared was tighter than any other relationship you'd had in the past. But you longed for more and during these ‘dates’ you could imagine that your feelings were reciprocated. It was a tap on your shoulder that brought you back to reality.

"Hey!" Bucky's smiling face popped into your visual field.

"Buck!" You smiled from ear to ear. It was always a comfort to see him. Jumping out of your seat, you wrapped your arms around his neck in a hug. Bucky's strong arms wound their way around your waist and your chin snuggled into the nook between his shoulder and neck. As he squeezed you tightly, you noticed someone standing awkwardly behind him.

Gently, you pulled out of your best friend's embrace, smiling at the gorgeous stranger in tight fitting jeans and a perfectly tailored red halter neck blouse. You were slightly star struck by her beauty, she was in appearance, everything you wished you were.

"Hi," you smiled at her. Even though you were impressed by her appearance, something about her presence didn't sit right with you.

"Oh Cricket, this is Priya. Doll, this is Y/N, but we call her Cricket."

Did he just call her Doll? You frowned slightly. That was his nickname for you. The discomfort you had felt intensified.

"Hey, Cricket. It's nice to meet you." Priya offered her hand, which you shook, more as a reflex. "Jamie here has told me so much about you."

"Jamie?" You frowned again, looking at Bucky.

He scratched the back of his head bashfully, chuckling slightly at her pet name for him. "Priya!" Bucky admonished jokingly.

Breathlessly, you watched as he pulled out a chair for this woman to sit down. He was a perfect gentleman. He waved Victor over and grabbed a chair from the table adjacent to you and sat down. "Why’re you still standing?" he asked you.

Wordlessly, you lowered yourself back into your chair, reaching out to your glass of wine and taking a larger than necessary mouthful. This time though there was a searing burning in your chest that was probably nothing to do with the alcohol trickling down your esophagus.

"So, how do you two know each other?" The words were coming out of your mouth but you had no idea who was controlling it. You also knew that you didn't want to hear the answer.

"Priya’s my girlfriend." Bucky beamed, looking at Priya. He never smiled like this at anyone other than you.

"Jamie and I met four months ago. Right here! I saw him sitting here on his own and I just couldn't let such a handsome man be lonely." Priya ran her fingers through Bucky's hair.

Your mind was reeling at the information that had just been dropped on you and your world felt like it was spinning. You felt a pang of jealousy and sadness as you listened to Priya gush about how she met Bucky. How much alcohol had you drunk? Your mouth felt dry but your eyes burned. Your ears were ringing and everyone suddenly seemed very far away. You tried to smile and act happy for them, but it was hard to hide your true feelings. You wondered how Bucky could have kept this a secret from you for four months. Was he ashamed of you? Did he not trust you? Did he not care about you?

"I… I don't understand. What do you mean you met here?" You stuttered.

"Remember that time you were forced to cancel on me, ‘cause of the last minute mission Steve dragged you on?"

"Yea-" you whispered in answer.

"It was that day." Bucky looked at you.

"So what? You just found an instant replacement?" The words slipped out of your mouth with a lot more spite than you'd intended.

"Of course not, Cricket." Bucky frowned, he wasn't sure what he had expected but this was not the reaction he had imagined from you. "You're my best friend."

"Yeah," you sighed.

Under the table, you found yourself gripping the sides of your chair so tightly that your knuckles were turning white. Maybe if you had been given time to emotionally prepare yourself for this introduction, you would have reacted more gracefully than you were doing at this very moment. But the shock of being face to face with Bucky’s girlfriend was so far down on your list of expectations, that you didn’t seem to have any control over your brain or your mouth.

"Aww, Jamie, I thought I was your best friend now," Priya smiled at Bucky, batting her eyelids at him. She slipped her arms around his beefy bicep and leaned in for a kiss.

To your surprise, Bucky laughed and leaned in, engaging in a slow and gag-worthy kiss. You wanted to run, to scream, to cry, you wanted someone to pinch you, to shake you awake from the nightmare you seemed to be stuck in. A dream, that’s what it was, just a bad dream. If you played along, you’d wake up in your bed having fallen asleep beside your best friend watching bad movies all night because he had a nightmare. You didn’t want to be rude or cause a scene either. You also didn’t want to lose Bucky, even if he had already chosen someone else. You loved him too much to let him go.

You plastered a smile across your face, deciding to stay, enduring the torture of watching them be happy together. "Congratulations, Bucky. It’s good that you’ve found someone special." The words sounded forced, at least they did in your mind. Emotionless. You meant what you said, it was good that Bucky had found someone. You just wished that someone was you. He deserved happiness, you just wanted to be the one to give it to him.

You had known all along that you wouldn’t be that person. Every time he had put his arms around you, every time he came to you for comfort after a nightmare, every time you shared a meal, every time those brilliant blue eyes gazed into yours, he had had the opportunity to take things one step further. And as much as you longed for it, that step never came.

Bucky gave you a scrutinizing stare for what felt like an eternity before accepting your words. "Thank you," he smiled, breaking your heart all over again.

"So, Cricket! I assume that's not really your name. How did it come about?"

Bucky laughed, recalling the memory. "Cricket had only been with the team for two months, but she was immediately everyone's conscience. It was almost kinda annoying."

You scowled.

"Come on, Cricket, don't be like that." Bucky smiled at you and it melted the scowl off your face. "Natasha used to call her Jiminy Cricket and it's just stuck."

"And how long have you and James known each other?" Priya asked you.

"It’s been two years," you smiled, the first genuine one since you had seen them together. "But we've been partners for 18 months."

You felt the need to emphasize your closeness with Bucky.

"Wow, James said the two of you were close." She turned to Bucky, directing her question at him. "How come you never mentioned us to her?

Bucky had the decency to look uncomfortable, his eyes flitting between you and Priya but never maintaining eye contact with either of you. Your immediate instinct was to help him out, to ease his discomfort. But the little person inside your brain that often sat on your shoulder with horns on its head asked you why he deserved it. Why had he lied to you for the past four months? What was he trying to hide from you? He was really putting your little crickets through their paces.

"I just wasn’t ready to share you with anyone else," Bucky answered in his most charming manner.

Priya giggled and you closed your eyes in an effort to keep them from seeing your exasperated eye roll.

"We should order before they close the kitchen. It’s getting late. What do you want?" Bucky asked Priya.

It almost felt like you didn’t exist.

"Want to share a pizza?" she responded.

"Sounds great, Doll!" He smiled at her. "What do you want, Cricket?"

"Umm, I-" You had no idea what you wanted. Pizza with Bucky was your go to. It had been a while since you’d sampled anything from the menu. "I need to look." You picked up the faux-leather bound booklet with meal options, grateful to be able to hide your face behind it. The last thing you wanted was for Priya or Bucky to see your quivering lip or tear filled eyes.

You only emerged when Victor approached, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Miss Y/L/N. Would you and Mr Bucky like your usual?"

"No Victor, could I have the cajun pasta please?"

Priya gave hers and Bucky’s orders to Victor who walked away promising only a short wait for your meals. A silence settled over the tablet as you contemplated how Priya took charge of their order. It had taken you a long time to get Bucky to understand that he had autonomy and was allowed to voice his opinions. You always did your best to give Bucky the time to process his decisions and articulate them. You worried that he would lose that. However, Priya used silence as an opportunity to ask you a few more questions.

"So, Cricket. How did you end up joining S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

You shrugged. "Just kinda happened. Sometimes life has a way of pushing you into something unexpected, you just have to make the most of it." You had no desire to share the most painful events in your life with a complete stranger. "And what do you do, Priya?"

"My job isn’t as exciting as yours, I’m afraid. I’m a surgeon."

"She is being modest," Bucky interjected proudly, "She is a kid’s surgeon."

You felt like you were being punched in the gut. You had gone to medical school before you’d joined S.H.I.E.L.D., but life had different plans for you and you’d ended up being recruited to S.H.I.E.L.D. soon after your internship.

You plastered a smile across your face and delivered the socially acceptable response. "Wow, pediatrics. That’s hard work."

"Worth it though, when you see the smiles on the kids' faces when they walk out of the hospital."

"I’m impressed that you find the time to date. I can barely find time for myself. Feels like too much hard work!" You forced a laugh from your lips.

"Well, being with James isn’t work at all. In fact, he gives me a reason to leave the hospital."

Bucky blushed. "Thanks, Doll."

Luckily you were spared further awkward conversation by the arrival of your dinner.

"Eat up kids, we’re closing up soon!" Victor boomed.

The rest of the meal was eaten in relative silence, Bucky and Priya exchanging some small talk as you poked and prodded at the food on your plate. Their honeymoon phase was sickening and all you wanted was to leave.

Closing time came around eventually, although not as soon as you would have liked.

"Darling, what's the matter? You didn't like pasta?" Victor came to clear your plates and usher you out of the establishment.

"It was really good, just a bit spicy." You blushed while telling the lie, your inner cricket screaming at you.

"Next time we'll make sure you can eat it all then." Victor smiled at you kindly.

You felt terrible, but you didn't want anyone to see how upset you really were, especially Bucky. Not that he would notice, he was too busy draping his jacket over Priya’s shoulders. It didn’t mean very much to you at that moment, but the second you stepped outside, you realized that your evening wasn’t going to get any better. Bucky’s bike was parked right outside and you understood what that meant.

"Cricket, we’ll see you back at the compound!" Bucky smiled, leading his girlfriend to the bike with his hand at her back. "Don’t want to get caught in the rain."

You nodded mutely, watching them speed away. When you had asked Nat to drop you off in town, it had been with the intention that you would catch a ride back with Bucky, as you always did. You were left standing on the curb in a sundress and a light jacket. It had been a warm day for late October, but as the sun had set, thunder clouds had rolled in and Thor’s distant cousins were making a ruckus in the distance and seemed to be heading in your direction. The notion that you could walk home was something you entertained for a total of two seconds, as your heel got stuck in a grate on the sidewalk. You sighed heavily as a couple of raindrops splashed on your shoulder.

Pulling out your phone, you tapped on the local transportation apps, but there were no cabs to be seen. Not that anyone would be willing to drive you out into the country at this time in the evening. There was only one choice left, you needed to call one of your friends to pick you up. Resigned to an awkward conversation, you scrolled through your phone for someone to contact.

Nat… no, she wasn’t around. Sam… no answer. Steve… the phone rang a couple of times, before a sleepy voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Steve, were you sleeping?" you asked, anxiously.

"No," came his dishonest answer.

"I’m sorry, go back to sleep." You hated imposing on people and knowing that you had woken Steve from what was probably much needed slumber, made you felt terrible.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing, it’s okay, Steve." What were you thinking? Why were you not asking for a lift?

"Cricket."

"Could you please pick me up from town?" you asked, in a small voice.

Steve sat up in bed, your voice drowned out by a loud crack of thunder. "Wait, aren’t you with Bucky?"

"No, Buck-" you weren’t sure how much Steve knew about Bucky’s girlfriend. "I’m not with Bucky. He’s busy."

"With Priya?"

So Steve knew. Naturally. Steve was Bucky’s family, of course he would tell him before he told you. A tear dropped down from your eye as you nodded. "Yeah," you whispered, realizing that Steve couldn’t actually see you.

"I’m sorry. Give me half an hour, I’m coming."

"Thanks, Steve."

You hung up the phone and looked around. The street was deserted and everything felt so much darker than before. The rain, which had been falling lightly, started coming down more heavily, seeping into your thin clothes and making you shiver. The tears that were now pouring down your face were practically indistinguishable from the raindrops. This felt like the perfect ending for how you felt about your day.

True to his word, Steve arrived in twenty eight minutes. And you sunk into the passenger seat of his car looking like a bedraggled rat. He didn’t ask you any more questions, for which you were grateful. Wordlessly, he slipped off his hoodie and offered it to you. You took it, pulling the soft material over your head, thankful for the warmth it provided. The hood covered your eyes and you did nothing to move the wet strands of hair that were plastered across your face. It took all your self control to not start sobbing in the car with Steve. Luckily for you, Steve turned up the seat warmer on your seat and focused solely on the road as he started the journey back to the compound.

When he eventually pulled into the garage, Steve yanked up the parking brake, turned off the ignition and jumped out before you had the chance to unfasten your seat belt. He opened the door for you and you got out reluctantly. A feeling of dread washed over you. What if Bucky and Priya saw you like this? They were already here, you had immediately spotted Bucky's bike in the corner. You knew he had brought Priya back to the compound because Bucky hadn’t bothered to store his spare helmet, and he would have secured it if he had ridden home alone. A horrifying image of them having sex invaded your mind for a moment, but Steve’s voice distracted you.

"Come on, I'll walk you back to your room." Steve offered you a hand to help you out of the car.

"I'm sorry for making you come out to get me. I should have taken my car. I just thought-"

"It's okay. Let's go." Steve said kindly, wrapping his arm around you, offering his support and warmth. He stopped right outside your bedroom door. "Do you need anything?" he asked, brushing your hair out of your face.

You shook your head, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Thank you," you muttered in his ear.

Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Good night."

Neither of you noticed Bucky returning from the kitchen with two glasses in his hands, watching you and Steve from the shadows.

MASTERLIST > Next chapter

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fan fiction #my best friend's girl

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ivystoryweaver · 2 months ago

Text

Experimental Freedom [1?] - Victor Frankenstein

Victor Frankenstein + master/servant + oral + overstimulation

Kinktober Masterlist | Misc. Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Victor Frankenstein x Female servant!Reader

Summary: How you went from chambermaid to free use laboratory assistant. (Free use would be in part 2 if anyone is interested. We haven’t officially met this Victor yet, so I’m not sure)

Note: Frankenstein experts and apologists probably won't like this not-novel-accurate/pre-film-release nonsense. It's just for fun

Word Count: 4.8k

Content: explicit, p in v, unprotected sex, water sex, overstim, multiple orgasms, oral - f. rec., nipple play, brief/mild impact play, animal experimentation, not beta'd, Victor calls reader "Petal"

You started as a chambermaid. It was an honor to serve the master of the house, no matter how…peculiar. Of course, men had valets, not chambermaids, but Master Frankenstein hired you to tend to him, so that’s what you did.

This put you in constant contact with the doctor, who wasn't actually a real medical doctor, but simply a scientist, and a member of the aristocracy.

You thought you must have imagined it when he caught your gaze in his bedchamber mirror. When his touch lingered on your wrist after you’d handed him an item he needed. How he devoured the sight of your cleavage as you scrubbed up his messes and served him breakfasts in bed.

Your mother, God rest her, used to say it was a tragedy that someone as lovely in countenance as you was so low born. The best you could hope for in a marriage was to perhaps find a wealthy merchant.

But your parents perished crossing the sea and you finished your childhood in an orphanage, with no patronage and no prospects. So a servant’s life it would be.

That’s not to say you had not enjoyed certain…intimacies. Since you had no reputation to speak of, you gave your body to the first handsome man to flatter you at age eighteen. He was a clumsy oaf in bed but he brought you flowers and gazed at you like you were an important thing.

He did the same with the next girl.

Next, the butler at the house at the end of the street bedded you. He wasn’t much to look at but he was an attentive lover, showing you how a female could be pleasured by a man.

Then you came to be in the service of Victor Frankenstein.

The man was twice your age but you were stunned by his lack of pretension in dealing with his household staff. And he was astonishingly handsome, with wild, untamed, dark curls and haunting brown eyes.

Of course, you could never wish for a dalliance with such a man - he was nobility and therefore incapable of seeing you as anything worth…pursuing.

Which is why, one October night, he truly and utterly shocked you.

Master Frankenstein had been spending more time in his laboratory of late. This scientific chamber was more of a dungeon, down a winding, stone staircase, a long passageway and behind a heavy, bolted door.

He had begun taking his meals in the lab, which made you the unfortunate soul who had to clamber down the eerie path with a tray full of a meal worthy of your master.

Your instructions were to leave the tray outside the door, knock three times and leave. You were to wait an hour - then go back to retrieve it. And you were the only one allowed down the stairwell at all.

Tonight, he was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairwell. He greeted you by name, startling you.

"Forgive me, Master Frankenstein," you hastily apologized, struggling to balance the tray of delectable foods without spilling everything, upsetting your master, and making a fool of yourself.

"Allow me." He rushed forward, graciously taking the tray from your hands.

"Oh. Thank you." Granting him a brief, respectful bow, your skin warmed as his fingertips brush your hand. Eyes flickered over his loosened linen shirt, which revealed his surprisingly smooth chest.

"Would you like to see my laboratory?" He called back over his shoulder, entering the door where no one had stepped foot except for him.

Automatically and wordlessly following, you heard him continue.

"You do not easily swoon, do you? I do not have the patience to train another chambermaid to serve me as perfectly as you do."

As he set the tray down on a table, you rushed to tidy it and begin serving him, but he brushed your hand away with the flick of his wrist.

Backing away obediently, you bowed, unsure of what to do now.

"You must be curious about my work," he stated plainly, nodding around him with a grand gesture. "Please look around. I shall eat."

"Yes, master," you agreed, feeling freer now to indulge your curiosity without appearing nosy or rude.

Shelf after shelf of glass bottles, beakers and potions lined the walls. Organized chaos, it seemed. Dust coated the shelves, while the vials, beakers and instruments appeared pristine.

"You have questions," he declared, after taking a long swig of wine. Wiping his mouth clean, he folded his arms over his chest. "Ask me anything and I will answer you truly."

The tiniest smile tugged at your lips. His attention and patience with you pleased you.

"What do you do here?"

Smiling knowingly, he rose and began pacing, explaining to you his attempts to better human life by replacing defective body parts. For example, if an internal organ were to fail, a different one could, perhaps, be harvested from another human, just deceased. Or perhaps, a limb could be replaced when someone lost one to injury or illness or a defect from birth.

"Come," he instructed, offering his hand.

Your eyes widened as you tentatively stretched out your fingers to accept his touch. His warm hand closed over yours and he guided you to a table where you beheld a frog. Several, actually, most of them dead, and a few, with legs removed.

As you shuddered and recoiled, he grasped your shoulders and steadied you, hushing you like a parent would a child and ordering you to be still.

"I have attached a new leg, and the frog survived," he explained. "I do not know yet if he can hop, however."

Although you were not expecting to examine chopped-up frogs, you found yourself more surprised that the master of the house held you so close to his body and breathed on your ear.

"Do you think me a monster?"

His nose brushed the spot behind your ear, strong fingers gripping your arms as he if were asking something more of you.

"N-no, of course not, master," you uttered, certain he meant not to imply any interest in you.

"Do you understand what it does to me to hear you call me 'master'?" He groaned, lips trailing down to the skin of your neck, exposed where your hair was neatly tucked into a bun. A quick bite made you yelp. Chills erupted all over your body as you felt his tongue soothe the offended skin.

"Yes...master," you breathlessly panted, wildly confused but unwilling to pry yourself away from the handsome and powerful scientist.

Releasing his grip on your arms, he let you go, taking a full step back to compose himself.

Slightly trembling, you turned around to face him, your cheeks flaming hot as you found him adjusting his prominent length in his trousers before scrubbing a hand over the stubble on his angled jaw.

"I have behaved poorly," he declared, eyes raking over your body, pausing where the swell of your breasts rose and fell dramatically at the low-cut collar of your dress. "Forgive me."

"Of course, master," you breathlessly replied, eyes downcast as you smoothed your clothes and collected yourself.

Easing closer, he caught your gaze, nodding behind you. "You do not think it wicked to torture a poor frog just to see what I can do with a limb?"

"I do not know of such things. I am only a maid."

His throat bobbed as dark eyes locked onto yours. "Very well. You may go."

With a hasty bow, you grabbed the tray of dishes and made your exit.

Thoughts of his heated breath on your neck, his tongue on your skin, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your arms haunted and bewitched you the rest of the day. Of course, it wasn't unheard of for a master of the house to satiate his desires in the members of his staff from time to time, but Victor had never come some close to you as he had today. Nothing more than indulgent glances at your breasts.

Even if he bedded you, it would go nowhere. At worst, he would use you like an object and at best, he would bring you pleasure in return. But it would ultimately mean nothing.

As your thoughts lingered on the unknowable depths of his earthen eyes, the square cut of his jaw, the plush fullness of his lips, you felt yourself dampen between your legs, and you knew then, that you would allow any advances he made.

You didn't have to wait long.

Master Frankenstein worked late into the night, ignoring the evening meal tray you left outside the laboratory, and stumbling back into his room as you were turning down his bed.

He called you by name and you gasped at the sight of his clothes, hands and cheeks soiled with blood and other fluids.

"Master, allow me to draw you a bath."

He nodded, grumbling out a 'thank you' as he pulled his linen shirt over his head.

"I'll have food brought as well," you added, collecting his soiled shirt, but he reached for your elbow, grasping gently. "No food. I am quite tired."

"Of course," you bowed respectfully, trying not to stare as he kicked off his boots and dropped his trousers. Quickly setting aside his clothes, you scurried to prepare his bath, while he decided to shave, standing completely naked right beside you.

"Forgive my impropriety. My work has exhausted me," he attempted to explain several minutes later. "Will you wash me?"

Without realizing it, you wet your lips hungrily, struggling to keep your eyes fixed on his handsome face and not the beautifully sculpted lines and planes of his body.

Moments later, he sank into the warm water, head resting against the tub's edge as his eyes drifted closed. You had assisted the scientist with certain somewhat intimate tasks before, but he had never outright showed you his cock and asked that you bathe him.

Shallow breaths huffed through your lips as you reached for a cloth and dipped it into the water's warmth. With trembling fingers, you dragged the rag over his muscled chest, freezing as his eyes popped open to meet yours. He stared at you openly, fully, for a full minute before his eyes inevitably traveled down the smooth column of your neck to your heaving breasts. In this position, leaned forward and kneeling, he could see the fullness of them.

"You are very beautiful," he whispered, sitting up in the bath, which brought his lips dangerously close to the tempting line of your cleavage. "I worked all day and night trying to banish my wicked thoughts of you. I can see now that I have failed."

Wet fingers reached up to tug the laces holding your dress closed at your bosom. "I think if I do not taste you, I shall die."

He tugged and pulled until your breasts sprang free, full and ripe, nipples hard and straining, begging for his touch and attention. Breath and plush lips ghosting the swell of one breast, he cupped the other one gently, groaning in satisfaction as he massaged the soft flesh.

"I am your master," he choked out, restraining himself one moment longer. “But will you stay of your own free will?”

"I am yours to command, master," you gasped even as he sucked your nipple between his lips.

Your back arched, so sensitive and responsive to his touch, thrusting your breast further into his mouth, which he devoured hungrily. Dropping the cloth in your hand, your fingers found his wet curls, twisting through them and drawing him closer still to your bosom.

Hungry lips sucked at your soft skin, marking you for him, leaving a path from your nipples to your chest, along your collarbone, over the smooth column of your throat and finally, his mouth sought yours out - wet and demanding as he cupped your face in his hands and slid his tongue inside your mouth.

He didn't kiss you like any lover before him. Not like the bumbling eagerness of your first lover, nor like a self-assured man who treated you like the next whore in line. There was a dizzying experience to his kissing - he was no stranger to it, but he had nothing to prove. He was a wealthy, aristocratic scientist, who already had your obedience and all the time in the world to take with you.

You surprised yourself by how boldly you kissed him back, raking your hands through his curls and pulling him closer until your naked breasts pressed to his bare, solid chest, and closer still, until you lost your balance and began to tumble into the tub with him.

A chuckle rumbled in Victor's chest as he gathered you to his naked body, dress and all, even as you stammered out an apology.

With one firm shake of his head, he tutted, dismissing your fears. "Take this off," he instructed, tugging at your dress, "and bathe with me. Your master commands it."

Eyes locked onto his, you wet your lips with the tip of your tongue, holding his gaze even while you obeyed him. "Yes, master. I will do everything you wish."

He smirked knowingly, helping you shed the heavy fabric weighing you down, before reverently tracing the shape of your bare shoulder. "You may come to regret such a declaration, my soft, sweet petal."

Finally free of the obstruction, your soaked dress plopped to the floor, leaving you wet, naked and draped over your master, whose hands roved all over your curves, pulling you against him as his mouth sought yours again.

His cock pressed against your abdomen, hands grasping the globes of your ass, squeezing demandingly. Gripping your hips, he shifted your body until the hot core of you rubbed up and down the length of his shaft.

Tearing his mouth from yours, he reached between your bodies to drag his fingers between your folds. "Are you a virgin, Petal?"

Seeing you hesitate, his fingers slipped between your folds and found your clit, rubbing tempting circles over it. "Whatever your answer, it will not displease me. Do I need to open you up to take this cock?"

Almost involuntarily, your hips shifted, grinding against his hand as he fingered you open, teasing your clit with his thumb as one digit slipped inside, tauntingly inching toward the spongy softness.

"I am no virgin," you panted, "but not extremely...experienced either." Your eyes dipped demurely even as he boldly slid a second finger into your eager hole. "But I confess, you are...well endowed. Thicker and longer...and it has been some time."

Hearing your sweet lips utter things about the size of his cock had it twitching against your thigh, aching to bury it in your sweet cunt.

His eyes darkened with desire as you rocked against his hand, lips falling open as he stretched you with a third finger, shoving them deep inside you.

Hardly able to contain yourself, you fucked yourself faster on his fingers, tits bouncing in the water as you chased your pleasure. He didn't mind a woman with a little experience, especially for what he had planned for you.

He sucked your nipple into his mouth, rubbing you faster and faster until your body seized in ecstasy, pleasure surging through every part of you. Gripping his shoulders for support, you gave yourself over to it wholly. It had been so long since anything other than your own fingers gave you any pleasure, and never anyone so handsome or stately as Victor.

Before you could come back to yourself, he positioned your hips, notching his tip at your drenched folds, so wet and hot, even more so than the cooling bath.

You felt him enter you, thick and heavy, pushing in slowly, filling your fluttering cunt deliciously. Just when you thought he'd sheathed himself inside you fully, you rocked your hips, hissing suddenly as more and more of his length plunged inside.

"Too much?" He taunted, pushing in further still. "Be obedient and take all your master's cock."

"Yes, master," you panted, finally feeling the end of him stretch you wide open. With difficulty, you began to undulate beneath the water's surface, riding your master even as the sting of it made you want to lie down and give up - to simply let him use you, fuck you open, spill his seed and then let you recover.

Bracing your hands on his chest, you lifted up to better control your movements, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position. A soft sigh of relief left your lips as you started to ride him faster.

"You are certainly no virgin," he murmured against your throat, arms winding around your back, pressing and pulling you into him intimately. "You know how to fuck a man."

His bold words gave you pause. Perhaps he wanted a woman more innocent.

"Do not stop," he ordered you, easing back to look into your eyes. "I've not bedded such a beautiful woman in too long."

"Master, I - "

"Obey me," he lowly growled, gripping your hips and moving you back and forth, faster and rougher, until water overflowed out of the side of the tub, drenching the floor. "You said you are mine to command."

"Yes, master," you gasped, wrapping your arms behind his neck and sinking down on his length, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor. The wet heat surrounding your bodies, sloshing loudly, making a mess of everything as you ravaged one another urged you to ride him faster, drawing a desperate moan from your throat.

Embarrassed that someone might hear you, you clamped your palm over your lips but he roughly jerked it away.

"Give your sounds to me," he panted as your slick, naked body bounced deliciously. "I want to hear what this cock does to you."

His filthy words went straight to your core, which clamped down hard around his length. Back arching, your walls fluttered around him, drawing his own orgasm out of him with a strangled cry. He gripped your shoulders and held you against him, making sure you took every drop of his spend until you slowed your rocking and melted against his chest.

He stroked your back soothingly, allowing you to come back to yourself, pressing gentle kisses to your temple and cheeks, and finally, as you turned your face up to his, he kissed your mouth, slow and deep as he softened inside you.

He tasted you and held you until the cool air kissing your skin alerted you to the fact that his bath and grown cold, and you still had not washed him. Sitting up abruptly, you pushed wet hair out of your eyes, hastily apologizing.

"You have given yourself to me. No apology is needed," he assured you, standing to help you out of the tub. "Let us quickly wash and I will find us something suitable to wear."

"Yes master," you whispered, scurrying to move quicker than him, and feeling awkward at the thought that Master Frankenstein would need to serve himself in any way.

The sight of your concerned flurry, while stark naked stirred something domestic inside him, and, at the sight of your bare ass bent over to scoop up your drenched dress, his hands reached for the swell of your hips from behind.

You flinched in surprise, quickly turning to face him, but he mistook it for you briefly for withdrawing from his attention.

"Forgive me," you both uttered simultaneously, sharing a soft laugh.

Easing toward you, he reached for your hand. "Will you be able to relax in my company, especially now that I've been inside you?"

Wetting your lips, you found yourself mesmerized by his water-slicked hair, and droplets dancing on his long eyelashes.

"You speak boldly, Master Frankenstein, as is your right," you diplomatically responded. "I do not know if I have earned the right to speak as plainly as you."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Say anything you wish. I will not hold it against you."

Shifting nervously from foot to foot, you glanced around you. "I have only this dress to wear. I-I should dress myself and draw you a new, hot bath before cleaning up this mess. I know you are very tired after your day."

With a small, knowing smile, he lifted the sopping dress from the floor. "Are you not also tired? Is your work day not also long?"

You weren't sure how to respond, so he took charge, as usual.

"I wish for us to quickly wash, ring out this dress and lie down in my bed."

"Yes, master." You quickly got to work, both of you doing as Victor instructed.

What you did not expect was to be laid nude across the softest, warmest bed your skin had ever touched. Victor slid into bed beside you, clean and naked. He pulled you close to his chest and covered your mouth with his own, kissing you deeply.

Your cold skin warmed quickly and you moaned into his mouth as he slid one muscular thigh between your legs, pushing the meat of his thigh between your wet folds.

He held you and kissed you for so long, a tiny sliver of your mind began to feel like his lover, safe in his bed, cherished and adored. Even more so when he kissed a trail down your throat to your breasts, where he kissed and sucked your nipples until your slick desire pooled and dripped onto the sheets.

Down further he went, kissing and littering your stomach with sucks and marks until his nose nudged between your legs. He paused, glancing up at you with hazy eyes through long lashes. “I want to experiment with your cunt."

The strange request confused you, but a breathy 'yes' fell from your lips. Once again, his bold words made you crave him even more.

You didn't realize then what you were agreeing to.

Victor dragged his hot tongue through your folds, collecting your juices before settling in, pulling your thighs over his shoulders, and placing a pillow underneath your hips. He spent the next half hour tracing every fold and exploring each crevice with nothing more than the tip of his tongue, from your clit all the way to your puckered hole. You were panting from the slightest stimulation, but there wasn't enough friction yet for you to come.

Next, he sampled you with his lips, sucking and kissing and hotly breathing over your folds, over and over until a whine from your mouth prompted his lips finally up to your clit. He massaged the swollen bud with his lips, but so feather-light, it felt like only a tease.

Your hands twisted in the sheets as he taunted you, ghosting your most sensitive spot with breath and brushes of his lips but never really lavishing you with the strokes and sucks and licks you craved.

Hearing you whimper again, he raised his head. "Tell me," he ordered. "As your master for what you need."

"Please," you cried, your hips bucking upward.

"Ask me," he repeated. "Beg your master."

"Your mouth, please," you gasped. "Put your lips on me. Suck me."

He swatted your cunt with his hand. The sharp sting granted you a moment of delicious friction and you moaned loudly.

"You presume to command me?"

"Please master," you begged.

He seemed pleased enough to lower his mouth back to your clit and gently suck it between his lips. Even that slight bit of friction and contact after so much temptation and teasing caused your back to arch wildly off the bed.

Smiling against your pussy, he worked his lips over and over your clit, sucking and and kissing and rolling his tongue over it until, only moments later, you gushed all over his mouth, gasping in pleasure.

After such a build up and delicious release, your body collapsed, craving sleep, but his experiment had only just begun. Without warning, he sucked at your sensitive bud again, for a full minute, pulling whining moans from your throat at the overstimulation.

He kept going, sinking the meat of his tongue into your core, gripping your thighs to pull you down, moving your limp body to fuck you on his tongue. It felt so good, but it was too much - you were too sensitive and he was relentless, plunging his tongue in and out of your hole as his nose nudged at your tender clit over and over again.

This time, he didn't wait for begging, he simply took, dragging you closer to another, harder climax which shook your body from head to toe, and brought guttural, filthy sounds and curses from your lips. You'd never come so hard in your life. It sent fiery pleasure surging through your body down to your fingertips and toes, contracting every muscle before it completely wiped you out and left you boneless.

But he would not relent. This time, his tongue collected your copious juices, laving a trail downward. Your body tensed as he toyed with parts of you no one had dared touch before, but it wasn't long before his lips kissed a trail back up to your clit. He sucked hard and the overstimulation you felt made you cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"Victor, please," you begged, without realizing your error. You were half out of your mind, after all, with pleasure and now, the slightest big of nerve-searing pain.

He lifted up from between your legs, chin and lips glistening with your slick. "The sound of my name on your lips pleases me." And he dove back in.

Your mind went blank as he coaxed orgasm after orgasm from your exhausted body. Nothing in your life had ever felt so simultaneously painful yet so wonderfully delicious.

The next morning you awoke, groggy, naked, but clean. Quickly climbing out of bed, you tried to get your bearings. Victor finished dressing himself as you scrambled to your feet, apologizing profusely.

A luxurious robe lay across the end of the bed and Victor nodded toward it. "Put that on. Your dress is being cleaned and new dress will be delivered this afternoon."

"Y-yes, master," you stammered, quickly tying the elegant garment around your body, realizing you'd never felt such expensive fabric against your skin.

"Thank you, for your kindness, but...how should I go about my work day in a robe?"

"Take the day off," Victor shrugged. "When was the last day you took some time for yourself?"

You had no idea how to answer that. You typically received two days a month off, which was one more than most servants.

"But I had last Tuesday off, and who will serve your meals? Who will - "

"I require your services in the laboratory today," he interrupted. He then explained that he would have food brought to the top of the stairs for you to retrieve and bring the rest of the way to the lab.

The two of you took your morning meal together around an hour later, and Victor noticed how clearly uncomfortable you felt parading around his laboratory in a robe while shirking your duties.

"I apologize for what happened to your dress," he said softly as you gathered up the dirty dishes. Laying his hand on your arm, he halted your bustling. "Forgive me, Petal."

"Master Frankenstein, there is nothing to forgive. You've been more than generous. Indulgent, even. I do not even know what to say."

"Say you will quit worrying yourself."

"I cannot."

"You'll disobey my order?"

Your eyes dipped once more. "Of course not. I will obey anything you wish."

Victor motioned for you to empty your hands. Reaching for your hips, he guided you close to him, taking a seat on a stool as you stood before him.

"There is something I wish of you. I want you to give your body over completely to my control."

You fidgeted in his embrace, your skin heating at his proposition. "You mean...the way it was last night, in your bed?"

Pulling at the tie of your robe, he slowly nodded. "That and more." The robe fell open, revealing your naked body. "So very much more." Brushing the back of his fingers across your abdomen, he pressed his lips to your flesh, nuzzling between your breasts as chills erupted all over your skin.

"Say yes," he coaxed, mouthing at the swell of your breast. "Say your body and soul belong to me - utterly."

"Yes," you panted as his breath fell in heated puffs over your nipple.

This was how you came to be in a new kind of service to your Master Frankenstein, and how you found your wrists and ankles fastened to a laboratory table by metal cuffs, unsure of whether you would experience pleasure or pain. Or both.

Kinktober Masterlist | Misc. Masterlist | Main Masterlist

#kinktober #kinktober 2024 #victor frankenstein #victor frankenstein x reader #Frankenstein Netflix

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midnightlee25 · 2 years ago

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Sweethearts Yandere Cyborg (Victor Stone) x Reader

Before the accident when Valentine’s Day would come around he would spend the whole day with his sweetheart showing them just how much he cared for them and vice versa. No matter how cheesy it would get it was always one of the best days out of the year for him and his sweetheart. And now after the accident it is these days that he clings to the most especially when it comes around that year and he hasn’t been around them since.

Sure he has kept a close eye on them for their protection but he hasn’t been able to go near them. Afraid of what they may think of his new form.

However that didn’t stop him from showing them how he feels just like he did all these years ago. Leaving flowers and their favorite sweets on their bed, sending them anonymous love letters reminding them just how much they mean to him.

It would be sweet if it wasn't so maddening to his sweetheart. Not knowing who gets getting into their house or sending them those weird letters by email. They tried moving, changing emails, everything to try and get away from whomever this creep was pretending to be their dead high school boyfriend.

Now instead of Valentine’s Day being filled with bittersweet memories it's filled with dread waiting to see if anyone leaves anything behind.

#yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x reader #yandere x you #dc x reader #dc imagine #yandere dc comics #yandere dc #cyborg x reader #yandere cyborg #vic stone imagine #victor stone x reader #vic stone x reader #yandere events #yandere event #valentine event

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yannights · 8 months ago

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The Caged Truth

Yandere male X winged reader

A/n: Hi, it has been a while, sorry for being absent but I am back with a new story. You can imagine any male character for this story, feel free to choose your favourite.

"A caged bird isn't a real bird. A real bird can fly. Those that are trapped lose all that makes them a bird."

Your statement came as a surprise, so surprising that it caught the attention of your captor as he was reaching to open the bedroom door and leave. He stopped, all movements faltered, and a deafening silence created a sense of unease that could almost make you sick. But you refused to show such emotions and patiently awaited his response. A few seconds went by, and the air started to thicken, as if it was warning you. Had you made a mistake? Had you spilled the wrong words? But you had only spoken the most honest truth. Surely he would understand, given the situation.

He slightly turned his head to the side, showing he was thinking about the words he was going to say in response.

"A bird with one wing chopped off cannot fly as well. Does that not make it a bird then?" He asked.

Those words were definitely ones you were not expecting. A simple question that nearly contradicted your own words. You felt stress rise as you tried to find a way to answer without leaving another opening, hoping to make a better point. You realized that the bedroom had now become an arena, where one of you would come out as the victor, and the other as the loser. Your mind raced desperately. If you gave no answer soon, then he would win, and you would face pure humiliation.

"But at least it is still free. Regardless of its disability, it may not fly, but it is outside, living and not confined..."

"But vulnerable." He interrupted.

Your form moved slightly backward as your eyes widened in shock. He turned around, and by doing so, you could have sworn the room darkened. He faced you with a stoic expression that nevertheless had an apologetic tint to it, as if he understood where you were getting at but was still convinced by his own ideal. He adavnced slowly. You instinctively backed away. He watched you while you avoided his gaze.

This lasted until your wings made contact with the cold wall behind you, which signified that it was short-lived. He finally came to a grounding halt as his chest was millimeters away from your form. He leaned forward and slowly reached his hand out towards you. You flinched, not knowing what he was going to do. You closed your eyes tightly but reopened them as soon as you felt the rough hand caress your left wing.

"A one-winged bird can never survive in this cruel world. It would die as soon as it is born," he said as his other hand reached out to touch your other wing, leaving you completely trapped in his hold, too afraid to move.

"Even a bird in its integrity can fly, eat, sleep, but can also die so easily as it has many predators hungrily watching it, as it has many arrows pointing ready to shoot it down, as it has ways to fall and die."

His hand movements stopped, and he let go of your wings. He moved one to your face and tilted it upwards to look into his stone-cold eyes.

"That is the price of freedom, a price I will not allow you to pay. That is why cages were made, to keep it safe."

The word "it" really meant "you," and you could see the sincerity behind his words. His stern expression softened ever so slightly, but yours only grew sadder.

"But at what cost?" you whispered, your voice trembling. "A life without freedom isn't a life at all. Can't you see that?"

His grip on your face tightened momentarily before he let out a long, weary sigh. "I can see it, but I cannot risk losing you. The world out there is merciless and unforgiving. Here, in this cage, you are safe. With me, you are safe."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you searched his face for any sign of relenting, and in the end, they only spilt down your face. He kissed your forehead as soon as he saw your sadness but did not wipe your tears away. Because tears are a sign of realization...

A realization that you would never leave his cage...

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the-imaginative-hobbyist · 11 months ago

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Victor Stone.

#art #the imaginative hobbyist #artist #digital art #fan art #artwork #photoshop #film #dc #titans #teen titans #justice league #doom patrol #victor stone #cyborg

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interlunium-opus · 5 days ago

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►DANCING WITH THE DEVIL #004: FINALE [Sunghoon.]

Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣ #004: Finale

Abstract: Eight years have passed since you betrayed Park Sunghoon, leaving his fate shrouded in uncertainty. You thought you'd left that world behind, but the serial killings in the capital city —which bore a haunting resemblance to that in your past—pulled you right back into the shadows you once escaped. What began as a quest to prove your worth soon unraveled into something far more sinister: a labyrinthine network of power, deceit, and danger hidden beneath a veneer of opulence.Now, amidst the grandeur of a castle steeped in blood-soaked tradition, you find yourself, once again, entangled with Sunghoon—a ghost from your past whose motives remain as inscrutable as ever. The stakes are now higher, the games deadlier, and survival feels like chasing a mirage. As you navigate a web of twisted rituals and deadly alliances, the tension between you and Sunghoon ignites once again.But this time, the game is different. With whispers of betrayal and lingering wounds threatening to consume you both, you must decide if trust is a risk worth taking—because in doing so, you are not just exposing the truths they've hidden, but also the feelings you’ve fought so hard to suppress and bury.

Parts ‣ #001 | ‣ #002 | ‣ #003 | ‣ #004: Prelude | ‣ #004: Finale

Genre: vampire!sunghoon | horror | thriller | fantasy | romance (or is it? 😋)||| wc: ~13.2k

Featuring: Anton from Riize. [ PSA! ] There's also a Jaeyun here -- this is actually Enhypen Jake lol. Soz, no one fits the role that Jaeyun has in here better than Dark Blood Jake so I plead you guys to just go along and imagine that the Jake in Part 1-3 and Jaeyun in this Part are two different people ((who happen to look alike)) HAHAH

Warnings: blood; violence; injuries (some are self-inflicted); suggestiveness (some are forced); mentions of crimes (missing persons, murder, serial killings); manipulation; toxicity; trauma.

A/N: because Part 4 is too long, I had to split it into two parts and this is the 2nd part, the Finale. So if you're new to Part 4, please start with the Prelude first if you haven't :>

— xi

The gates groaned open, their rusted hinges echoing like a death knell through the oppressive stillness. Beyond them, the maze stretched into darkness, its towering hedges jagged and irregular, as if the structure itself had grown wild and angry over centuries. You stood among the others at the entrance, the flickering torchlight casting distorted shadows across their pale faces. Fear lingered in the air, clinging like smoke.

The host’s voice rang out, its unnerving cheer slicing through the tension. “Thirty minutes!” he announced. “That’s the grace period you’ve earned, dear victors. Thirty minutes to navigate the maze and claim your freedom. Once the thirty minutes is up, your claimants will descend and should you get captured then your fate is sealed in blood and eternity."

The sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the night, and chaos erupted. Humans surged forward like a desperate tide, plunging into the maze’s gaping maw.

It didn’t take long for the maze to reveal its true nature.

Branches lunged like claws, snagging at clothes and tearing through skin. You flinched as a woman ahead of you stumbled, her sleeve caught and shredded. Blood welled from her arm, the crimson stark against her pale skin. A man further ahead tripped, his cry piercing as a hidden root twisted around his ankle, sending him sprawling. His hand scraped against a jagged stone, a deep gash splitting his palm.

“It’s a... trap,” you muttered under your breath, the pieces clicking into place. Every twisted path seemed designed to injure, every branch poised to tear flesh. Every movement, every stumble left behind the scent of blood, marking them like a beacon. The maze wasn’t a challenge; it was a slaughterhouse, designed to render them helpless before the hunt even began.

You glanced back toward the castle, your breath catching as you spotted the vampires in the Grand Hall beyond the glass-paneled windows. Warm light spilled out, casting golden reflections on the darkened grounds. They lounged at long tables, wine glasses glinting in their hands as they laughed and gestured. It wasn’t chaos to them; it was entertainment. A grotesque theater of blood and desperation, framed perfectly for their amusement.

Resolve hardened in your chest. You weren’t going to play their game.

Turning sharply, you broke away from the panicked crowd and ran back toward the castle. The thought struck you with chilling clarity as your feet pounded against the ground: the staff had been dismissed, the mortals were in the maze. The castle wasn’t just the safest place to escape the hunt—it was the perfect trap as inside those walls, only vampires remained.

There was no way you would let the maze tear you apart piece by piece. If they wanted a game, you’d give them one on your own terms. And so with bold and calculated steps, you headed back, but instead of the Grand Hall where vampires lounged with glasses of wine in hand, reveling in their twisted theater of blood and desperation, you headed deeper—to the cellar you’d stumbled upon yesterday while frantically searching for a first-aid kit after finding Sunghoon bloodied at the foot of your bed.

Back then, you hadn’t paid much attention—your mind consumed with stopping the bleeding. But the sight had lingered: towering racks of bottles and colossal barrels stacked like monoliths. Most importantly, you recalled how the cellar was situated directly beneath the Grand Hall—a precarious foundation for a room already weathered by centuries. Its position alone made it a powder keg waiting for a spark.

Now, as you descended the spiral staircase once more, your steps were deliberate, your breaths steady. The cellar stretched before you, even larger than you’d remembered. Rows of barrels lined the space, their labels faded but still legible in the dim light: port, sherry, even brandy. The air was thick, carrying the faint tang of aged wine and the sharper bite of spirits—a volatile combination.

You moved quickly, tipping barrels one by one. Thick liquid gushed out, pooling across the stone floor in a growing lake. As the pungent scent of wine filled the air, an idea struck you: a trail. The fire couldn’t stay confined to the cellar—it needed to climb, to reach the vampires in their gilded cage above.

Grabbing an uncorked bottle from the shelves, you dipped it into the pooling wine and began creating a path. The liquid splashed as you worked, leaving a continuous, glistening line up the stairs and toward the hall’s entrance. When the first bottle ran dry, you spotted a smaller cask labeled lamp oil. Without hesitation, you tipped it into the mix, thickening the trail. Your hands moved with precision, painting a path meant to spark chaos.

At the top of the staircase, you paused, heart pounding. The torchlight flickered in your grip as you surveyed your work. The lake of wine and spirits in the cellar. The trail snaking upward. The puddle pooling at the hall’s threshold. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. You recalled overhearing a maid speaking about the Grand Hall—its ancient foundations riddled with cracks and shored up by makeshift supports. If any place in the castle would collapse under fire, it was here.

But, as your surveyed the trail you'd left, you knew it wasn’t enough. You needed chaos. You needed to bait them. You need to cover all the loopholes. Maximise the impact.

So you swiftly reached for the dagger concealed in your garter belt, your eyes darting for a spot to make the sacrifice. Your forearm. Without hesitation, you pressed the blade against your skin, slicing deeper than ever before—this time, you needed more. A sharp sting shot through you, making your breath hitch, but you didn’t falter. Blood welled instantly, warm and vivid, tracing the edge of the wound like liquid fire. With hurried yet deliberate steps, you smeared your blood on the walls leading down to the cellar.

All your near-death interactions with vampires teaches you one important thing: they do not think when it comes to fresh blood when desperation hits.They are creatures of impulse and in the desperation stoked by an inferno—yet another exploitable weakness—the smoke and heat would confuse their senses, leaving the scent of fresh blood as their only compass. Thus, just like how the maze was meant to draw blood—you’d turned their weapon against them, your blood would lead them straight to the hottest part of the castle.

Once you decided blood had strategically been spread enough in certain key locations, you wrapped a torn fabric from your gown tightly—trying to staunch the bleeding before you set your plan in motion.

Your torch flickered ominously, its light casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. It was time.

Crouching low, you ignited the flammable trail at the midpoint of the staircase. Immediately, flames surged to life, spreading upward and downward with terrifying speed. The fire roared as it consumed the path you’d created, its glow painting the narrow corridor in hues of gold and crimson.

You didn’t wait to see the inferno take hold. Spinning on your heel, you darted into a nearby passage—a maid’s shortcut you had overheard during your time wandering the castle. The narrow corridor was damp, the air thick with mildew, but it offered a chance to slip past the chaos you’d unleashed.

When you emerged, the familiar Eastern end of the Corridors of Treachery loomed before you, its twisting halls stretching endlessly into shadow. But this time, you didn’t falter. One last thing, you thought, your steps confident and resolute as you opened a door—the Library.

This was your next target.

The blaze below would cripple them, but the knowledge contained in this room—the ancient texts, the records of their lineage and power—it needed to be destroyed. If the castle was to fall, their legacy must, too, for every words here were like poison, waiting to be unleashed by the next power-hungry bloodsucker.

Your steps were steady as you made your way to the shelves, already knowing where to go. The Obsidian Testament waited for you in its usual place, its ominous presence untouched even amidst the growing chaos. The moonlight spilled through the tall windows, catching the hidden coat of arms engraved on its cover—a silent reminder of Sunghoon’s bloodline, regal and intricate, yet tainted by the weight of its history.

Without hesitation, you lit the edge of the book, watching as the flames began their ravenous work. The coat of arms—so proud, so immovable—gradually crumbled under the heat. You hurled it onto a growing pile of texts, the fire spreading hungrily across the brittle pages.

Let it all burn.

“I knew it was you—" a voice pierced through the sound of crackling flames and the ominous groan of weakening wood.

Jaeyun.

He strode forward with a deliberate, menacing pace, his hand sweeping back his golden hair in a single, frustrated motion. The movement exposed his sharp, angular features. Gone was the mischievous grin that had once softened him, replaced by a cold, predatory expression that turned his beauty into something terrifying.

“I was going to grant you an escape and this—" he roared, “is how you repay me?!”

“As if,” you spat scornfully, “I saw the layout of the maze the other day from the tower–it’s a labyrinth, all towering hedges and twisting paths. No flowers, no statues, no space for anything but confusion. So the moment you told me of statues as the hint for escape, I knew you were trying to bait me."

He scoffed, dragging his sword behind him, the blade scraping against the ground with a grating hiss. The nearby flames cast flickering shadows across his face, making his sneer all the more menacing, “I get it now. You chose me exactly because you needed me here. If you had chosen Sunghoon, you knew I’d left the castle and gone after you–"

You stepped back instinctively, his sneer slowly twisting, faltering into a grimace that betrayed the quiet fury simmering beneath the surface. “You chose me,” he continued, each word dripping with venom, “to trick him. To let him escape this carnage you’ve been planning.”

He didn’t flinch as burnt books tumbled from the crumbling shelves, landing in smouldering heaps around him. His grimace deepened, a bitter edge curling his lips. “How disgustingly cliché.”

“You read too much fairytales.” you hissed, your voice cutting through the crackling of the flames. “I chose you because I knew what a narcissistic, overconfident, manipulative prick you are. I knew you’d let your guard down the moment your name is picked and that is all I needed to take this whole place down. To take the rot down.”

The taunt landed like a strike, and Jaeyun lunged. His speed was startling, and before you could react, your back slammed against a nearby wall. The impact forced the breath from your lungs, your body pinned as his eyes—blazing with a fury to match the fire—bore into yours.

Fuck, you thought, the heat pressing against your skin, the air growing heavier with smoke. At this rate, even you might not escape the fire.

But you’d banked on this. Vampires were slaves to their emotions when pushed to the brink. Jaeyun could have fled. He could have saved himself. Instead, here he was, his rage blinding him to the inferno that threatened to consume them both.

“I can still reap you now,” he snarled, his fangs elongating to their full, menacing length. “You’d be my 100th you know. Two cycles of reaping, countless bodies left in my wake, and still standing. Do you think your little bonfire will end me? Pray harder.”

His hand tightened around your throat, pressing you harder against the wall. The pressure wasn’t just threatening—it was exactly what you needed. His body leaned closer, his focus narrowed to you and his fury. This was the calculated risk you’d taken: baiting him to lose control, to get close enough for you to finish this. And he had proven you right.

You could have fled, but you hadn’t. You’d gambled on his inability to walk away from the stage you’d set ablaze. Jaeyun, the cunning puppeteer, wouldn’t let his masterpiece burn without trying to stop it. His pride wouldn’t allow it. And now, blinded by anger, he failed to notice the flames inching closer, the smoke curling around his form.

“Big talk,” you rasped, your voice steady beneath his crushing grip. “And yet… you’ve already lost.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of confusion cutting through the storm of rage. For a split second, his body tensed—but then his gaze dropped.

There, plunged deep into his abdomen, was your dagger. The blade caught the firelight, its hilt adorned with a small charm bearing Sunghoon’s crest. The ruby glinted wickedly, its light reflecting the chaos of the flames around you.

Jaeyun’s grip faltered, his hand loosening slightly as blood, dark and thick, bloomed through his shirt, and you didn’t hesitate. Summoning every ounce of strength you had left, you shoved him off, wrenching the blade free as you bolted out of the library. The flames roared louder now, licking hungrily at the walls, their heat pressing against your back.

But you didn’t make it far. A force barrelled into you, slamming you to the ground with a weight that knocked the air from your lungs.

“Fucking get off me—” you gasped, twisting under his grip.

Jaeyun was on top of you, pinning you with an iron hold. His nails had elongated into claws, sharp and gleaming in the firelight. He pressed them against your neck, just enough to draw thin lines of blood.

“Look at you—squirming like a wounded rabbit. How adorable,” he murmured, his voice soft but dripping with cruel amusement. His weight crushed you against the stone floor, unforgiving and cold beneath you. He forced your head to an unnatural angle, his claws digging deeper, anchoring you helplessly in place.

"Haven't you heard? struggling makes the blood sweeter," he drawled, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, his breathing hot and heavy, "so go ahead—struggle all you want, you are just sweetening my feast."

His tongue dragged across the cut he’d made, slow and deliberate, a mocking gesture that sent a shiver of revulsion down your spine. “Ah,” he exhaled sharply, shuddering in such a revolting way, “there it is—so much sweeter when you fight.” The words dripped from his lips like venom, each syllable a mockery of your helplessness. He lingered, the softness of his lips a deliberate contrast to the sharp sting of his claws. It was as if he was deliberately prolonging the act to rattle you—to cut where it hurts the most: your autonomy and dignity.

“Do you think he tasted you like this?” he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of the wound in deliberate malice and intimacy, relishing in your revulsion and savouring the power he held over you and every flicker of your discomfort. “Or is this my privilege alone?”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I wonder…” he murmured, his voice curling with mock tenderness, “does he know how much sweeter you become when you squirm?” His claws pressed harder, the sharp sting blossoming into pain, his next words cutting deeper than his nails ever could. “Or is that just for me too?”

The sharpness of his teeth grazed your neck, far too close, far too sharp—sharper than you remembered Sunghoon’s ever being. Your breath hitched, panic clawing at the edges of your mind, the firelight around you seeming to flicker with your racing pulse. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable—

But then instead of pain. You felt the weight lifted.

A rush of air and heat overwhelmed you as Jaeyun was torn away. Your body trembled, the world tilting for a moment. When you clambered back to your feet, you saw them—two figures clashing across the corridor, their movements a blur amidst glowing embers and smoke-choked air.

Sunghoon and Jaeyun.

The firelight cast jagged shadows across the walls, illuminating the ferocity of their battle.

Sunghoon’s strikes were calculated, but desperation bled into each swing of his blade—precise yet strained. His strength, though formidable, seemed frayed at the edges, each swing costing him more than the last. As he stepped closer to the firelight, you saw it clearly: the cuts marring his face and the dark smudges of ash clinging to his disheveled clothing. He must’ve faced other vampires on his way here, you thought.

In contrast, Jaeyun moved with unnerving ease, his blows quick and unrelenting, each one a chilling display of power. The oppressive heat and smoke clawed at the air, suffocating and disorienting, but Jaeyun seemed untouched—his strength unfaltering, a cruel testament to the reaping cycles that had forged him into something far beyond human, even vampiric.

“You came just in time, Romeo.” Jaeyun sneered, sidestepping a blow with maddening grace. "Did you see how perfectly she fits in my hand?" he taunted as he swung his blade, forcing Sunghoon back, "ah—and her taste. Her warm skin. The way she shivered. You know, if you hadn't interrupted, I’d have heard her make that sound again. You know the one—soft, breathless, perfect."

It was revolting to hear him say those filthy words but at that moment your dignity took a backseat for all you could think of was Sunghoon. As if Jaeyun knew exactly how to play with someone's mind, Sunghoon’s strikes came faster, heavier—but clumsier. Fury bled into every swing, the precision of his usual attacks dulled by anger. Then their swords met with a thunderous crash, the force sending sparks flying as both pressed forward, neither giving ground. Sunghoon’s chest heaved, his labored breaths a stark contrast to Jaeyun’s unnerving composure, his taunting smirk growing wider.

Jaeyun continued, his voice dripping with cruel amusement, “but I guess you wouldn’t know, would you? She has never let you touch her like that, has she?” His grin sharpened, his next words a venomous whisper. “Not the way she let me, at least.”

Sunghoon charged again, his blows landing harder than before, but Jaeyun danced out of reach, his blade glinting in the firelight, "—because she will never accept you the way you are Sunghoon," his voice was laced with mock pity, "you're just another bloodthirsty beast."

Then, with a sudden shift, Jaeyun lunged, forcing Sunghoon back with a flurry of heavy strikes. “You should’ve stopped pretending to be noble and reaped her,” he hissed, his blows driving Sunghoon toward the corner. “That’s the only way you’ll ever have her.” His grin twisted into something darker as he leaned closer, delivering the final barb. “And maybe—just maybe—it would’ve brought back the strength you used to have because this…” Jaeyun’s blade pressed closer, his eyes gleaming with disdain. “—is just pathetic.”

You swallowed thickly for the odds doesn't seem to stack up for Sunghoon. Your body reacted instinctively to go after him, but his gaze stopped you cold. The sharp jerk of his head said it all: Run.

But you couldn’t.

Then their blades clashed again, the sharp ring echoing through the suffocating heat. Sunghoon’s strikes, though deliberate, were slower now, his movements burdened by the corner he’d been forced into. The stone wall pressed against his back, leaving him little room to manoeuver. Yet even there, with Jaeyun bearing down on him, his defiance burned brighter.

“You can amass all the power and influence you want,” Sunghoon said through gritted teeth, his blade locking with Jaeyun’s in a deadly stalemate. His voice was low but cutting, his eyes blazing with quiet fury. “But you’ll never be able to claim something you’ve never had the right to.”

"The blood you take," Sunghoon shoved him back with a surge of strength, their blades separating with a hiss of steel, "won't make yours anymore purer. It just taints you irreparably."

Jaeyun froze for the briefest moment as if the words had landed exactly where they were meant to. The smirk on his lips faltered, not gone but strained, like a mask beginning to crack.

"That is probably why," Sunghoon continued, his strikes growing sharper, each one cutting closer, "my very existence riles you so isn't it? even when I've never made any moves to challenge your house of cards?"

Jaeyun’s movements lost some of their calculated ease, his strikes heavier but less precise, each blow betraying his frustration. The tables had turned and now it was Jaeyun’s turn to be riled up, his composure unraveling with every word.

Sensing the shift, Sunghoon adjusted his stance, lowering his weight in anticipation. Jaeyun lunged, his overconfidence driving him forward—but Sunghoon was ready. With a blur of motion, he pivoted sharply, driving his shoulder into Jaeyun’s chest with brutal force. The impact sent Jaeyun sprawling backward, skidding across the debris-strewn floor until he collided with a broken pillar.

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. Before Jaeyun could recover, he closed the distance with unrelenting precision, dropping to one knee and driving his blade into Jaeyun’s exposed abdomen. The force of the strike pinned Jaeyun to the ground, his body jerking under the weight of the blow. Blood bloomed instantly, dark and thick, pooling across the cracked stone beneath them. Jaeyun hissed, his hands clawing at the blade embedded in his torso. For a moment, it seemed as though Sunghoon had won. You held your breath, hope flickering to life.

Then, Jaeyun’s lips curled into a bloodied smirk. “You're nowhere enough,” he rasped, his voice laced with venom, “—of a challenge Sunghoon.”

It was only then you noticed it—Jaeyun’s own blade, slick with Sunghoon’s blood, had been driven deep into his flank. You hadn’t seen the strike. Neither had Sunghoon. But there it was, protruding cruelly through his abdomen, crimson spreading across his shirt like spilled ink.

“Sunghoon!” The name tore from your lips, sharp and raw. You stepped forward instinctively, but before you could reach him, the ceiling above groaned ominously. A massive chunk of debris collapsed, slamming into the ground between you and them.

The impact sent you stumbling back, coughing as a thick cloud of smoke and dust billowed around you. “No—” you rasped, your voice cracking as you strained to see through the haze.

Sunghoon gritted his teeth, his knuckles tightening on his blade, though he didn’t withdraw. Nor did he stagger nor falter. Instead, he shifted his weight forward, his strength bearing down on the blade, every ounce of effort ensuring Jaeyun couldn’t push him off.

“You sure about that?” Sunghoon rasped, his voice hoarse and strained.

Jaeyun’s smirk twisted into confusion as his eyes darted down. Horror dawned as he saw Sunghoon’s blood streaming from his wound, dripping steadily onto the gaping injury in Jaeyun’s abdomen—the wound you had inflicted earlier. The reaction was instantaneous. Frost-like patterns spreading outward from the contact point, jagged and unrelenting, crystallising his torso and limbs, locking him in place. His claws scrambled at the stone floor, scraping against it in desperation as his body stiffened. His voice cracked, teetering on the edge of panic. “No-no—you—“

You recalled an excerpt from The Annals of Kings—a fleeting detail about how the blood of a Pureblood, though inert on the skin of another vampire, becomes lethal toxin when mingled with another’s wounds—an alchemical reaction born of their cursed lineage. And therein lay the tragedy: the blood they so revered—the symbol of their purity, power, and immortality—was also their undoing. The very essence that granted them supremacy over all others carried the seeds of their destruction, a cruel paradox embedded in their existence.

You realized then what Sunghoon had allowed Jaeyun to do. He hadn’t just been defending himself; he had turned his own wound into a weapon. Sunghoon had weaponized the very thing their kind held sacred, knowing it would be Jaeyun’s end—even as it left him vulnerable to his own impending collapse. In heaving, ragged breaths, Sunghoon rasped, “I only finished what she started—". His eyes met yours for a fleeting moment the weight of his gaze—the unspoken truth behind his sacrifice—struck you harder than any blow.

Jaeyun regurgitated, his body stiffening as the crystal consumed him entirely, his face locked in a mask of rage and terror. A sharp crack echoed through the hall as his crystalline form splintered, into ashen dust, swirling briefly in the fiery glow before dissipating into the suffocating smoke, vanishing as though he had never existed.

Sunghoon staggered back from the remains, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His hands moved to the blade embedded in his flank, his fingers trembling as he gripped the hilt. With a sharp, agonized groan, he wrenched it free, the sound of metal against flesh almost drowned out by the crackling flames around him.

The moment the blade left his body, blood poured from the wound in thick, unrelenting streams. His face, already pale, lost what little colour it had left, the crimson staining his hands stark against his ashen skin. He swayed, his frame lurching unsteadily as though the weight of the air itself had become too much to bear.

And then he pitched forward, catching himself on trembling hands before he collapsed entirely. Blood dripped from his wound in heavy rivulets as his body sagged against the stone floor. For a moment, he seemed almost unrecognizable—so human in his fragility, so far from the invulnerable figure you had known.

You should have ran away then.

The exit was there, your path to freedom blazing clearly through the smoke and flames. You could have escaped—left behind the horrors that had haunted you, the chaos that had led you to this moment.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you ran toward him. Through the flames and falling debris, through the suffocating heat, you reached him. His weight sagged heavily against you as you tried to pull him upright, your arms straining with the effort.

His face was pale, slick with sweat, and streaked with soot. Blood continued to pour freely from his wound, dark and thick, in a way that was achingly human. His eyes, so often guarded and unreadable, now lay bare—soft and raw, stripped of all pretense.

“You’re stupid!” you choked out, your voice trembling as you pressed your hands against his wound, desperate to staunch the bleeding. “Why did you come back to the castle?”

“You’re the stupid one,” he rasped, a faint, ghostly smirk tugging at his cracked lips. “Why haven’t you run? I stalled long enough for you—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, panic lacing your words as you struggled to lift him again. His body was limp, heavier than you could manage alone, and he slumped back to his knees, his breathing shallow and laboured, each breath a fight.

He was worse off than the last time you’d patched him up—far worse—and the realization sent a jolt of fear through you. At this rate, neither of you would escape the flames. You’d both burn together in this crumbling castle.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice barely audible now, “we’ve bantered long enough.”

His body pitched forward, and you caught him instinctively. His weight collapsed into your arms, his head coming to rest weakly in the nook of your shoulder. You felt the faint brush of his lips against your skin—soft, fleeting, and entirely unlike the possessive ferocity you’d known from him. His hand trembled as it moved to your back, curling with a weak insistence, a stark contrast to the vice-like grip he had on you just hours ago.

“I’m letting you go now, y/n,” he whispered, his words a quiet confession, laced with both sorrow and resolve. “This is the only way I could ever let you go.”

Your breath hitched. You knew what he meant, and you didn’t want that. Perhaps you never did.

“No,” you said, your voice trembling but firm, the weight of your conviction cutting through the chaos around you. Tears welled in your eyes, but they didn’t fall. Not yet.

Your hands moved with purpose, tearing the makeshift bandage from your arm. Blood pooled from the cut, rich and red, but you didn’t hesitate. “Take my blood, Sunghoon,” you demanded, thrusting your arm toward him. “Quickly. You need it—”

He shook his head weakly, his breaths shallow and uneven. “y/n, go,” he rasped, his voice barely audible above the roar of the flames. “We’re running out of time.”

“Damn it, Sunghoon!” you barked, desperation breaking through the cracks in your resolve. “You don’t get to tell me what to do—not now, not like this!”

His eyes, already losing focus, flickered with something—protest, perhaps, or regret. But you didn’t give him the chance. Before he could stop you, you brought your arm to your lips, the sharp metallic tang of blood filling your mouth. Without hesitation, you grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close, crushing your lips to his.

The transfer was immediate. You felt his body stiffen, his hand twitching weakly against your back in surprise. When you pulled away, his lips were stained crimson, his gaze dazed, unfocused.

“Is that enough?” you asked, your voice trembling. “it’s not right? take more.” You leaned closer, your breathing uneven as you tilted your head to the side. “Take it from my neck. That works best for you, doesn’t it?”

“y/n, stop—” he croaked, his voice fractured.

For a moment, you froze, your gaze locking onto his. The sight of him—so pale, so vulnerable, teetering on the edge of collapse—was unbearable, it was twisting your heart painfully. Frustration burned through you, hot and unrelenting.

“You’re making this hard,” you muttered under your breath, your voice shaking.

Before he could utter another word, you shifted upwards, wrapping your arms tightly over his shoulder, steadying him and angling yourself so that his face was close enough to your neck. “Bite me,” you whispered, your voice thick with both resolve and something far more raw. “I’ll let you.”

The hand he already had on your back shifted, his fingers curling faintly into the fabric of your gown, but it wasn’t a grip of possession, but one of desperation—as though he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his other hand began to move. Trembling, hesitant, it brushed against your shoulder, its path uncertain, as though he feared you might flinch or pull away.

The roughness of his palm met the curve of your neck, his touch both gentle and weighted. His fingers curled there, delicate yet unyielding, cradling the nape of your neck as though it was something fragile, irreplaceable. Each movement was deliberate, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing the feel of your skin beneath his hand.

It wasn’t the possessive grip you’d known before. This was something far more tender, far more devastating. It was as though his very existence hung by a thread, and you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

“y/n. You don't understand. I’ve lost too much blood,” he murmured, his lips brushing featherlight against your neck. “I wouldn’t be able to stop—”

“I trust you,” you interrupted, your voice trembling but unyielding as you held him tighter. “I trust you, Sunghoon. I trust that you’ll take just enough to survive.”

His hold on you tightened as if trying to ground himself in the weight of your words. I trust you—the words hung between you, fragile yet immense. It was the very words he needed to hear all along; the very words you’ve fought so desperately not to feel, much less say.

Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, resolve. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the shadows of exhaustion etched into his features. The vulnerability in his gaze was a blade cutting both ways, and you knew it would haunt you long after this moment passed.

“I trust you,” you repeated softly, your voice unwavering this time.

Above you, debris crashed to the floor, the flames roaring louder. The heat was suffocating, the air thick with smoke, but you didn’t move. Neither did he. Time was slipping away, but in this moment, it felt as though the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

His expression twisted, as though your words had broken something in him. Pain flickered across his face—not just physical, but something deeper, something that had been buried for far too long. His hand, trembling now, reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered there, gentle and deliberate, as if committing the feel of you to memory. Then his hand shifted, cradling the side of your neck. His thumb grazed your skin, reverent, unhurried, as though this was both a goodbye and a plea to stay.

“We’re always at odds, aren’t we?” he murmured softly, "I asked you to run but you stayed. I asked you to save yourself, but you're trying to save me instead."

You grinned bitterly, “always.”

For a moment, his gaze lingered, searching yours, before he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. His breath was warm against your skin, almost hesitant. Then the sharp prickle of pain came—a fleeting sting as his fangs broke your skin—but it was eclipsed by the strange, disarming lull that followed.

His grip on you tightened, his body pressing closer, desperate and unyielding. You could feel the urgency in every movement, the hunger in every pull of his lips against your skin. It was overwhelming, the pull of his fangs relentless, like he was drawing not just blood but something far deeper—something he couldn’t bear to lose.

You should have been terrified. You should have fought back.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Even as your vision blurred, as the edges of the world dissolved into the inferno raging around you, one truth anchored you to him:

You trusted him.

— xii

You woke with a jolt, a sharp gasp tearing through your chest as sterile, artificial air filled your lungs. The glaring white walls seemed to close in around you, their starkness more oppressive than calming. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting an antiseptic glow that made the space feel detached, clinical—eerily devoid of life.

Your gaze darted frantically across the room, your pulse racing with every detail that didn’t belong. There was no warmth here, no trace of familiarity. Just the suffocating stillness pressing down on you, as though the air itself had weight. For a terrifying moment, it felt like a void, a purgatory for fractured souls. Perhaps you were dead. After everything—the chaos, the blood, the flames—was this where it all ended?

A tremor passed through you, the memory of his voice, his face, flashing like a spark in the darkness. The desperation in his eyes. The warmth of his hand against yours, the fragile connection you clung to even as the world burned around you.

“Sunghoon?” The name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with hope and fear. It wasn’t just a question; it was a plea, a tether you threw into the void, praying it would hold. The sound of it shattered the oppressive silence, leaving a raw ache in its wake.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, and pain flared like lightning through your body. Every nerve screamed in protest—your ribs, your limbs, even the faintest breath. “Sunghoon?” you called again, louder this time, the desperation cracking through your voice.

You forced yourself upright, your bare feet meeting the icy bite of the tile floor. Your legs wobbled beneath you, your strength slipping like sand through your fingers. The IV pole clattered to the ground as you collapsed, clutching the bedframe in a desperate bid for balance.

The sound shattered the room’s oppressive quiet and almost immediately the door swung open with a sharp creak. Your heart leapt, relief surging through your veins. “Sungho—”

But it wasn’t him.

“y/n!” Anton’s voice cut through the tension as he hurried to your side, his face etched with concern. He dropped to his knees beside you, steadying your trembling frame. “What are you doing? You’re still too weak. Lie back down!”

“Anton,” you rasped, your hands gripping his shirt tightly. “Where’s Sunghoon?”

“Sunghoo—?” He frowned, confused, before realization dawned. “Ah, Mr. Park? y/n, he left weeks ago. Don’t you remember? He was called back to his headquarters. Some urgent matters in Prague.”

You shook your head vehemently, your grip on him tightening. “No, that’s not right. He was with me. He—”

“y/n,” Anton said gently but firmly, helping you back onto the bed. “you’ve been unconscious for 2 weeks—your mind is probably still foggy especially given all you had to endure. Don’t you remember? We held a farewell lunch for him? You were there, muttering spiteful things under your breath when he delivered his farewell speech.”

You froze, staring at him in disbelief. “We didn’t,” you whispered hoarsely. “He was—” The words died in your throat. You clung to the fragments of memory that felt more like splinters now. “What about the people then? and the- the castle?”

Anton’s sat beside you, voice gentle, “the castle is gone, razed to the ground. Some people were found scattered across the compound, but all of them had hazy memories—smoke inhalation and trauma-induced amnesia, according to the doctors. No signs of foul play though. Just a gas leak in an old building. The fire spread too fast.”

“How about casualties?” you asked, your mind flashing to the vampires that should be stuck in the hall.

Anton shook his head. “None. Just scattered jewelry and strange clothing pieces found in the halls—probably left behind by looters after the fire started. Authorities have investigated it thoroughly though and nothing indicates foul play. Even the castle’s owner isn’t pressing charges or requesting further inquiry.”

“But Sungh- someone – someone must have been with me,” you pressed on, the words stumbling out.

“y/n,” Anton repeated, his voice more serious now, “no one was. You were alone in the glasshouse. The only one unconscious, in fact. They theorised, given the proximity, you must have spent a lot of time inside compared to others which is why you were unconscious. But point is—investigations had been done and foul play is ruled out. Everyone is safe.”

“Every..." you echoed, “—no. I think there were some who didn’t— do you have a list? the guests? the survivo—" your words faltered as your head spun, a sharp pang cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You groaned, swaying unsteadily. Anton was quick to catch you, steadying your trembling form as he guided you to lean back against the bed.

"y/n, stop—" he said, his tone full of concern. "Look, you've been unconscious for almost 2 weeks. You're not in the right state of mind yet. Let me get the doctor first, okay? don’t move.”

You barely registered his words as you stared up at the sterile ceiling, your mind racing with fragmented memories. Sunghoon. The flames. The battle. His bloodied body against yours. The way he’d looked at you in those final moments—his eyes full of something unspoken, something that clung to you even now.

Instinctively, your hand rose to your neck, brushing against the skin there—and froze. Faint but undeniable, you felt it: a mark. His bite mark.

Your breath hitched as the weight of it sank in. It was the confirmation you needed. That he was real. That your memories weren’t muddled or fabricated. That he had been there.

For a moment, a spark of relief lit in your chest. He’d been there. You hadn’t imagined him. The connection you clung to wasn’t some fever dream born of smoke and fear.

But as your fingers lingered over the faint indentations, that spark dimmed, flickering under the weight of a new truth.

Anton had said you’d been unconscious for two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks is a long time for someone like him to stay away. Too long.

Suddenly, the silence felt unbearable—crushing in its emptiness, each second a reminder of all the truths his absence could mean. Each one as cruel as the next.

— xiii

A month had passed, and unlike before—when you could sense Sunghoon in the shadows, catch the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air, or swear you felt his touch as you brushed past strangers—he was utterly, completely gone.

His absence was deafening.

So you buried yourself in work, to drown out the silence that followed you everywhere and to lock the memories away. Perhaps if you don’t think about it, the ache would dull. Even better, fade entirely.

Until one night.

You were reaching for something from the shelves in your bedroom when your elbow knocked a box off the shelf. It crashed to the floor with a hollow thud, its contents spilling out in an unceremonious heap. You froze, your pulse quickening as you recognized it—the box of belongings you’d had with you when they took you to the hospital. You’d refused to unpack it then, shoving it out of sight to avoid reopening wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal. The castle. The flames. Him.

But it had been a month. Surely, someone like you would have moved on by now.

“It’s just clothes,” you muttered to yourself, crouching to gather the scattered items. Your fingers brushed against the fabric of the dress you’d worn that night. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, its torn edges and scorched seams tangible remnants of that nightmare. As you bunched it up, you winced and drop the dress, a sharp sting prickling your fingertip.

“Ouch,” you muttered, seeing it draw blood. “What kind of dress would be this sha-"

It was a brooch.

No, not just any brooch. It was a brooch bearing his crest. Sunghoon’s crest.

The ruby gleamed faintly, tarnished by smoke and fire, but still unmistakable. Regal. Intricate. For a moment, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. It lay nestled in the folds of the dress, as if it had always been waiting for you to find it. Tentatively, your fingers closed around it, and as you pulled it free, the weight of it settled in your palm like a stone.

Your breath hitched as the dam burst. Memories flooded in—his voice, his touch, the way he’d looked at you in those final moments. The way he’d fought for you. The way he’d bled for you. The way he’d let you go.

The way he was gone.

Your chest tightened painfully as you stared at the brooch, its sharp edges pressing into your palm. This was all that remained. The only proof that he had existed, that any of it had been real.

The thought clawed at you, unrelenting, as a darker possibility crept into your mind. Vampires left no trace when they perished—no ashes, no remains. If he was gone, truly gone, you might never know. And that terrified you. In fact it terrified and pained you even more than if he was gone simply because he had walked away.

Your grip on the crest tightened, the sharp edges digging into your skin, grounding you in a pain that couldn’t compare to the ache tearing through your chest. You closed your eyes, clutching it to your heart, as though holding it closer might somehow bridge the impossible distance between you and him.

You closed your eyes, whispering his name into the stillness of the room, hoping—praying—that somehow, somewhere, he could hear you.

But the room offered no answer.

Only silence. Only absence.

And the ache—deep and unrelenting—remained.

(( just kidding 🤡 ))

Five years had passed.

Sunghoon never re-eappeared in your life.

You have by then made peace with the fact that perhaps he was never coming back. Perhaps he was gone. Forever.

Memories of him didn’t sting as sharply as they once did. The ache was still there, faint and distant, like a hole you cannot fill but it’s at least not a gaping hole anymore.

By then you could even convince yourself that perhaps, you have really gotten over him.

But then you’d be an outright liar.

Because you still wore his crest as a pendant, hidden beneath your shirt—a weight you carried, not just on your chest but deep within you. It was a quiet reminder, a silent wall you couldn’t breach.

And while memories of him no longer brought tears to your eyes, dreams of those nights—the chaos, the fire, the way his blood soaked through your hands—still jolted you awake, your face damp with tears you didn't remember shedding. They were the only testament to how deeply, how irreparably, the experience and memories had scarred you.

So you did what you did best: buried yourself in work. You numbed the ache, dulled the thoughts that haunted you, and clawed your way to higher pinnacles of success, reaching farther than you’d ever imagined. Even now, halfway across the world in Venice, Italy, you weren’t here for leisure—you were here for work.

It wasn’t until your final evening that Anton managed to drag you to the Carnevale di Venezia. “You need to live more,” he said, practically shoving you into the car. Begrudgingly, you agreed.

But the moment you stepped out of the car, you were greeted by men and women in elaborate period gowns and Venetian masks—and your stomach twisted.

The sight wasn’t just familiar—it was identical. Hauntingly so. To that of five years ago.

Sickening memories long buried clawed their way back to the surface—the blood, the shadows, the terror. It didn’t carry the ache it once had, but it brought something far worse: a creeping fear that wormed its way beneath your calm exterior, unraveling the composure you’d worked so hard to rebuild.

You swallowed hard, legs heavy, but Anton was too enamoured with the festivities to notice. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you through the crowd like an overexcited child.

When he stopped in front of an antique shop selling ornate masks and extravagant dresses, you could feel the air thinning. The shopkeeper offered you a delicate mask to try on, but as Anton reached toward your face to put one on, your body reacted faster than your mind did. Your hand shot up, gripping his wrist in an iron hold, your fingers digging into his skin, as if you were trying to fend him off. As if he was attacking you.

“y/n—” he froze, his voice laced with shock, his playful grin vanishing. His gaze flickered to your trembling hand, then back to your face, his concern deepening.

Your heart pounded, the masks and laughter around you blurring into dark suffocating shadows. For a moment, you weren’t in Venice. You were back there—in the castle, in the nightmare. You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to breathe, “sorry,” you stammered, dropping his wrist as though it burned you, “I—uh—the breakfast I had this morning—it’s not sitting right.”

Anton rubbed his wrist, his brows furrowed in confusion and concern. “y/n, are you okay?”

You forced a smile, though it felt like it might crack under the weight of your panic. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, waving him off. “Just... go ahead and try something on. I’ll stick with you—just not with all this.” You gestured vaguely at the masks, hoping he wouldn’t press further.

Anton sighed, his concern still visible. “Fine. Promise me you'll stop brooding and actually try to have some fun after?”

“What are you? Five?” you teased halfheartedly, shoving him playfully toward a nearby fitting room to change.

When he emerged from the fitting room, the sheer absurdity of his appearance—a frock too large, a mask so elaborate it drowned his features—pulled a reluctant laugh from you. For a fleeting moment, the tension in your chest eased and you let yourself be dragged along as Anton paraded through the festivities, snapping pictures and weaving through the crowd with unabashed joy.

But then, a procession swept through.

Figures in hooded cloaks and plague doctor masks glided past, their movements deliberate and haunting. The crowd murmured in awe, parting to let them pass, but you froze. The sight slammed into you like a blow, the memories rising unbidden—shadows in corridors, masks that promised death, the chase that had nearly taken everything from you.

“Anton,” you called, your voice tight, panic edging in. “Let’s move on—”

But he was gone.

“Anton?” Your voice cracked as you turned in place, your eyes darting through the sea of masked strangers. The crowd swelled, pressing against you, their laughter sharp and hollow, the music twisting into a dissonant wail. “Anton!” you shouted, louder now, desperation threading through your words.

No response.

The world spun, the faces around you blurring into grotesque shapes. Each mask seemed to leer at you, each figure a spectre of the past. Your breaths came shallow and rapid, the air thick, suffocating.

You stumbled, muttering apologies to strangers who didn’t respond, their masked faces a wall of indifference.

Then suddenly ahead, you caught sight of a figure perched on a raised platform, dressed in elaborate silks that shimmered in the flickering light. But it wasn’t the outfit that made your stomach drop—it was the mask.

A jester mask.

The painted grin stretched unnaturally wide, its hollow eyes glinting as though they could see through you. Bells dangled from the cap, their faint chime cutting through the distant hum of laughter. The figure moved with a deliberate slowness, their head tilting at an unnatural angle as they raised their hand. A thorny rose appeared in their grasp, the gesture painfully deliberate, as though meant just for you.

And then, with a flick of their wrist, the rose ignited, flames curling up the stem until it disintegrated into ash. The sharp smell of burning filled the air, suffocating and bitter, clawing at your senses. The fire, the laughter, the castle, Jaeyun—it all came rushing back, vivid and unrelenting. You spun on your heel, desperate to escape, only to collide with someone else.

A man in a Bauta mask loomed over you, his breath audible through the thin slits. His towering frame bent closer, murmuring something low and indistinct. But you didn’t hear him. Couldn’t. The panic clawed at your chest, your vision tunneling as you shoved past him and broke into the crowd again.

The masks blurred together, grotesque and faceless, shadows from a nightmare that wouldn’t end. You moved blindly, each step unsteady, until—

You saw him.

An uncovered face, sharp and unmistakable in a sea of obscured ones.

The air seemed to leave your lungs. The noise of the carnival faded, the crowd melting into a haze of color and motion.

No mask. No cloak. Just him.

But it couldn’t be, you told yourself. It had to be a hallucination, your mind playing cruel tricks, dredging him up from memories you’d buried too deep. Then suddenly the crowd surged again, jostling you sideways. Your feet stumbled against the uneven pavement, your balance slipping.

You braced for the fall, but strong arms caught you.

“I’m sorry—” you began, your voice trembling as you tried to gather yourself. But then your gaze drop, and the words died in your throat. Right in your line of sight, pinned to the lapel of his suit, was a ruby crest, gleaming faintly under the dim, flickering light.

The very crest you wore as a pendant, tucked close to your heart like a secret you refused to let go of.

Your breath hitched, the roar of your pulse drowning out the world, the air turning electric as the ache in your chest returned with a vengeance. The carnival around you dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the man before you.

Your trembling eyes trailed upward, hesitation clawing at you with every inch. Fear mingled with hope, disbelief warred with yearning. And then you saw him.

Sunghoon.

It was really him. The sharp lines of his jaw, the darkness of his eyes, the way his presence seemed to draw the air from your lungs. He wasn’t wearing a mask, just like you. Amidst a sea of hidden faces, he stood barefaced, unapologetically himself.

Time seemed to still. Your heart clenched painfully as the flood of emotions you’d spent five years suppressing surged forward, overwhelming you.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

His gaze was still so intense and all-consuming, yet it no longer had the same sharpness as it did before. It no longer aimed to paralyze you or probe the depths of your mind. Instead, it carried a softness, an ache, as though trying to express all the things that words had failed to capture. And just like that, in the silence, in the circle of each other's arms, the years of separation unraveled in the space between you. Every unspoken word, every lingering ache, every memory you’d fought to bury rose to the surface, raw and undeniable, contained in that one look.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say. His name? An accusation? A plea?

Yet, as if avoidance and defensiveness were hardwired into you when it came to him, you started to pull yourself away—but, as always, he anticipated it and before you could even take a step back, his grip on you tightened.

“y/n, don’t,” he said, his grip strong yet his voice soft, almost pleading.

The sound of your name on his lips shattered something inside you. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your ears. “You left,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice. “You never came back. I—” you stammered, “—I even thought you might have died.”

“I’m here now,” he murmured, his voice steady but laced with something heavier—guilt, perhaps, or regret. “I never wanted to leave you y/n. But I had to.”

You stiffened, the heat rising in your chest overtaking the trembling in your hands. “You had to?” the bitterness in your voice surprised even you. “That’s what you’re going with? You had to vanish, leave me with nothing but questions—nothing but ghosts—and then reappear like you’ve done nothing wrong? like some noble martyr?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “You think it was easy for me? That leaving you behind was some choice I wanted to make?”

“Then why?” your voice cracked, the words sharper than you intended. “Why did you leave? You could have left a trace, a sign, let me know that—” you caught yourself, shaking your head as your hands balled into fists, “—no. You know what, it doesn't matter anymore. You should have continued to stay away. I was doing just fine. Finally doing just fine and yet here you are. Must have been fun staying in the shadows and trailing me around—seeing me lose my mind in the past 5 years then coming back just when I've finally gotten over you?!"

The accusation lingered, heavy in the space between you.

But even as you spoke, the weight of your own words pressed against you. Wasn’t this exactly what you wanted—to see him again? To demand an answer for the questions that had haunted you in the dead of night? And yet, now that he was here, standing in front of you, the anger felt hollow. A shield, yes, but one that barely held back the ache threatening to flood through the cracks.

You glanced at his face, searching for something—anything—that would reignite the rage you clung to so desperately. But his eyes, dark and steady, reflected none of the sharp arrogance you once associated with him. Instead, they were quiet. Soft. Aching.

Damn him. Damn him for looking at you like that, as if you meant something to him. As if he was hurting just as much as it had hurt you.

His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “y/n I had no choice," he said softly, his voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “The fire may have purged the deviants who deserved punishments but it sent shockwaves through my world. If I’d stayed, I would have brought danger to your door..." he sighed, "so I stayed away. And continued staying away especially after seeing you finally able to smile and laugh so freely over the recent years—as if you could finally breathe. I realised then that perhaps this was the sacrifice I needed to make, the debt I owed you—your peace."

His voice dropped, quieter now, as though the memory itself was unbearable. “But then tonight…” his hand flexed at his side, his grip on your wrist tightening briefly. “I saw the terror and dread suddenly return to your face—the very expressions I swore I’d never let you feel again." He paused, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered to meet yours, “—and before I even knew what I was doing, it all broke. Every reason I had to stay away dissipated and all I wanted—all I want—is to protect you. To take it all away.”

He took a step closer, the space between you shrinking. His voice softened, steady but raw. “And when our eyes met. I thought there was something there—some sort of softness. For once, you didn't look at me with the usual armor in your eyes…" he faltered, his throat tightening, “—and that stripped away the last vestiges of my resolve; every lie I told myself. I realised then, I was never meant to be a saint nor be selfless. Not with you."

You froze, his vulnerability hitting you harder than it should have. But the simmering anger, the years of buried hurt, clawed its way back to the surface. “You’re always so good at that you know—vanishing, making me go nearly insane with guilt, and then coming back just when I thought I’d finally gotten over you.” You swallowed hard, the bitterness in your voice sharpening. “Exactly like 13 years ago, after I poisoned you.”

He stilled, his gaze flickering with something unreadable—regret, pain, guilt. But you didn’t give him a chance to speak.

"Back then, you should have come back, hunted me down and killed me—" you hissed, your voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "We'd have nipped it in the bud. Save ourselves. But instead, you dragged it on for so long. Perhaps this was your way of ruining me—from the inside out. The first time through guilt. The second time through loss."

He swallowed thickly, his mouth parting as though to sigh, but the sound never came. His jaw tensed, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of a confession dragged from the depths of him. "y/n. I stayed away the first time because I was afraid."

His gaze flickered down for a moment, as if grounding himself, before rising to meet yours again. "After you poisoned me, I was afraid that if I saw you again..." he paused, his jaw tightening as though the words physically hurt to say. "—I wouldn’t want to kill you. That instead—like some pathetic moth drawn to the flame, or worse, like a stupid dog that doesn’t see the cruelty of its master—I’d come running to you. I’d embrace you."

The words hung between you, the implication of every words filling the space—a confession that tore through you even as it laid him bare. That was when you realised, perhaps, just like how you've avoided him to prevent anything from growing between you, Sunghoon's scathing and predatory words were perhaps his way of masking his devotion—a way to convince himself that it was all simply powerplay and primal desires. And you take that bait too literally as it all fitted with your own defense mechanism—the logic and rationality that you always employ to stop yourself from becoming vulnerable. But knowing the truth didn’t soften the ache. If anything, it sharpened it—because it meant you had been fighting the same battle, just on opposite sides. Both of you circling the same truth but never daring to claim it.

"Then maybe all this proves is that we're never meant to be. Like fire feeding fire, we burn each other alive, pretending it's warmth, until there's nothing left of us but smoke and ruin," you said, your voice hollow but steady, as if the words had been carved out of you.

“Then let me be the ruin,” he closed the remaining distance between you, his presence towering but his movements slow, as though afraid to startle you. "Let it burn me down to nothing. Let it hollow me out, scorch every part of me. But don’t ask me to extinguish it—not when it’s the only thing keeping me alive."

"You've lived for so long," you murmured, your voice heavy with exhaustion. "you, of all people, should know better that being self-destructive like this doesn't ensure happiness."

“It’s exactly because I’ve lived for so long,” he said, his voice low and weighted with a quiet sorrow, “that I know ruin is the only thing that stays, where nothing else lasts.”

The silence that followed was thick, not suffocating but heavy, like something unspoken had finally settled between you. When he drew closer, you didn't back away this time. When his hand cupped your cheek—warm, steady, and lingering—you didn’t pull away either. It wasn’t forgiveness, and it wasn’t surrender. But for now, it was enough for it conveyed more than words ever could.

Two years had passed since you were reunited with Sunghoon. Seven years since the fire. And fifteen years, in total, since you met him—the man who had brought chaos, danger, and frustration into your life than you thought possible.

If someone had told you then that he would become a near-permanent fixture in your life—and your apartment—you might have laughed. Or rolled your eyes.

Or poisoned him again.

“Fuck,” you nearly dropped your groceries as you stepped into your apartment to find him lounging on the couch like he owned the place, dressed in pajama bottoms and a black robe. Its opening, casually loose and just revealing enough to hint at his chest, made the sight far too leisurely for your liking. In fact, he looked so at ease, so disgustingly domestic, like he belonged—but the sight only made his presence feel more invasive. “Why are you always here? Go back to your penthouse. It’s way bigger.”

“But there’s no you,” he said, far too smoothly, suddenly reappearing beside you. Before you could protest, he took the groceries from your hands, unpacking them into the fridge and shelves with alarming familiarity.

Perhaps it wasn’t alarming anymore. He’d been doing this for months—showing up whenever he had a moment to spare from whatever duties occupied a vampire’s time. He even bought the unit next to yours, offering excuses to drop by that were as ridiculous as they were transparent: needing eggs, faulty lighting, lost keys. All nonsense, of course, since he didn’t need nourishment, had no reason to fear the dark and can teleport just fine if he wanted to.

“Right, what’s your excuse tonight?” you asked, flopping onto the couch.

“The a/c is broken,” he replied smoothly.

“You used that excuse two weeks ago Sunghoon.”

“Did I?” he mused, unbothered. “Well, this time it’s the sprinklers. Got set off when I was trying to sear my steak. Now the place is flooded. Disgusting, really.”

You scoffed. “Sunghoon, cut the crap. What do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I just want to be with you,” he quipped with a shrug. “You always rejected my offer to ask you to move in with me—penthouse, townhouse, heck even the manor near that hiking spot you like—so here I am. Playing househusband. Or maid, depending on the day.”

“Right,” you said, raising a brow, “you definitely need to stop lounging around in that robe. It’s too casual. People might think you’re my husband or something.”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth tilting upward in that infuriating way. “That’s the goal.”

“You know normal humans and vampires can’t co-exist in that way right?”

“We’re anything but normal y/n,” he replied smoothly, making his way to the living room and plopping down to your left. His elbow propped lazily on the headrest, his posture screaming nonchalance, as if daring you to challenge him. “We can do whatever we please. Or however you please.”

You furrowed your brows, annoyed. If his teasing back then had been a game of one-upmanship—an endless, borderline competitive battle of wits—now it had shifted into something more dangerous. Flirtatious, deliberate, and entirely designed to fluster you. A different ball game—one you weren’t used to playing.

Leaning back, you crossed your arms. “Well, bad news. It’s time for me to do normal stuff and settle down, and the guy earlier—”

“Right, the one you had a date with—“ he cut in, “—or rather the one you were forced to meet up with—“

“—is the best candidate so far,” you continued, rolling your eyes at his interruption. You were used to it by now—used to him knowing too much about your life, like an ever-present fly on the wall, “—he is mature, understanding, and not clingy.”

“Sounds exactly like me but a pale imitiation because come on, I am way good looking in a way no human can replicate and most importantly,” his hand found your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His voice dropped, low and steady. “Only I understand you and your complexity y/n and only you understand mine. We are made for each other—we’re too dysfunctional for others, but perfect for each other. No one else could survive us.”

“Then what if one day I feel so suffocated and poison you again?” you shot back.

“I’ll let you,” he said quietly, his lips curving in a subtle, almost resigned way as his eyes bore into yours. This could have been lighthearted and playful but those voice and those gaze were anything but. “I've told you this before: I’ll let you ruin me in the end as long as you’ll have me.”

“Don’t you ever feel that you’ve given too much and I’ve not given enough—" you retorted. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. You just wanted to come clean with him.

“Oh, I know that very much. Better than anyone in fact—” he murmured, his fingers brushing your collar before slipping beneath it, catching the chain that lay hidden against your skin. “And this—” he lifted it gently, his thumb grazing the crest you wore as a pendant with a reverence that only he could feel, “—you wearing this—it says more than you ever could.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” you muttered, smacking his hand off. “Your crest has been very useful—it keeps other biters at bay.”

Then suddenly, his hand moved before you could react, sliding to the curve of your right waist with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver racing up your spine. His fingers pressed lightly into your side, tracing the curve of your body as though memorizing the path. The motion was unhurried, grounding you in place while leaving no question of his intent. Then, he shifted closer, bracing one knee on the cushion beside you before the other followed suit in one fluid motion. The couch dipped under his weight, trapping you effortlessly. His hand found the headrest behind you, his presence closing in until all you could feel was him—the heat radiating from his body, the cadence of his breath, the way his fingers lingered just a second too long before trailing upward along your side.

“Then use me like you use the crest—” he murmured, his voice dipping to something quieter, almost reverent. His lips hovered inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours as his hand trailed up the curve of your spine, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, “—you know I’m completely at your mercy.”

“For someone who should be wise beyond his years, you don’t seem to learn your lesson,” you managed to say back, raising a hand to his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him.

The tension thickened, swallowing the space entirely as his right hand slid up the nape of your neck, warm and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt through your senses. Without warning, he tilted your head back sharply, making you look up at him in a strained way as he towered over you, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made the air around you feel heavier. "I never learn my lesson when it comes to you," he murmured as his face dipped closer. His voice was steady almost reverent—but the weight of control behind it was unmistakable.

His eyes moved slowly, tracing a path from your eyes to your lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply, the motion betraying the thin thread of restraint he clung to. It was as though swallowing was the only thing keeping him tethered, holding back something far more dangerous than words. When his gaze returned to yours, it was darker, sharper, and filled with a hunger barely leashed, “—and I don’t want to. Ever.”

His words hung in the air for only a moment before his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was anything but gentle—it was a brutal collision of yearning, years of pent-up emotions, frustration, and something far darker that had simmered between you for far too long. The force of his kiss drove you backward, your head pressing into the unyielding headrest as he claimed your lips. The angle left you no choice but to tilt your head farther in a strained way, a soft gasp escaping you—one he seized without hesitation, deepening the kiss, consuming you entirely.

He tasted of power and desire, a heady combination that made your head spin. Then, with a sharp, sudden motion, he pulled you towards him with startling strength, pressing your bodies together with a searing intensity—making you feel every inch of him: the hard, unyielding planes of his chest, the muscular ridges of his abdomen, even the tension in his body, the coiled power, the barely leashed restraint. His hand, splayed over your back, was like a steel band around your waist, forcing your body to arch unnaturally backwards as his kiss pursued you, driving you farther back, lips growing more demanding and insistent by the second.

Your body gradually grew pliant under his domineering, possessive, hold–overwhelmed by the ferocity and sheer possessiveness of his every kiss and touch. There was literally no room to think, no space to resist—not that you wanted to. He overwhelmed every sense, each touch unraveling the walls you’d so carefully built. You told yourself it was only physical, that the fire consuming you was nothing but desire. But deep down, you knew better. You weren’t just losing control—you were giving it to him.

Your hands flew to his biceps, clinging for balance, your fingers digging into his tense muscles for support, feeling the power and strength that lay beneath. His muscles flexed under your touch, a silent warning of the raw, untamed masculinity that simmered just below his skin. As you struggled to draw in air, your lips parted unwittingly, and Sunghoon was quick to take advantage. Before you could even gasp for breath, his thumb pressed down on your chin, forcing your lips apart, his tongue already breaching past to plunder your mouth with a fierce and primal intensity that left you breathless.

Emboldened, Sunghoon's hand slithered up your back like a serpent claiming its prey, his large hand nearly covering the entire width of your back. Then with a fluid motion, without breaking the kiss at all, he lifted you with surprising ease, his arm muscles flexing in a display of raw power and dominance, as he manoeuvered you sideways before forcefully pushing you down onto the cushions with controlled strength—enough to knock the air out of your lungs but not enough to suffocate. Yet.

The couch groaned under the weight of your entangled bodies, sinking further as Sunghoon hovered over you, his powerful legs bracketing your hips, his muscular frame dwarfing yours. He pushed you deeper into the cushions, his body a solid, warm weight pressing you down, his lips never breaking contact with yours, his kiss relentless. He angled your head to his liking, his free hand exploring your body with a gentle dominance, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to the swell of your hips, a teasing caress that made your heart race. It was as if he was trying to etch every curve into memory.

Finally he pulled back, but only so slightly to grant you reprieve from his lips, for his weight still anchored him firmly against you as he straddled your hips, creating a tantalizing gap between your bodies. His gaze had completely shifted then—smouldering in a way that authoritatively pinned you in place without having to physically restrain you. "This is your chance," he said, his voice gravelly with restrained desire, as he tore the robe from his shoulders with an impatient motion, letting it fall in a forgotten heap on the floor. Bare from the waist up, his muscular frame seemed even more commanding, each ridge of muscle sharp and unyielding without the confines of clothing.

This wasn’t the first time you’d seen his bare torso, but tonight, his physique felt too imposing—as if every ridge of muscle was sculpted exactly to intimidate and conquer. The air around him seemed to hum with power while the intensity of his gaze stole words right from your throat. He continued, "you can resist, push me away, or even slap me, but once I begin, I won't be able to stop".

You swallowed thickly, the weight of his piercing gaze pressing down on you, making you feel small beneath him. It wasn’t just his physical presence—towering, commanding—that made your breath hitch. It was the intensity in his eyes, the way they seemed to strip you bare, leaving no room for pretense or armor. You hated that he could do this to you, hated more that you couldn’t look away. You couldn’t lie to yourself: he was indeed intimidating at the moment. But was it fear that made your pulse race, or something darker, something you weren’t ready to name?

You could push him away, the words lingered in your mind like an invitation. But the truth was, you’d had a thousand chances to stop him before things went too far. And yet, here you were, under him. Because as much as you hated his power over you, you had already decided to let it in.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the loose cardigan slipping from your shoulders, exposing your bare skin to his ravenous gaze. Sunghoon’s eyes darkened like a brewing storm, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own ragged breaths. Your lips still tingled from the searing kiss, the memory of his touch a constant reminder that you hadn’t stopped him. That you hadn’t wanted to.

"I wouldn’t have let you get this far if I wasn’t sure, Sungh—" you panted out, but before you could finish, he surged forward, recapturing your lips with a fierce and almost punishing force. The kiss was a tempest, a chaotic collision of passion and need, pulling you under and leaving you breathless, weightless, and utterly undone.

As his mouth consumed yours, his hands moved with purpose and urgency, stripping away your cardigan with a deft touch. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat of his body, making you acutely aware of every inch of him. His other hand slipped under your shirt, his fingers tracing the curvature of your spine with a deliberate languor that made your breath hitch. Your body arched into his touch, your restraint crumbling under the weight of his passion. He responded by pressing you deeper into the plush couch, his body a heavy, welcome weight, pinning you beneath him, a captive to his desire.

The soft cushions molded to your form, offering a sensual contrast to the hard planes of his chest against your soft skin. "Sunghoon—" you gasped, struggling for air and begging him to slow down, but he showed no mercy. Instead, his lips descended upon yours with even greater ferocity, turning the kiss hungrier, messier and wetter as his mouth and tongue move with a frenzied passion that bordered on brutal, as if he was trying to consume you whole and leave nothing but ashes in his wake—the ferocity of which was mirrored by the rhythm of his hips as he ground against you, a tantalizing preview of what was to come.

You knew you were treading uncharted territories—felt it in the way his hands gripped you, relentless and commanding with a possessiveness that bordered on primal—every movement daring you to stop him and knowing you wouldn’t. But then again, this had always been the dynamic between you two: a dance on the knife’s edge—a battle masquerading as a game, where neither truly won. Every step only pulled you deeper into the other's orbit, not for the comfort peace or safety, but for the chaos only the other could create.

But somewhere along the way, the chaos had shifted. It was no longer about fighting against each other, about destruction for the sake of it. Instead, it had become something far more dangerous: a harmony within the chaos.

You had learned to move in sync, not because you sought peace, but because you understood each other too well. The storm hadn’t disappeared—it never would—but now, you weathered it together. No one else could bear the weight of your detachment—the walls you built, the silence you carried—but him. And no one else could bear his chaos—the storm within him, the fire that never died—the way you did.

You weren’t drawn to each other just for the fire, but because you were each other’s constant. You were his unshakable anchor: the force that rooted him in a reality he couldn’t manipulate, teaching him that respect—not domination—was the foundation of something enduring and real. And he was your constant storm: a chaotic force that blows through your carefully constructed walls, showing you that stability isn't always the answer. You let him destabilize your certainty; he lets you unravel his control.

You two were a mess and yet you two never sought to change nor fix the other. Because within one another was the only place where everything made sense, even as the world burned around you. It wasn’t peace, nor was it safety—but it was home. And it was inevitable, as it always had been.

A/N: DONE. DUSTED. GONE. PHEW. Now I can pack peacefully for my flight tomorrow. This is farthest and the most committed I've ever been in writing so please, show me some appreciation by leaving feedback. This is possibly my last writing after all. Also! just wanted to shed some light into the ending: I've created two very complex, messy as hell, multi-layered, characters who went through hell and back with a knife ((or fangs)) on each other's throat for most of the time, so you can’t expect a Hallmark-esque ending with elopement, three kids, and a cozy life baking sourdough in a quaint cottage deep in the woods. After everything they’ve been through—betrayals, obsession, bloodshed, and vulnerability—it would feel unrealistic to wrap their relationship in a neat bow. There’s too much baggage to simply ignore, and I am honoring those journey, their personality and their arcs by opting for such an ending in the epilogue. One that is unapologetically and messily theirs.

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