#Precision Fastening | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fiendsgf · 15 days ago

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Nocturne . ݁₊ ♱ . ݁˖ . ݁

lord!sylus x vampire!reader

content: semi-slowburn, reader is a princess, down bad sylus, prob inaccurate rep of the time period, smut, wc: 15.8k epilogue

The castle breathes in silence. Outside, rain ticks softly against the stained-glass windows, streaking down in long, glistening lines that catch the candlelight like veins in glass. The fire crackles low in the hearth behind you, more for ceremony than warmth. Heat has never moved you much—not since you died the first time.

You sit before a towering mirror in your chamber, hands resting lightly in your lap, posture composed like a statue placed on display. The gown they chose for you is deep burgundy silk, shiny and rich, pooling around your feet like blood spilled on polished stone. Black embroidery coils along the bodice in patterns like thorned vines and serpents—too ornate, too precise, too sharp to be innocent. The neckline reveals just enough to tempt, framed by sheer tulle like smoke clinging to your skin.

Your choker sits high and tight around your throat: blackened gold with rubies that gleam like fresh wounds. Earrings swing low from your ears, matching the necklace, catching candlelight like a guillotine’s blade right before the fall.

Two of your handmaidens flit about behind you like birds in spring.

“Oh, Your Highness, you’ll be the envy of the whole court,” one trills as she tightens the laces on your corset. “That color... it’s like it was made for you.”

“She’ll have half the ballroom at her feet before the first waltz,” the other giggles, brushing perfumed oil—rose and amber—into the hollow of your throat. “Did you hear? The Marquess of Evermere has returned from Ardens. And the baron from Vellenshire too. That one with the shoulders.”

“Lord Hale,” the first sighs dreamily.

You don’t speak. Don’t smile. You’ve learned the art of stillness well—how to hold your face like a mask, your body like a secret. You give them just enough: a glance, the ghost of a smirk, the illusion of a demure princess preparing for a dance. But inside?

Inside, you ache.

Your gaze meets itself in the mirror. Eyes rimmed in kohl, dark and gleaming like garnets in snow. Skin pale enough to shame moonlight. You look like something painted in oils, hung in a cursed gallery—beauty without warmth. Grace without mercy.

They don’t know why they’re afraid of you. They never have.

Your mother’s voice echoes through your skull, clipped and cold. “You’re not a child anymore. You must marry.” “The nobles are growing impatient. People will talk.” “No man of quality waits forever.”

As if marriage could fix you. As if desire could replace hunger. As if you didn’t already know what you were.

You exhale slowly. You remember his throat. How it tasted, hot and trembling. How he said your name with wonder before the end. And then fear. Always fear. Always too late.

You kissed him like a lover and fed from him like a monster.

And no one in the castle speaks of him now. They whisper of “lost suitors.” As if they simply vanished. Fled. Grew bored. You know better. You always know better.

The door clicks open behind you.

“Milady,” a familiar voice says. Low. Steady. Trusted. “Your cloak.”

Amaris steps into view—older than the others, sharper too. Dressed plainly, but she carries the weight of your secrets like a rosary. She fastens your black velvet cloak over your shoulders, smoothing the heavy fabric down with practiced hands. Her fingers brush yours—a silent gesture. A warning. A tether.

“Remember,” she says quietly, close to your ear. “You don’t have to dance. Speak little. Smile when they look. And if it gets... too much—come find me.”

You nod once. Barely.

You both know what “too much” means. You’ve danced that edge before. The trembling restraint. The sting of arousal and hunger curling inside you like a blade against silk. All these men with warm blood and sharp smiles, thinking they can touch you, claim you. They have no idea what you are.

Behind you, the maids chatter on.

“She’ll be married before summer, you’ll see,” one says. “Some lord will fall madly in love.”

Amaris catches your gaze in the mirror. Her brow lifts.

"Madly." That’s always the word, isn’t it?

You rise from the vanity with slow grace, your gown rippling in waves down to the floor. You drift to the window and draw back the velvet curtain. Outside, the garden sleeps under mist and moonlight. Beyond the hedges, the ballroom glows—light spilling from the windows like golden honey. You see carriages arriving below, men stepping out with cloaks and canes, women descending with gloved hands on polished arms.

The castle rises around them all: a monstrous thing of spires and gargoyles, marble and iron, too beautiful to ever be safe. Ivy chokes the eastern tower. Statues stand eyeless in alcoves. The ballroom is a stage, and tonight, you will perform.

Inside your chamber, the fire has dimmed to embers. Behind you, the great bed waits—massive and canopied, sheathed in black lace and crimson sheets. You haven’t slept in it in days. Maybe weeks. Sleep eludes creatures like you. Or perhaps you simply don’t need it anymore.

Amaris adjusts the clasp of your cloak.

“Your father expects you to be seen,” she says, quieter now. Her tone is gentle. But even she is nervous. You can smell it—faint, like frost before snowfall.

You rest your fingertips against the windowpane. Cold. Like you.

“Perhaps tonight,” you murmur, “one of them won’t bore me before I start to crave them.”

Amaris doesn’t smile.

A gust of wind shakes the window. Lightning flickers faintly on the horizon. Something feels different tonight. The air stirs with the scent of new blood. Not like the others. Not prey. Something darker. Closer to your kind.

“Come,” Amaris says. “Let them see their princess.”

You don’t turn around right away. Your reflection stares back at you—silent, exquisite, damning.

What poor fool will step into your path tonight? Who will dance with death and think it love?

Your lips curl into a slow smile, sharp as your teeth.

Let them come.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ballroom gleams like the belly of a jewel.

Polished marble stretches beneath golden chandeliers, each one draped with chains of crystals that catch the candlelight like tears in glass. Music wafts through the air—violins, soft and elegant, just enough to veil the tension that always lingers in rooms like this. It smells of rose oil and sweat, of perfume laid thick over nerves. Of too many hearts beating in close proximity.

You descend the grand staircase slowly.

Not from hesitation—no, never that. You descend like mist curling down a mountainside: graceful, deliberate, unignorable. Your cloak billows behind you, half-open to reveal your gown– clinging to your frame like a second skin, embroidered with thread so dark it drinks the light. Your heels click like a metronome across each step.

And all at once, the room turns.

Conversation falters. Glasses still mid-air. Heads tilt upward like sunflowers to a starless moon.

You feel their eyes crawl over you. Some adoring. Some possessive. Others afraid and not knowing why.

Your parents stand near the foot of the staircase, flanked by nobles in court finery. The Queen's lips tighten into a smile, thin as a blade. The King offers a subtle nod, measured and impassive. You're already performing.

You offer bows and nods as you pass. Dignified. Mildly bored.

“Your Highness.”

“Radiant, as always.”

“I heard the fabric was imported from Orléaux…”

You smile like a wineglass—fragile, glittering, hollow.

At the base of the staircase, you turn away from the expectant crowd and glide toward the refreshments table. Champagne sweats in fluted crystal glasses, arranged like an offering. You pluck one with long fingers, feeling the chill bleed into your skin.

You sip, but don’t swallow. Let the liquid kiss your lips and rest on your tongue before you let it fall back into the glass. Gold and sweet. Faintly sour. Like love, perhaps.

Footsteps approach behind you.

“Standing off to the side already?” your mother says, voice light, false. “We haven’t even reached the second dance.”

“She looks stunning,” your father offers, more quietly. “Like a Rothschilde painting.”

You don’t respond. The music swells again—another waltz beginning.

Your mother touches your elbow. “Remember why you’re here, darling. This isn’t a gallery. You’re not to be admired from afar like an art piece. Tonight, you must engage.”

You sip again, slower this time. “I didn’t realize the meat was meant to entertain the wolves before the feast.”

She frowns. Your father chuckles under his breath.

Before they can scold you, a voice cuts in—masculine, confident, vaguely amused.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says, “but if you aren’t already promised for this dance... may I?”

You turn your head slightly. Broad shoulders. Fair hair. Ceremonial medals gleaming across a navy coat trimmed in gold. You recognize him by the build alone.

Lord Hale.

You offer a slight nod, because you’re in front of your parents and cornered like a cat.

He takes your hand with practiced grace and leads you out to the floor.

The waltz is slow. Measured. Easy enough to follow, though Lord Hale moves like he knows the steps well—too well. His hand rests against the small of your back. His palm is warm. You feel his pulse through his glove. A slow, steady rhythm. A delicious kind of temptation.

“You dance as if the floor might crack beneath you,” he says, tone wry.

“Perhaps I’m wondering who I’d take down with me,” you reply.

He laughs. “Ah. One of those princesses.”

You arch a brow. “One of what, exactly?”

“The kind who prefers daggers to rings. Who spends too much time in the garden alone and makes men write poetry they’ll later regret.”

You smirk. “Regret requires survival.”

He blinks, as if unsure whether you’re joking. Then chuckles again.

As he turns you through the next step, your eyes skim the crowd—glass and silk and waxen smiles. The chandeliers above flicker, and for a moment you imagine blood dripping from their golden chains instead of crystal.

You think of Prince Alric.

He had a voice like honey and hands that shook when he kissed you. His poetry was appalling. He wrote a sonnet comparing your eyes to dusk—no, to funeral bells. When you drained him in the library, he wept. You fed until he went silent. His corpse rested between the shelves for three days before anyone noticed. The servants blamed rats.

You think of the Count from Nordmere.

He liked to talk. About horses. About ships. About all the women who’d wanted him. You bit his throat during the Harvest Ball, your lips still painted red. He died moaning your name like a prayer. Or a warning.

Lord Hale spins you again.

“You’re quiet, Princess.”

“Thinking of past dances,” you say. “Some more graceful than others.”

He grins. “Should I be flattered or nervous?”

“I suppose we’ll both find out.”

He presses in just slightly. His breath brushes your cheek.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “what is it you really want in a husband?”

You smile against his question, slow and amused.

A pulse you can quiet.

A body you won’t tire of before your hunger grows too loud.

Someone who won’t die too easily. Or better yet—someone who might like it.

But instead, you answer, “Someone with shoulders like yours. And less curiosity.”

His grin falters for just a moment.

The music nears its final turn. The dance draws to a close. Lord Hale bows low as the strings fade. You curtsy, your gown rippling like a pool of red silk.

“Would you grant me another dance later?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “If I’m still hungry.”

His smile wavers. He doesn’t quite know whether to take it as flirtation or threat.

Good.

You slip away before he can say more, back toward the shadows at the edge of the floor.

The candles shimmer. The orchestra prepares a livelier tune. Laughter rises, but you don’t hear it. You hear only the whisper of wind through stone. The scent of something approaching—distant and rich. Something that doesn’t belong to any of the trembling, sweating men in this room.

Something not afraid of you.

Your heart stirs.

You sip from your glass again, the champagne now lukewarm and losing its fizz. It barely masks the hollowness in your throat.

Amaris finds you before you can escape into your own thoughts completely. She emerges from the bustle like a ghost in uniform—her maid’s dress crisp, her clever eyes scanning you with practiced ease.

“Well?” she murmurs, tucking herself into the space beside you, careful not to draw attention. “Was that Lord Hale?”

You nod. “His shoulders gave him away.”

Amaris grins. “I knew it. And?”

“He reminded me of the others,” you say simply, voice cool. “Charming. Confident. Sweet words with trembling hands.”

Her smirk softens. “Did you feel anything?”

You look down at your glass. The stem is thin between your fingers—delicate enough to snap with the slightest pressure. “The usual. A flicker of curiosity. Hunger.”

“But nothing more,” she says.

You shake your head. “They never last, Amaris. They smell of wine and cologne and fear, and when they get close enough to know me, the fear always wins.”

She leans on the wall beside you, fingers toying with the edge of her apron. “Maybe it’s not fear that does them in. Maybe it’s you.”

Your brow lifts. “You mean my appetite.”

“I mean your standards.” She flashes a grin, but there’s sympathy behind it. “You deserve someone who can handle your teeth.”

You huff, amused despite yourself, and the moment stretches—just long enough for you to feel the mood in the ballroom shift. It's almost imperceptible, a sudden hush beneath the music. A slight pause in the flow of conversation. You glance over your shoulder, brows narrowing—

And catch Amaris staring past you, eyes wide.

“Oh my,” she breathes.

You turn to follow her gaze.

At the top of the grand staircase stands a man draped in midnight black, accented in deep red and muted silver threadwork. His coat is tailored close to the waist and flares slightly at the hip, the dark silk catching the candlelight with an almost liquid sheen. Beneath it, a waistcoat in blood-red brocade glints faintly, offset by a crisp collar and a cravat pinned with a small, sharp ruby.

His posture is regal but unbothered. Dangerous in its ease.

And then there’s his face.

Sharp and elegant, with a jaw carved like marble and cheekbones that could cut glass. His skin is pale beneath the flickering light, yet warm-toned—like candlelight on parchment. But it’s his eyes that hold you. Deep crimson, glinting like garnets, framed by pale lashes. As if blood itself burned behind them.

He scans the crowd from his perch, and for a moment you think—perhaps you hope—he will look elsewhere.

Then his gaze finds yours.

And it doesn’t move.

Your breath halts in your throat. The champagne in your glass trembles.

He starts down the stairs. Slowly. Deliberately. The crowd parts like reeds in his wake, whispered names rippling in his path. You catch fragments.

“—Is that Lord Sylus?—”

“—From the northern territories—”

“—Never seen him attend before—”

So the rumors were true. A reclusive noble, sharp of tongue and colder than winter. They said he never courted, never entertained the company of women. He lived in a great manor carved into a cliffside, alone save for servants and shadow.

You’d thought him a myth. A cautionary tale wrapped in noble title.

But now he was walking toward you like you were the only light in the room.

Amaris nudges your elbow, but you don’t register it. Not until he stops just before you and offers a shallow bow.

“My lady,” he says, voice deep and smooth as polished onyx. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

He doesn’t smile—not quite. Just the faintest tilt of his lips. Enough to suggest he could, if he wanted to. If you were worth it.

You hesitate, for half a breath.

Then you take his hand.

His touch is warm. Firm. Grounding.

He leads you to the dance floor as though it’s his realm, and the ballroom his dominion. The music swells. A new waltz begins.

You’ve never danced with someone who moves quite like him—precise yet fluid, strong yet poised. He spins you once, then again, as if to test your balance. You hold his gaze all the while.

“You don’t say much,” he notes, tone lightly amused.

“I find the quiet more telling than flattery.”

“A rare preference, in a room like this.”

“You don’t seem the type to enjoy this sort of thing either.”

He chuckles under his breath. “No. But then again, I’ve never had much patience for tradition.”

Your lips curl. “So what brings you here, then?”

“Curiosity,” he says, stepping closer on the next turn. “And a reputation that refuses to stay in my absence.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t like being spoken of?”

“I prefer to control the narrative.”

A beat passes. Then you ask, softly, “And what is your narrative, Lord Sylus?”

His hand tightens at your waist—not enough to alarm, but enough to be felt. Enough to make your pulse trip.

“I’m still writing it,” he murmurs. “But tonight, I’ve found a particularly captivating chapter.”

Your cheeks warm. Not from flattery—though he’s good at it. No, it’s something else. The way he looks at you. Like he’s dissecting, unspooling, seeing not just your face or gown or posture but something deeper.

Something darker.

For a moment, you wonder if he knows.

But then the waltz draws to a close. He slows your steps, bows over your hand, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

His lips linger a second longer than is proper.

“I hope this won’t be our last encounter, my lady.” he says, eyes never leaving yours.

You want to respond. You try.

But before you can speak, he’s already turning, slipping into the crowd like smoke through keyholes—gone.

You stand still in the wake of him, hand tingling, skin flushed.

And for the first time in years, the hunger in your chest is complicated by something far more dangerous.

Curiosity.

The orchestra swelled again. One final song to end the night.

You’d retreated to the far edge of the ballroom, where the crowd thinned and the music melted into something softer, something more distant. Your empty champagne glass dangled between two fingers, the cold stem warming slowly against your skin.

Lord Hale found you there.

“I believe it’s tradition to end the evening with the same partner you began it with,” he said, stepping into your line of sight with that charming half-smile that had probably worked on countless other women.

You turned your head, regarding him coolly from beneath dark lashes. The candlelight kissed the edges of his cheekbones, gave his blond hair a gold sheen. He looked every inch the dashing suitor—clean-cut, eager, the kind who always thought they could handle you.

You hummed, just barely amused. “Are you hoping to secure a second impression that might outdo the first?”

“Only if you promise not to make me look quite so clumsy this time,” he teased, offering his hand again.

You let him lead you.

The ballroom was more crowded now than before, guests reluctant to let the night end, drawn to the final waltz like moths to flame. The floor gleamed underfoot, polished to a near mirror finish, reflecting dozens of dancing silhouettes in a swirl of satin and lace. Candles lined every sconce, chandeliers glittered with a thousand facets, and all of it blurred around you as Lord Hale guided you into motion.

“I must admit,” he said lowly as the two of you moved in slow, practiced turns, “I wasn’t expecting to see Lord Sylus tonight. Rather a legend, isn’t he?”

You arched a brow. “Does his presence trouble you?”

“Only surprised. Some say he never leaves that blasted fortress he built in the northern cliffs. Others claim he turns down every invitation.”

“Perhaps he’s finally decided to wed,” you offered with cool detachment.

Lord Hale scoffed gently, then glanced down at you with a quirked brow. “And here I thought that was your duty tonight, my lady. Did the mysterious lord catch your eye, by chance?”

You tilted your head just slightly, a smile ghosting your lips. “Are you jealous, Lord Hale?”

He chuckled. “Would you fault me if I were?”

The music continued, gentle and gilded, but your mind had already started to drift. His hands were warm in yours, his voice charming—but you barely heard him now.

Your hunger was rising.

The ballroom had become too bright, too loud. The flickering candlelight pressed at your temples. The scent of blood—sweet and metallic beneath perfume and smoke—had sharpened. Lord Hale smelled delicious, and he didn’t even know it.

You leaned in, just enough to let your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Shall we go to the garden?”

He stiffened slightly, then straightened with a grin he tried to conceal. “A midnight stroll? Won’t the others whisper?”

“Let them,” you said. “Besides, it’s better to talk away from prying eyes.”

He didn’t hesitate after that.

You passed through the wide double doors, his hand lightly at your back. The castle’s halls were quieter now, lined with flickering sconces and velvet tapestries that whispered with every breeze. The echoes of your footsteps followed you down a long corridor, past arched windows and shadowed alcoves. The air grew cooler the farther you walked, and soon you were pushing through one of the side doors, out into the night.

The garden greeted you like a lover.

Roses bloomed in beds of crimson and cream, perfuming the air with their velvet sweetness. Stone paths twisted between tall hedges and marbled statues; a fountain murmured softly at the center. Overhead, the moon hung full and heavy, spilling silver across the lawn.

You led him to a clearing nestled between hedges, just private enough. The distant murmur of the ballroom was gone now. Only cicadas sang.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

You turned to face him, the moonlight turning your gown to garnet, your eyes to blood and glass. “The garden?”

“Yes,” he said, taking a step closer. “But I was referring to you.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate. “You say the right things, Lord Hale. Most men do, in the beginning.”

He tilted his head. “But?”

“They never last.”

He chuckled, as if that were a joke. “Then I’ll have to try harder.”

His hand rose, fingers brushing your cheek, then falling to your shoulder. You let him lean in. His lips grazed yours—warm, hesitant—but you angled your head slightly, your lips ghosting past his jaw.

He froze when your mouth brushed his throat.

“Wait—”

But you didn’t.

Your fangs pierced his skin with ease. The taste hit you instantly—rich, alive, laced with hints of wine and arrogance and something foolishly sweet. He gasped, one hand tightening on your arm, then going slack. His knees buckled as you drank. He never screamed. Just whimpered softly, uselessly, a gurgled sigh before his heart slowed and stuttered into stillness.

You released him before he hit the ground.

Lord Hale collapsed into the roses like a broken marionette, face slack, eyes wide in fading disbelief. You dabbed the corner of your mouth with a silk handkerchief, expression untouched by remorse.

“A fool,” you whispered, watching the last flicker of life drain from his eyes.

The garden around you was still again, peaceful in a way it hadn’t been moments before.

Your steps were slow but elegant as you returned to the castle. The air smelled sweeter now. Your hunger had abated. The music had faded from the ballroom entirely, leaving only the hush of winding down conversation.

Amaris found you just as you reached the corridor near the kitchens.

“Milady,” she said in a low voice, eyes quickly scanning your face. “You’re—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said, dabbing your lips again, checking your gown for blood. “There’s a problem in the garden. It must be disposed of immediately.”

She didn’t ask questions. She never did.

Only gave a small nod and slipped away like a shadow.

You walked calmly back toward the heart of the castle, the faint copper tang of blood still clinging to your tongue—and something else, something that lingered heavier than before. That look in Lord Sylus’ eyes when they met yours across the ballroom.

As though he saw everything.

And wanted more.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You returned to your chambers long after the music had faded and the final lanterns in the ballroom had been extinguished. The corridors were hushed now, save for the occasional crackle of dying candlelight or the distant click of a maid’s hurried step. You walked with practiced grace, yet your body felt charged—alight with the thrill of the kill, and something else.

Lord Hale's blood still clung to your tongue like honeyed wine, but it had not filled the void as it once did. You had expected his end to bring the usual satisfaction, the velvety lull of satiation, the calm that came when the hunger was gone. Instead, you found yourself… restless.

You slipped out of your dress with the ease of routine, letting it puddle at your feet like discarded skin. Beneath it, your chemise stuck faintly to your body, your pulse still fluttering from the memory of two very different men.

You crossed the room slowly, fingers trailing along the edge of your writing desk as you passed, its surface littered with unanswered letters from noblemen, suitors, and friends long since drained or dismissed. You pushed aside the velvet curtain and unlatched the window, letting the wind slip in—cool, damp, and thick with the scent of roses and death.

And still… you thought of him.

Not Hale. Not the sweet, trembling fool whose name you barely recalled as his blood warmed your throat. No—it was the man at the top of the staircase. Sylus.

His name echoed like a secret against the hollow of your ribs. You had heard of him, of course. Everyone had. The eldest son of a noble house long faded into legend, a recluse rarely seen in public, a shadow with a title. Whispers said he kept to his estate, collecting relics, refusing brides, and harboring a coldness that chilled even the most persistent of matchmakers.

You had not expected him to exist.

And yet he had arrived with that unsettling poise, eyes like freshly split rubies gleaming beneath the chandelier. He hadn’t looked at you like the others. No hunger, no flattery. He had looked at you like he knew. And for a heartbeat, you had felt bare beneath it.

His touch had burned in a way you didn’t understand. Not the fire of thirst—but something quieter. Deeper. A pull, as if your soul had remembered his before your mind could.

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands folding slowly in your lap, staring at the hearth though no fire burned there tonight. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t need to. Instead, you waited for dawn, letting the darkness whisper through your thoughts.

By morning, the castle had returned to its rhythm.

You sat in the dining room across from your parents, the long oaken table spread with silverware and spiced fruit. A roast had been prepared too, though you had no appetite for it. Your tea had gone tepid in its porcelain cup.

Your mother wore that thin, practiced smile she reserved for social inquiries. “You looked beautiful last night, darling,” she said as she dabbed delicately at her lips. “Many eyes followed you.”

You offered a nod, letting her speak.

“And? Anyone catch yours?” your father added, looking up from his paper with one brow arched. “There was that young Lord Hale. Bold sort. You danced with him twice.”

You held your cup between your hands. “Mmm,” you murmured. “He was... spirited.”

“Spirited?” your mother repeated, sounding too pleased. “Did he make any overtures? Show promise?”

“He asked to walk with me in the garden,” you said simply, and watched their expressions twist just slightly.

Your mother leaned forward. “And?”

“I believe he’s not quite suited for courtship,” you said smoothly. “Too eager. Lacking composure.”

“Such a shame,” your father said flatly, turning the page. “Another one lost.”

You didn’t correct him. Let them think he’d been discouraged. Let them think he’d left with his pride wounded and heart bruised. Let them wonder, for now.

Then, as if summoned, the door creaked open and Amaris stepped inside.

She moved with her usual ease, face impassive, but her gloved hands clutched a dark envelope. She bowed slightly as she approached you. “A letter, my lady,” she said, eyes flickering meaningfully for the briefest moment. “Delivered not long ago. No seal.”

You took it. The envelope was thick, made of fine black parchment. The wax was deep red, pressed flat without a crest. On the front, only your name, written in a sharp hand—almost like it had been carved into the surface rather than inked.

You waited until your parents returned to their discussion of estate finances before you excused yourself with a graceful smile, stepping into the hallway beyond.

Amaris followed wordlessly, her curiosity practically vibrating off her. “From him?” she whispered once the doors shut behind you both.

“I don’t know,” you replied, but your heart beat once, hard.

You slipped your thumb beneath the seal and opened it.

Inside was a single sheet, folded crisply. No greeting. No signature.

Just one sentence in that same angular script:

“Tell me, did the garden still your hunger, or merely delay it?”

You stared at the page, the blood in your veins suddenly slow, molten.

Amaris looked at you. “What does it say?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes lingered on the final curve of the ink, like the last twist of a knife.

He knew.

He had watched.

And he was still playing the game.

You stared at the letter a moment longer, as though it might shift in your hand and reveal something more—some hidden message between the words. But there was only that one line. That one quiet, knowing question that coiled beneath your ribs like smoke.

You folded the letter slowly, fingers lingering on the edges, and slid it back into its envelope. The ink had not yet dried entirely. You could smell it—metallic, dark, like blood.

Amaris shifted beside you. “I take it we won’t be burning that one like the others.”

“No,” you murmured. “This one… deserves a reply.”

A slow, pleased smile curved her lips. “Shall I prepare a carriage?”

You turned from her, the faintest curl of a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “No need. I imagine he’s already near. I’ll let him think I’m walking right into his snare.”

“And if it is a snare?” she asked lightly.

You looked over your shoulder at her. “Then I’ll enjoy the dance before the knife.”

You didn’t return to your chambers. Instead, you followed the path your instincts told you he would expect. Down the east wing staircase, through the old music room whose door hadn’t been opened in months, and out past the greenhouse, where ivy swallowed the windowpanes and sunlight bled like honey through fractured glass.

There, past the hedgerows and overgrown fountain, was the forgotten gate—one only a few in the manor still knew of. You slipped through it like a wraith, skirts barely whispering against the stone, and found yourself at the edge of the forest beyond the estate.

The trees were tall here, unnaturally still. No birds sang. The air was heavy.

And then, just ahead—he was waiting.

Leaning against the broken arch of an abandoned garden folly, Lord Sylus stood in black, his cloak loose over one shoulder. His red eyes caught yours instantly, gleaming like coals through mist.

“You came,” he said simply.

You stepped forward, ignoring the way the grass seemed to hush under your feet.

“You invited me.”

“I wasn’t certain you’d listen.” His voice was low, thoughtful. “You don’t strike me as the type to answer riddles.”

“And yet I answered yours.”

He inclined his head. “You’re even more dangerous than you let on.”

You gave a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “You followed me into the garden.”

“I never left the ballroom,” he said, and your breath paused.

The space between you buzzed with something unspoken. Tension? Recognition? Curiosity? You weren’t sure anymore.

“What are you?” you asked finally, not bothering to veil it with flirtation.

He stepped forward, just once. “Something like you. But older. Cursed longer. Less hungry, more hollow.”

His words scratched at something buried. You stared at him, the curve of his mouth, the stillness of his hands, the way he seemed carved rather than born.

“I don’t usually meet men I don’t want to kill,” you said.

“Is that what happened to Lord Hale?” he asked, voice gentle, as though it didn’t matter either way.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Sylus stepped even closer. Now you could smell him—oakwood and cold metal and something faintly sweet beneath it all, something not quite human.

“Why did you watch me?” you asked, voice softer now.

His gaze flicked over you, slow, unhurried. “Because I saw a mirror. And I wanted to know if it was cracked.”

You hated the way those words settled in your chest.

“I should kill you,” you whispered.

He smiled then. A real smile, sharp and beautiful. “Try.”

The invitation thrummed through your bones like music.

But you didn’t lunge. Didn’t bare your teeth. Instead, you reached out, slowly, and ran your fingers down the edge of his coat, testing the feel of him—solid, warm, maddeningly composed.

He didn’t flinch. “You don’t want my blood.”

You blinked. “No.”

“I don’t want yours either.”

The air shifted. The hunger between you was of a different kind entirely now.

Then he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But I want something else.”

You should have pulled away.

You didn’t.

You let him linger. You let the silence stretch long and slow between you.

When you finally stepped back, his smile had faded into something more solemn.

“I’ll see you again, sweetie.” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

And you didn’t deny it.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The days passed, though you weren’t sure how many.

Time had always bent strangely for you—distorted by the dull, endless repetition of nobles and parties, lifeless flirtations, and the hollow echo of wine glasses clinking over music you no longer heard. But now it seemed to fold in on itself entirely. You’d wake long after noon, still wrapped in the same silken nightdress, hair tangled and skin cool as frost. You’d sit by the window and stare out into the trees, where fog clung low to the earth like a wounded thing, and you’d try—over and over—to make sense of the voice that lived behind your ear now.

“But I want something else.”

You still fed, of course. You had to. The need curled in your belly like smoke, low and insistent, and ignoring it only made you sharp and irritable. You let yourself indulge—more than usual, if anything. A young captain from the southern provinces who came to your room with shaking hands and left without memory; a visiting poet who tasted like lilac and wine; even a stable boy, when your mood turned stormy and you didn’t want to talk.

It wasn’t about pleasure.

They were sustenance. Nothing more.

Because none of them made you feel anything.

Not the way he did.

Sylus.

The name alone made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. You hated how you remembered his every movement—the way his fingers brushed your wrist like it was intentional, the slow smiles he gave you, the way he’d called you sweetie so naturally— like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.

He didn’t smell like prey. He didn’t feel like prey.

There had been no fear in him.

Not even curiosity, which was more dangerous still.

He looked at you like he already knew—what you were, what you’d done, what you still needed. And not only did it not bother him—he seemed drawn to it.

But he didn’t make you hungry.

That was what troubled you most.

It wasn’t the lack of desire. You still had that. You’d felt it since the moment you laid eyes on him—it surged when he looked at you too long, when he smiled, when his lips brushed your knuckles and it felt like lightning crawled under your skin.

It wasn’t blood you wanted.

And for a creature like you, that was a deeply unsettling revelation.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

At breakfast, your mother asked if you’d enjoyed the last ball you attended.

Some forgettable farce, full of names and faces you didn’t care to remember.

You gave a vague answer—smiling around your teacup, pretending to listen while your father mentioned something about Lord Hale’s strange disappearance.

They didn’t suspect you. They never did. You were their porcelain doll. Their lovely, pale daughter with a quiet smile and polite answers. You played your role well.

“It’s time to be serious,” your mother said delicately, buttering a piece of toast. “You’re not a child. You need to choose someone before tongues begin to wag.”

“They already do,” you murmured.

“And I let them,” she said. “Because your reputation keeps you safe. But that won’t last forever.”

Your father sighed. “Lord Davis sent flowers. A whole cart of them.”

“Let them rot,” you said.

Your mother shot you a look. “He’s wealthy, and titled.”

“He’s also dull, and I suspect he speaks to horses more than people.”

That earned a small, reluctant laugh from your father. But your mother was less amused.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You kept busy, as best you could.

You walked the garden paths until your shoes were soaked through with dew. You asked Amaris to rearrange the entire north wing of your wardrobe. You read poetry you couldn’t focus on, dipped your fingers in paint you never used, went riding at dusk with a blade hidden in your corset just to feel something.

Nothing helped.

No matter what you did, your thoughts circled back to him.

It wasn’t like you. You were used to men obsessing over you—not the other way around. You were used to being in control.

But now, at night, when you lay beneath the canopy of your bed with your lips still tasting of someone else’s blood, you thought of red eyes in the dark. Of his voice—low and rich and full of knowing. Of the way he watched you like a man surveying a puzzle he had every intention of solving.

You didn’t like being on edge.

You didn’t like not knowing.

“I think you’re infatuated,” Amaris said casually, one afternoon, as she fastened the laces of your gown.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Is it ridiculous to note that this is the fifth time you’ve worn this color since the ball?” she said, tone amused. “And that you haven’t stopped asking which guests will be attending the next?”

You turned your head away, toward the mirror. “It suits me.”

“Mm,” she murmured. “And if he likes it too, all the better.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence betrayed you.

She stepped closer, tightening the laces with a firm tug. “Just be careful,” she added softly. “Whatever he is, he’s not ordinary.”

Neither are you, you wanted to say.

But instead: “I know.”

That evening, a new invitation arrived.

A masquerade at the Von Clares. Renowned for their winter roses and scandalous tastes. It would be full of masks, of course—and secrets behind them. The kind of place where favors were traded like gold and you couldn’t turn a corner without tripping over lust or ambition.

You scanned the list of confirmed attendees and found his name quickly.

Sylus R. Nocturne

Your heart didn’t flutter.

It throbbed.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The snow fell softly the night of the masquerade.

You watched it from the tall windows of your room, arms folded beneath your cloak as Amaris stood beside you, murmuring disapproval over your refusal to wear white. Everyone else would be dressed in pale silk and gauze—ice maidens and winter spirits, how terribly predictable.

You chose shadow.

A gown of black muslin and silk, rich and soft and clinging in all the right places. Your mask was carved onyx with silver filigree, a glint of crimson at the corner of the eyes—a single nod to the predator beneath the silk. Around your throat, a choker of garnets, the dark stones pulsing like a heartbeat. You didn’t look like a girl trying to catch a suitor.

You looked like a secret meant to be kept.

And maybe, tonight, you didn’t want to hide what you were.

Not completely.

You descended the stairs long after the other guests had left, a carriage waiting at the bottom of the hill. Your mother had raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Amaris gave you a long, searching look as she adjusted your gloves at the door.

“He’ll be there,” she said, not as warning, but reminder.

“I know,” you replied.

Your pulse betrayed you anyway.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The Von Clare estate glittered like a frostbitten dream.

Lanterns lined the walk like floating stars, the ballroom lit in amber and gold. Music drifted through the open windows—violins, lilting and haunting, as guests swept through marble corridors in silk and fur. Everywhere you looked: masks, feathers, gloved hands reaching for crystal glasses. Champagne and rumors flowed freely.

You moved like smoke through it all, polite and detached.

Eyes followed you. Of course they did. They always had.

But they didn’t matter.

You were only looking for one.

And when you saw him—standing near the terrace doors in a fitted black coat, mask tipped slightly over one crimson eye—you nearly turned and fled.

Not out of fear.

But because the sight of him sent something sharp and heated slicing through your composure.

He looked—unfair. His hair was tousled like he’d flown here through a storm, and the cut of his jacket clung to the lines of his shoulders like it had been tailored to the shape of sin. His mask was simple, matte black with no ornamentation, and yet it made him seem otherworldly. Untouchable. Watching.

But he didn’t watch the room.

He watched you.

From the second you stepped into view, his attention snapped into place. Not politely. Not lazily. But like a man seeing something he’d spent a very long time searching for.

You weren’t used to being seen like that.

And you hated how it made your knees feel.

He didn’t move at first.

Just stood there.

So, of course, you moved first.

You approached with practiced ease, chin high and smile faint. But every step toward him made your pulse louder, your throat tighter. He let you come to him, and when you stopped—only an arm’s length away—he tilted his head, considering.

“You clean up nicely,” you said coolly.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “She speaks first this time. I should count myself lucky.”

You arched a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, taking your gloved hand in his and bowing—gently, exaggerated, a devil playing the part of a gentleman. “But if I may say... black suits you far too well. Are you trying to scare the guests?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

His smile crooked, fond and wicked. “You’re terrifying.”

You hated how warm your stomach felt.

And then, without asking, he guided you onto the dance floor.

You almost pulled away.

Almost.

But his hand was warm through the silk. And his arm, when it settled at your waist, felt too natural to resist.

The violins swelled.

And you began to move.

You hadn’t danced like this in years. Not with anyone who mattered. Not with anyone who looked at you like the world had gone quiet just to watch you move. Sylus didn’t speak for the first few turns of the room—he just looked at you, one hand at your waist, the other folded gently in yours, and you hated the way you wanted to lean into him. The way your body responded to his like it remembered something your mind couldn’t yet name.

He was too close.

He wasn’t close enough.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said at last, voice low.

You scoffed. “That implies I was meant to seek you out.”

“You mean you didn’t think of me at all?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just enough that your breath caught. “Lie better.”

You looked up at him then, letting your gaze pierce. “What is it you actually want, Sylus?”

His eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “You flirt, you watch, you say unsettling things and leave. It’s not obvious at all.”

He held your gaze as the music dipped into something deeper, slower.

“I’m courting you.”

You blinked.

Then laughed—soft, dry, disbelieving. “You don’t do that.”

“I am now,” he said simply.

The sincerity of it froze you.

He didn’t grin. Didn’t tease. Just looked at you like the statement was self-evident.

“I mean no harm,” he added softly. “If that is what you think of me.”

You stiffened. His hand at your waist didn’t press—just held you steady, as if he knew the storm behind your mask.

“Then what do you want?”

His thumb brushed your wrist—so lightly you nearly missed it.

“You,” he said.

You stared at him, breath caught behind your ribs. “That’s it? That’s your grand confession?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, amusement curving at the corner of his mouth. “You sound disappointed, sweetie.”

“I sound skeptical.” Your voice was low, tight. “Most men want a dowry, a title. Or at the very least, an easy woman to parade.”

“I have no interest in parading you.”

“No?” You arched a brow. “Then what do you plan to do with me, Lord Sylus?”

He smiled at that—slow and wicked, but not unkind.

“I plan to spend time in your company. I plan to flatter you shamelessly. I plan,” he said, lowering his voice as he spun you gently, “to earn your trust, and then something more.”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out softer than you intended. “So, that’s what this is?”

“Yes.”

“You say that like it’s obvious.”

“It is. To me.”

You studied his face—what you could see beneath the mask. The scar at the edge of his eye. The too-honest gleam in the other. The way he looked at you as if every movement you made told him something no one else could hear.

“Do you even know what that means?” you asked, voice tinged with disbelief. “To court someone? This isn’t a card game.”

He gave a soft huff of a laugh. “What would you have me do? Write you sonnets?”

“God, no.”

“Then let me try this way.”

His arm tightened slightly at your back, just enough to make you aware of how solid he was, how easily he could draw you against him if he chose. But he didn’t. He simply let the space between you crackle.

“I don’t understand you,” you said finally, more quietly. “You don’t feel like one of them.”

“The other suitors?”

You nodded.

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

His smile didn’t fade—but it changed. Grew quieter. Warmer. A little sad.

“Something you’ll discover in time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best one I can give you tonight.”

You should’ve pulled away then. Pressed him further. But you didn’t want to cause a scene. And you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly you did want to know. So instead, you pivoted, voice drier than wine:

“So tell me, Lord Sylus. If you’re courting me so seriously—should I be expecting a proposal next? A ring? A public announcement at the next ball?”

Something in his eyes flickered.

And then—without hesitation, without even blinking—he said, “If you’ll have me.”

You nearly stumbled.

Sylus, ever steady, caught you with ease, hand tightening at your waist just long enough to keep you upright before resuming the rhythm of the dance. You looked up at him, trying to find the mockery in his face—but there wasn’t any. Only calm, devastating honesty.

“You’re not serious,” you whispered.

“I am.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?” he asked mildly.

“Because you know what I am.”

He leaned down, lips nearly brushing your ear. “That’s the part I’m looking forward to.”

Taken back, you stiffened again. “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll consider myself unlucky.” He pulled back, tilting his head in mock thought. “But I’ve never had much luck, you know. I’ve had to take what I wanted.”

Your breath caught.

There was no threat in his voice—none at all. But something older lingered beneath those words. Something dragon-blooded and ancient and utterly patient.

He wouldn’t take you by force.

But he would pursue you with every edge of his will.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The masquerade was long over. The distant estate where it had taken place was quiet now, its mirrored halls and candlelit balconies nothing but a lingering echo in your memory.

Still, three days later you carried its residue—on the hem of your gown, in the dull ache where a gloved hand had held your waist too tightly. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.

And yet here you were, alone in the garden behind your family’s castle, past midnight, barefoot on cool stone.

You crouched near a trellis, fingers brushing along a rose’s stem, inspecting the split where thorns had pierced it through. It felt familiar.

You heard the crunch of boots on gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You didn’t startle.

“You’re bold,” you said evenly, not turning. “Coming here.”

A familiar voice answered, low and self-assured. “I’m courting you aren’t I? Should I not be?”

“That depends,” you murmured, rising to your full height. You still didn’t face him. “Do you enjoy tempting fate?”

The footsteps stopped behind you. Closer than you expected.

“I’ve never found fear to be all that useful,” Sylus said.

You turned then. He was dressed in dark charcoal again, though tonight his coat was lighter, open at the collar. The moonlight caught in the silver of his hair, made his eyes seem redder. Wilder.

He looked—at ease. As though he belonged here. As though this wasn’t dangerous.

“Then you’ve clearly never met a woman like me.”

“I suppose I haven’t.” His gaze traveled—never leering, but keen. “But I’m glad I finally have.”

You stepped away from the trellis and toward the path, keeping distance between you. “Men who get too close to me tend to disappear.”

“Lord Hale?” he asked, unbothered.

You met his eyes coolly. “You want to end up like him?”

“No, I don’t,” he smirked. “Though I suppose I’d have already been disposed of in the hedges if I were going to.”

You scoffed at that.

You moved to stand by the fountain, your hand brushing the rim absently. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Maybe,” he said, following your steps but not crowding them. “You have no such plans.”

“How can you be so sure?” You turned your body just slightly, one hand trailing the water. “You came out here willingly. Past midnight. Alone. Into a garden belonging to a woman with a trail of suitors in her wake. Not many of them breathing. Are you some fool or do you have a death wish, Lord Sylus?”

His expression didn’t falter. If anything, the corners of his mouth tugged upward.

“A death wish?” he huffed, “No, no. I have much greater ambitions, my lady. I believe I told you of them at the masquerade.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ah, yes, your plans of wedding a monster. How grand.”

“Yet here you are,” he said, “warning me, pushing me away. Doesn’t quite fit the monster you’re attempting to paint, sweetie.”

You exhaled a soft laugh. “I don’t owe you a performance.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m glad you’re not giving me one.”

That disarmed you more than you cared to admit.

You studied him a moment. The shape of him, tall and composed, ringed in moonlight. There was something about his stillness—it wasn’t passivity. It was coiled control. Not fear, not caution. Curiosity.

“You’re not afraid of me,” you said, not a question.

He stepped closer, just one measured pace. “Should I be?”

You didn’t answer.

He moved again, slow enough to give you time to stop him. You didn’t. Now the distance between you was almost nothing.

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “You truly are stupid,” you murmured, “or something else entirely.”

“Would it disappoint you if I said neither?” he asked. “That I just find you... interesting?”

“Interesting,” you repeated dryly.

“Enchanting, then.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I’m not flirting for the sake of it,” he added, softer now. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“And what do you mean, Sylus?” His name tasted strange on your tongue. Too familiar.

He considered you for a moment, then smiled—crooked, slow.

“I mean that you came out here to be alone,” he said, “and yet you haven’t told me to leave.”

You hated how true that was.

You turned your gaze toward the roses instead. “This garden has been here longer than the castle. Older than my bloodline. I like it because it doesn’t pretend to be tame.”

He moved beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel his presence radiating warmth.

“I understand that,” he said. “I don’t trust anything too carefully pruned.”

You let a beat pass. Then another.

“I could kill you,” you said at last. “And no one would hear. Not this deep into the hedges.”

“I know.”

You finally looked at him again.

“I don’t fear death the way most men do,” he said. “And I don’t fear you.”

You swallowed the strange sound rising in your throat. He wasn’t lying. Not a trace of it in his tone.

He reached out, slowly—fingertips brushing the back of your hand where it rested against the marble lip of the fountain. You didn’t pull away.

“Don’t pretend this doesn’t intrigue you too,” he said. “You never indulge men this long unless you want to.”

“Is that what you think you are?” you asked, voice lower now. “Indulgence?”

He smirked faintly. “Not yet. But I’d like to be.”

You hated the heat that bloomed in your chest. The warmth in your limbs that betrayed how long it had been since you let anyone touch you. Since you let anyone look at you like this.

He let the moment linger—long enough for you to feel the question behind his breath.

Then he stepped back.

“There’s a performance in the old conservatory tomorrow night,” he said, smoothing his sleeve. “A string quartet. Local talent, but I hear they’re decent. And the venue’s... romantic. In that brooding, candlelit kind of way.”

You raised a brow. “Is that supposed to tempt me?”

“Would it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. But neither did you decline.

He nodded, as if your silence was confirmation.

Then he turned away, retracing his steps down the winding path—but before he disappeared into the shadows of the hedges, he paused.

“I hope you come,” he said over his shoulder. “But if not—” a pause, “—I’ll find you in the next garden.”

Then he was gone.

And you stood barefoot by the fountain, the cold marble under your palm, heart traitorously awake in your chest.

You didn’t go back inside for a long time.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The castle was quiet at twilight, hushed beneath a veil of mist that clung to the gables and garden walls. Somewhere, the last bell of the hour rang low.

You sat before your mirror, candlelight licking at the glass, casting twin flames in your eyes. Amaris stood behind you, carefully drawing the laces of your gown—deep ruby silk that kissed your shoulders and fell like liquid shadow down your spine.

“You’re seeing him again,” Amaris said, soft but certain.

You didn’t answer immediately. She tied the last ribbon with deft fingers and stepped around you, adjusting the fall of the skirt.

“What does Lord Sylus want, do you think?” she asked next, smoothing out a crease. “No man has lingered this long before.”

You met her gaze in the mirror. “I’ve never let them.”

A hushed laugh escapes her lips. “Your hunger knows no bounds, my lady.”

“No, it hadn’t,” you said, lifting a hand to fix an earring, “not until I met him.”

Amaris tilted her head. “And you—do you like him?”

You paused, fingertips resting against your earlobe.

“I don’t know,” you said. “He unsettles me. Intrigues me.” you pause, “But I don’t know if I can trust him yet.”

Amaris frowned faintly, stepping back.

“Is he... like the others?” she asked. She didn’t have to say the names. The castle still remembered. Lord Hale. Lord Everett. Lord Sinclaire. All now ash, or dust, or worse.

“No,” you said. “He’s nothing like them.”

She waited, sensing there was more.

You turned from the mirror and rose, smoothing your skirts with deliberate slowness. “He knows what I am.”

Amaris blinked. “He knows?”

“He’s known since the night we met. And yet he stays. He’s not afraid.”

“That doesn’t make him trustworthy.”

“No.” You looked toward the window, where moonlight was beginning to streak the garden walls in silver. “It makes him dangerous.”

“And still you go.”

You turned, lips curling slightly. “Wouldn’t you?”

Amaris didn’t smile. She reached for your gloves instead, holding them out with a quiet dignity that said she would never stop protecting you, even if she didn’t understand why.

You took them, slipping them over your hands. “If I don’t come back—”

“I’ll bury him neatly,” she said.

That did earn a smile. A sharp, passing thing.

“Don’t wait up,” you said, and swept from the room before she could say another word.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The conservatory was half-silvered in moonlight, the glass panes high above beading with condensation as the evening cooled. Inside, candles flickered along the arching walkways, their golden light caught on ivy leaves and the pale blooms of night-blooming jasmine. The scent was thick in the air—heady, dreamlike, almost narcotic.

You stepped inside alone, your heels silent on the polished marble floor, silk gown trailing in your wake like spilled wine. The quiet swell of the quartet filtered from another room, but here the music was more distant, intimate—something private. Hidden. A slow waltz that curled along the air like smoke.

Sylus was already there.

He stood near one of the fountains, facing away, bathed in candlelight and shadow. His coat was darker than midnight, the collar high, the silk of his cravat faintly patterned like old constellations. The moment he sensed your presence, he turned.

His smile bloomed slow, deliberate. “You came.”

“I did,” you said, tilting your chin. “You’re lucky I was in the mood.”

He moved closer, offering no retort—only a crystal flute of champagne, already half chilled from the silver tray beside the fountain.

You took it, letting your gloved fingers brush his. His touch lingered a moment too long.

“You look…” His gaze dropped to your gown, then returned, eyes gleaming. “Like a sin I’d commit twice.”

You arched a brow, sipping the champagne to disguise your surprise. It was cool and sweet, laced with rosewater and peach.

“Do you rehearse lines like that?” you asked, faintly amused.

“Only for you,” he said.

You scoffed softly, though your stomach fluttered. “Flatter me all you like, Sylus, but I know how this story ends.”

“And how is that?”

“With you bleeding out somewhere poetic. A ruined chapel, perhaps.”

He stepped closer, invading your air, his voice low and velvet-lined. “I’d prefer your arms.”

You nearly choked on the champagne. “You really are relentless.”

He smiled, something wolfish curling in the corners. “Relentless would mean I expected a reward. But tonight, I only wish for your time.”

You gave him a look, halfway between disbelief and reluctant curiosity.

“Dance with me,” he said, and offered his hand.

You hesitated. Then, slowly—perhaps too slowly—you placed your fingers in his.

The quartet’s distant melody deepened into a lilting waltz, and he drew you into it without hesitation. One arm curved around your waist, the other holding your hand just firm enough to guide.

The dance was long, slow, exquisitely drawn out. His gloved hand rested at the small of your back, and you swore you could feel the warmth of his palm through the silk. He didn’t rush. Every movement, every step was measured—an unspoken language, designed not just to impress, but to unravel.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured near your ear. “Should I worry?”

“I was warned you were cold,” you said as he spun you, the floor catching the hem of your gown like a flame.

“I am. To most.” He brought you close again. “But you’re... warming.”

You huffed softly. “I’d believe that if I didn’t know better.”

“Oh?” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “And what is it you think you know?”

You met his gaze, bold but uncertain. “Nothing important. I still don’t know what you want.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“I want to hear it again.”

He spun you once, drawing you close on the return. “You.”

You blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“Then let me.”

You swallowed, pulse flickering. “There are easier women at court.”

“I don’t want easy,” he said. “I want you.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the music. Your breath caught—not from fear, but something sharper. Want. Wonder.

As the song reached its close, he didn’t release you right away. His hand slid to the curve of your waist, fingertips grazing just beneath your ribs. You didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, voice a thread of heat along your throat. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.”

You stared at him. “That sounds like a curse.”

“Feels like one.”

That startled a quiet laugh from you. Not dry or sarcastic—genuine. He grinned at the sound, satisfied.

“I wanted to hear that,” he said softly. “Your laugh.”

You turned your head slightly, embarrassed at the heat creeping up your neck.

He caught the moment, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come. I want to show you something.”

The music faded behind you as he led you toward the glass doors. He opened them for you, and the cool night air swept across your skin.

The balcony was empty, bathed in silver light. Below, the manicured gardens stretched in ghostly green, and above, the moon hung full and pale, veiled by drifting clouds.

“You brought me here to look at the moon?” you asked over your shoulder.

“I did,” he said easily. “Though you fiercely rival it.”

You turned just enough to smirk. “You certainly know how to flatter—for a man with a cold reputation.”

He laughed, low and quiet. “What can I say? A woman like you would inspire even the most frigid of men.”

You kept your gaze on the sky, arms folding over your chest.

“Even on this small balcony, you still feel so far away,” he said.

“Maybe I’m protecting you from danger.”

“How kind,” he said with amusement. “Though I’ve yet to experience this danger you keep speaking of.”

You said nothing.

After a beat, he asked, “Don’t you ever feel lonely?”

You glanced at him. “I think you already know the answer.”

“I know what it looks like,” he said. “But I want to know what it feels like. From you.”

You turned back to the moon. “I think loneliness becomes less a feeling and more a fact, after a time. Like gravity. Or hunger.”

“And yet you keep everyone at a distance.”

“Perhaps I enjoy being alone.”

“Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, his arm brushing yours. “I don’t believe you’re unfeeling,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t be so careful if you were.”

The words caught you off guard. You looked at him—searching, uncertain.

Silence bloomed between you again, thicker this time. Heavy with something unnamed.

His fingers found your wrist, slow and careful, then slid up your arm in a reverent touch. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, warm and steady. The stars blurred behind him. And then—finally—you leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. Then came the pull you’d tried so long to resist. His lips were patient, his hand steady, but the heat in his chest pressed into yours, and you melted—just for a moment.

He drew back, breath ghosting across your lips.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked.

Your fingers were still resting lightly on his chest.

“No,” you said, breathless. “But I’ll allow you to keep courting me.”

A slow smile spread across his face—unpracticed, but sincere. “Then I’ll be relentless.”

You arched a brow. “I thought you already were.”

He chuckled low. “Guilty.”

Then, more softly: “There’s a lake estate I’ve been restoring, just north of the forest. It’s quiet. Unspoiled. I’d like to take you there. Just the two of us.”

You didn’t answer right away. He didn’t rush you.

At last, you said, “When?”

“Next week. At dusk,” he said. “It’s most beautiful then.”

“Already trying to sweep me away,” you mused. “What do you have planned?”

He looked at you with a certain softness you hadn’t seen before.

“I plan to win your heart,” he paused. “To show you true devotion, if you allow it.”

You held his gaze. “All right. I’ll come.”

He bowed slightly, never looking away. “Then I’ll be counting the days.”

And when he offered his arm to escort you back inside, you took it—just a little closer than before.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The carriage rattled over gravel as it curved through the gates of Sylus’ estate.

It loomed above the pines like something carved from shadow and myth—gothic arches stretched skyward, stone gargoyles crouched in the eaves, and a cascade of wild roses tangled up the south-facing wing. The manor was grand but strange, too symmetrical in places and oddly modern in others, as if it had been reshaped over centuries by hands that couldn’t quite agree on beauty. Its windows were lit softly, warmly, and a line of golden lamps glowed along the path leading to the front steps.

You stepped out of the carriage into the cool dusk, your skirts brushing over moss-stained stone.

Sylus was already waiting.

He leaned against the doorway with one arm braced above his head, the other tucked into the pocket of his black coat. His eyes found you immediately—hungry, fond, amused. You hadn’t even opened your mouth and he looked as if you’d just told him something scandalous.

"Welcome to my home," he said, voice low and velvety. “And here I thought the architecture was the most breathtaking thing on the estate.”

You rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite yourself. “You’ve hardly let me step inside.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied, offering his arm. “You brought the storm with you, sweetie.”

He led you into a grand foyer where chandeliers glowed with soft amber light and dark wood gleamed beneath polished boots. You took in the ornate railing sweeping along the second-floor landing, the velvet drapes pulled high, the soft hush of the space—opulent, but not cold.

“I had the rooms aired out,” he said as he guided you forward, “in case you worried I spend my nights brooding among cobwebs.”

“You don’t?” you teased.

“Oh, I do. But only for effect.”

You laughed. He seemed to drink in the sound, glancing sidelong at you like he couldn’t help himself. “Come. Let me show you the more dangerous parts of the manor. Like the drawing room. I’m told it has a very sharp settee.”

He gave you a tour like no other man ever had—half guide, half provocateur.

The drawing room was moody and lush, lined with dark green paneling and lit by sconces shaped like dripping candles. An enormous fireplace stood sentinel on the far wall, and over it hung a haunting oil painting of a woman whose eyes seemed to follow you.

"Is she family?" you asked.

"No. But she came with the frame,” he said. “I thought it would be rude to separate them.”

The music room was all dusky golds and walnut wood, warmed by a hearth and crowned by a grand piano near the window. A violin rested on its side beside a silver metronome.

“You play?” you asked.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I do. But I only perform for an audience of one.”

“And here I thought you’d bring out a whole string quartet just to woo me.”

“I considered it,” he admitted. “But I’d rather see how your eyes shine under candlelight when I play something slow. Just for you.”

The library took your breath away.

Vaulted ceilings rose high above two levels of shelves, and the smell of parchment and polish clung to the air. A ladder stretched along the tallest shelf, and in the center sat two armchairs facing a fireplace already crackling with low flames.

You wandered toward the spines with wonder. “This is… not what I expected.”

“You thought I was illiterate?”

“No,” you laughed, running your fingers along the cracked leather of an old volume. “I thought you'd only collect books to keep up appearance.”

He stepped up behind you, voice a whisper just over your shoulder. “And what appearance would that be?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “A mysterious man with excellent taste.”

“Guilty,” he murmured.

The tour ended with him leading you down a quieter hall, one with softer rugs and windows that overlooked the moonlit gardens. He stopped before a tall door and opened it with a slow, almost reverent hand.

“Your room,” he said. “Unless you prefer mine.”

You gave him a look, stepping past the threshold.

The room was exquisite. Deep burgundy drapes—so similar in shade to the gown you wore during your last evening together—hung from the canopy of a carved mahogany bed. A mirrored vanity sat beneath an oval window, and a faint perfume of rosewater and cedar clung to the linens. A single crystal decanter of wine stood waiting on a silver tray.

You turned to face him.

“Thank you, Lord Sylus,” you said, lips twitching. “For the tour. And the theatrics.”

He bowed slightly at the waist, though his eyes burned as they lingered on you.

“Rest well, my lady,” he said. “We ride at dawn. I plan to win your heart between the gallops.”

“I didn’t know it was a race.”

“Oh, it always is.”

And then he was gone, the door whispering shut behind him, leaving only the flicker of firelight and the ghost of his smile.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning dawned soft and golden, kissed by mist. Thin ribbons of fog still clung to the hills as you stepped out of the manor and into the chill air. A groom was already leading two horses into the courtyard—one deep chestnut, the other black as spilled ink. Both stood proud and gleaming beneath their saddles, their breath puffing in white clouds.

And beside them stood Sylus.

He wore a black riding coat with silver embroidery threading the cuffs and collar, open just enough to hint at the dark shirt beneath. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and the morning sun caught the edge of his red eyes, turning them a deeper, darker garnet.

“You’re late,” he said with a grin.

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ve been waiting ten minutes too long.”

He held out a gloved hand to help you mount, but even after you were seated, he lingered at your stirrup, eyes traveling the length of you as if he were memorizing the image for some secret purpose.

“You look breathtaking on horseback,” he murmured, then added, “Though I suspect you look breathtaking in most places.”

You arched a brow. “And do you say that to all your guests?”

“No,” he said, swinging into the saddle beside you with effortless grace. “Only the ones who haunt my dreams.”

With a sharp whistle, he urged his horse forward, and you followed, the two of you setting off at a canter through the trees beyond the estate.

The forest thinned as the path wound uphill, giving way to open fields scattered with larkspur and buttercups. The wind played in your hair. Sylus rode close, stealing glances more than once, and you caught his smirk each time you pretended not to notice.

“You ride well,” he said at last, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Not that I’m surprised. You seem the type to tame wild things.”

“I suppose I have a talent for it,” you said, lips curving. “Are you offering yourself up as an example?”

“Oh, I’m far too wild to be tamed,” he drawled, reining in as the horses crested a low ridge. “But if you’re brave, you can try.”

You both slowed as the fields unfurled into a meadow below, bright with flowers and dappled sunlight. Sylus led the way off the path, guiding your horses into the taller grasses until they came to a gentle halt. The breeze rippled across the blooms in soft waves, and the scent of earth and honeysuckle wrapped around you.

“Let’s rest a moment,” he said, dismounting. “I want to show you something.”

You slid down from your horse, letting him steady you with one hand at your waist. He didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered too long.

“I thought you were showing me something,” you said, teasing.

“I am.” His voice dropped. “But I think I already found it.”

Before you could reply, he turned, brushing through the flowers until he plucked a small cluster of wild violets. He came back slowly, a boyish light in his eyes you hadn’t quite seen before.

“Hold still,” he said softly, stepping in close.

You tilted your head as he tucked the violet behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. The contact was fleeting but warm, intimate.

“There,” he said, voice suddenly quieter. “Perfect.”

You blinked at the tenderness in his expression, the way his eyes softened, how his smirk faded into something unguarded.

“You’re beautiful,” he added. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“I like hearing it from you,” you murmured.

He laughed, but it was hushed—gentle, like a secret—and you reached down to pluck a bloom of your own, a tiny wild daisy.

“Your turn.”

He tilted his head, trying to look unimpressed, but you caught the slight pink tinge creeping into his ears. When you tucked the daisy above his ear, he froze—not out of resistance, but embarrassment.

“A daisy?” he asked, clearly trying to recover his usual charm.

“It suits you.”

He gave a sharp exhale of mock offense. “I was hoping for something more dangerous.”

“You look dangerous enough. I wanted to try something softer.”

He smiled at that—something real, without guile. His gaze dropped, just for a moment, and when it returned to you, it had a shimmer of something new. Not fire. Not flirtation.

Something closer to wonder.

“I don’t let people see me like this,” he said, voice low. “But I think you knew that already.”

You reached out and touched his hand, lightly.

“I did.”

And for a moment, the two of you stood still in that field, wind curling around you like silk, flowers swaying at your feet, the world distant and hushed.

Then he stepped back, just a bit, clearing his throat.

“If we stay here much longer, I might say something I can’t take back,” he said, half-teasing, half-true. “Shall we ride on?”

You nodded, heart warm, and let him help you mount again.

As you turned your horses toward the path, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the flowers behind you.

“I’ll remember that meadow,” he said.

You smiled. “So will I.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next night, you had wandered out into the gardens without quite meaning to, drawn by the warm hush of twilight and the way the roses glowed like fading embers in the dusk. The moon was just beginning to rise, silvering the hedges and trailing vines with pale light. All was quiet—save for the rustle of leaves, the chirp of night insects, and the slow breath of the night on your skin.

You sat on the edge of the stone fountain in the center of the garden, fingers trailing the water’s surface as you lost yourself in thought.

“Ah,” came a low, familiar voice behind you, “so this is where my darling has run off to.”

You turned, startled—but not truly surprised.

Sylus stood at the edge of the path, half-shadowed by a climbing arch of ivy. His coat was dark, finely tailored, and the open collar of his shirt gave him a roguish ease that made your breath catch. The candlelight from a nearby lantern flickered across his features, carving his cheekbones in gold.

“You found me,” you said with a small smile.

“Of course I did. Do you think I’d let you vanish into a moonlit garden without following?” His tone was light, teasing. “Besides, I have something for you.”

He offered his hand.

Suspicion curled pleasantly in your chest. “What is it?”

“You’ll see. But you’ll have to trust me.”

You placed your hand in his, and he pulled you gently to your feet. His touch was warm, his grip firm. As he led you through the garden, he stole glances at you again—he was always stealing glances—and each time, you felt them like brushstrokes of heat.

He brought you to the east wing of the manor, down a quiet corridor you hadn’t yet explored. When he opened a tall oak door and stepped aside, you realized what he’d been hiding.

A dining room—not the formal hall used for noble dinners, but something smaller, more intimate. The chamber was awash in soft candlelight. Dozens of candles flickered across the table and mantle, their golden glow reflecting off decanters of wine and polished silver. A bouquet of wildflowers sat in a crystal vase at the center, echoing the ones from the meadow. The scent of roasted duck and honeyed pears wafted through the air.

Your brows lifted. “You set all this up?”

“I had help,” he said. “But the thought was mine.”

You turned to him, uncertain whether to be amused or charmed.

He tilted his head. “Too much?”

“It’s perfect,” you said. “Though I’m beginning to think you’re trying to seduce me.”

He gave a slow smile. “And if I were?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you let him pull out your chair and sink into the evening like a warm bath. The two of you dined by flickering light and soft shadows, wine poured freely between teasing remarks and half-truths shared in glances. He asked about your childhood. You asked about his travels. He gave answers that hinted at more than he said.

“You’re a mystery,” you said at one point, sipping your wine. “One moment, you’re all fire and bravado. The next, you’re quiet. Thoughtful. I can’t decide which is more dangerous.”

“Both,” he replied, lips brushing the rim of his glass. “But you’re not afraid of danger, are you?”

“No,” you said slowly. “Only of being bored.”

“Then you have nothing to fear with me.”

The air between you grew denser as the meal wore on, conversation turning into something more like a game—more space between the words, more heat behind the smiles. The shadows grew deeper. The only light now came from the candles, casting your features in gold and painting Sylus’s lashes across his cheekbones.

At last, as the final bite of dessert disappeared and the wine settled warm in your veins, Sylus stood.

He walked around the table and held out his hand.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing,” he said simply. “If you’ll join me.”

There was no music, only the whisper of the wind outside and the occasional creak of candle wax softening in the warmth. But when you placed your hand in his, he drew you close with the ease of someone who had already pictured this moment a dozen times.

Your bodies fit together too well.

One of his hands found your waist, the other your fingers, and he guided you into a slow turn, the candlelight spinning softly around you. His touch was reverent but confident, his steps smooth, practiced.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and rich with mischief, “is this the part where you fall helplessly for me?”

You raised a brow, stepping in closer with a smirk. “I think it’s sweet how you assume I haven’t already.”

His eyes flashed—something wickedly pleased and undeniably fond. “So you admit it.”

“I admit nothing,” you murmured, letting him guide you into another slow turn, your skirts brushing against his legs. “Except perhaps that I enjoy this more than I thought I would.”

“Dancing?” he asked.

You looked up at him. “Being with you.”

For a heartbeat, Sylus didn’t answer. His hand at your waist held just a fraction tighter, his gaze suddenly serious in the candlelight.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Because I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”

You smiled—soft, unguarded. “You’re shameless.”

“I’m honest,” he countered, spinning you gently and catching you again with practiced ease. “And entirely yours, if you’ll have me.”

You blinked, heat blooming at your throat. “You’re dangerous when you talk like that.”

“Then I’ll keep doing it,” he said with a grin. “Because I like what it does to you.”

You laughed, and he looked at you like he could live off the sound. Then he leaned in just slightly, forehead almost brushing yours.

“I want to keep dancing with you,” he said, quieter now. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

Your fingers tightened just slightly around his. “Then don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. He held you closer, swaying with you in the hush of the candlelight, long after the conversation faded and only the distant chirping of crickets and the silvery spill of moonlight kept you company.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The hallway was quiet as the two of you wandered back through the dim corridors, the lingering warmth of candlelight still clinging to your skin like a second perfume. Your arms brushed occasionally as you walked, and Sylus didn’t seem in any hurry to let the night end. His jacket had long since been unfastened, hair slightly tousled, lips still curved in that easy, contented smile he wore only with you.

When you reached your bedroom door, he stopped and turned to face you. His voice was soft when he said, “Sleep well. We’ve another long day tomorrow, if I’m to impress you further.”

You tilted your head. “You’re trying to impress me?”

He smirked. “Is it not obvious?”

You stepped closer, your voice low. “Then you should know something.”

He blinked, something alert and still in him now. “What’s that?”

You reached past him, hand brushing his wrist. “I’d rather stay with you tonight.”

Sylus didn’t speak for a beat. His red eyes darkened, not with suspicion or confusion, but with an unmistakable surge of emotion—hunger, want, and something softer beneath it all.

“…Are you sure?” he asked, quieter now, his tone carefully measured, like he was offering you the chance to undo the words if they’d come too fast.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He hesitated for only a heartbeat before reaching for your hand. His fingers laced gently with yours, thumb tracing the top of your knuckles in an absent-minded way that made your chest ache.

“This way,” he said, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.

He led you down the hall—just a few doors down—to a grander set of double doors, which he pushed open with a single hand. There was a piano near the window, half-shuttered, and a decanter of deep red wine waiting near the hearth. The bed—massive, four-posted, dressed in black and deep gold—waited at the heart of the room like the end of a vow.

The room glowed gold and amber in the firelight. Candles flickered across every surface, painting Sylus’s skin in warm shadows as he led you in, hand still clasped around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go. The door shut behind you with a soft click.

You hadn’t let go of his hand either.

His room was grand but intimate—dark wood, velvet drapes, a fire crackling in the hearth like it was summoned just for you. The scent of it mingled with whatever cologne clung to him: cedar, spice, something deeper beneath it all that made your head swim.

He turned to you with that slow, dangerous smile, his voice low. “You’re sure?” he asked, even as his thumb traced gentle circles along your wrist. “You want to stay here tonight?”

“I want your bed,” you said simply, truth pulsing in your chest. “I want you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Sylus stepped closer, backlit by the fire, his chest rising in shallow breaths. The heat in his eyes was almost unbearable.

Wordlessly, he began to undress.

He took his time.

He undid each button of his shirt—slow and methodical, as if he wanted you to feel every moment stretch. His gaze never left yours, even as he shrugged the fabric from his shoulders, revealing skin kissed by candlelight and shadow, sculpted muscle shifting beneath pale scars and ink-black veins that glimmered faintly in the fire’s glow.

Your gaze lowered, hands trembling slightly as you reached for him, brushing your fingers along the lines of his abdomen, tracing the place just above the waistband of his slacks.

He let you explore.

He didn't rush you. He looked at you for a moment, reverent, eyes dark and full of something deeper than hunger—like he was memorizing you, like he’d waited lifetimes for this. His fingers skimmed your cheek before reaching for the straps of your dress, voice low and warm like velvet as he murmured, “Let me see you.”

You let him.

The gown slipped from your shoulders with a gentle sigh, pooling around your feet. Cool air kissed your skin, but Sylus’s hands were already there to warm you—roughened palms sliding slowly from your waist to your hips, mapping the curve of you like sacred terrain. His breath hitched softly as he drank you in.

“Darling,” he whispered, more prayer than curse, “you’re beautiful…”

He kissed you then, deep and slow, his hands spanning your waist, then sliding lower to pull you close. You let him walk you backward until your thighs touched the edge of the bed—but instead of lying down, you turned, climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat.

He made a low sound, hands instinctively catching your thighs, palms broad and warm against bare skin.

You kissed again, messier now, your fingers in his silver hair, his mouth dragging down your neck. When you shifted your hips, grinding slow against the hardness beneath his trousers, he cursed under his breath. The brush of his slacks beneath you made heat flare low in your belly, but it was his mouth—hungry and searching—that stole your breath as he kissed you again.

You melted into it, arms winding around his shoulders as his hands splayed across your back, pulling you closer. His tongue slid along yours, tasting, teasing, deepening the kiss until you were gasping softly into his mouth.

Then he leaned back slightly, eyes glowing like coals.

“Drink from me.”

You froze, breath catching. “Sylus—”

“Please,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I want to feel it. I want you to take what you need.”

You shook your head, voice tight. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His smile softened. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do,” he said, cupping the back of your neck. “You won’t kill me. You couldn’t. Sweetie…” His gaze searched yours. “Don’t you want to feel my heartbeat? Feel how it beats for you?”

He guided you down slowly, gently, until your lips hovered over the column of his throat. Your fangs slid down instinctively, the sight of him—so open, so warm beneath you—unraveling the last of your restraint. With trembling hands, you guided his head to the side, kissing the place where his pulse thundered strongest.

And then you sank your fangs in.

He gasped—so did you.

The rush of warmth, the thrum of his blood, the taste of him—it was overwhelming. He groaned low in his throat, arms wrapping tightly around you as your hips rocked without thinking. The taste of him was unlike anything you’d known—rich, powerful, intoxicating. His blood lit something inside you, a deep, primal connection blooming as he moaned your name, hips twitching beneath you.

The intimacy of it—his arms around you, your body pressed to his, the way his blood warmed your chest as you swallowed—made your vision blur. You could feel his heart hammering beneath your lips, could hear the slight tremble in his breath every time you moved against him.

“Sylus…” you moaned into his neck.

He was panting, hands roaming everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—moving you faster against him. The friction made you dizzy, hungry for more. Pleasure built in hot little waves, cresting right along the pull of blood between your lips.

But then you forced yourself to stop.

You licked the wound, breath shaky, and looked down at him.

The bite had already begun to heal.

Your heart thudded. “How… what are you?”

His hand caressed your cheek. “Something ancient. A fiend. Made for you. Always you”

You looked at him, dazed. “Sylus…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Now let me take care of you.”

With ease, he lifted you from his lap and laid you gently on the bed, his mouth trailing heat down your neck, your chest, your stomach. Every kiss felt like devotion, every touch like worship.

When he settled between your thighs, you gasped—already aching, already open from the way you’d ground against him. But he didn’t rush.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh first. Then another. And another.

“You’re everything,” he said softly, right before he lowered his mouth to you.

The first brush of his tongue made your hips jerk, your hands flying to the sheets. He groaned softly at your reaction, then anchored your thighs with his hands and deepened his attention—licking into you slowly, thoroughly, like he was savoring every sound you made.

“Sylus—please—”

He moaned against you, the vibration against your most sensitive spot making you writhe.

“Say it again, my love.” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Say my name while I taste you.”

“Sylus—”

“Louder.”

“Sylus,” you breathed, louder now, as his tongue dipped lower, slow and thorough and maddening. His hands held your hips steady, his mouth unrelenting, drawing soft, trembling sounds from your lips with each motion.

Every flick of his tongue felt like fire, like honey, like unraveling.

When he slipped two fingers inside you—long, thick, curling perfectly with each stroke—you couldn’t help it. You cried out, hips rocking, thighs trembling around his head as he murmured encouragements against your skin.

“That’s it, darling,” he whispered. “Just like that… Let go for me.”

And when you did—when that wave crested and broke and your body shuddered around his fingers—he held you through every second, his mouth not leaving you until you were gasping and pliant beneath him.

He kissed his way up your body after that, slow and indulgent, like he couldn’t bear to miss a single inch of you.

When he reached your mouth again, you kissed him with everything you had—tasting yourself on his lips, breath still trembling. Your hands moved to the last of his clothing, pushing it down, eager to feel all of him against you.

He groaned into your kiss when your hand wrapped around his length—thick and hot and aching for you. He caught your wrist gently, stilling you.

“Do you want this?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I need it.”

He ran his thick tip through your folds, teasing, throbbing with the ache to be inside. Each nudge of your clit had you twitching from the overstimulation—wanton moans spilling from your swollen lips.

Then he slid in slow—inch by inch—until he was fully buried inside you with a low groan. Your hands clutched at his back, your name a sigh on his lips.

The stretch made you gasp—he was so thick, the fit almost too much—but he didn’t move right away. He stayed still, kissing your cheek, your jaw, whispering, “You feel so good… So perfect around me…”

He began to move, thrusts deep and agonizingly slow, pressing kisses to your throat, your shoulder, your lips. He laced his fingers with yours above your head, bodies moving together in perfect rhythm.

Each drag against your walls had you digging your nails deeper into his back, earning deep groans from Sylus. His tip nudged your sweet spot with every thrust, causing more desperate pleas to leave your lips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, moaning into his mouth. Every thrust stole your breath, sent pleasure building low in your belly, sparks dancing down your spine.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, voice thick with emotion. “Only mine.”

You tightened around him in response, lost in the delicious friction, the drag of his body inside yours, the heat of his mouth as he kissed every inch of you he could reach.

“My love,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My darling girl…”

It went on and on, the pleasure building with agonizing sweetness—like a fire stoked slow and careful until it consumed you both.

And when you were close again, when you were teetering right on the edge, he held you tighter, kissed you deeper, and broke against your mouth with a ragged plea:

“Marry me.”

You gasped, stunned—but he kissed you again, desperate now, and repeated it like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Marry me, sweetie… Say you’ll be mine.”

And then the climax hit—yours first, then his, bodies locking together as the pleasure rolled over you both in perfect synchrony. You gasped his name, and he groaned yours like a vow, spilling delicious warmth into you with a trembling exhale.

As you both came down, he held you—sweaty, breathless, hearts pounding in unison. His lips brushed your temple as he whispered again, softer this time:

“Say yes.”

a/n: ummmmm sooooo…. i’m not sure what planted the seed for this… it was just supposed to be freaky vampire sex initially. i think the duke raf & duke zayne fic permanently altered my brain and then this was born. i hope we like?🤍 also lowkey i hardly proofread this so pls lmk if u see any mistakes

🏷️: @potania @violentriddlehoard @glitterykingdomangel

#love and deepspace #lads #lads sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #sylus smut #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus

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birdofwildness · 1 month ago

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⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 2

⋆°·☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You enter the Dreaming for a surreal and formal wedding to Morpheus.The ceremony is cold,the vows distant — but in the quiet of your chambers,the first fragile words are exchanged.

Warnings::Arranged marriage,mentions of death/grief

Three days. That’s all the time you’d had to prepare. Not for a wedding. No, anyone could survive a wedding, but for the quiet extinction of your autonomy.

Three days since two cloaked figures had stood in front of you and spoken the words like they were delivering information about the weather.“You will be wed to the King of Dreams.”

You said something flippant about being flattered, maybe.But they didn’t laugh.Of course they didn’t. No one laughs in the Underworld unless it’s to mock the living.

Today is your moment.The one the world’s been waiting for, hearts held still in quiet anticipation.

You sit in the center of a marble chamber you’ve never liked, wrapped in a gown that weighs more than some of the lies you've been fed in your life. Black velvet laced with threads of silver.

Three handmaidens circle around you in practiced silence. One braids your hair back with a steadiness you envy. Another adjusts the fall of the ceremonial sash over your shoulder. The third is trying to fasten something delicate around your wrist,some ancient charm you’re apparently meant to wear, a symbol of passage.

You’ve stopped listening to what anything means.

“Hold still, Your Grace,” one of them murmurs.

You look at yourself in the mirror, and that’s the worst part.Because she looks like royalty. She looks like a goddess. Like a dream someone else had, carefully sculpted into a shape that pleases the world.She does not look like you.

“This feels more like a funeral than a wedding,” you say flatly, the words leaving your mouth before you could regret them.

But none of them respond,as expected.You suppose there’s nothing they could say that wouldn’t sound like pity.So you sit there, quiet and still, letting them dress you up.

You don’t ask about your future husband. About the King of Dreams. You haven’t said his name once since they announced it. Not aloud, not even in thought. Not because of fear, or superstition,but because you didn’t want to give him that space of mind.

You’ve met powerful men before. They all look the same when you strip the crowns away.Lonely,hungry and addicted to being obeyed.

Still, there was a part of you, that wondered about who he was. What kind of man agrees to marry a stranger for peace.

You’re led from the dressing chamber through halls that echo too loudly. Everything in the Underworld echoes. Stone remembers footsteps.At some point, the servants fall back, and you’re walking alone.

Ahead, there is a gate of shadows — the portal to the Dreaming. It pulses softly, almost like breath.One more step, and you cross into his world.One more step, and you no longer belong to yourself.

...

You stepped into the Dreaming with the quiet precision of someone entering sacred ground —you knew better than to assume safety in beauty.

The sky overhead flickered between dusk and dawn without ever deciding. The architecture curved in ways that defied logic but obeyed some deeper kind of rhythm — arches blooming into trees, hallways unraveling into staircases, the air itself humming faintly like breath caught in a lullaby.It was magnificent and terrifying. And, you had to admit, infuriatingly poetic.

You’d expected grandeur, yes — the Lord of Dreams would never live in something ordinary. But you hadn’t expected it to feel so... personal.You weren’t sure if you were trespassing or being studied.

Figures gathered slowly as you crossed the threshold — not a grand welcome, not exactly, but more like the inhabitants had been warned and weren’t quite sure what to do with you now that you were real.

Ahead of you, a tall, composed woman stood waiting. Her posture was impeccable, hands clasped lightly in front of her, the collar of her coat pristine against the soft, golden light filtering in from nowhere.

“You must be the Lady of the Underworld,” she said. Her voice was calm, unshaken, but not unkind. “Welcome to the Dreaming.”

You tilted your chin slightly, not in arrogance — but habit. Royal daughters learned early that confidence was a shield sharper than steel. “I assume you’re not one of the servants.”

That made the corner of her mouth twitch. Almost a smile, though she didn’t let it fully rise.“I am Lucienne,” she replied. “Chief Librarian. And trusted aide to Lord Morpheus.”

“I see,” you said calmly. “Well then. I suppose I’m in good hands.”

“Of course,” she said simply. “Everything has been prepared for the wedding,Your Majesty.”

Before you could answer, a sudden flurry of feathers interrupted the quiet — a raven flapped down clumsily from above and perched on the edge of a marble banister.

“Whoa, no one told me she was already here,” the bird muttered. “I mean—hi. Sorry. You’re, uh... the Underworld’s envoy. Or fiancée. Or both? Look, names get fuzzy around here.”

Lucienne exhaled softly. “Matthew.”

“What? I’m being welcoming!”

You turned your gaze to the bird — talking ravens weren’t exactly shocking in your world, but few had that nervous energy.

“Sorry,My lady. I'm Matthew,” he said proudly, puffing up a little. “Raven of the Dreaming. One of them. Been here a while. Kinda like the emotional support animal around here.”

You almost smiled at that — almost. “Good to know someone around here has wings and a sense of humor.”

Lucienne cleared her throat gently. “We’ll show you to your quarters until the ceremony. If there’s anything you require, simply ask.”

You nodded once, then followed.

And though the corridors bent in impossible angles and the floor never echoed beneath your steps, you still felt the weight of eyes you could not see — like the Dreaming itself was watching you, curious and unsure what to make of you yet.

...

You had always assumed that weddings, no matter their arrangement, were meant to be filled with warmth. Perhaps not affection — not always — but at least something soft. Something human.

There was non of that.

The Dreaming’s throne hall did not bloom with flowers or candlelight. There was no music echoing through its impossible arches, no murmuring of guests, no rustle of silks. Instead, the space felt hollow and vast, as if it had been carved from the absence of sound itself, the air too still, too sharp, as though even the atmosphere had forgotten how to breathe.

Each step you took left behind the faintest shimmer on the black stone beneath you — not a reflection, not entirely, but rather the echo of something half-dreamed and barely real. The world around you flickered between waking and slumber, the edges of vision stretching outward, bending unnaturally, as if the Dreaming were uncertain whether to accept you as part of it or reject you entirely.

And at the far end of it all, standing utterly motionless, was your husband-to-be.

He didn’t look at you immediately. His posture was regal in a way that didn’t seek attention.Draped in black —he seemed less like a man and more like a figure from the corner of a dream you could never quite describe upon waking.His garments bore no symbols of joy, no adornment of celebration. Only simplicity, and power.

The first thing that struck you was how little space he seemed to take up, and yet how impossible he was to look away from. He was tall, yes, and dark, and utterly otherworldly, but not in a way that overwhelmed the eye.

His face was all sharp lines and shadows, beautiful in a bleak sort of way — like a statue forgotten in a ruin, still perfect despite the centuries.

You didn’t find him charming. Not in the way mortals charm with smiles and ease. There was nothing easy about him. He wasn’t warm, or inviting, or even kind. And yet… something in you recoiled and leaned forward at once.

There was elegance in his quiet, and mystery in his stillness — the kind that made your breath catch and your shoulders stiffen. You weren’t sure if you wanted to run or unravel. So you simply stood your ground and stared back.

When he finally turned his head, his gaze met yours.His eyes held galaxies stripped of warmth.In that one look, you understood that he had not chosen this either, and yet he would carry it the way he carried all burdens — with dignity, with silence, and with a weariness no vow could erase.

Lucienne stepped forward from the shadows with a great book cradled in her arms, her expression unreadable. Her voice, when it came, was low and unwavering, reciting vows not in your language, but in one far older. The words didn’t need translation.They spoke of duty, of realms bound together, of debts long buried finally being paid.

The Underworld envoys, Mormo and Minos, emerged from either side.They carried no weapons, no tokens of power, only the rings — glimmering faintly.The air pulsed softly when they approached.

You didn’t hesitate. You reached out, your fingers steady, and took the ring meant for him. The ring in your palm felt far too cold for something so delicate. It wasn’t gold or silver — not even metal, not exactly. It shimmered like glass.

Shadows moved within it when you turned it toward the light, fleeting shapes that vanished the moment you tried to look closer.

It looked less like jewelry and more like a relic — something that had been pulled from the bones of the Underworld itself. Elegant, yes. Beautiful, in a way that unnerved you. And heavy-not just in weight, but in what it meant.

His hand, when he offered it, was cool and precise — not cold, but restrained.You slid the ring onto his finger, and for the smallest moment, his eyes softened — not visibly, but inwardly.

He mirrored the gesture. When his hand brushed yours,they were cold — colder than they should have been, even for a being carved from starlight and silence.He looked at the ring before placing it on your finger, and for a moment too long, he hesitated.

He slid it on with a precision that felt ceremonial, final. Then released your hand as though it had never been his to hold. The weight of the ring felt heavier than gold, like a chain forged of fate.

No kiss was asked for. No embrace was given. The moment passed with no flourish, no declaration, no joy. And yet, the chamber responded all the same. The stars in the ceiling shifted into new constellations. The silence deepened, then eased.

The ceremony was complete.

He extended his arm, formal and poised, and you rested your hand lightly upon it. Together, you turned to face the empty hall, two sovereigns bound not by love,it was not a union written in starlight, but by necessity — by the politics of gods and the cost of peace.

...

The room they led you to was less a bedroom and more a world between silences.

Vaulted ceilings held galaxies in their arch. The walls shimmered like dusk made solid. In the center, a grand bed draped in silver-threaded shadow separated by a whisper-thin partition — a second door leading to what was clearly intended as his chamber.

You took in the room without a word, ignoring the weight of the maids’ glances before they bowed and slipped away. The silence they left behind was not comforting.

Morpheus stood a few paces away, hands at his sides, posture straight as ever. He didn’t lean, didn’t shift. His presence was a still point — not relaxed, not tense. Just unyielding.

From behind you, his voice stirred the stillness. “If you wish, separate quarters can be arranged.”

You turned, slowly. Morpheus stood a few paces back, tall and motionless, as though afraid even to breathe too loudly in your presence. His hands were clasped lightly behind his back. His expression unreadable, but not cruel. Never cruel.

“No need,” you said, arms crossing lightly. “This is fine. We can be separated by that door over there...”

He tilted his head the slightest fraction. “You are… composed.”

“I’m many things,” you said dryly. “Composed is the least dangerous of them.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. You couldn’t name it.

You walked a few steps toward him, careful but not cautious. Your dress whispered across the floor behind you. “I imagine this isn’t how you pictured your wedding night.”

He blinked. “I did not picture it at all.”

You gave a humorless huff, then softened your voice. “Look… I’m not here to fight you. And I’m not here to pretend this is something it’s not.”

He remained silent, but he was watching you closely now.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you continued, “and neither did you. But that doesn’t mean we have to make it miserable.”

His shoulders shifted — a twitch of tension escaping him. A crack in the stone.

“I know what my parents are capable of,” you went on. “And I know what Orpheus did. This… alliance, or punishment, or whatever label they’re giving it — it’s a mess. But we’re the ones left to clean it.”

Still, he said nothing. But his eyes… gods, those eyes. Old and tired and endlessly deep. You couldn’t help but study the way the candlelight curled into their darkness like it was searching for something.

“My name is Y/N,” you said softly. “Let’s not pretend titles are enough.”

His gaze fell to you. “Morpheus. Though… I suspect you knew that.”

“I figured it out. I’m not asking for friendship. Or closeness. I just want to live without constant tension. If we’re stuck together, the least we can do is make peace.”

He looked at you for a long moment, and then — his voice lower now, almost reverent — “Peace...”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So you didn’t. You just met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

He finally turned toward the door at the end of the room, as if to retire for the night. But then he paused. “You may sleep undisturbed. I will not cross this door.”

You raised a brow. “Not even to strangle me in my sleep? That’s very noble of you.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. Barely. A ghost of a smile, or the suggestion of one.

You moved toward your side of the chamber, stopping at the edge of the shared space. Your hand brushed the curtain frame. “Goodnight, Morpheus.”

“Goodnight… Y/N.”

And as you stepped away, you couldn’t help but glance back once — just once — to find him still standing where you’d left him, framed by shadow, eyes unreadable.He had made no move to leave.

...

You lay on your side, facing the velvet-lined wall, your gown unfastened, hair unpinned, body heavy with the weight of a day that had meant everything and nothing all at once.

Behind the partition, somewhere in the mirrored half of the room, you knew he sat — maybe at the edge of the bed, maybe unmoving in a chair — because you hadn’t heard a sound. No footsteps. No shifting linens. Just silence, dark and constant, like a second pulse.

Marriage. What a strange word. Especially like this — exchanged not with vows of love or hope, but with calculated deference and political weight. You had worn a crown, but it had felt more like shackles.

You closed your eyes, tried to summon sleep. But it didn't work - in the place that was called the Dreaming. What a terrible joke.

You turned on your back instead and stared up at the ceiling — a sky full of stars that didn’t belong to the real world, constantly shifting in slow spirals.

You wondered, not for the first time, if it ever truly slept. Or if its king even allowed himself to.

Then, softly, a voice — not near, but not far called to you.“You are not asleep.”

You turned your head slightly toward the door. “No.”

“Is the room not comfortable?” he asked.

You gave a small, dry laugh. “It’s… majestic. Oversized. Full of empty space and ghost-light. So, in that sense, yes. Perfectly comfortable.”

No answer came,but that wasn’t surprising. He wasn't much a speaker.“Are you sleeping?” you asked instead.

“No.”

The silence stretched again. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… there.And then, a thought slipped from your lips before you could decide if it was wise.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Hold so much grief without breaking in half.” You immediately regretted saying it. Too personal. Too soon. Not your place. But you didn’t take it back either.

After a long moment, his voice answered — quieter now.“I have… broken. Many times.”

Something in your chest pinched.“I’m sorry about your son,” you said, low and honest.

“Thank you.”

You swallowed and tucked your hand beneath your cheek.More silence followed but it was different now-softer.

“I don’t plan to hurt you,” you said after a while. “If that’s something you were worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, not unkindly. “But… I appreciate the clarity.”

You allowed yourself the ghost of a smile.“If you ever change your mind,” you added, “and do want to strangle me in my sleep, just do it after I’ve had a decent breakfast.”

That earned a sound from him. Not quite laughter, but perhaps its echo.“I will… keep that in mind.”

And somehow, despite the endless tension of the day, the uncertainty, the distance still between you — you slept.Because, for the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel like it was bracing for war.

And somewhere behind the screen, the King of Dreams remained awake — listening to your breathing soften. Listening, not dreaming.As though your peace was something he could borrow for a little while.

#the sandman #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman x reader #morpheus x reader #morpheus #morpheus fanfiction #dream of the endless

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visimaster · 7 months ago

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Optical Sorting Machine in pune | India

Optical Sorting Machine are beneficial to a wide range of sectors because they boost productivity and efficiency. The employment of visual inspection technologies by this machinery results in more accurate and consistent manufacturing units.

#Glass Disc Machine for Precision Parts Inspection Pune #Fasteners Inspection Pune #Machine Vision Inspection System #Automatic Vision System For Measurement Pune #Vision System Integration Pune #Best Integrator India #Machine Vision System Pune

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astars-things · 4 months ago

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It'll be fun they said?

Lando Norris x reader

summary- where Lando and you film 'I Ate and Trained Like Lando Norris for 24 Hours' and it turned into a mess

1.5k words

Part two here

Lando and a few of the other Quadrant members had been quietly planning this for weeks. With the chaos of Lando's F1 schedule, races, media obligations, and simulator sessions, they had to coordinate dates, group chats filled with calendars, and more than one reschedule. But somehow, everything had finally aligned. Today was the day.

You and Lando had gotten up early to make sure the apartment was clean and camera-ready, everything that was not meant for the public was hidden anything remotely embarrassing was swiftly shoved into closets or under the bed. Lando double-checked that the interview area was up to his standards, and every helmet was precisely aligned on the shelf behind the chair

Once the apartment was up to standard, you retreated back to bed. You were never up this early, you loved your sleep too much. You flopped onto the duvet, thumb scrolling through TikTok, ignoring the growing murmur of voices drifting in from the living room. You really didn't want to be in the video because you knew how many comments would be about you and people hating on you for the smallest things

Lando had poked his head into the bedroom "You okay in here?" Lando said from the doorway of your room, "Yeah", you muttered back, putting on a hoodie over the top of your sports bra and leggings. You added some socks, not particularly keen on your bare feet making an appearance on camera. Lando held out his hand for you, interlocking your fingers and making your way to the kitchen

You said hello to everyone, giving both Ethan and Morgan a quick side hug before naturally drifting back to Lando’s side. He was already in host mode, grinning as he reached into the fridge. "So on today’s menu is apple cinnamon with pecan overnight oats," Lando said, reaching into the fridge and getting out three containers. Ethan eyed the mush with genuine concern. "Mate, that looks like you ate breakfast and then threw it up." The group fell into conversation while you cut up some fruit and added it to a bowl of yogurt

Once everyone had eaten breakfast or at least tried to, the video cut to the boys in the workout room. Cameras were repositioned, mics were adjusted, and the guys got ready to sweat. You stood off to the side, out of frame but close enough to help if needed, arms crossed and a faint smile tugging at your lips. "Normally, there are a few bands in here, they might be in our bedroom", Lando muttered. The last bit, both Ethan and Morgan looked at you as your face went slightly red

"You dirty bastards", Morgan said as he looked over at you. You shook your head. Soon, Lando returned with the band hanging loosely around his shoulders. he showed the boys how to do a pushup and then judged both of their forms.

"Okay, now we are going to hop into neck training", Lando said with way too much excitement. Both boys looked at him like he was insane. Lando first showed them how to sit on the bench and where to hold. Ethan was up first, and he was scared "You guys wanted to do this video", you said as you saw Ethan shaking as Lando pulled on his neck

After about 10 minutes, it was Morgan's turn. "This better not pop my head off," Morgan muttered, settling into position. "You’ll be fine," Lando assured him, grinning as he fastened the strap around Morgan’s forehead. "You’ve got a thick skull anyway." Morgan groaned dramatically. "If I wake up tomorrow and can’t move my neck, I’m suing all of you",

"Your turn now, Lando ", Ethan said while sitting on the floor rolling his neck. You had helped land multiple times with his neck training, so once Lando was set up and ready, you held the handle and slightly pulled to create some tension, and then you pulled

"Bro you neck is so vainy almost looks like my dick" Ethan commented which made all of you burst out into the laughter, Lando let out a sharp, surprised bark of laughter, the strap snapping off his head as he broke form completely. Even Morgan, who’d just been dreading his turn, was wheezing in the corner.

While everyone was in the living room waiting for Lando to be ready for the cryotherapy bit of the video, you and Lando were in the hallway near your shared room, Lando had tried talking you into going to cryotherapy, but you kindly declined that offer real quick, something about standing in a freezing cold room, with just a bikini on, and people watching you made you feel anxious.

"But you said you would film with us", Lando pouted, but you just shook your head. "I already told you no, that I would join in for breakfast and the workout, but nothing more. I have work I need to do, plus it's not something I feel comfortable doing" You said in a low tone, making sure nobody could hear you guys having a disagreement

"No one’s gonna be filming you like that," he said under his breath. "It’s part of the video. It’s fun." He added while trying to bring you into a hug

You glanced around to make sure the crew wasn’t in earshot before you answered, your tone low but firm. "Maybe it’s fun for you. For me, it’s anxiety. I don’t like the idea of being in that kind of vulnerable position, especially not on camera. I’m not asking you to understand it, just respect it." For a second, it looked like he might push again. But then his lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away.

"Yeah, fine, whatever", Lando snapped and walked away, rejoining the group. You heard him grab his keys, and everyone followed. You could hear Ethan asking about you and Lando replying with Don't worry. The door shut behind them, and the apartment fell into a silence so complete it made your ears ring.

You felt off, like you were letting Lando down. With a deep breath, you made your way into the home office you had set up in Landos' streaming room. You sank down onto your chair, opening your laptop and replying to emails. You were so focused on your emails, you didn't realize the time, and suddenly the front door opened and the apartment was filled with chaos again.

You tried to drown out the noise and focused on your work, but soon you heard footsteps approaching. Then a knock, quick, but not really waiting for permission. "Hey," Lando said, already halfway through the door. "I need the room. We’re setting up the simulator bit now."

You paused, blinking at him. "Can I just finish this?" you said, pointing at your screen where you had multiple tabs open. "I told you we were using the room today," he said, his tone clipped and impatient. "Just for a bit. I need it."

You stared at him, the words hitting harder than they should have. You’d built that little corner for yourself, made space in his world without asking for much. And now, you felt like a guest in your own home. "Fine," you murmured, too tired to argue. You shut your laptop, gathered your charger, and made your way to your bedroom, silent, but not unnoticed.

You sat on the edge of the bed and reopened your laptop, trying to settle back into work, but the energy was gone. You saved all your work before opening up Netflix and putting on one of your comfort shows and lying down. About 20 minutes into the show, your bedroom door opened "The boys are leaving for their surprise, if you want to say goodbye to them", Lando said in a harsh tone

You sat up and quickly walked out of the room to find Morgan, Ethan and the camera crew standing by the front door "Hope you boys had fun," you said quickly, now in a more anxious bubble where you now felt closer to an anxiety attack. You stood next to Lando, waving goodbye as they walked out of the apartment,

As soon as the front door closed you hurried back to the comfort of your room, Lando followed and tried pulling you into a hug "fuck off" You snap now your hands were shaking and you knew in less than 5 seconds you were about to go into anxiety attack "gladly" Lando said walking away to his streaming room, all you could do was sit on the floor of your room and cry while Lando was gaming with Max...

please reblog and like 🫶

#lando norris x y/n #lando norris x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 #quadrant #lando norris #lando x reader #lando norris imagine #mclaren #imagines

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mill3rd · 3 months ago

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FIRST BORN LAMB OF SPRING

synopsis. the celts prophesied that the first baby born on the dawn of spring equinox would cool the anger and appease the great one whose name filled the local villagers with fear. too bad that you were the first in one hundred years.

warnings + tags. sacrificial traditions, vampirism, historical but its probably not accurate, kind of an origin story, folklore, ritualistic horror, mental illness, religious extremism, brainwashing, kinda? consummation, idk its ‘seal the deal’ sex, kinda beauty and the beast coded, blood drinking, corruption kink, oral (fem receiving), pinv, biting

word count. 12.5k

you wake to sunlight feathering across the inside of your eyelids, warm and golden. outside, the hush of morning has just begun to lift — birdsong threaded gently through the trees, soft wind tugging at the edges of the world. the hearth still smolders, low and orange, filling the room with a clean, steady heat.

you stretch beneath the linen, the quiet weight of the morning sinking into your skin. your birthday.

eighteen springs today.

you were born at first light on the spring equinox — a moment of perfect balance. it has always meant something. the women in the village say you carry the turning of the year in your bones. that your very breath carries promise. and today, the promise is being honoured.

you rise when líadan whispers your name. her voice is soft and clear, like the last meltwater of winter.

“éirí, mo rún. it is time.”

you step down from the raised bedding into a pool of fresh rushes. they’re damp with dew and smell of green things, cut only hours ago. twelve women wait around the room, all familiar, all smiling. they’ve known you since you were swaddled in wool and passed around the midwives’ arms.

líadan. saorlaith. muirenn. the mothers and the matriarchs. the herbalists and the singers.

you don’t feel afraid. you feel special.

they begin the rite of cleansing. it is tradition — a sacred preparation for those born on equinox, for those who carry the village’s blessing.

you undress slowly, arms lifting of their own accord, and step into the low basin near the fire. warm water laps around your ankles. saorlaith begins at your feet, her fingers working with gentle precision, her face tilted in quiet reverence.

muirenn presses herbs into a cloth — thyme, marigold, rosemary — then dips it into the basin and moves up your legs, her touch soothing, firm.

líadan hums under her breath. not a song, exactly — something older. it winds through the steam and settles into your skin.

your hair, thick and curled from sleep, is let loose around your shoulders. they do not braid it. that would be a mark of mourning. instead, they comb it softly with bone fingers, pulling it into shape but letting it fall wild and unbound. a halo, saorlaith murmurs.

“the wind will love you today,” she says.

you laugh softly. “then i hope it’s gentle.”

the women smile.

after the bathing comes the dressing. muirenn lifts a robe from a carved cedar box — green wool, dyed with nettle and elder. it gleams faintly in the morning light, edged with gold threads pulled from distant islands. it’s heavy when she lays it across your shoulders, but not cumbersome. it fits you like it was made from the earth itself.

it was.

your mother wove it for you over years, whispering prayers into every thread. you remember her hands. her voice.

saorlaith touches your chest with ochre — the sacred mark. a spiral drawn from the heart outward, each curve a promise of return.

“to wear the balance is to carry the spring,” líadan says, fastening a sun-shaped brooch just above your heart.

you nod. the words settle in your chest like truth.

you do not know how rare it is. to be born on the turning. to be chosen for such honour.

you only know you feel radiant. you feel full of light.

the meal is already set when you enter the hall.

they seat you alone at the long low table. woven rushes line the floor, scattered with violets and fresh chamomile. outside, the sun is still climbing, and the village stirs in soft murmurs. but here — in this space — all is still.

one by one, the women bring you offerings.

trout wrapped in herbs, oatcakes drizzled in honey, figs from the last trade boat, soft white cheese, golden-crusted bread, warmed goat’s milk with a sprig of mint. everything rich. everything sacred.

you eat slowly, your hands washed and your robe tucked neat. no one speaks at first. only the sounds of the feast: the crackle of the hearth, the quiet chime of a copper spoon against ceramic.

then muirenn kneels beside you, setting down a final plate of sugared grapes.

“we’ve never had one like you,” she murmurs.

you blink, smiling. “like me?”

“so close to the centre of the balance… so perfectly timed.”

her eyes shine with something deeper than pride. something like awe. líadan stands behind her, hands clasped.

“you’re not only a blessing, girl,” she says. “you are a bridge.”

a bridge, you think. between seasons? between earth and sun?

you nod. you don’t quite understand, but you don’t question it—after all, you’ve been told since you were small: to be born on the day of balance is to be marked for greatness.

you miss how miurenn nudges her sharply in her ribs.

they braid flowers into your curls next. not for structure, not to bind — but to celebrate. lamb’s ear, hawthorn, a single sprig of meadowsweet.

“you’ll lead the procession after the sun peaks,” saorlaith tells you.

“to the stones?” you ask.

“to the stones,” líadan confirms.

your heart flutters.

you’ve dreamed of this beautiful ceremony since you were a child, nothing but butterflies filling your stomach everytime you thought of receiving such a sacred blessing. but today, you’ll finally live your dream. your robe, your mark, your crown. they will sing to you, for you. you are not just part of the rite — you are the reason.

your mother enters then, arms folded tightly. her face is pale, drawn at the edges, but she smiles when your eyes meet. she kneels in front of you and offers a cloth-wrapped bundle — your token. you open it slowly: a carved wooden bird, shaped like a swallow, polished until it gleams.

you look up. “you kept this?”

“since you carved it at seven,” she smiles, recalling a sweet memory.

“it was lopsided.”

“the wind flew it true,” she whispers and you grin.

you do not see the way her hands shake when she kisses your forehead.

the sun hangs high now, a brilliant coin suspended in the sky.

outside, the village pulses with life. children weave garlands from soft reeds and daisy chains. young men lift baskets of dyed cloth and stack bundles of firewood. hens cluck at the edges of the green, feathers puffed. laughter floats on the wind, caught between branches and thatched rooftops.

when you step out into it — robed and crowned — the world pauses for you.

your feet touch earth strewn with petals and sweet herbs, and the hush that falls is not somber. it is reverent.

someone claps, and then another. soon, the whole green rings with soft applause, the kind given to things too holy to cheer for. women weep behind veils of flower-threaded hair. boys bow their heads. the old healer who once set your broken wrist presses her hand to her chest and whispers, “blessings on her bones.”

you do not understand all of it. not fully. but you feel it settle into you like warmth. you smile. your breath rises into the sky like steam.

you are their light.

líadan leads you by the hand down the village path.

she doesn’t speak, but her grip is steady. around you, others fall into step. a procession. saorlaith and muirenn walk just behind, their robes the colour of dusk, carrying bowls of sweet smoke and branches of alder.

children scatter petals ahead of you. someone plays a pipe from behind the grain store, and the notes weave through the crowd like silver thread. it’s a tune you know — sung on solstice nights, on days of great blessing.

you recognize it now as yours.

your bare feet press into soft earth. it’s still cool from the morning. each step is light, floating almost, as though the ground carries you instead of the other way around.

the path leads out of the village, past the sheepfolds and the stony wells, up toward the woods.

you’ve only been to the stones once — when you were ten, and too young to follow the grown ones into the heart of the ritual. you remember clinging to your mother’s skirt, watching torches flicker between the trees.

now, the same flicker waits for you.

a corridor of flame and green.

two lines of villagers stand along the edges of the glade, holding branches of hawthorn and beech alight at their tips. they nod as you pass, lips murmuring blessings. some offer you small tokens — a pressed flower, a carved stone, a dried twist of nettle — and saorlaith gathers them into the folds of your robe as you walk.

you try to thank each one.

you can’t stop smiling.

the stones appear at the edge of the glade — tall and grey and ancient.

they rise from the earth like teeth, caught in a wide ring, their edges worn from wind and rain and reverence. the center of the circle is bare, save for a slab of low rock and the altar built of woven ashwood.

beyond it, the woods darken, thick with pine and hazel.

you feel the air shift as you enter the ring — cooler, thicker. the scent of moss and smoke curls under your nose.

líadan turns to you and lifts both hands.

“daughter of the balance,” she says, voice clear and bright.

everyone kneels. even the birds fall silent.

you feel the power of the moment swell around you. your skin prickles.

líadan steps aside and motions you forward.

you approach the altar with slow, sure steps. it is draped in a cloth of silver thread. atop it, a basin of water glimmers beside a bowl of seed and a bundle of feathers.

“offer your token,” muirenn whispers.

you take the carved swallow from within your robe and place it gently at the center of the altar. your hands linger on the smooth wood. it still smells faintly of pine.

a great sigh passes through the crowd behind you.

“she gives herself freely,” someone murmurs.

you smile at the words, your heart blooming. of course you do.

saorlaith comes forward now, carrying a clay vessel. smoke spills from its lip — rosemary and yarrow and something sharper. she circles you with it three times. as the smoke wraps around your body, you feel lighter. the wind tugs at your hair like a child’s fingers.

líadan places a hand on your shoulder.

“kneel,” she says gently.

silently, you obey. you are not afraid.

they press your forehead with water from the basin. your chest with ash. your lips with wine.

“you are the bridge,” líadan intones. “between old and new. winter and spring. silence and song.”

you bow your head.

the crowd echoes her, “a bridge.”

“you carry us forward,” muirenn adds. “and the land will bloom with your steps.”

your heart swells. you close your eyes. you think: i was born for this.

you feel it in your bones, in the warm pressure of their hands, in the hush of the trees. the air is thick with sacred meaning.

you are not afraid. you have no reason to be when you are being honoured and treated so holily.

as the sun begins its descent, they raise the torches. líadan takes your hand again, lifting you from your knees.

the glade is golden now — long shadows stretching from stone to stone. the woods beyond breathe deeply, pine-scented and darkening. you stand tall. your curls hang loose around your shoulders, catching firelight.

someone begins a chant. others join. it is low, rhythm-matched to your heart. it rises like mist. you do not know what comes next, but you feel ready for it.

you trust them, you trust the land—and most importantly, you trust the great one to be kind.

the firelight dances higher now. dusk leans into the bones of the sky, and the stones glow soft and amber against the breath of coming night.

you kneel, still, where they’ve placed you — robed, flower-crowned, and marked with ash and wine. the chanting has grown quiet, replaced by the hush that always comes before sacred words.

líadan steps back. a space opens before you.

a man in dark robes steps forward — older than the others, his eyes sharp beneath deep brows, voice worn smooth by years of prayer. you’ve only seen him once before, during last year’s solstice rites, when the animals were blessed for strong birthings.

this is the preacher. an tseanmhúinteoir. the village calls him that with a kind of reverence.

he raises his hands, fingers painted in ochre, his palms scarred with the symbols of the old covenant. the air tightens. no birds sing now. even the wind stills.

he speaks — and his voice is not loud, but it carries.

“daughter of the dawn, child of the turning — the hour is full, and the gate stands open.”

he walks a slow circle around you, his footsteps rhythmic, every word sewn into the air like woven wool.

“you were born of balance. born when sun and night held equal sway, when the veils thinned and the green returned. you were cradled in that space, that breath between worlds.”

you close your eyes. you feel it. the power in his voice. the pull of the moment.

he stops in front of you. his hands lower gently onto your head.

“today we name you not as girl, but as spirit. not as self, but as vessel. not as flesh, but as flame.”

he lifts a bowl from the altar — the same water from the basin earlier, now glimmering with flecks of gold leaf. he tips it gently over your head. it spills across your curls, down your neck, cool and light.

“be christened in the light of balance,” he intones. “walk freely toward the great one.”

a murmur rises from the crowd — a low, shared exhale. the holy monologue complete.

your skin is warm beneath the water. your robe clings to your back. your heart beats steady, not frightened, but filled with something impossible to name.

and then — a cry. it’s sharp. human. too human. a figure lunges through the trees.

it’s the old woman — mrs byrne — hair wild and loose, cloak torn from age, mouth open with warning. you stumble to your feet, nearly falling as your handmaids grab you.

“not this one!” she shouts, eyes blazing, “she carries light — but not for giving. not for burning!”

she points, arm stiff, finger trembling. “they have lied! they wrap you like a gift and offer you to silence!”

her voice cracks and her body shakes. she looks right at you, eyes with sincerity and concern shake off the rumoured loopy ones.

“you will not walk back out,” she says. “they dress it as blessing, but you go to be broken.”

your breath catches. fear creeps in — cold and thin — something you hadn’t felt all day.

you take a step back, toward líadan. toward the altar.

“what does she mean?” your voice is small, withering with your excitement.

but líadan is already moving, wrapping an arm around you, tucking your head into her shoulder like you are a child again.

“hush, a stóirín,” she murmurs. “the old ones sometimes forget the line between dream and truth.”

muirenn joins her, her voice low and sweet. “she wandered alone too long in the dark. grief makes stories out of shadows.”

saorlaith takes your hand, fingers cool and firm, “you are safe. you are loved. this is your path.”

you stare at them — their faces calm, beautiful in the firelight. their eyes shine, not with cruelty, but with reverence.

the fear drains slowly, like water soaking into earth. you nod, once. shaky. they smile.

“good girl,” líadan whispers, “you are strong. the great one sees you already.”

behind them, mrs byrne is pulled back by villagers, her voice fading into ragged cries.

you look one last time — she is not angry anymore. no, she is sobbing.

you do not understand.

but the hands that hold you are gentle and the stars above you are still so bright.

the fire has burned low.

embers pulse in the grass like coals from the belly of the earth, and the smoke hangs thick and sweet. the glade is quiet now — not silent, but stilled, like the last breath before a storm.

you stand at the edge of the stone circle.

behind you: the village, the chants, the women who bathed you, anointed you, called you chosen.

before you: the trees, dark and patient. tall black shapes with silver-threaded bark. you can hear the forest breathing — deeper than before. slower. older.

the preacher lifts his staff and lowers it once in your direction. his face is unreadable. he does not follow.

“go now, mo ghrian,” líadan says beside you, voice soft. “go with joy in your heart.”

she adjusts your crown gently, smoothing a curl back from your face.

“you are the hope we have long waited for.”

muirenn presses something into your palm — a twist of red thread and an iron ring. “for the path,” she murmurs, “and for luck.”

saorlaith kisses your temple.

you nod once, not speaking. you want to. you want to ask something — anything — but the words are heavy in your throat. your heart beats like a drum.

then: you step forward.

one foot, then the other, onto the path between the fires. the heat kisses your skin.

they do not follow. you walk alone.

the fire fades behind you, swallowed by distance.

you do not turn back.

your feet tread softly across the damp earth, bare soles pressing into moss that yields with a hush. above, the branches tangle like outstretched limbs, the canopy thick enough to swallow the stars.

your robe trails behind, silken and pale, its hem already darkened with soil. you carry the scent of the sacred fire on your skin — ash and wine, sweet herbs crushed by blessing hands. the crown of early spring flowers still rests in your hair, though petals fall now and then, unnoticed.

you step into the hush.

it is not quiet like the stillness of prayer, or the gentleness of dusk. this silence is deeper — hollow, listening, thick.

you slow your pace.

and then — to comfort yourself, perhaps, or to offer something back to the strange stillness — you begin to sing softly.

your voice, once sure in the circle, trembles faintly now.

oh the wind on the hill and the grass in the glen, and the night bird sings her soul again…

the melody has lived in your bones since girlhood — a cradle-song, a celebration of the season, half-remembered in words but whole in tune.

you want to believe it still holds power but the sound falls strange here. it does not echo. the trees do not answer.

you feel them, though. the trunks — dark and tall and close — seem to lean, listening. the moss seems thicker, colder. somewhere nearby, something moves without moving — a suggestion more than a presence.

you try to ignore it.

for the child of the cusp, the child of the tide, walks where the veil grows thin and wide…

you sing louder, though your voice catches slightly at the end.

you clutch the red thread muirenn gave you tighter in your palm, the iron ring biting cold into your skin. they said it was for luck. for protection. a charm.

but from what?

you walk on still.

the deeper you go, the less you trust your steps.

the earth feels different now — not dangerous, not hostile — but… alert. each time your foot lands, it feels like pressing into the chest of something sleeping.

or waiting.

your song falters so you try again.

where roots drink deep and stones remember, she walks between the spark and ember…

you stop singing. something rustles behind you.

you turn — quickly — but nothing moves. the path is empty. no villagers. no lights. the fire is far behind, now just a flicker between the trees.

your breath shortens.

you clutch your chest. your heart beats hard against your ribs. not from running. from something else.

a feeling you haven’t allowed.

fear.

you pause beneath a great ash tree.

its bark is silver in the moonlight, limbs curled toward the stars. at its base, mushrooms ring the trunk like teeth. pale, soft, brittle.

you do not step through them.

your voice is barely a whisper now: lay down your name, your blood, your sleep… the wood will hold, the root will keep…

you stop. your mouth has gone dry.

why aren’t you sure anymore?

why does the night, so sacred only an hour ago, now feel like it’s watching?

you were promised light. you were promised blessing. you were promised that you were chosen.

so why does the air feel colder? why do the shadows no longer part for you?

you take one step forward. then another.

your song has left you. all that’s left now is the rhythm of your breath.

and behind it… the quiet, waiting woods.

you walk deeper into the hush, and the woods begin to change.

what had been narrow — close-barked corridors, moss underfoot, canopy above like interlocking hands — begins to loosen around you. space stretches. the trees fall back. and then, almost without noticing, you pass through something unseen, like a sheer veil pulled across your skin.

and suddenly you are no longer in the forest.

you are in the clearing.

it is wide. perfect in its roundness, as if shaped by patient fingers. the grass is silvered with dew, and a low mist curls across the earth like the breath of something sleeping beneath. moonlight spills over the field in slow waves, untouched by cloud, casting the space in cold, luminous calm.

you pause at the edge.

your robe flutters lightly against your ankles. your breath rises in slow spirals. the night feels thin here, stretched tight. as if the world is holding itself still — holding its breath — watching.

and at the far end of the clearing, half-veiled in ivy and fog, stands the church.

they called it tigh cloch na cothromaíochta in whispers — the stone house of balance. ye old church. the old place. the first place. the one even the preacher would not face when drunk with warmth.

you were told of it, always, as something sacred. a structure older than stories, where the great one first laid down breath and root and bloom, where the night folded itself into the day and called it holy.

but this place is not how you imagined.

it is not radiant.

not warm.

it is still.

and dark.

the church rises no more than a man’s height, its roof low and steep, crusted with moss and softened by time. ivy drapes across its walls like hair across a sleeper’s face. the stones that make it up are worn — smoothed by wind and rain and something else. not crumbled, not broken. just… softened. as though the building has been remembering for a long time.

no light shines from within.

there is no lantern by the entrance, no holy flame like you dreamed of. only an opening — a dark mouth, tall enough to pass through without bowing, but not by much.

you step closer. the grass dampens beneath your steps.

tiny white mushrooms press up from the earth like teeth, glistening under the moon. you skirt a patch of them carefully. as you near the church, you notice a low ring of stones, barely higher than your ankle, sunk into the ground. a circle. a boundary.

it does not stop you.

you step across it and everything changes.

the air shifts — immediate, absolute.

it grows colder. not the playful chill of spring evenings, but something else: older, deeper, like water pooled underground. your breath becomes visible — short puffs like smoke rising from a snuffed wick. your lungs ache with it.

you wrap your arms around yourself, hands folding into the opposite sleeves of your robe. the red ribbon tied at your wrist feels tighter. its knot stings faintly against your pulse.

the air smells different here.

earthier.

not sweet. not rotten. something like soil that has never been disturbed — like stone and bone and secrets sealed too long.

your crown of primroses and elderflower trembles slightly in the new wind. petals fall. one sticks to your cheek, and you do not brush it away.

you are not singing now. you do not dare. you reach the entrance.

it looms without movement, framed by carvings older than memory. spirals, triskele, rings within rings — the language of stone, not of mouths. your eyes track them instinctively. your body knows them, though your mind cannot say how.

your heart beats louder now. not from joy, not quite from fear but something else.

you stand before the black mouth of the church. your toes at the threshold. the clearing at your back. the woods behind that. the fire, the people, your name — all very far now.

you are alone.

and the church waits.

you stand there, listening—to the wind, to your breath, to the deep stillness inside the stone.

you remember what the preacher told you when you were little — curled beneath his cloak during sermons, your fingers wrapped around the wooden beads of his belt. when you step into the house of balance, child, you leave yourself behind. you walk in as more than flesh. you become vessel.

you had thought that meant light. you thought you would feel… lifted. touched. holy.

instead, the silence presses.

the dark is thick — not void, not empty, but full in some unseen way. not cold like night air, but like cellars, like iron underground. like sleep too deep to wake from.

your skin prickles.

you breathe in once, slowly. and bring your hands to your chest.

you remember the shape: thumb to sternum, then palm out, fingers extended. a sign of offering. of surrender. you trace it with care, a motion handed down through generations. your mouth moves before your heart is ready.

but you speak: a prayer. low, and given.

“a thiarna mór, great one of the still and the turning— keeper of root and reed, bearer of the balance between blood and bloom—i walk as i was made, blessed by breath, held in your eye, let me be open, let me be vessel, let me be joy… your lamb of the cusp, your child of spring.”

your voice quivers slightly near the end. not from doubt — no, you still believe this is right. you still believe you are chosen. that this is what the women meant when they told you you were lucky.

but a shiver still climbs your spine.

not fear, you tell yourself, not fear.

you finish the prayer.

you wait. you think the air will change. that warmth will come, or light, or the voice of the great one will stir from the deep places. but nothing answers.

no flame rises.

no vision flares behind your eyes.

the church remains still. waiting.

the mist behind you curls against your heels. the clearing no longer feels like it belongs to you.

and so, you do what you have been prepared to do since you were old enough to understand the meaning of offering.

you step inside.

the stone underfoot is smoother than the forest earth — cold, but not sharp. flat, shaped by countless feet. you walk slowly, letting the dark envelop you.

there are no windows. no candles. just shadow, and silence.

your hands stay folded before you. your robe brushes the floor. above you, unseen beams creak faintly in the breeze — a soft sound, like wood murmuring to wood. the air smells of moss and old smoke. there is something metallic, too, on the edges — like the inside of a copper bowl, left long in rain. you walk forward. your pulse in your throat. your feet making the only sound.

the chamber narrows ahead — toward the altar, or the place that once was one. you cannot see it yet.

but something waits there. you feel it.

not in the way one feels threat, exactly — but in the way a deer might freeze in tall grass, sensing something vast just beyond the field.

you are not alone here.

you move forward in the dark.

stone walls press close, but you cannot see them. the air is thick here — heavier than before, like it still carried the weight worth of previous ceremonies and services previously held in here. your fingers brush something — a root? a carved post? — and you flinch.

ahead, something glows faintly.

not fire.

a light too pale, too steady. moonlight, it seems at first — until you realize the moon is far behind you now. this is something else. something within.

you follow it.

one step. another.

and then you finally get a good look at the alter.

the light—from afar, that is—could have been perceived as a trick of the eye or a reflection of the moon from the outside. but as you near, you realise it’s not what it first seemed.

in the center stands a figure—the source of the light. you come to realise that the light comes from the head. where the eyes should be.

they remain unmoving. just for now.

the fright stops you in your tracks.

your hands remain clasped at your waist, your lips parted, ready to speak — to kneel, perhaps, to offer your thanks.

but the words do not come.

your breath catches.

it turns sharp in your throat, cuts as it goes down. his face is too close now. the light wraps around his features and peels them bare — that smooth, too-pale skin like candle wax, the glint of something deeper behind his eyes. not malice.

worse.

curiosity, possession.

your fingers twitch against your robe. the cold floor presses into your knees, but suddenly your whole body is heat — the burning panic of knowing you’ve made a mistake but you’re too deep in to run.

your mouth opens. not for prayer. not now.

you suck in air, ragged. you start to pull back.and the moment you do, his head tilts — just slightly, just enough — and a soft sound slips from him. not a word. not a threat, but a noise like a lullaby remembered from a dream, low and hushed and vibrating through your chest like a second heartbeat.

you don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling.

the stone beneath you has numbed your legs. your robes cling to your skin, damp with the sweat of fear, not exertion. your throat is raw from breathing too fast. your chest flutters like a trapped bird. everything in you wants to run, but your limbs are rooted — not by force. not by chains.

by dread, by him.

he stands at the altar ahead — silent, still, and watching. the great one. the thing in the shape of a man, but not a man. robed in the dark, framed in the ruins of a forgotten altar stone, backlit by flickering firelight. the wind moves through the trees behind him, and it sounds like breath. like words you can’t quite hear.

you open your mouth.

and it all comes spilling out.

“they said i was—” you stammer, your voice cracking. “they said i was the chosen one. that i was born on the equinox for a reason, that the stars… that the stars would bless the village again if i came.”

your hands tremble in your lap. your fingernails dig into your palms. you don’t dare lift your eyes. the weight of him is too much.

“the fields haven’t bloomed in two years,” you go on, tears streaking your cheeks now. your voice wavers between sobs and hiccups. “the animals— the lambs were born wrong. and the barley— they said the barley rotted because of the priests. because of the church’s curse.”

you suck in a breath, sharp and wet.

“they said— the druids said—” your words collapse into a quiet sob. “they said if i came… and gave myself… it would be undone.”

your eyes dart upward, just for a moment. he hasn’t moved. not one inch…

only his eyes glimmer — reflecting the torchlight like the eyes of a beast in the brush. like glass. or blood.

you choke on another breath. “i did everything right,” you whisper. “i fasted, i prayed— i was good. i never doubted. i—I’m not unclean, i have remained chaste! i—”

you’re weeping now.

not out of grief.

out of the sharp, rising terror of realisation. a realisation that none of it is going to work.

that you are here.

and he has not spoken.

your weeps fold into your sleeves. you try to make yourself smaller. you rock slightly where you kneel, lost in the wave of all you’ve held back for weeks — months. the prayers, the songs, the blessings from the handmaids. the way they dressed you like a gift. like a lamb for the altar.

you had believed it would mean something.

you believed you would be enough.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely a sound. “please let it work. let me— let me fix it.”

for a long moment, there is nothing.

and then—a shift. the quietest motion of cloth and limb. his steps are silent, but you feel him approach.

closer, closer, closer until the hem of his robe brushes your knee.

you dare not lift your head but he leans in.

he smells of old soil, of iron and myrrh. of something ancient and vaguely sweet — the way flower petals smell just before they rot.

his voice when it comes is smooth, deep, and entirely too calm.

“the catholics,” he begins, and each syllable tastes of smoke, “cannot undo their cause of suffering.”

you freeze.

your tears stop, though your breath still shakes.

“and nothing,” he continues, a little softer now, “can appease me.”

you lift your head at last.

you shouldn’t… but you do.

he is looking down at you — not with rage. not with hunger. with something worse.

amusement.

“but,” he adds, a slow curl of a smile forming on his mouth, “i have been blessed with an appealing gift.”

you can’t breathe and you don’t know if you want to anymore. it’s like his words have replaced the silence where your heaving should have been.

his words hang there between you, like frost clinging to a bare branch. they do not melt. they do not pass.

“an appealing gift,” he notes.

you don’t know what he means.

or rather—you do.

but your mind refuses to hold it.

you tilt your head upward, lips parting around the beginning of a question, but his fingers reach you first. the pad of one pale finger, cool as streamwater, traces the damp curve of your cheek where a tear still clings. the gesture is slow. indulgent.

“so much devotion,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “so much belief, even when they feed you to wolves wrapped in silk.”

you stiffen.

his hand doesn’t leave your face. it moves instead — trailing the edge of your jaw, ghosting the hollow beneath your ear. your heart is a rabbit beating its body against the walls of your chest.

“what—” your voice cracks. “what are you?”

he hums again. a sound of vague consideration.

“a shepherd,” he replies, with a smile too full of teeth. “or a beast. depending who you ask.”

you flinch. he notices.

his thumb drags across your bottom lip, collecting the breath you didn’t mean to let out.

“do you want to leave?” he asks, tone curious — not mocking. “you could try. no one would stop you.”

your lips tremble.

“but you won’t,” he adds, witfully, “because you still hope this means something.”

your eyes flicker with wet heat, still swirling with a sad innocence. “it has to.”

his expression shifts. not pity, not cruelty—but something that darkens.

“you poor thing,” he murmurs. “it never did. the rot came from the root, not the leaf.”

his hand drifts down, rests at your throat.

not squeezing—but you feel it. you feel everything.

“they brought you here not to save you,” he says softly, “but to be rid of their own shame. their debt.”

your breath shakes. your head turns. you don’t want to hear.

his fingers follow. gentle. unrelenting.

“you’re not a chosen one. you’re an offering made of regret.. out of fear that i will show myself once again.”

you make a sound — part sob, part protest.

but he kneels now. close enough that his shadow covers you both.

“yet,” he whispers, and here his voice changes again — into something almost reverent, “even so. you are beautiful.”

your lips part, confused.

his hand falls from your throat and presses, palm-flat, just over your heart.

“you believe,” he says. “you still believe.”

your head is spinning. your tears have dried. your fear is not gone, but it’s been replaced — twisted into something tangled with longing, with the quiet death of innocence.

he leans closer, his back curving to meet your kneeled height.

his mouth near yours.

his eyes not just watching — drinking.

“no god will have you,” he says, and his voice is velvet and storm. “but i will.”

you don’t know what makes you lean forward.

it isn’t logic and it isn’t courage.

it’s something quieter — an ache behind your ribs, a hollow born of too many prayers unanswered. something deep and tender, bruised by years of being told you were special only to be handed over like grain to the mill.

your lips part. not in surrender, but in question.

what would it mean, you wonder, to be wanted not for a harvest or for gods — but for yourself?

his breath brushes yours, cool and steady. he doesn’t move to meet you. not at that moment.

his eyes bore into you — and you feel seen. not just looked at. seen. the parts of you that tremble, that dream, that rage — all of them laid bare beneath that black and gleaming gaze.

your voice is a thread of sound. “what will you do to me?”

he exhales — and this time, it is a sound, not a word.

a low, dark hum.

his hand lifts again, gentle beneath your chin, coaxing you to tilt upward. “no one’s ever asked that,” he murmurs. “not before offering themselves.”

“i don’t—” you begin.

but he cuts you off — not with force. with closeness.

his lips graze yours like the edge of shadow.

“i will not tear,” he whispers. “i will not break. i will take, yes. but slowly.”

his mouth presses to your cheek. “you are not the first, but you are the most… willing.”

you swallow, your pulse beating like thunder in your ears.

“i’m scared,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

he nods, and for a moment — something very nearly human passes through his face.

“good,” he breathes, “fear means you understand.”

and then he leans in — fully this time.

his mouth on yours is like falling.

not fire. not ice. depth.

it isn’t passion, not at first. it’s possession. slow, patient, all-consuming. his hand holds the base of your skull, anchoring you as the rest of the world tilts sideways. your fingers catch in the fabric of his robes. your knees sink deeper into the cold stone.

he drinks from you — not your blood. not just yet.

but your breath, your fear, your heat.

he kisses you like a vow.

and you let him.

because somewhere in the back of your mind, a part of you believes this is what was always meant. not an altar. not a blade. but this — the dark, intimate undoing of everything they told you to fear.

when he pulls back, your lips are parted, your eyes dazed.

he smiles — slow, fanged, and still somehow soft.

“they tried to feed me shame,” he murmurs, “but you… you are ripe with something sweeter.”

you can’t speak. you don’t have to.

his arms gather you in and your body slumps into the embrace. lashes flittering with faintness or some kind of derealisation, your lips move before you think about speaking, “what is your name?”

it comes out as a murmur, something that even a light breeze can easily wisk away with it.

there’s a long moment.

he doesn’t answer at once.

his hand continues to stroke the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, and for a moment you think maybe he hadn’t heard you — that the night carried your voice too far from his ears.

but then you feel it.

the trace of a smile against your hair.

"remmick."

the name slips like silk from his mouth, soft and precise — a sound that feels wrong in the best kind of way, like a song in a language your blood remembers even if your mind does not. the vowels stretch strange. the r hums low. it doesn’t belong to any place or time you’ve ever known.

you taste it, mouthing it once: remmick.

he chuckles — low, intimate, the sound vibrating into your chest where you rest against him.

"it’s not what they called me when they built this altar," he murmurs, gaze lifting toward the stone ruins behind you, half-swallowed by ivy and ash, “but it’s the only name i’ve ever worn that felt like mine.”

you don’t ask what he was called before.

you don’t need to.

his hand finds your chin again, coaxing you to look at him — and gods, even now, when your legs don’t feel real and your thoughts are drifting through you like mist, you meet his gaze.

"remmick," you repeat again, steadier this time, like naming him grants you some fragile tether to reality.

his mouth tilts, fanged but fond, “and yours?”

you blink, surprised.

no one’s asked that today.

everyone already knew.

you were the equinox girl. the chosen one. the gift. your name had been forgotten beneath garlands and titles and all the quiet ceremony.

you whisper your name in a shallow breath.

he exhales, the sound pleased. “freedom.”

your breath catches. you’d never thought of what it meant. no one had ever said it with reverence.

"suits you,” he says, his hands stroking the sides of your head with a sense of endearment.

you shake your head faintly, some small piece of you still clinging to disbelief. “they said i was a lamb.”

remmick leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear — not with hunger, not with threat, but with something almost reverent.

"they lied.”

and this time, when the wind moans through the trees, you don’t hear mourning. you hear welcoming.

his voice curls around you like smoke, and in its wake comes stillness — not empty, but full. full of everything you aren’t sure how to name. his fingers linger lightly at your waist, a gentle tether, and the weight of his gaze has shifted. no longer just watchful — reverent.

"do you want me to stop?" he asks.

you’re not sure when the question moved from implication to invocation. but now it hangs in the air between you, fragile and sacred.

you shake your head. slowly. almost dreamlike. “no.”

the word is barely a whisper — not out of fear, but because anything louder might shatter the moment.

you feel the way his body responds before you see it — the tightening beneath his robes, the faint press of his breath against your cheek. his hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the texture, the warmth.

and then his lips find yours.

it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s tasting sunlight for the first time in centuries.

he kisses you like he means to rebuild something in you — not tear it down. not claim. not consume. just witness.

your fingers curl into the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer. your breath hitches when his other hand traces the curve of your spine, settling just above the swell of your hips, and the contact blooms heat beneath your skin.

your lips part, and he takes the invitation with a low, reverent sound. his tongue brushes yours — tentative, tender — and your knees nearly give out with the sheer weight of sensation.

he catches you before you can fall, his strong hands sliding down to your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly. turning, he clears a path to the altar, then lowers you onto the cold stone slab—slowly, reverently—laying you down with a tenderness that contradicts the weight of the moment.

his mouth leaves yours only to trail kisses across your cheek, along your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. your breath stutters as he lingers there, his lips barely grazing your pulse.

"tell me what you feel," he murmurs.

"warm," you breathe. "and… dizzy."

"good dizzy?"

you nod.

his teeth ghost against your neck, and your hands fist tighter in his robes.

"remmick..."

"i'm here," he reminds, "you guide this. not me."

you push him awayjust enough so you can look at him from close up.

his pupils are wide now, and something darker glows beneath — not hunger, but want. longing held back like floodwater behind stone.

you place your hands on either side of his face, fingers trembling, and lean in until your forehead touches his.

"i want you," you admit in a volume only he can hear, spoken like a secret, "before anything else. just you."

the breath he releases sounds like something breaking.

and then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, more urgent. not unkind — never — but filled with restrained desire. the kiss deepens, his hands roaming with reverence and need, drawing you closer by the hips until your bodies are flush.

the world around you fades — the ancient stone altar, the hush of the trees, the soft hum of old rites. none of it matters.

only him. only this.

his hands bunch up the skirts of your robe, his fingers skim beneath the hem of the light fabrics, drawing slow lines up your thigh, and you shiver. not from cold — from want. from the electric ache building in every part of you. your breath comes faster, your hands mapping the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the strength beneath his stillness.

"you feel like fire," he says against your skin.

"so do you," you whisper, gasping softly as he kisses along your collarbone, his touch growing more confident, more consuming.

and when he finally begins to undo the bindings of your dress, you let him — not with fear, but with aching trust.

your skin blooms beneath his touch.

his name leaves your lips again, half-formed and reverent, as your body arches to meet him. and when his mouth finds yours once more, it’s not a kiss — it’s a promise.

you are no longer a symbol. no longer a sacrifice.

you are a woman made of warmth and will, met at last by someone who sees all of you — and chooses you still.

“remmick…” his name slips from your lips again, unbidden, rough with breath and reverence. he pauses, just for a heartbeat, the sound of it catching in the space between you like smoke.

his gaze is unreadable, dark and steady, but his hands don’t falter. they glide over you—exploring, learning, claiming—like he’s charting unfamiliar terrain with a quiet sort of hunger.

mo chreach-sa, he mutters, more to himself than to you—my ruin. the gaelic lands like a secret between your ribs, beautiful and dangerous.

when his mouth finds yours again, it’s not soft. it’s demanding. tasting. testing. not a kiss, but a question—and your body answers without hesitation, rising to meet him with heat and need.

you are no offering. no symbol.

you are flesh and fire, met by hands that want not to worship, but to understand.

and remmick, with every slow movement, every rough breath, learns the shape of you not with awe—but with intention.

the stone beneath you is forgotten now—just a texture at your back, swallowed by the heat between your bodies. remmick hovers over you, his weight pressing down in measured degrees, like he’s still deciding how much of himself to give.

your fingers twitch where he holds your wrist, not in protest, but in need—wanting him closer. wanting less air between you. he must feel it, because his grip tightens just slightly, grounding. not to restrain, but to remind.

his mouth finds yours again, slower this time. deeper. the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask—it confirms. he learns the way you move beneath him, the quiet gasp you give when his hand traces the inside of your thigh, the way your back arches just enough when he drags his knuckles down your side.

mo uan, he murmurs between kisses—my lamb. the word brushes against your skin like velvet, heavy with meaning, though he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t need to. you feel it in the way his hands have stopped roaming and now hold you steady, like he’s found the center of something.

his lips trail lower, down your jaw, your throat, marking a path as though trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. your pulse hammers beneath his tongue, and still he doesn’t rush.

this isn’t worship.

it’s not possession.

it’s discovery—intimate, patient, slow.

a study of sensation, and you are the text he’s unfolding line by line.

his breath fans across your skin as he moves lower, lips trailing a line down your chest, your stomach—each kiss unhurried, as though he’s savoring the act of peeling you open, layer by layer. not with violence. with focus. with hunger tempered by restraint.

you shift beneath him, instinct guiding you more than thought, hips rolling gently as anticipation coils low and hot in your belly. he notices—of course he does. the flicker in his eyes is almost amused, almost reverent.

but he says nothing.

instead, he parts your thighs with steady hands, slow and sure, like he has all the time in the world. your breath stutters. he glances up—just once—to meet your gaze. the eye contact alone is a promise: stay right here with me.

and then he lowers himself, settling between your legs with a kind of reverence that feels more primal than holy. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin as his mouth finally meets you—hot, open, deliberate.

the first touch of his tongue is slow, exploratory, like he’s learning you by taste now. no rush. no show. just deep, focused attention. your hips rise before you can stop them, and he groans softly against you—pleased.

he adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, anchoring you there as he works. each movement is purposeful, drawing responses from you like chords from an instrument he’s only just begun to master.

he takes his time. listens with his mouth.

and you unravel—breath by breath, moan by moan—under the weight of his mouth and the silence between each soft, sinful stroke.

his mouth doesn’t falter. if anything, it deepens—his tongue stroking slow and sure, like he’s chasing the sound of your breath, the way it breaks when he finds that perfect rhythm.

your back arches off the stone, hands searching for something to hold—his hair, his shoulder, anything solid enough to anchor you as the heat builds sharp and steady inside you.

remmick’s grip tightens at your hips, not to control, but to keep—keep you here, keep you open, keep you his for just this moment.

“gu làth,” he murmurs between strokes—forever. the gaelic hums into you, low and rough and not meant as a vow but a curse. like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. like he almost hates how much he wants this—you.

your thighs begin to tremble and he feels it, responds to it—his mouth more insistent now, working in a rhythm that’s all instinct, all precision.

you can’t hold still. your voice breaks on his name—again, half-formed, wrecked and reverent—and that’s what finally undoes him.

he groans into you, the sound deep, guttural, vibrating through your core as he locks you in place and devours.

not sweet, not gentle. perfect.

and when release crashes over you, sudden and blinding, it rips through your spine and out of your mouth, a cry that echoes off stone. he doesn’t stop—not right away. he eases you through it, mouth softening only once your legs begin to shake in earnest, his hands grounding you even as you come apart.

finally, he lifts his head.

his lips are slick, his chest rising with slow, controlled breaths, but his eyes—his eyes are wild. quiet. focused. like he’s just tasted something forbidden and is still deciding whether he regrets it.

he leans in again, hovering over you. and for a long second, neither of you speaks.

then—

“still not afraid?”

you’re still catching your breath, your pulse pounding in your ears, but remmick doesn’t move away. his body remains braced above yours, close enough that you can feel the tension coiled in him, held tight beneath the surface

his question hangs in the air—still not afraid?—but it isn’t a taunt. it’s a warning dressed as curiosity.

you meet his eyes, throat dry, lips parted. “should i be?”

a muscle jumps in his jaw. he leans in just a little more, and now you feel him against you again—still hard, still restrained, but barely. the air between you crackles.

“yes,” he says quietly. “but not now.”

his hand slides up your body again, slower this time, from the curve of your thigh to your ribs, lingering just beneath your breast. he’s not trying to soothe you. he’s reacquainting himself—like you’re a weapon he’s learning to wield, and he's not done testing the edge.

his lips ghost over your ear, voice like smoke. “you don’t know what you’ve invited in.”

your fingers curl into his back, nails dragging just enough to make him feel it.

“then show me,” you whisper.

something shifts in him—subtle, dangerous. a low sound hums in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a groan. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning low, mouth parted.

and then he moves—grabs your thighs and pulls you down the altar toward him in one sharp, effortless motion, your back sliding over stone, legs wrapped around his hips before you can think to breathe.

he doesn’t enter you.

not yet.

he just holds you there, poised on the edge, heat pressing into heat, his control razor-thin.

you can feel it in the way his breath shakes against your skin.

in the way he waits.

he feels the shift in you the moment it happens—the way your muscles go taut beneath his hands, the way your breath shallows, chest rising too quickly.

and he already knows.

of course he does. he’s known since the moment he touched you, the way you trembled under his mouth, the way you reached for him like prayer—not from experience, but instinct.

he leans over you fully now, pressing you down into the altar, his body a cage of heat and power. one hand slides up your side, slow and firm, until his palm rests just beneath your throat—not choking, just holding. claiming.

his mouth hovers at your ear.

“you’ve never been taken,” he murmurs. not a question. a truth.

his voice is silk over stone—low, knowing, soaked in dark satisfaction.

“not by anyone.”

your body shivers beneath him, and you remember your fearful rambling about your devotion to him—the great one—how you flaunted your chastity to appease him.

you lie open beneath him, offered. trembling. not in fear—in awe.

because in this moment, he’s not just a man.

he’s heat and shadow and control.

he’s every story you were warned about, every god you were meant to fear.

and now, your first time—your offering—belongs to him.

he moves his hand from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. his gaze is endless.

“look at me.”

you do.

and what you see steals the last of your breath—

not gentleness, not mercy.

but purpose. hunger. and a cruel kind of reverence.

“you give this to me,” he says, voice soft but full of iron. “you worship me with it.”

his hips press forward, just enough for you to feel the heat of him—hard, ready, deliberate. your breath stutters, and he watches it with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

his fingers slide down, between your thighs, dragging through your slick slowly, testing your readiness—his thumb circling just once, lazily.

his mouth brushes yours, barely.

“you’re mine now,” he says, low and final, like a decree.

“say it.”

your body is already answering him—hips tilting into his touch, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath the weight of his presence. but that isn’t enough for remmick. not for a man like him.

he waits, thumb still stroking slow circles between your thighs, eyes locked to yours like he’s reading your soul straight through.

“say it.”

your voice barely comes—breathy, reverent.

“i’m yours.”

he exhales like that’s what he’s been waiting for. not permission. confirmation.

his mouth crashes into yours, not gentle now, but consuming. his tongue claims you the way his hands already have, the way his body is about to—thorough, unrelenting.

and when he pulls back, just enough to speak, his voice is rough, ragged.

“that’s it, you’ve always been so loyal to me.”

his praise shatters something in you, warmth flooding your chest, your core. you cling to him, fingers threading into his hair, the press of him between your legs making you ache so deeply it borders on pain.

“you give your purity to me,” he says, voice low against your throat. “your body. your first cry. all of it belongs to me now.”

you nod, breath catching—“yes… please—”

he growls softly at that, the sound vibrating against your skin.

��spread your legs for me.”

you do. willingly. eagerly.

not because he told you to—because it’s his. and you want him to take it.

he shifts his weight, guiding himself to your entrance. even as your heart thunders, there’s no fear now. only the raw, pulsing need to be his.

“keep your eyes on me,” he demands, “i want to see you break around me.”

and then he pushes in—slow at first, achingly slow, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open, claiming you for the first time.

your breath shatters as he watches your face the whole way down.

not just a man but a god, devouring what was never meant to be untouched.

and you.. why, you welcome it, you offer it, you worship him. even through the pain.

he doesn’t thrust.

he stays buried just halfway inside you, holding still as your body stretches to take him—tight, aching, trembling. your legs twitch around his hips, not from resistance but sheer shock at the depth of him, the heat.

his eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering.

he sees the flicker of pain, the burn of pressure behind your lashes.

and he waits.

his hand comes to your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye. not soft. intentional. grounding.

“breathe,” he murmurs. “feel me.”

so you do—slowly, shakily, your chest rising as you try to relax into the fullness of him, the way your body clenches, holds, tries to learn him. he’s patient, but not passive—he rocks his hips just enough to make you gasp, just enough to remind you what he is:

not gentle, not kind. devoted.

his other hand presses at your lower belly, feeling the weight of himself inside you. he watches your face change when he does, drinking in your moan like it feeds something holy in him.

“mo chridhe,” he breathes, voice like ash and honey. not out of love—out of possession. like he knows what he’s going to take from you.

“look what you take,” he says, voice low, breath thick against your ear.

“look what you were made for.”

he pushes deeper, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch, every slow drag of his cock as your body opens to him. your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into skin, trying to hold on to something real as your whole world narrows to this—this heat, this pressure, this unbearable closeness.

your body is slick around him, drawn tight, trembling.

and still he doesn’t rush.

he sets a rhythm with his breath, not his hips—pressing forward just slightly, then stilling, then easing deeper again. each movement more consuming than the last, until you’re fully filled, taken, marked.

“mine,” he whispers, almost like a prayer.

not to you.

to the gods.

to whatever power let him have you.

and when he’s finally all the way inside, buried to the hilt, the breath leaves both your lungs at once—one shared sound, raw and ragged.

he doesn’t move.

he just holds you there, his forehead resting against yours, bodies locked.

and in the quiet, your heart pounds beneath his palm. steady. trusting. open.

claimed.

he holds you like that for a moment longer, buried deep, both of you suspended—your bodies locked together, your breath mingling in the warm dark above the altar.

then he moves.

just a pull of his hips, slow, dragging himself almost entirely out of you—leaving you aching, empty—before sliding back in, inch by inch, with deliberate, devastating control.

your mouth falls open around a sound you don’t recognize—half gasp, half plea. his name, maybe. or something older.

remmick watches you fall apart under him.

it fuels him.

his grip tightens at your waist, guiding your body to meet his now, his rhythm steady and deep, every thrust a silent declaration. he doesn't speak—not yet—but each movement says what his mouth doesn’t: you were made for this.

for him.

you cling to him, your body greedy, moving with his even as it trembles. your slick walls pulse around him, already stretched to your limit, and still your hips roll up, chasing every inch, every thrust.

“that’s it,” he breathes, rough and dark. “take me, little one. all of it.”

you do. again and again.

his rhythm quickens just enough to make your breath hitch, the sound of skin against skin echoing softly in the open space around you—wet, sharp, holy.

his thumb finds that aching spot at your center again, circling in time with his thrusts, dragging pleasure up and out of you with merciless precision. you cry out, thighs tightening around him.

he groans at the way you grip him, how you pulse around him—your body raw with want, no longer trembling with nerves but need.

“you feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re giving it to me. all of it. every first, every cry, every shatter.”

his words hit as hard as his thrusts now—deeper, faster, dragging you toward the edge. your nails rake down his back. you nod, frantic, breathless.

“yes—remmick—please—”

he growls, low and guttural. your voice, broken and pleading, cuts through him like nothing else.

his pace picks up. hard now. sure. each thrust knocking sound from your throat, rhythm shaking the stone beneath you.

he’s not worshipping anymore.

he’s taking and you don’t mind.

he feels it—your body tightening, breath breaking, the way your thighs start to quiver around his hips. you're right there, trembling on the cusp.

and that’s when he slows.

his rhythm shifts again—still deep, still relentless, but measured now, cruelly steady. every thrust lands with weight, each one deliberate, drawn out just enough to deny.

you gasp, eyes flying open. he watches it all—how the pleasure builds but never tips, how your back arches as if that might pull him deeper, faster.

but he’s not rushing, he’s mastering.

“not yet,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet at your throat.

“chan eil thu deiseil.” you’re not ready.

you whimper—needful, wrecked. but he’s merciless, his thumb still circling your clit with devastating skill, keeping you right on the edge, never letting you fall.

your body thrashes under him, trying to chase it—but his grip is iron. one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head, holding you down as your orgasm builds like a storm behind your ribs, just out of reach.

“you want to come?” he growls against your ear.

you nod frantically, lips parting in a breathless, desperate plea.

“yes—oh, yes, remmick—please—”

he stops moving entirely.

the sudden stillness rips a broken sound from your throat—shocked, aching, lost. your body clenches around him, empty of motion but still full, and he smiles—a cruel, knowing twist of his lips.

“then beg,” his voice is silk and steel.

“not like a girl. like a worshiper.”

his hand curls beneath your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “tell me what i am to you.”

you can barely breathe, every nerve raw, stretched thin. he leans in, voice low, foreign, absolute.

“abair e,” he whispers. say it.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who i am to you.

you’re shaking now, thighs still twitching, sweat slicking your skin. and still—still—he holds you right there, untouched and filled, body alight with heat and need.

and all you can do is breathe. plead. submit

your breath trembles in your chest, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. the pressure inside you is unbearable—he’s kept you there too long, strung out, body quivering around him, aching to be undone.

and still he waits inside you. above you. simply owning you.

his hand tightens beneath your chin, holding your eyes to his.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who I am to you.

your lips part. not in shame. not in hesitation.

but in offering.

“you’re the one,” you breathe, the words spilling out before you can even think. “you’re the great one—am fear mòr—meant to bring salvation to my spirit.”

your voice shakes, drenched in awe. your eyes glisten with it.

“you’re power and fire and judgment,” you whisper, hips trembling beneath him, “and i was made for your hands. your mouth. your will.”

he inhales sharply through his nose, a groan twisting low in his throat—almost a growl.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with restraint. “mo sheirbheiseach.” my servant, my worshiper.

and this time, when he moves, it isn’t to tease. it’s to take.

he pulls back and drives in deep—one hard, slow thrust that punches the breath from your lungs, splitting you open around him. your body convulses, and you cry out his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

he sets the pace then, claiming you stroke by stroke, every movement raw with purpose, with power. his hand never leaves your throat, not in threat—but to remind you.

who you belong to.

his hips rock against yours, heavy, unrelenting. your climax coils again, impossibly sharp, building under the weight of his control, his heat, his divinity.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear, voice breaking.

“come for me, mo chreach… let me see you fall.”

your body is breaking—beautifully, violently—with every thrust of his hips. the pressure inside you is unbearable now, a flood held back too long, and you know it—he knows it.

your cries rise with each motion, no longer pleading but praising.

and he watches you come apart like a man who’s waited lifetimes for this exact moment. he feels it in the way your nails claw at his triceps, leaving red and raw marks in their wake that will undoubtedly heal as soon as they settle into his skin.

“that’s it,” he breathes, voice thick with awe and hunger, “fall for me.”

and you do.

you shatter around him with a cry ripped straight from your soul, your body clenching tight, legs locking around his waist. pleasure crashes over you—white-hot, endless—as if your body can’t tell where it ends and he begins.

and as you tip over that edge, lost in heat and reverence, he leans in.

his mouth finds your throat—not gentle. not hesitant.

claiming.

you feel the scrape of his teeth, the split of skin—sharp, exquisite—and then the pull. his lips fasten to your neck, and he drinks.

your breath catches—but the pain is brief, eclipsed instantly by a second wave of pleasure that drowns you. it’s as if your body was waiting for this too, this final act of surrender. your blood sings in your veins, your skin flushes warm, and all you can do is arch into him, give him more.

his groan against your throat is primal, reverent, like your taste confirms something ancient in him. his hips never stop moving, driving through your climax, deep and slow, as your blood spills in warm rivulets down your shoulder, down your chest—

dripping onto the altar like sacrament.

it runs in delicate red lines over the stone, soaking into the grooves carved by forgotten hands, marking the place where divinity and flesh finally met.

and you—trembling, shaking, utterly undone—feel none of the fear you were taught to expect. only rapture. only fullness.

he draws back at last, lips slick with your blood, eyes burning with something more than lust. he looks down at you like a god who has finally found something worthy of worship.

you’re breathless. glowing. claimed.

and you do not feel broken. instead, you feel blessed.

your breath begins to slow.

each inhale shallower than the last, a fragile rhythm fading beneath the weight of him, the weight of what you’ve given. the world around you drifts, edges softening, sounds distant, as if you’re slipping underwater.

but there’s no fear.

you feel warm. floating.

your body is spent, loose beneath him, blood still pulsing slowly from the bite at your throat—warm trails sliding down your skin, over your chest, pooling beneath your spine on the cold stone slab.

and yet… you smile.

your eyes unfocus, fixed on the vaulted ceiling above, but you don’t really see it. you’re seeing something else—something far beyond stone and sky and flesh.

something sacred.

you feel it in your bones, in the soft dark where your heartbeat used to be.

you are dying.

and it feels like flying.

he stays above you, still deep inside you, unmoving, watching the light change behind your eyes. watching the stillness take you.

watching you leave.

his hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, reverent. his lips are parted slightly, breath steady, and his eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—drink in the sight of you like it’s the only truth he’s ever known.

“mo ghràdh na bàs,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. my love in death.

your grip on remmick’s arms begins to loosen—slowly, like petals unfurling in the dark. strength slips from your fingers one heartbeat at a time, until your hands fall away completely, limp and lifeless against the cold stone.

your final breath escapes you in a soft, shaking sigh.

a tense quietness settles.

you’re still beneath him now—utterly still—arms slack at your sides, legs parted, body bare and open like an offering. like something sacred left at the altar.

the blood at your throat glistens, warm and slow-moving, a red ribbon trailing over your collarbone, down your chest, dripping to the stone beneath in quiet rhythm.

and there you lie—silent, surrendered.

a symbol not of death, but of eventual salvation.

the beginning, not the end.

your body softens.

and everything—goes—still.

remmick watches you, his heart heavy with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. you are still, the life having fled your body, leaving you open and vulnerable beneath him. but he knows what must be done, the ancient ritual that will return you to him.

he raises his wrist to his lips, his eyes lingering on your lifeless form one last time before his teeth sink into his own flesh. the skin splits easily, and the blood wells up—dark, rich, pulsing in steady rhythm. he tilts his arm, letting it drip, slow and deliberate, down to your mouth.

with his free hand, he gently tilts your head, guiding you toward his wrist, the red offering so close to your lips. the first drop touches your tongue, the warmth of it a promise—a return to life, a bond between you.

you stir.

a faint tremor runs through you, like a whisper beneath your skin, and then—you snap awake.

your eyes open wide, pupils dilated, focused with primal hunger. instinct takes over, and with a growl, your mouth parts as you lunge at his wrist. your lips wrap around the wound, and you suck, pulling greedily at the blood, your body awakening with the rush of it.

he hisses, the sensation of your mouth against his wrist sending a shock of something dangerous and thrilling through him. but he doesn’t pull away. he lets you drink—letting you take what you need. his blood, his essence, filling you, restoring you, binding you to him.

the pull of your mouth is voracious. he can feel your body coming back to life with every pull, your strength returning, your senses sharpening. the sound of your drinking is almost intimate—animalistic, raw—and he feels the tether between you strengthen with every heartbeat.

he watches you, eyes dark with approval, as you drain him, not out of weakness, but need, as if your very soul was calling for it. and with each drop that leaves his wrist, he gives you more of himself—until there is nothing left to take.

only then does he finally pull his wrist from your mouth, watching as your eyes meet his—fierce, alive, and entwined with his.

something stirs inside you. no, not the intrusion of fangs or the bloom of red irises. rather.. a flicker. a coil. a flame reborn.

your fingers twitch. your chest jerks. your mouth opens with a silent gasp as heat floods your limbs—terrible and divine. you feel it thread through your blood, through your bones, not life as it was but something more.

you draw in your first breath anew, ragged and sharp—and your eyes snap open.

you’re not the same.

you are his.

and he is still inside you, watching you rise again beneath him with a gaze that burns with triumph, with hunger, with worship.

you were the sacrifice.

now, you are the revenant.

reborn in pleasure, death, and the hands of a god.

#remmick sinners #remmick x reader #remmick #sinners 2025 #jack o'connell

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ingeniousmindoftune · 3 months ago

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Smoke and Sin

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Smoke & Stack x Reader

Note: Set during the chaos in Sinners (2025), the twins— identical, lethal and seductively unholy— find themselves entangled with you, a sly speakeasy informant with secrets of your own. When you slip too deep into the game of lust and power, the twins close in- not as enemies but something far more dangerous…

The speakeasy on Mercer and 5th didn’t need neon. A faint halo of incense smoke drifted like a smokescreen under dim lamps carved from jade. The air tasted of sandalwood and gin. A cracked gramophone dripped ragtime piano keys, each note a slow pulse. You stood at the bar in your black velvet sheath—so tight your pulses showed through the slit that climbed your thigh—and clutched a coupe of ruby-red vermouth. The cold glass sent shivers across your palm.

Pleasure wasn’t your agenda. You traded in whispers: crooked card games, smuggled shipments, alliances bought with lipstick-smudged lies. But word had reached you that Elias “Smoke” and Elijah “Stack” Moore “Smokestack Twins”—twins notorious for leaving trails of bodies—were stalking the Quarter again.

“Trouble, table for two.” Benny’s breath ghosted at your ear. His voice trembled—a good omen. You didn’t spare him a glance. You felt the shift before you saw them.

Two silhouettes moved as one down the smoke-tinged aisle. Elias’ jaw was a blade; Elijah’s gaze a slow burn. Both wore charcoal suits cinched at the waist, collars open to reveal skin that gleamed like obsidian. Their eyes—smoldering coals—swept the room, sucked the air from conversations, blurred the edges of every patron’s glass.

“Y/N,” Smoke rumbled. His voice was velvet and steel. Your spine quivered.

Stack’s lips curved into a grin that tasted of promise and threat. “We missed you.”

You toyed with your glass, the ice clicking against crystal. “Didn’t know I was that entertaining.”

Smoke slid into the seat beside you, hips brushing yours. His nearness sent a pulse through your core. “You’re not entertaining, sweetheart. You’re worth the chase.”

Silk and incense and low-hunger music wrapped around you. The bartenders froze; the pianist’s hand caught mid-note. When the SmokeStacks arrived, the world contracted to their orbit.

But you came armored. A veil of perfume spiked with silver dust—an old charm against monsters. You lifted your chin, letting the soft glow catch your lashes.

“Still flirting with fire?” Stack traced a lazy finger up your thigh. Heat bloomed under his touch.

You tipped your head back, lips curving. “Only when I want to get burned.”

After that, the night blurred in green-whiskey shots and laughter threaded with tension. Lips brushed necks in shadowed corners. You slipped upstairs, guided by Benny’s nod. The VIP lounge glowed blood-red. Velvet sofas curved like sin. Curtains pooled on the floor, as if bleeding.

Smoke and Stack flanked you—two halves of a single desire. Stack’s scent was dark amber; Smoke, raw musk. You let Stack’s hand ghost over your ribs, then slide under your dress. Smoke’s mouth was hot on your nape, teeth grazing, sending sparks along your skin.

Smoke’s lips crushed yours—hard, demanding—tongue opening you like a secret. You gasped, arching into him. Stack’s fingers fumbled with your fasteners, sending velvet pooling at your hips. He kissed a path down your collarbone, tasting sweat and promise.

When Stack’s hand pressed between your thighs, slick with anticipation, you trembled. Smoke parted your hair to expose a tender curve at the base of your skull. His teeth grazed—you inhaled sharply. Every nerve ignited.

“We want the truth,” Smoke whispered against your jaw, voice a caress and a command. “Or we take it.”

Your breath stuttered. “I—I told you everything I know.”

Stack’s lips clamped on your breast, tongue flicking. You moaned, arching, the breath rattling free. Smoke’s fingers found your center, curling in slow, precise strokes. Heat pooled, pressing outward, making your vision blur.

“Say our names,” Roman murmured, thumb circling your clit with cruel devotion.

“Elias…Elijah…” Your voice was a plea buried in pleasure.

“Say our names…” they both growled.

“Smoke…Stack..”

Their rhythm shifted: one twin pulling pleasure from your moans, the other marking you with hot, insistent kisses. You were stretched between them—each movement an exquisite crime.

Then Stack’s teeth sank into your neck. Pain lanced through pleasure, making your blood drum in your ears. A strangled cry tore free. Smoke’s hand froze, crimson unfurling across your collarbone.

“You bit her?!” Smoke’s eyes flared, coal-red anger.

Stack’s grin was wicked. Lips wet with your blood, he pressed another kiss to the wound. “She tasted like sin.”

Smoke’s suit jacket dropped to the floor. He knelt, one hand at your pulse, the other steadying your thigh. His gaze flicked between the wound and Stack’s gleeful grin. “Our pact—if she bleeds, she dies.”

Warm dread pooled in your belly, but the silver dust in your perfume hissed at the venom, slowing its creep. You teetered on the edge of oblivion.

Stack’s fingers brushed your cheek, gentle now. “I didn’t plan it…her scent was too much.”

“Then help her,” Smoke ordered, voice brittle as broken glass. Pain flickered in his eyes.

Your breath came in ragged sobs. “Stack…” It was an apology, a plea.

He closed his eyes, knuckles white as he pressed a kiss to your blood-stained lips. His voice was a broken promise. “I should let you bleed out right here.”

You shivered, tears mingling with sweat and blood. “Then why—”

He silenced you by sweeping you into his arms. Softly, tenderly, as if cradling something precious meant to break. His suit ragged against your skin, his heartbeat thundered against your ear.

Stack hovered, guilt and desire warring in his sharp features. Smoke’s fingers brushed away your tears. “You’re ours,” he murmured. “And I’ll damn the world before I lose you.”

Your heartbeat steadied in his warmth. The twins—destroyers and saviors—held you between sin and salvation.

When they carried you toward whatever came next, you knew nothing would ever be the same.

#black writer #black fanfiction #black writers #imagines #black reader #ingeniousmindoftune #blackwomen #michael b jordan #fanfic writers #smuts #smokestack twins #reader x smoke #black reader x stack moore #sinners fanfiction #sinners fic #sinners 2025 #fanfiction #black actors #michael b jordan fics

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heestruck · 11 months ago

Text

Joint Dream ; Lee Heeseung

synopsis ; What if we lived in a world where dreams were connected? Where my thoughts became yours. And yours became mine. Where a simple fantasy that ran through your unconscious mind was shared with someone else. And neither of you had any idea that your dreams were connected as one.

In which yn and heeseung have the same sex dream about each other and are forced to get through a long shift not knowing the other person shared the same dream.

pairing ; coworker!fem reader x coworker!heeseung

genre ; smut

warnings ; smut, mdni. hair pulling, degrading, choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), inappropriate relationship, infidelity, oral fem&male receiving, praising, sex in the workplace, heeseung is downbad, swearing.

do not read if any of this makes you uncomfortable. minors do not interact.

wc ; 7.7k

I’d strongly advise you read the teaser so you can read the dream. you can find that when you click here

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, the cool morning light filtering through your bedroom window. The dream from last night clung to your thoughts like a stubborn fog, making it hard to focus. Every time you tried to push it away, it resurfaced—Heeseung’s hands, his breath on your neck, the way he’d looked at you with such raw desire. You shook your head, trying to dispel the images, but they only seemed to grow clearer.

Across town, Heeseung was standing under the steaming spray of the shower, his hand pressed against the cold tile as water cascaded down his back. He’d woken up with the dream still fresh in his mind, the memory of your body pressed against his in the boardroom sending a jolt of arousal through him. He bit his lip, trying to shake the feeling, but the more he thought about it, the more turned on he became. His hand twitched, itching to do something about it, but he forced himself to stay still. He was married, for God’s sake. But even as he reminded himself of that, the thought of his wife barely registered—just a distant echo compared to the vivid images of you.

You pulled a pair of black dress pants from your closet, laying them on the bed as you debated what to wear on top. Normally, getting dressed for work was a mindless task, something you did without much thought. But today, after that dream, it felt different. You didn’t want to dress too provocatively—Heeseung was married, after all, and it’s not like you were going to seduce him—but you also didn’t want to seem like you were behaving out of the ordinary. You settled on a white long-sleeved shirt, hoping it struck the right balance.

Heeseung turned off the shower, running a towel through his hair as he stepped out, the cool air hitting his skin doing little to quell the heat still coursing through him. He stood there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he shake this feeling? He tried to think about his wife, but even the thought of her didn’t stir the guilt it used to. Instead, all he could see was you—how you’d looked in that dream, the way your body had responded to his touch. He cursed under his breath, forcing himself to focus on the day ahead.

In your room, you slipped into the black waistcoat, adjusting it until it sat perfectly. The formal look of it made you feel more grounded, more in control. But even as you dressed, your mind kept drifting back to Heeseung. How were you going to face him today, knowing what you’d dreamt? Your heart raced at the thought of seeing him, of being in the same room with him after what had happened in your subconscious. The images from the dream were still so vivid, so real, it was hard to believe it hadn’t actually happened.

Heeseung pulled on a pair of black dress pants, followed by a crisp white button-up shirt. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, as he tried to suppress the arousal that kept surging up every time his thoughts drifted back to you. He fastened each button with deliberate care, but even that wasn’t enough to keep his mind from wandering. His wife’s voice, faint and tired, reached him from the bedroom. “You don’t care about us anymore, do you?” she mumbled, half-asleep but clearly hurt. Heeseung froze for a moment, listening to the words, but they barely registered. He knew she was right—there had been a distance between them for a while now. But instead of feeling guilt, all he felt was a dull, muted acknowledgment. He didn’t care as much as he should, and the realization didn’t bother him like it used to.

In the kitchen, Heeseung’s wife was pouring coffee when he walked in, her expression distant. She didn’t look up when she spoke, her voice flat and resigned. “Have a good day,” she said, the words empty, merely being said out of habit rather than genuine care. “You too,” Heeseung replied, his tone just as hollow. As he grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door, he glanced back at her, but the connection they once had seemed to have withered away. Whatever was missing, he didn’t have the energy or desire to find it again.

You grabbed your bag, checking your reflection one last time before heading out the door. The nerves were still there, but you tried to push them down, reminding yourself that it was just a dream. However, deep down you knew it had changed how you saw Heeseung. As you locked the door behind you, your heart pounded with anticipation, the thought of seeing him today sending a thrill through you that you couldn’t quite shake.

Heeseung climbed into his car, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of you, of the dream that had left him aching for something he knew he shouldn’t want. As he drove towards the office, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, the familiar route passing by in a blur as he mentally prepared himself for the day ahead. He tried to think about the project, about the work waiting for him, but it was useless. The dream had taken hold of him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape it

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

You stepped into the elevator, the familiar hum of filling the small space as you pressed the button for your office floor. The doors began to slide shut when you heard a voice calling out, just before the doors sealed completely.

“Hold it, please!”

Instinctively, you reached out to press the ‘open’ button, the doors pausing their descent before slowly reversing. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw who it was. Heeseung stepped into the elevator, his pace quickening to close the distance before the doors could shut again. He offered you a grateful smile, his hand brushing yours as he reached for the button panel, sending an unexpected jolt through you.

“Thanks,” Heeseung said, his voice smooth, though there was an underlying tension you couldn’t quite place.

“Sure,” you managed to reply, your voice quieter than you intended. You could feel the atmosphere in the elevator shift as the doors finally closed, sealing the two of you inside the small, confined space.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. You stood side by side, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, the scent of his cologne enveloping you. Your mind raced, replaying the vivid details of your dream, trying to push them out of your mind. You had never felt so uneasy around him before, and the tension in the air only made it worse.

Heeseung, meanwhile, was doing his best to keep his thoughts under control. The memory of his dream lingered at the edges of his mind, and every time he glanced at you, he felt an odd mix of confusion and guilt. He didn’t understand why he had dreamed about you, of all people, and the lingering effects of the dream unsettled him. But he refused to let it show, keeping his expression neutral and his demeanor calm.

When you and Heeseung first started at the company, it was immediately clear that you were both cut from the same cloth—ambitious, driven, and determined to make a name for yourselves. You joined the company on the same day, and from the outset, there was a natural chemistry between you. You quickly became each other’s unofficial competition, constantly pushing one another to do better, to reach higher. But it wasn’t the kind of rivalry that bred resentment. If anything, it brought you closer together.

In those early days, there was an unspoken understanding between the two of you. You knew that Heeseung would work just as hard as you would, and you respected him for it. Heeseung, in turn, admired your tenacity and sharp mind. The competition between you was light-hearted, almost playful at times. You’d tease each other over who could land the biggest client or who could draft the most airtight proposal, but it was always in good fun. There was a certain flirtatiousness in your banter, but it never crossed the line into anything inappropriate. It was just the way you interacted—two people who genuinely enjoyed each other’s company, who relished the challenge of trying to outdo one another.

There were countless late nights spent in the office, just the two of you, with takeout containers strewn across your desks and a few empty coffee cups lined up as you pored over financial statements or budget proposals. Those nights had a certain intimacy to them, but it was always rooted in your mutual respect and shared goals. There were moments when the teasing would get a little more personal—a compliment on how sharp Heeseung looked in his suit, or a playful jab from him about how you always seemed to have the right answer at the right time. But it was all part of the dance, the rhythm you’d fallen into over the years.

And now, after years of working side by side, something had changed. The friendship that had once been so easy had become tainted with an unfamiliar tension, an awkwardness that neither of you knew how to address. It was as if the dynamic that had once defined your relationship had been thrown off balance, leaving you both unsure of how to resolve this.

The numbers on the elevator panel ticked up slowly, each floor feeling like an eternity. Heeseung glanced at you from the corner of his eye, noticing the way you kept your gaze fixed forward, determined not to meet his eyes. He wondered if you were just as uncomfortable as he was, but quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way you could know what had been going on in his head last night.

“So… how was your weekend?” Heeseung asked, his voice light but slightly strained. It was a desperate attempt to break the silence, to inject some normalcy into the situation.

“It was… fine,” you replied, forcing a smile. “Pretty quiet, actually.”

He nodded, his expression neutral. “Yeah, same here. Quiet.”

The conversation died as quickly as it started, the tension between you both thickening the air. The elevator continued its slow ascent, the atmosphere growing more stifling with each passing second. You could feel your pulse quicken, the proximity to Heeseung almost unbearable as you tried to focus on anything other than the dream.

Heeseung shifted slightly, trying to focus on anything but the lingering tension. He had worked with you for years, and there had never been anything like this between you before. The dream had thrown him off balance, and he didn’t know how to regain his footing. The memory of his wife’s words that morning echoed faintly in his mind, but he pushed it aside, refusing to let it distract him any further.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached your floor, the doors sliding open with a mechanical whoosh. You practically leapt out, eager to escape the suffocating tension, but you felt Heeseung’s presence close behind, his footsteps copying yours as you made your way to your respective desks.

As you reached your desk, you let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t known you were holding. You sat down in your chair, opening your laptop in hopes that work would be enough of a distraction. Across the room, Heeseung settled into his chair, his face a mask of calm professionalism, but beneath the surface, his thoughts were anything but.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

The office was quiet, the usual buzz of activity replaced by the soft hum of machines left running through the night. The last of the overhead lights dimmed as their colleagues packed up and headed out, offering quick farewells to you and Heeseung. You smiled and nodded in return, though your thoughts were far from the work you were about to dive into.

Your mind kept drifting back to the dream throughout your entire work day. The memory of it made your cheeks flush even now, hours later. It wasn’t just the vividness of the dream that lingered—it was the way it had sparked something new in you. You stole a glance at him, wondering if he could sense the awkwardness you felt or if you were giving away too much with your lingering looks.

But Heeseung was as calm and composed as ever. He leaned casually against his desk, his posture relaxed as he chatted with a colleague. His voice was smooth, his expression unreadable, revealing nothing of what might be going on in his mind. If he had any idea about the dream that had shaken you, he didn’t show it. Yet, beneath your nerves, there was a strange, new pull toward him—something the dream had awakened.

"Ready to get started?" His voice was steady, and confident, as he approached you.

"Yeah, let’s do this," you replied, hoping your own voice didn’t betray the nervousness you felt.

As you settled into the now-empty office, the silence between you and Heeseung stretched, filled only by the quiet clicking of keyboards and the distant sounds of the city outside. You tried to focus on the work at hand, but your thoughts kept straying back to the dream—how real it had felt, how much it had affected you. More than anything, you were startled by how much you had enjoyed it, and how much it had made you see Heeseung in a different light.

Every time you glanced at him, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, but he gave nothing away. His movements were fluid and assured, his focus seemingly unshakeable. He occasionally offered you a small, reassuring smile, as if everything was perfectly normal. But there was a newfound awareness in the air, something unspoken yet undeniably present.

But beneath that calm exterior, Heeseung was battling thoughts he couldn’t shake. The dream he’d had the night before was still fresh in his mind—an unexpected and vivid encounter with you that left him feeling uneasy. Despite the unease, he couldn’t deny that the dream had enticed him. It had stirred something within him that he hadn’t anticipated—a secret attraction he now found himself struggling to ignore.

Still, Heeseung was an expert at keeping his emotions in check. His demeanor remained collected, his focus on the task at hand. He wouldn’t let a stray dream affect his professionalism. But as the night wore on, the guilt started fading away and the attraction mixed with his own selfish desires lingered.

“Do you have the financial report for Q1?” Heeseung’s voice broke through the silence, his eyes scanning the documents in front of him, as if drowning himself in numbers could chase away the thoughts that kept resurfacing. You had the report he’d requested right in front of you, but every time he spoke, it felt like your brain was short-circuiting. You stared at the title on the report, trying to focus on anything other than the remnants of the dream that refused to leave your mind.

“Yeah, sorry,” you mumbled, passing him the stapled papers. You attempted to refocus on your own work, your fingers tapping across the keyboard, but your eyes kept drifting back to Heeseung—the way he bit his bottom lip when he was deep in thought, the way his eyes narrowed as he concentrated, and then there was the wedding band he kept twisting around his ring finger.

It was shameful, you knew, to be thinking like this about a colleague, especially a married one.

But Heeseung’s thoughts weren’t much different from your own. It was shameful for him to be stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking, his thoughts drifting back to the dream he couldn’t shake. He prided himself on his self-control, on resisting temptation, but as he watched you from across the desk, the memory of that godforsaken dream kept creeping back. His gaze flickered briefly to the hallway, where the boardroom from his dream lay just out of sight.

“Have you ever dreamt about work?” Heeseung asked suddenly, the question slipping out before he could think better of it. It was a risky move, bringing up his dream of all things, but something compelled him to broach the topic. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to achieve by mentioning it—it wasn’t as though he could come right out and say what was really on his mind.

The question caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily frozen. Why would he bring up dreams right now of all times?

“Yeah… last night, actually.” You felt a blush creep onto your cheeks as you responded, your fingers pausing their movement on the keyboard. “But I can’t really remember what it was about.”

Like Heeseung, you felt an inexplicable urge to keep the conversation going, as if talking about it might somehow dissolve the tension in the air. Maybe if you opened the door to the subject, it would help you forget the dream altogether. But as the images of the dream grew sharper in your mind, you felt the familiar pull of desire gnawing at you. “Me too, actually… something to do with the boardroom.”

Your mind raced as Heeseung spoke. Had you accidentally said something? Had someone somehow found out about your dream? You knew it was impossible. You hadn’t told a soul, and you were certain you hadn’t slipped up. Yet, it felt like he was reading your thoughts, like he knew exactly what was tormenting you. Anxiety twisted in your chest, but it was mixed with an unexpected surge of adrenaline, making your pulse quicken.

In Heeseung’s mind, a similar conflict was raging. The thought of his wife, once a grounding presence, had faded into the background. He’d worked alongside you for years, and though he’d always harbored a subtle, unspoken attraction, he had never let it show. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension, making it feel as if you were strangers who had only just met each other.

Heeseung knew he was venturing into dangerous territory. He was fully aware of the risks, of the line he was dangerously close to crossing. He’d always prided himself on his self-control, on keeping his professional and personal lives separate. But the curiosity, the temptation, was growing too strong to ignore. “Remember when we first started?” he began, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. “We were chasing clients like crazy, spending nearly every day and night in this office drafting proposals.”

“Of course I remember,” you replied, a small, almost forced laugh escaping your lips. “Your wife saw me as a threat because she thought you wanted me,” you added, trying to keep the mood light, though inside you winced at the mention of his partner. It was a clumsy attempt to deflect the rising tension, but it only made the air between you feel even heavier.

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He knew he shouldn’t make an advancement towards you. But it’s like he had lost all control of himself. “Aren’t you though?” he asked, his voice low and measured, each word carrying a weight that hung between you. The question took you by surprise, leaving you momentarily speechless as a jolt of unease settled in your stomach. What could he possibly mean by that?

“W-what are you talking about?” you stammered, hating the way your voice faltered. You mentally cursed yourself for letting your nerves show, for giving him a glimpse of just how much his words had affected you. The tension in the room was palpable now, thick and suffocating. It was as if the long hours of work and accumulated stress had cracked open something between you, something neither of you were fully prepared to face. Yet, there was no denying the undercurrent of desire that had been simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.

Heeseung leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent a thrill through you. “Are you sure you don’t remember what the dream was about?” His chair inched closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours. They were searching, probing, as if trying to unlock the secrets you were so desperately trying to keep hidden. Your heart pounded in your chest, the room suddenly feeling too small, too intimate.

“Because ever since I woke up from my dream… God, I’ve wanted to go back to it over and over. I haven’t wanted something this badly since—”

“The Decelis deal,” you interrupted, finishing his sentence with a voice steadier than you felt. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and for a moment, silence filled the space between you. When your eyes finally met his, you saw the recognition in his gaze, the silent confirmation that your worst fears were true. Every piece of the puzzle clicked into place, and with it, the undeniable truth: Heeseung had the same dream. The realization sent a shockwave through you, leaving you breathless and reeling.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as you stared into Heeseung’s eyes, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air between you. The world outside your small bubble ceased to exist—the office, your responsibilities, and even the boundaries that had once kept you in check all faded into the background. It was just the two of you, standing on the line of something dangerous, something that could change everything. The tension was unbearable, and yet, neither of you moved, neither of you willing to be the first to break the fragile silence.

But then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Heeseung leaned in, his eyes never leaving yours. The space between you seemed to vanish in an instant, and before you could fully process what was happening, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was tentative at first, as though he was giving you a chance to pull away, to stop this before it went too far. But when you didn’t, when you instead leaned into him, his hesitation vanished. Heeseung’s hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until it was all-consuming.

You melted into him, your body responding instinctively, as though this was what it had been waiting for all along. The kiss was everything you hadn’t known you needed—intense, overwhelming, and utterly perfect. It was nothing like the dream; it was better. So much better. The reality of it, the warmth of his lips, the way he tasted, the way his body pressed against yours, all of it was far more intoxicating than anything your mind could have conjured up while you slept.

Without breaking the kiss, Heeseung’s hands moved to your waist, gripping you firmly as he tugged you from your chair onto his lap. The sudden shift made your breath catch, your legs straddling him as he pulled you even closer. The feel of his body beneath you, strong and solid, sent a jolt of electricity through you, heightening the intensity of the moment.

Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt. Heeseung groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you, igniting a fire that burned hotter than anything you’d felt before. Every thought of professionalism, of the consequences, of his marriage, vanished as you lost yourself in the moment.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, as though you were both trying to make up for lost time, for the months, years even, of holding back. There was no more room for restraint, only the overwhelming need to be closer, to feel more. The way you fit together felt natural, as though you’d been doing this for years, and yet, it was all new, exhilarating in a way that left you dizzy and craving more.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as you tried to steady your racing hearts. The room was still spinning, the weight of what had just happened starting to settle in, but neither of you spoke. Words felt unnecessary, trivial even, compared to what you had just shared.

All you could think about was how right it had felt, how much better this was than any dream. The reality of Heeseung’s touch, his kiss, was more than you had ever imagined it could be, and you couldn’t help but wonder how you had ever gone so long without it.

Heeseung’s eyes met yours again, and this time, there was no confusion, no hesitation. Just a mutual understanding, a shared acknowledgment of what you both wanted, and a silent agreement that this was only the beginning.

Your need for more was undeniable as you leaned in, eager to reconnect your lips with his. The kiss was charged with desire, a release of the pent-up tension that had been simmering all day. As your lips moved against Heeseung’s, you could barely contain yourself. “I want you so bad,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need. His eyes fluttered open at your words, and you could feel the effect they had on him, the tension in his dress pants growing as you straddled him.

“Just one kiss and you’re already acting like a desperate slut for me?” Heeseung’s voice was low, teasing, as a smirk tugged at his lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with a tenderness that contrasted the roughness of his words. The contrast sent a thrill through you, and you found yourself nodding slowly, acknowledging the desire he had ignited deep within you.

“Please, Seung, I need you.” Your plea was all the encouragement he needed. In one swift motion, he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly as he stood. He carried you across the room, your heart racing as he moved towards the boardroom—the very place that had been haunting both of your dreams all day. “Oh, baby… don’t worry. I’ll give you what you need,” he murmured, his voice a promise that sent a shiver down your spine.

As soon as you entered the room, Heeseung set you down on the polished wooden surface of the table, his hands sliding from under your thighs to your waist. His movements were deliberate, slow, as he began to unbutton your waistcoat. He knew exactly what he was doing, taking his time as if savoring every second. His smirk only widened as he watched your patience wear thin, your hands moving to help him, pulling off the waistcoat and then your shirt, tossing them both aside in your haste.

Heeseung’s amusement was evident, but there was a hunger in his eyes as he took in your eagerness. Even as your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, your desperation to feel his skin against yours was clear. His shirt soon joined yours on the floor, leaving the two of you exposed, the intensity of the moment amplified by the shared vulnerability. “God, you’re perfect,” Heeseung whispered, his voice filled with genuine admiration as his hand came up to cup one of your breasts through your bra.

He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a kiss that was different from the others. This one was unhurried, sensual, a deep connection that sealed the unspoken bond between you. “I think I need to show you just how perfect you are,” he mumbled against your lips, his breath warm and intoxicating. You nodded frantically, the anticipation almost too much to bear as he gently guided you down onto your back.

The cool surface of the table met your skin, sending a shiver through you as Heeseung’s fingers deftly worked at the waistband of your dress pants. He took his time, slowly undoing the button and zipper, his eyes never leaving yours as he slid the fabric down your legs. Heeseung was in no hurry; he was savoring every moment, every inch of your skin that was revealed to him.

Heeseung was on cloud nine, his desire for you overwhelming. He had never felt anything like this before, not even with his wife. It was as if his entire world had shifted, and now, all that mattered was you.

He leaned over your body, pressing a trail of kisses along your stomach, each one setting your nerves alight. As he worked his way down, his lips reached the edge of your panties. With a playful glint in his eye, he bit onto the delicate fabric, dragging it down to your knees, his gaze locked on yours the entire time.

Heeseung was like something out of your deepest fantasies, a vision that put every other experience to shame. Even the simple act of undressing you felt charged with an intoxicating sensuality. Before you could fully process it, Heeseung’s lips brushed against your clit, a light, teasing kiss that sent a jolt of pleasure through you, making your breath hitch.

Heeseung’s lips hovered just above your clit, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, sending shivers down your spine. The anticipation was maddening, the tension in your body coiling tighter with each passing second. Heeseung was teasing you, savoring the moment as his eyes stayed locked on yours, filled with an intense hunger that made your pulse race.

Slowly, he dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your clit. The sensation was electric, sending a shockwave through your entire body. A soft gasp escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the wooden surface in response. Heeseung smirked against you, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

Without warning, his tongue flicked out, tracing a slow, deliberate circle around your clit. The pressure was just right, enough to make you moan, your hands instinctively reaching down to grip the edge of the table. Heeseung’s hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he continued his slow, torturous assault on your clit, each stroke of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge.

Heeseung didn’t let up, his tongue moving with purpose now, alternating between soft flicks and gentle sucks, pulling more desperate sounds from you. Your mind was a haze of pleasure, every coherent thought melting away as Heeseung worked you over with an expertise that left you breathless.

You could feel the pressure building in your core, the coil tightening with each skilled movement of his tongue. “Heeseung…” You breathed out his name, the sound trembling on your lips. Heeseung hummed against you in response, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you, pushing you even closer to your peak.

Your hands found their way to his hair, tangling in the soft strands as you tried to ground yourself. Heeseung’s mouth was relentless, focused entirely on bringing you to the brink of ecstasy. His tongue moved faster now, flicking against your clit with just the right amount of pressure, driving you wild.

You could feel the orgasm building, threatening to crash over you at any moment. Your thighs trembled, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you teetered on the edge. “Please… don’t stop,” you managed to choke out, your voice thick with desperation. Heeseung only responded by doubling down, sucking hard on your clit and flicking his tongue with precision, pushing you over the edge.

The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, ripping through your body with an intensity that left you breathless. Your back arched off the table, a strangled moan escaping your lips as the pleasure overwhelmed you. Heeseung didn’t stop, his tongue continuing to work you through your high, milking every last drop of pleasure from you.

You were completely undone, every muscle in your body trembling as the aftershocks of the orgasm washed over you. Heeseung finally pulled back, his lips glistening as he looked up at you, a satisfied smile on his face. You were still trying to catch your breath, your mind reeling from the intensity of it all.

Heeseung wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as he stood up, towering over you. “You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. His words sent another shiver down your spine, your body still buzzing from the afterglow.

You could barely form a response, your body still trembling with the remnants of your orgasm. But the look in Heeseung’s eyes told you that this was far from over. Heeseung reached down, his fingers trailing over your skin as he slowly leaned in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss.

This time, you could taste yourself on his lips, a reminder of what he had just done to you. The kiss was slow and sensual, a stark contrast to the intensity of what had just happened. It was like he was savoring you, drawing out every moment, every sensation.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. “I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, his voice sending a thrill through you. And with that, he leaned in to claim your lips once more, as if to prove that he was just getting started.

Your body was still trembling from the waves of pleasure that had just surged through you, but the desire to taste Heeseung was overwhelming. With what little strength you had left, you slid off the table, your knees sinking into the plush carpet as you gazed up at him with a mix of determination and innocence. Reaching up, your hand found its way to Heeseung's bulge, massaging him through his pants. The sensation drew a hiss from him, his breath catching in his throat.

"Are you just going to tease me, or are you going to put that mouth to good use?" Heeseung's voice was laced with frustration, his hands slamming onto the table with a resonating thud that echoed through the empty boardroom. His tone was a mix of command and need, driving you to act.

You eagerly undid the button and zipper of his dress pants, pulling them down to his ankles. With a quick, practiced motion, you slipped his boxers down as well, revealing him in all his glory. Your eyes widened at the sight—he was more than you had anticipated. The shock of his size was clear on your face, and Heeseung noticed. A satisfied smirk spread across his face as he took in your reaction.

"Like what you see, baby? Think you can handle all of it?" His taunting words were delivered with a growl, a playful challenge that only fueled your eagerness.

You leaned in, your lips, still tingling from earlier kisses, wrapped around the tip of his cock. The initial contact made Heeseung curse under his breath, a sound of relief escaping him. His hand found your hair, tangling in it to guide you as he pushed more of himself into your mouth. "Fuck, your mouth feels incredible. I could have you under my desk all day."

His grip tightened in your hair, and you began to bob your head, taking more of him in with each movement. The room was filled with the sounds of your efforts, the slick, rhythmic motion of your mouth against him, and Heeseung’s growing groans of pleasure. He thrust forward to meet your rhythm, his tip hitting the back of your throat with each push. The gagging only seemed to spur him on, his moans growing louder and more desperate.

"You're taking me so well," he panted, his voice a mix of praise and primal need. "Should have fucked this mouth sooner." His thrusts grew more urgent, faster, as he chased his climax.

"You're such a pathetic little slut for me, aren’t you?" Heeseung’s words were a mixture of praise and degradation, his control slipping as he neared the edge. His moans were uncontrollable now, his breathing ragged as he felt his orgasm building.

With one final, hard thrust, Heeseung’s release hit him like a tidal wave. His head fell back, eyes rolling, as ropes of cum shot down your throat. Heeseung’s moans filled the room, each sound a testament to the intense pleasure you had given him. The culmination of his desire left him breathless, and he marveled at the unparalleled pleasure you had delivered.

The two of you lingered in the aftermath, bodies spent yet neither willing to let go of the moment. Heeseung helped you to your feet, guiding you back onto the table with a gentleness that contrasted the intensity of just moments before. "Heeseung..." you breathed out, your voice trembling as your eyes locked with his. Without hesitation, you wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him closer until you could feel the heated press of his bare cock against your slick entrance, the sensation pulling a needy whimper from your throat.

"I know, baby..." Heeseung’s voice was low, thick with desire as he seemed to read your thoughts. He knew exactly what you wanted because it mirrored his own need. His hand slid down between your bodies, gripping the base of his cock before slowly dragging the tip along your wet folds. The anticipation built as he nudged at your entrance, teasing you before finally pushing in, inch by agonizing inch.

Both of you moaned as he stretched you out, your body adjusting to accommodate him. You sat up just enough to reach behind you, swiftly unclasping your bra and tossing it aside, not caring where it landed. All that mattered was him. "God, you’re so tight," Heeseung hissed through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips to steady you both as he bottomed out inside you.

Once he was fully sheathed, Heeseung pulled back, only to slam his hips forward in a series of hard, deliberate thrusts. The raw intensity of the pleasure caught you off guard, the sensation so overwhelming, so perfectly right. "This pussy was made for me," he groaned, his words echoing in the air as your bodies moved together, fitting like two pieces of a long-missing puzzle. "Mmph... Seungie, you feel so good..." you moaned, your voice breaking as he set a relentless pace.

Heeseung’s thrusts were timed to perfection, each one hitting deeper than the last, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. His hand slid up your body, wrapping firmly around your neck as he continued to pound into you. "This is so much better than the dream," you gasped, your fingers curling around his wrist as his grip tightened, the pressure adding another layer to the overwhelming sensations.

"We should’ve done this sooner," Heeseung growled, his voice strained with the effort to hold back his release. "Could’ve had you taking my cock all day... God, you feel so perfect." His words hit you like a bolt of electricity, igniting a blush that spread across your cheeks. He tugged your body closer to the edge of the table, his cock driving deeper, brushing against your cervix with every thrust. "Fuck, I’m already so close..." he groaned, biting down on his lip as his movements grew more desperate.

Your moans echoed through the boardroom, loud and unrestrained as you met each of his thrusts with a roll of your hips. "Cum in me, Heeseung... please, I want to be filled with your cum," you cried out, your voice laced with need as you pleaded with him. "Yeah? You want me to breed this little pussy? Want everyone to know who you belong to?" Heeseung’s free hand slid down to your clit, his fingers stroking in time with his thrusts as he watched you unravel beneath him.

The tension coiled tightly in your core, your orgasm building with every passing second. Heeseung could feel the way your walls clenched around him, your body trembling as you edged closer to release. "Fuck, you’re squeezing me so... ah—fuck!" Heeseung’s sentence trailed off, his mind going blank as the sensation overwhelmed him. It was as if you had trapped him, and he was helpless to resist.

"Hee... Please... please, I need to cum," you begged, your legs shaking around his waist as you teetered on the brink. Heeseung gave you a nod, and that was all you needed to finally let go. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, your body tensing around his cock as you came hard, screaming his name as the pleasure tore through you. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you cried out for him, lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

The tight squeeze of your pussy was all it took to push Heeseung over the edge. With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, his grip on your neck tightening as he emptied himself into you, his release spilling out in hot, thick waves. "Fuck... Y/N. Oh fuck, baby," he groaned, his voice raw as his orgasm crashed over him, leaving him breathless and spent.

As his grip on your neck loosened, Heeseung leaned down, resting his head on your chest as he caught his breath. Instinctively, your hands tangled in his hair, soothing him as he pressed soft kisses along your exposed skin. Slowly, Heeseung withdrew, his cock slipping out of you as he stood upright, his eyes fixed on the sight of his cum beginning to spill from your still-sensitive entrance. With a smirk, he pushed two fingers inside you, gathering the leaking cum and pressing it back into your body. "Can’t have you wasting this, can we?" he murmured, his tone teasing.

Even now, after everything, he couldn’t resist taunting you. A small smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, too blissed out to form a coherent response. Heeseung pulled his boxers back up, his touch gentle as he fetched your discarded panties and slipped them back onto your legs. His movements were tender, a stark contrast to the intensity of what had just transpired.

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It wasn’t long before the two of you were fully dressed again, returning to your shared workstation and attempting to pick up where you left off. The air was still charged with the lingering heat of your earlier encounter, making it nearly impossible to focus. Every few minutes, your eyes would meet, and before you knew it, you'd be exchanging soft, lingering kisses. Heeseung was completely lost in you, every touch, every glance fueling the connection between you both. But there was a shadow that loomed over this moment, a problem neither of you could ignore—his wife.

By the time the clock ticked past 5:00 a.m., the final proposal was submitted to your boss, setting him up for the client meeting later that day. You both knew you’d be fast asleep by then, but it didn’t matter. The work was done, and it was the least of your concerns now. Like the gentleman he prided himself on being, Heeseung insisted on walking you to your car. As you reached the driver's side door, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a string of gentle, lingering kisses that made your heart race.

"Seung... will this be the last time we’re... like this?" you asked softly, nibbling on your bottom lip. The question hung heavy in the air, your nerves betraying your calm exterior. You knew the reality—you were standing on the precipice of something forbidden, something beautiful, but he was still married.

Heeseung’s gaze softened as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. "I’ll handle it," he murmured, his voice steady and sure. He knew exactly what you were asking, and more importantly, he knew what he had to do. "I think a part of me has always wanted this... I don’t want to let it go." His words were whispered against your lips before he kissed you once more, a kiss that felt like both a promise and a plea.

You nodded, your heart swelling with hope and fear as you reciprocated the kiss, pulling away reluctantly to slide into the driver’s seat. "Text me when you get home, yeah?" he asked, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You returned his smile, nodding as you backed out of the parking spot and drove away. Heeseung stood there, watching until your car disappeared from view, the warmth of his feelings for you burning brightly in his chest. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years, something that chipped away at the walls he had built around his heart, leaving him with a smile that he couldn’t seem to shake.

But as he returned to his own home, the smile slowly faded. The scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, and the faint clinking of dishes could be heard from the kitchen. "I’m home," he called out, his voice a bit flat as he walked into the kitchen. His wife was there, tidying up, just as she always was. Heeseung grabbed a mug, pouring himself some coffee before settling at the kitchen table. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that wraps itself around you and makes it hard to breathe.

Finally, his wife spoke up, her voice cutting through the stillness. "How was your night, honey?"

Heeseung stared into his coffee, the steam rising in lazy spirals as his thoughts drifted back to you. He couldn’t answer honestly, couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he had spent the night consumed by thoughts of someone else. His gaze lifted, taking in the life they had built together—the home, the routines, the familiar comfort that had long since faded into dissatisfaction. And then, like a beacon in the dark, thoughts of you took hold, the possibilities of what you could build together seizing his mind.

His wife’s voice cut through his thoughts again, a touch of concern lacing her words. "I said, how was your night... did you finish that project, sweetheart?"

Heeseung met her eyes, the blank expression on his face revealing nothing of the storm brewing inside. There was no internal debate, no hesitation left in him. The answer was clear.

"I want a divorce."

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

taglist ; @aetherl0l (happy birthday!!) @llvrhee @yohanabanana @rayofsunshineeee @mitmit01 @heartheejake @melonvrs @shanb1n @jakeyismine @yunhoswrldddd @jinspinkflipphone @woorcve

authors note ; thank you everyone so much for all the love you gave the teaser! I hope you really enjoy the finished product, I spent so long trying to make sure it was perfect for you all! I look forward to producing more works for everyone!

#enhypen smut #enhypen heeseung #heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #lee heeseung #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #heeseung

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