#Temptation Ver | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vinnyvamppp · 3 months ago

Note

Lord almighty save me, my brain has been spiraling ever since I read Viltrumite Mark going into heat. 🩷🩷🩷 Now I’m picturing all the variants having a heat cycle (separately with reader ofc [unless— 👀 reader would break, I fear in the best way though]). Any chance I can request other versions of it, like with No Goggles, MoHawk, Sinister, Omni-Mark or Shiesty? 👀👀👀

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨𝐨

A/N: Every main, side, and popular variant is in this bitch.

Warnings: Smut, Knotting, Overstimulation, Breeding Kink, Pheromone Play, Power Dynamics, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Heat Cycles, Rough Sex, Penetrative Sex, Cum-Eating, Anal Sex, and etc.

Synopsis: Each version of Mark Grayson— bratty kings, calculating monsters, broken gods— crave the same thing: your body, your loyalty, your soul. You’re a cure and a weakness they crave to keep. Consume him.

⭐: Lensless, Sinister, Variant #17, Shiesty/Hooded, Mohawk, Masked, Main Mark, Omni-Mark (Teasers): Gangbang, Thragg, Nolan, Atom Eve, Rex, and Rae. (Viltrum Marks Ver: Here.)

Viltrumite Heat Cycles x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 17.1k

Sinister Mark

Sinister Mark didn’t fall apart. He broke others physically, mentally, and existentially. The idea of something breaking him was absurd. The usual cocky demeanor—full of false-promising smiles, had been replaced by something raw: an expression of strife.

So when the heat started... he ignored it. He thought he could power through it like a broken rib. Pain meant nothing to him. Weakness didn’t exist in his vocabulary. This couldn’t be happening to him. The Invincible, utterly devoid of humanity, felt his knees weaken.

Then he smelled you, and suddenly, he was falling.

It hit him right in the middle of a mission, screams drowned beneath the crackle of fire, blood coating his knuckles, a ruined building collapsing behind him as survivors scrambled to hide. He should have flown home. Instead—he flew to you.

Now you stood in front of him in your apartment, lips parted, wearing that thin tank top he had imagined ripping off in more than one intrusive fantasy.

"Mark?" you asked cautiously, eyes scanning his tense body. "You look... flushed." He didn’t respond at first. He just stepped inside, his eyes devouring every inch of you like a predator locking onto its prey after weeks of hunting.

"I told myself I wouldn’t do this," he muttered, the door clicking shut behind him. "That I could outlast it."

The red haze burning behind his eyes had only intensified. His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. His jaw clenched, muscles flexing as he fought against the last threads of restraint. He couldn't explain what was happening, only how it felt—the kind of arousal that outpaced even the blood pumping through his veins.

"But then I thought about you," he said slowly. "About how you'd feel under me. How you'd sound." His smile was humorless. "That's all it took to lose control."

He crossed the room in a blink. One hand slammed into the wall beside your head; the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing your neck. You drove him insane in ways other women could only dream of.

"You smell unreal," he rasped—like temptation, like trouble, like a nuisance he wanted to carry.

"Mark, what is thi—" you started, but he cut you off with his mouth.

His lips crashed into yours with brutal desperation. There was no hesitation, just raw hunger and the urge to conquer. His tongue forced its way between your lips, teeth clashing clumsily against yours as he fought to taste every part of you. His hands roamed up your sides and under your shirt, gripping you tight, possessive, like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

He expected you to melt. To plead. Maybe to behave sweetly, submissively, the way you sometimes did. But no—you twisted your fingers into his hair and yanked, just enough to make him groan. The ichor from his bloodstained hands smeared across your waist.

"You already know how this ends," he growled, pulling back just long enough to rip the tank top from your body. "I'm not gentle. And right now? I’m not asking."

His mouth latched onto your throat, your collarbone, devouring the skin there with a feverish fervor. Your fingers tangled again in his hair as he groaned into your neck, grinding his hips against yours, caging you completely against the wall.

"This heat—it’s made me insane for you," he hissed. "I see you in my dreams. I wake up hard and furious that you’re not next to me." You shivered. "Then make it real."

He lifted you effortlessly, his lips claiming yours again, carrying you toward the bedroom like a man possessed. You could feel the heat radiating from him, burning into your skin, muscles twitching beneath the strained spandex of his suit.

Mark wasn’t the type to surrender to anything. But tonight, he surrendered to you.

He kissed you like an afterthought—like you were the inevitable conclusion to every version of his day. It was slow at first, almost mocking, daring you to push him away. But you didn’t and you wouldn't because you enjoyed the attention. The kiss deepened with a low growl caught in his throat—teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to sting. His hand curled possessively around your jaw, guiding you, as if he already owned every inch of you.

His breath ghosted over your face, and then you were dropped onto the mattress. He dove in after you, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could keep him alive.

It was slow, but not sweet. He peeled your clothes off like he was unwrapping a weapon. His hands slid beneath your shirt, brushing your ribs—his eyes flickering with dark amusement even as his touch trembled with lust. His fingers traced every curve that had haunted his dreams.

Your palms pressed against the mattress, knees spread just wide enough to hold your balance but not wide enough for him. You felt the bed dip behind you as he settled in—looming, warm, suffocating. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises.

His breath seared your neck—hot, hungry, trembling with restraint. His chest pressed flush against your back, his body vibrating with need. You shivered, not from cold, but from the way he gripped you, as if he needed to devour you to survive.

"You’re so wet I could drown in you," he growled into your ear, his voice curling around you like smoke. "Maybe I should."

His hand traced a deliberate path down your spine, dragging heat and chills alike until he reached your hips. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down just past your hips before letting them fall. He paused there, worshipful, possessive. One finger slipped beneath your panties, teasing—and with a hard tug, he tore them apart.

He left your underwear for last, dragging his thumbs over the soaked fabric before sliding it off, letting his eyes drink you in. "So worth the wait," he muttered. He didn’t break eye contact with your reflection in the mirror across the room. His nose twitched as he inhaled sharply. "You love this," he said, voice low. "Don’t lie to me. I can smell you."

Before you could even scoff, his teeth sank into your shoulder—a deep, burning mark that drew a startled cry from your throat. The pain melted fast into pleasure, flaring hot and low in your belly. His hips ground against your ass, cock pressed thick and heavy between your thighs. His whole body trembled, every shred of his usual composure slipping.

"You love this," he growled again. "Don’t lie. I can feel your body begging me to ruin it." You pushed back against him—grinding slow, deliberate, a smile tugging at your lips. "Go ahead," you whispered. "Show me how weak you really are." His groan was feral. "Still so mouthy," he hissed, voice ragged. "Fine."

There was no warning, no teasing. Just one brutal thrust—stretching you open, hot and unrelenting. A gasp tore from your throat, your hands scrabbling for the bed frame as your back arched into him. He held you there—chest pressed to your back—his whole body shaking from the effort not to lose control.

"Fuck, you feel perfect," he muttered, his voice splintering. "You always do."

You bit down on his shoulder until he hissed, dragging your nails down his side until his hips bucked into you, the bed shuddering beneath the force. He didn’t stop. His body was on autopilot now, pounding into you until your vision blurred and your body clamped around him like a vise.

The heat didn’t just fuel him—it destroyed him. It turned his pleasure into something darker, something he had no hope of resisting. He didn’t want to fuck you. He wanted to etch himself into your nervous system. "Fuck," he rasped, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. "You’re so tight, so warm... I could die inside you."

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, the words so hoarse and broken they barely sounded like him anymore. He rolled his hips, grinding slow and deep, making you feel every desperate second he was buried inside you. His fingers slipped down between your thighs—stroking the swollen, soaked mess he had made of you. Your body shuddered at his touch, and a cry escaped your lips, only spurring him on.

"You’re dripping," he groaned. "All for me. Only for me."

He wanted every gasp to come from him. Every soft whimper to bear his name. He would fuck you slow and cruel just to see how long it would take before you started begging. And afterward—when you were wrecked and mindless—he would kiss you sweetly, because that was the worst part: how completely you unraveled him and how much he lived for it.

It was a craving so deep it rewired his instincts. Pain felt good. Pleasure felt like war. His eyes rolled into his skull at the sight of your ass bouncing back against him, the sheer force rocking you into his pelvis over and over. "Look at you—pathetic," he panted, the words filthy but breathless. "So easy once I start fucking you right."

The heat was overwhelming. His strangled whimpers filled the air around you, cracked and broken, raw with desperation. "Just squirming for me... so much for that sharp mouth."

There was no real bite behind the words now. Only the heaving rasp of a man on the edge of combustion. His body shuddered against yours, his hips stuttering. For a moment, you could feel his cock softening—but every dragging pull of your body around him yanked him back in like a magnet.

He pounded into you, hips moving erratically, his breaths ragged, sweat dripping down his temple. The orgasm building inside him sent violent twitches down his spine, his thrusts matching the rattling pace of his racing heart. He drove into you hard and deep, the swollen tip of his cock catching against your cervix each time, sending you reeling.

His hands were everywhere—greedy, rough, almost clumsy with need. You felt him rut against you like a man lost, desperate to get closer, closer still. The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, slick and loud, as your head dipped into the mattress from sheer sensory overload.

He made you wait for it. His tongue trailed your nape first, teasing along the curve of your neck, slow and lazy, like he was memorizing you. And when he finally bit, it wasn’t playful but rather purposeful and ragged. A deep—anchoring pressure that made you jolt under him. You felt the throb of it shoot down your whole body.

He wanted you marked, bruised, maybe even bleeding. He wanted proof that you belonged to him, proof that no matter what happened tomorrow, tonight you were his. You weren’t a weakness. You were a religion, and this was his new form of prayer.

He moved faster, harder, his hand clutching your hip so tight it was almost painful. You knew it wouldn’t take much more—the way you clenched around him, the way your body opened for him, made his mind blank.

When you came, screaming his name, your body convulsing so hard you thought you might shatter, he sobbed. Not loud—just a soft, wrecked sound against your ear, so broken it barely made it out of his throat.

Because you had won again. He was truly weak during these ruts—and though he'd never admit it—he secretly wanted it that way. The night was far from over. His balls were heavy with another load already, the ache undeniable, and you noticed. You always noticed.

As you turned, straddling him for another round, he stared up at you, eyes wild and almost feverish. His voice broke when he murmured, "Please. Please ride me. I’ll shut up. I’ll be so quiet."

The scent of scorched cedar clung to the air, thick and heady. It wrapped around you, seeped into your skin, and filled your lungs until it made your head spin. You breathed it in and felt hunted—and weirdly, wanted.

When you sank onto him again, it was a slow, brutal stretch. His cock filled you completely, locking into place as he groaned through gritted teeth, his hands trembling where they gripped your hips. His forehead dropped to your neck, his fingers curling under your jaw to guide you down harder onto him when the knot started swelling.

He didn’t panic, nor did he hesitate. He had planned this. And when you tried to move, he growled low in your throat and pinned you down harder, hips grinding deep to milk every ounce of sensation from both your bodies.

"I don’t want fast," he whispered roughly. "I want slow torture. Let me feel every single inch... again." You could only gasp as he rutted up into you, deep and slow, grinding your bodies together until it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

Omni Mark

He hadn’t planned to see you tonight. Omni-Mark had half the galaxy kneeling at his feet, another third begging for mercy, and the rest daring to defy him. That should’ve occupied his attention. But the heat came early.

It was unforgiving. He fought it at first, of course he did. Viltrumites were above their biology—or so they thought—but this wasn’t a subtle ache or dull need. This was a burning, a low snarl in his blood that turned every thought into you. Whether it was your voice, your body, or your scent.

Now, here he stood in your doorway, fists clenched so hard his gloves tore, sweat beading on his forehead despite the icy chill in the air. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned, his voice low, reverberating like thunder in a canyon. You raised an eyebrow, only half-dressed in a sleep shirt. “I never asked for anything. I want you to let go, Mark.”

That made something snap in him.

In an instant, he was on you, hands gripping your waist, slamming the door shut with the other. His mouth crashed into yours in a passionate, suctioning kiss that pulled the air from your lungs. His lips were soft, molding against yours as his tongue gently caressed yours. You barely registered the way your feet left the ground—his grip tightening possessively. He pulled away just long enough to nuzzle into the crook of your neck.

“You’re soft… too soft,” he breathed, eyelids fluttering like he was trying to snap himself out of the trance you had pulled him into. “You think I haven’t dreamed about this?” he growled against your ear. “You think I haven’t imagined burying myself in you while the universe burns around us?”

You clawed at the armor along his arms, gasping when he bit down on your neck—hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. You felt the growl building in his chest, the way his whole body vibrated with restraint. “You’re my weakness,” he confessed between fevered kisses. “I should’ve destroyed you when I realized what you meant to me.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t,” he admitted.

He dropped you onto the bed like the princess you were. His costume peeled away in pieces, every inch of exposed skin rippling with tension—the kind of power that could level continents, yet somehow was gentle with you. You reached for him, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice trembling. “If you touch me right now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Maybe I want to be ruined,” you whispered, your words like honey blessing his ears.

He crashed down onto you, desperate, kissing you with reverence and fury at once. His mouth mapped every inch of your body like a man on borrowed time. His lips trembled slightly against your skin, and an unfamiliar greed lingered in his touch. His hands explored and gripped every valley and curve he could reach, leaving your skin warm with the imprint of his palms.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth, over and over like a mantra. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” His voice cracked, that calm, collected demeanor unraveling to reveal the boy he once was.

Omni-Mark didn’t believe in surrender. But with you beneath him, gasping his name, begging for more, he didn’t need to.

He kissed like an emotion given shape—like someone who was never taught softness, only possession, but craved it so. When his mouth met yours—it wasn’t tentative. There was no gentle testing of the waters. It was hunger and desperation, devouring you like he was terrified he’d never taste you again. His hands cupped your jaw, a little too tight, while his body caged you in with muscle and need, heat radiating off him in heavy, sweltering waves.

He watched the way your knees buckled when he finally pulled back, panting, red-eyed, drunk on the taste of you. “You call that a kiss?” he rasped, lips already slick with yours, pupils blown wide. “Try again. Put your back into it.”

You felt the shift instantly. His hand curled around the back of your neck, firm but not rough, holding you there as his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth. The kiss grew sloppy—fast, breathless, and messy—his breath catching every time your hips brushed. He walked you backward without breaking the connection, steps deliberate until your thighs met the edge of the bed frame. His hand dragged down your side—palming the curve of your ass like he was checking to make sure you were real.

When your fingernails scraped gently up the back of his neck, he moaned into your mouth—quiet, raw, almost ashamed of how much it affected him. His cock was already hard, pressing against the fabric of his pants, grinding into your hip like a need he couldn’t reason with anymore.

He unwrapped you like you were a relic unearthed in some war-ravaged city. Like something precious and divine that was buried beneath fabric. His fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, but he didn’t yank. He peeled it away, inch by slow inch, eyes locked onto you as your breath shuddered with every inch of exposed skin.

When he got to your underwear, his hand lingered—not out of hesitation, but because he was reeling. His thumb brushed over the fabric, memorizing you, before he diligently undressed you. His eyes glazed over like a man about to feast.

You were already seated in his lap when the snap beneath his skin finally broke open and all that restraint crumbled into dust. His scent grew sharp and sticky, like the smell of rain on dry earth. His arms came around you from behind—forearms like iron bars across your stomach as you rocked against him. You could feel every inch of him beneath you: his cock—heavy and flushed—already pressed between your slick folds. His head bowed low, lips dragging from your shoulder to the shell of your ear.

“You’re shaking,” he muttered darkly, his voice frayed with strain. “Is it the heat... or me?” You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you pressed your hips back deliberately, grinding into him slowly, cruelly. He shuddered, biting back a moan like it betrayed him.

He wasn’t ready to slide into you yet. He wanted you to feel it first. Wanted you gasping from the pressure of him nudging against your entrance. His teeth sank into your nape like he was starving, tongue dragging after to soothe the sting only to suck the skin back into his mouth.

“This isn’t about power—it’s about you letting me have it all,” he whispered against your neck, his voice wet and sick with hunger. He wanted to ruin you so gently you’d fall even deeper in love. “Tell me to stop. Just say it. Please.” His final warning, his final plea. He was never the most talkative, but he whispered murmurs against your skin like it was his coping mechanism.

Heeding his warning, you ignored him. Instead, you ground down harder, once, twice, teasing your entrance just enough to let him slip inside. It was over.

He groaned, the sound uncharacteristically high, and thrust up in one gripping, seamless motion. Your body gave with a lurch, your eyes fluttering shut as the air punched from your lungs. He bottomed out instantly—nudging every ridge, heavy, and throbbing deep inside you, but didn’t move.

“No?” he whispered. “Then take it. Take all of it.”

“I warned you.” He gritted his teeth, biting back broken whines. His forehead pressed against your neck, lips brushing over your skin as if to muffle his own groans.

“I’ll be gentle—then I’ll break you. And you’ll thank me." Your body pressed flush against his, the cool air in the room doing nothing to temper the heat radiating off his skin. Omni-Mark’s breath was steady at first—controlled, just like everything else he did. Even now, with you seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, he held himself like a soldier at war. His palms smoothed over your waist, thumbs stroking reverently at the dip of your hips, almost as if he was trying to memorize how you felt beneath his hands.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured against your shoulder. "You were supposed to make me stronger. Not... this."

His thrusts were slow, intentional, and deep. Every movement pressed you forward just enough for his pelvis to grind against your clit, the friction exquisite in its cruelty. He wasn’t rutting—he was studying you. Each drag of his cock was a question: Will this make you break first? But you didn’t.

Instead, you sank your hips back harder, rolling your spine as you moaned, letting him feel just how much you needed him. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, lips curling into a smile that wasn’t soft—it was sharp, daring. His fingers flexed hard enough around your hips to leave bruises, the illusion of his control slipping.

"Quiet?" you teased through heavy breaths, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "Is that focus... or fear?" He said nothing, almost smiling to himself as you mocked him. He just growled low in his throat, his hands clenching tighter as he jerked you back onto him, forcing you to take him even deeper. His breathing hitched violently.

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers pressing firmly against your clit, stroking tight, slow circles that made your whole body jerk. Your hands clutched at his knees for balance, pleasure spiking through you like electricity.

"You speak so boldly," he rasped against your ear, his voice almost tender despite the way his fingers worked you. "But I can feel it. How badly you need me."

His free hand moved to your breast, kneading and squeezing, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. His whole body was trembling now, his thighs shuddering beneath you as he thrust upward with brutal need. His hips stuttered. His breath caught ragged in his throat. The moan that escaped him was broken and rough, like it hurt to keep it inside.

He clamped his hands around your thighs, grinding you down onto him with force, pelvis slapping hard against your ass. The rhythm grew messy, erratic. You gasped as he spread your legs wider, one hand bracing you open, the other never relenting from your clit. You were shaking, spasming around him, nerves lighting up and snapping under the overwhelming pleasure.

He felt it—felt the way you clenched around him—and his groan turned desperate. That’s when it happened.

His breath hitched against your skin, hot and heavy, and he sank his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder—not sharp, but crushing. A deep, anchoring bite that made your knees buckle. There was no teasing graze. No playful nip. It was brutal and real, the final claim.

Your blood hummed beneath his tongue. His growl ripped through his chest like something primal and unhinged, all of his restraint gone in an instant. When he pulled back, your neck throbbed with the mark he left—a vow burned into flesh.

He stilled for a second, trembling, forehead pressed to your temple, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he could fuse you to him if he only squeezed hard enough.

And then he came. It wasn’t silent—it tore from him in a broken, gasping sound, raw and utterly human. His hips bucked forward once, twice, grinding himself as deep as he could go. You could feel the heat of him spilling inside you, thick and hot, flooding your cunt until it leaked out around the base of him.

The knot swelled suddenly, locking you both together with a sharp stretch that made you both gasp aloud. He stayed buried to the hilt, unmoving for a moment except for the erratic trembling in his thighs. His fingers curled around your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back so he could kiss you—soft, almost reverent, as if he couldn't believe you were real.

He didn’t slow. He didn’t stop. "We’re not done," he murmured hoarsely against your lips. His voice was frayed and trembling, nothing like the god he was to everyone else. It was raw and human and yours.

"I've made you cum before," he panted. "Again. And again. Tonight’s no different."

You could already feel him swelling again, already twitching inside you, the knot keeping you right where he wanted. It was thick, full, and practically immovable as he rested his forehead against your cheek. His hips began to move again, slow and grinding, sending aftershocks of pleasure straight through your gut.

Omni-Mark wasn’t the type to give up. Not when it came to you. Especially not now. Not when he had all night and all of you.

Full Masked Mark

He didn’t knock. You found him in your room, standing in the dark—half-shadowed beneath the blue light leaking in from the city. He hadn’t removed the mask, just hovered there, tense, and breathing too hard.

“Mark?”

He didn’t respond. You took a step forward, and he flinched—his hand tightening into a fist so hard his knuckles cracked beneath the glove. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, cracking like old porcelain. “I—I can’t trust myself.” You stopped moving. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

He nodded once. “The heat. I felt it coming for days. Thought I could outrun it.” His head tilted, his voice almost breaking. “I ran here.” You didn’t question it. Not the fact that he trusted you with this—something he clearly didn’t understand, something that made him feel wrong. You stepped close enough for him to see the softness in your eyes.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Mark.” His brows furrowed, his body suddenly becoming tense. But the way his body ached for you, the way his strength spasmed as he imagined fucking you raw with the memory of countless nights fucking his fist in your bed… he couldn’t tell.

His breath hitched audibly behind the mask. “You don’t know that. I’m not like the others. I—I think about you too much. I dream about you. And in those dreams, I—” His voice cut off with a choked gasp.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “She’d know what to do.”

Your heart broke. He was burning up inside, trembling with unspent want, haunted by grief and biology and years of holding himself together with cracked pieces of identity. You stepped closer. “Let me help you,” you whispered, hands gently brushing the hem of his mask. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He didn’t move as you slid it off. Underneath, his face was flushed, wet with tears he hadn’t realized he was crying. His jaw was clenched like he was fighting himself from the inside out. And then you touched his face—just a thumb across his cheek—and the dam burst.

He surged forward, mouth on yours in a desperate, needy kiss. There was no dominance, no force—just raw emotion and trembling urgency. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you. But it never felt fair.”

“It’s not about fair, Mark,” you whispered, unzipping his suit slowly. “It’s about what we want.”

His lips found your throat, reverent and shaky, like he was worshipping every inch of you he touched. His fingers trembled against your skin as he helped you undress, his breath stuttering every time you made a sound. When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was with a gentleness that felt sacred. He was utterly devoted, his lips parting as unabashed whines and whimpers in your name spouted from his lips.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, nuzzling your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “You feel like home.” You pulled him in, let him bury himself in your arms and your body, and let him feel safe while the storm inside him raged and broke.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “Even if I fall apart.”

You kissed him back, holding him through the fire. “I won’t.”

And he didn’t fall apart. He broke open, in the best possible way.

And then he kissed you like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. It’s wet and trembling, like he’s trying not to let his body take over too fast. His hands shake where they touch you, fingers curling into your shirt as if you might disappear if he lets go. “M-missed you,” he stammers into your mouth, kissing again before you can reply. He chases your lips, nose bumping clumsily against yours, and sighs when your hands pull him closer. “Let me stay... just a little longer.”

Like being wrapped in something wet and hot and too much. His scent is thick with desperation. It pulses with each pant from his lips. The longer he holds back and the heavier it becomes—need turned physical. A pheromone so raw it drips off him like sweat. It smells of molten amber and pine sap. The type that fogs up mirrors, clings to your sheets, and fills your mouth. It says, He’s not fucking for pleasure—he’s fucking to survive. And only you can keep him sane. His bones ache, every cell in his body screaming to break his restraints, but he can’t help but treat you gently.

You could tell his usual gentleness and restraint were bursting at the seams. Almost like he was still deciding if he should even be touching you at all. But then you made a sound—soft, breathy, inviting—and it destroyed whatever hesitation he had left.

The scent of you had soaked between your thighs—a dizzying blend of heat and arousal that made his chest rise with ragged restraint. His jaw clenched. His eyes devoured you, shoulders heaving, hands trembling with the effort of not lunging. The suit remained half on—his skin flushed and damp beneath the edges of his armor. But even while he stayed dressed, he made sure you weren’t.

Because in heat, Mark didn’t want just access to your body—he wanted your vulnerability. All of it. And before you knew it, your back was against the mattress.

His cock is thick, not monstrous, but unmistakable and it fits him perfectly. Hard, flushed, curved slightly upward, the tip already slick with need. It twitches when you look at it, eager, the kind of erection that speaks more of obsession than pride. And when he finally presses himself against you, it’s not just hunger—it’s worship in motion.

His body trembled as he positioned himself between your legs, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His skin burned under the mask, damp with sweat, heart pounding out of rhythm like it was trying to crawl from his chest. The heat coiled in his gut like a second heartbeat—violent, possessive, undeniable. His cock throbbed with every shallow breath he took, already leaking against your thigh, twitching with the need to bury itself deep.

He entered you slowly, almost reverently, but it was clear from the start: this wasn’t about control anymore. Not that he had any. Your folds are slick, swollen, already glistening with arousal; he's too far gone to pretend not to notice. His wildest instincts flared against his reddened skin. His breath hitched the moment you tightened around him, the heat inside him flaring like a wildfire fanned by gasoline.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know you would feel like this,” he said, through a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. You two have had sex before, but this was a transcendence of normal sensations. Like an aphrodisiac had poisoned his every being—only craving to have you. Every inch he gave you sent a tremor through his spine. His hands gripped your thighs too hard, fingers digging into the plush of your skin as if anchoring himself to reality—to you. Choked gasps echoed from you as pain mingled with pleasure.

His hips rocked with shallow, fluid thrusts, but his body betrayed him. Sweat dripped down his temples. His thighs flexed beneath you. The very fat of his lips felt suffocating now, his groans catching behind it, as if he were trying to bite down every sound—but the whines slipped through. Small, needy, devastated.

When his mouth found your neck, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a branding. His teeth grazed your skin, his tongue darting out to soothe the sting—only to repeat the ritual again and again. You felt the tremor in his chest every time he breathed you in. With every nip, your body jolted against him, clamping down as you curled into him. He was trying to restrain himself, to stay present. To worship you. Your skin curved upward as shaky gasps left your fingers clawing at his shoulder blades before you barely grazed his shoulder with your fangs, and he gasps—a full-body jolt that ends with him moaning your name. “Ah—wha—fuck, do it again—please, I—I like that, I really like that—” His hips buck into yours without rhythm, lost in the sensation.

But his body pulsed with hunger, and your scent had soaked into his bones like poison. He was hard—too hard—the kind of painful pressure that fogged his brain and turned every thought into a raw, burning need to come. He didn’t last long before instinct buckled his knees.

Suddenly, he surged forward, hips snapping into yours with more force, more desperation. “Can you feel how deep I am? I need to be deeper.” His body moved on its own—sharp, ragged thrusts as if chasing relief he already knew wouldn’t come easy. He whimpered against your collarbone, low and broken, like it hurt to need you this much. Like, if he came, it wouldn’t be enough. He tried to slow down again, pulling his hips back to regain control, but the second your body clenched around him in reply—he lost it.

He flipped you onto him without thinking, your chest sliding against his sweat-slicked torso. His hands ghosted over your back like you were made of glass, but his eyes? Glazed. Wild. You sank down on him again, and he cried out—not loud, but breathless. Helpless. “It’s okay, Mark… I’ll take it from here.”

You started to ride him, each movement smooth and sensual, and it shattered what little composure he had left. Gooseflesh peppered across your skin as your vision blurred, moving absentmindedly through groans. His hands clawed at your hips—desperate for something to hold. His thighs trembled beneath you, every muscle pulled taut like a man bracing for impact. You were moving too good, too slow, too deep—and the look on your face drove him mad.

“Mark… oh, f—fuck, Mark.” His name on your lips was like a spell. “Say my name again… please, I need to hear it when you touch me, m—mommy.” His groan was so broke it borderlined slutty. You leaned down and nipped at his chest, your tongue tracing the contours of his body, and he arched into you so sharply it bordered on pain. The groan that left him was guttural and shameful—his cock twitching so hard inside you it made your stomach flip. He was trying to last. You could see it in how hard his jaw clenched, how his fingers trembled where they held you, and how his entire body was one breath away from breaking.

You rolled your hips faster, and his head fell back against the pillows, mouth parted in a gasp that never fully came. His release hit like a landslide, thighs spasming, chest heaving beneath you. He spilled inside you with a full-body jolt, his fingers digging into your skin like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips kept moving—just barely—like his body hadn’t realized it was over. Like it didn’t want it to be.

His hips roughly buck upwards, the dominance within battling with his personality. He swells, his pelvis pressing into you as it forces every obsessive emotion out of him. And even as he lay there, breathless, unraveling beneath you, he didn’t let go. One hand slid up your back. The other held your hip still, his cock still twitching inside you. His body was still burning.

Because it wasn’t over. Not even close.

It wasn’t his choice; he tried to fight it. He wants to hold back. But when he finally gives in and marks you, the bite is sloppy—messy with saliva and a low, broken whine in your ear. He bites twice, just to feel it again. His knot slowly forms as he clings to you, speech slurring as he becomes barely coherent. You feel his whole body tense as his teeth graze, then dig in. The second bite is deeper, so sudden you yelp. His grip tightens. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I needed you to know you’re mine.”

Main Mark Grayson

You didn’t expect him to show up at your place at two in the morning—especially not looking like that. Hair wild, eyes glowing faintly gold, his shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his chest. His hands were shaking and his voice was frantic.

“Hey—hi—uh, this might be crazy, but I think I’m, like… dying?”

You blinked. “Mark… what?”

He paced your living room, tugging at his clothes, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, so, um—my dad kind of warned me this might happen one day? Something about Viltrumite biology and… a heat cycle?” Your heart stuttered. Oh. Oh. Suddenly, you were very intrigued.

He froze mid-ramble, turning to you, eyes wide and full of panic. “I smelled you, okay? On the way home. I was flying, and then boom—your scent hit me like a truck, and now I’m like—" He gestured down to his very obvious, very painful erection. “THIS.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay calm while your thighs absolutely clenched. “Mark, sit.”

He obeyed immediately, flopping onto your couch like a broken marionette, head falling into his hands. “I swear I’m not a creep. I just—God, you smell so good—”

You crossed the room slowly and sat next to him. He tensed like a live wire.

You touched his knee, and he whimpered. The poor boy almost looked embarrassed before his jaw clenched to bite back another sound. It was subtle, but his head tilted as his nose flexed—inhaling your scent like the sweetest dessert as heat broke his skin into a red flush.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It hurts. It aches, and all I can think about is you. How soft your skin is. How you taste when I kiss you—God, I’ve imagined it so many times—” You took his face gently in your hands, turning him to look at you. “Mark,” you said softly. “Do you want this? With me?”

He nodded so fast it almost looked painful. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ve wanted this—but not like this. I didn’t want to scare you. But now I’m losing it, and I need you. Please.”

You kissed him before he could spiral further. He gasped, then melted into it, grabbing your hips like they were the last stable thing in his universe. His mouth was hot, desperate, already starting to shake as the heat flared stronger.

You slid your hands under his shirt, feeling the sweat-slick heat of his skin. He shivered, grinding up against you with a needy groan. “I feel like I’m going to explode,” he whispered against your neck. “Like I could fly through the moon just from touching you.”

You tugged the cloth off, eyes roaming his flushed, muscular form. Within seconds, a familiar musk perspired from his pores. It was warm. An after-battle scent that's adrenaline-laced with sweat-slicked sandalwood and a subtle sweetness of red apple skin. The smell of his cologne clashed as if he had tried grounding himself before arriving. The kind of scent that clings to your sheets and drives you crazy when he’s gone. Suddenly, you felt vertiginous with a mixture of lust and reason clashing within your veins. It was so easy to relinquish control to whatever temptation awaited.

“…Are you mad? Or are you gonna kiss me before I combust?” He said nervously, brows furrowing upwards.

You blinked, surprised—then realized he’d mistaken your stunned silence, the way your breath caught, and your hands hesitated for doubt. Not awe. You straddled his lap, gently guiding his trembling hands to your hips, grounding him now.

“Mark,” you said softly, pulling his mouth back to yours, “I’m not scared. I want this. I want you.”

He groaned into your kiss—relieved, wrecked, like the words unraveled something in him. And when he kissed you back? It was like he was learning it all for the first time, like you’re teaching him with every sigh. But the moment his hips shift against yours, instinct takes over. He groans into your mouth, the kiss going from nervous to needy in seconds. His fingers curl into your thighs, pulling you closer with soft pants between kisses. Again and again—faster, deeper—like he's afraid of what happens if he pulls away. “You make it worse. Being this close—I just—please… let me have this.” And when you nod, he kisses you like it’s a thank you and a promise in one.

He didn’t hold anything back. His hands found your waist, your thighs, your chest, everywhere at once, guided by instinct and passion. His breath caught as you guided his hands, his hips, and his rhythm.

Mark Grayson didn’t know what he was doing, but he learned fast.

You barely got your shirt off before his mouth was on your throat again. Not kissing. Breathing, tasting even. He was fumbling at your clothes like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to take them off or just fuck you through them. He doesn’t mean to be messy—but his heat is driving him crazy.

Inhaling your scent like it soothed the ache in his chest. His hands trembled at your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin like he was trying to remember how to be gentle, how to be Mark—but the heat was too much.

He's been aching for hours. His cock started reacting before he even knew why—just the sound of your laugh, or the memory of how your hand felt the night before, was enough to make him twitch. Like a magnetic force building pressure in his chest and groin that no amount of willpower can settle. His heart beats faster when you’re close, but not because he’s nervous. But from burying his face in your skin and rutting like an animal.

The instinctive, all-consuming need to bury himself deep and never leave—to feel your cunt pulse around him until he doesn’t know where you end and he begins. He wants to merge with you in every way imaginable. Every inch of skin feels like it's starving to the point where sex might not be enough. His nervous system feels alight, all senses searching for yours, like that's their purpose.

His calloused fingers slid your panties down your thighs, soaked through, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His hips lifted, hand palmed at his soiled erection before yanking down the fabric. Veins ran the length of his cock—the usual pink tip was an irritated red—and it was heavy as it smacked against his abdomen. He jumped, bucking into the air as cold precum bubbled from his tip.

Too impatient to fully undress, he let you take the reins, legs wrapping around his waist. His breath hitched like you’d struck him. You settled into his cross-legged lap, chests pressed together, skin to skin, cockslick hot between your folds—and he froze.

Not from hesitation. But because his entire body short-circuited.

He entered you slowly, like he was trying to feel every second of it. Your walls stretched around him, wet and pulsing, and he moaned—deep, wrecked, like he hadn’t even meant to. You clutched around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your back as your bodies fully sealed together. Every bulging vein was caressed, arousal threatening to erupt.

He rocked his hips, slow and intense. Grinding into you like it was the only thing keeping him conscious. Then came the whisper. Low. Ragged. Right against your throat. “Mine…” His hips rolled with it. You gasped. “Mine,” again, softer, needier, as his cock dragged in slow circles inside you, the pressure growing unbearable.

He buried his face in your neck like it would keep him grounded, hips moving with desperate rhythm—not pounding, but grinding, searching for friction, pleasure, and closeness. Like your body was his whole world. He shook. A full-body tremor that told you he was losing it. Your legs tightened around him, head tilted towards the ceiling as strobe lights clouded your vision from his thrusting.

Through hitching breaths, you stammered, “That’s it. Just like that. You feel it too, don’t you?” You gulped, his lips tracing over your bobbing throat. “I can’t think, I can’t—God, you feel so good.” He heaved, tongue running over your clavicle as he sought every drop of sweat. “You’re squeezing me so hard—are you trying to kill me?” His tongue tickling you sent shivers down your spine, causing his arms to wrap tighter, feeding off every vibration.

And then he fell forward. Not collapsing—just pressing you back onto the mattress, hips never leaving yours. Still buried inside you, still grinding as he held you like his anchor. His mouth found yours, kissing you hard, hand at your lower back dragging your hips forward—trying to keep you pressed to his cock even as his muscles gave out. “Harder. Please. I can take it,” you gasped, fingers clawing at the couch material. “God, you make me lose control. I can’t stop—not when you sound like that.” A whimper and deep groan rumbled in his chest as he nearly doubled over, his hips pushing forward as your head collided with the armrest.

When he finally came—deep, groaning, clinging—his thrusts didn’t stop. He just rode through it, fucked through it, face against your chest, body shaking. And when the wave passed? He shifted you both gently, his body still connected to yours, curling behind you like a second skin. You stared wide-eyed; his eyes were glazed over, and he whispered uncharacteristically in your ear. “I’m gonna keep going until your legs won’t close without me between them.” He’s not cruel. He’s possessed. He wants to wreck you because he loves you—and it terrifies him how much he needs it. “I just need you so bad,” he pants. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Your knees bent as he nudged closer, cock sliding back inside you from behind—spooning now, softer, deeper, but no less desperate.

He kissed your shoulder. His hand found your thigh and pulled it up. His cock dragged in slow, aching thrusts that felt like a secret. But the moment your hips shifted—even the slightest grind back against him—he whimpered. His hips rolled forward on reflex, just enough for you to feel how he was still thick, still twitching inside you, still needing.

He started moving. Small thrusts. Like he was trying to be good, to hold back. But every slow drag of his cock inside you made his breath catch, made his arm around your waist tighten. Your body was still so wet, so warm, so welcoming. It pulled the heat right back to the surface—he pummeled into you now, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, hips snapping forward in slow, aching rolls that never left you empty. Every inch of him throbbed with restraint. His body buzzed with heat and urgency, but you could feel the emotion under it.

He was fucking you like he meant it. Like your body answered a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His hand slid over your thigh—palm dragging up your slick skin until he reached your chest. He gripped it, not hard, just possessively. Like if he held you tight enough, he could force the ache in his stomach to ease. Like the way your breath hitched made it bearable.

Your ass rocked back against him now, unconsciously meeting every rut of his hips, and he gasped quietly, but cracked open with it. His pace faltered, and then, he grinded.

A long, deep press of his cock, slow enough for you to feel every vein, every throb as he pulsed inside you. He whimpered again as you clenched, mouth open against your nape like he couldn’t breathe without you. “Oh, fuck, Mark.” Your voice cut through his thoughts like a knife; a deep groan vibrated in your throat as an impending orgasm washed over you.

He’s trying to be gentle—he swears he is. But the second you cry out his name, the dam breaks. He groans low in his throat, body trembling as he leans over you, breath hot against your skin. “Fuck—I need to…” He presses his lips to the base of your neck first, shaky and reverent—then you feel the slow pressure of his teeth. He bites down harder than he intended, and your back arches. His heat-maddened body needs you claimed. Mark shudders, lips wet as he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You’re mine. Sorry—I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop.” His hand flies over your mouth to quiet the pain and pleasured grunts. He couldn't handle it. Until you bit into the web between his thumb and pointer finger.

He yelps—then moans, breathless, like you just knocked all the air out of him. His face flushes red all the way to his ears, his hips stuttering against you. “D-don’t stop doing that,” he begs, voice cracking. You feel him start to swell, and he panics—eyes wide, voice stuttering, body tense. He tries to stop moving, but it only makes the pressure worse—and suddenly he’s knotting inside you with a choked groan.

“Can we do this again? And again? And—fuck, I’m not done.”

And he wasn’t pulling out. Not until you whispered that he was yours. And not even then.

Mohawk Mark

You didn’t move. He was already in your apartment when you walked in—standing dead center in the living room, like he owned the place.

Shoulders squared, jaw tight, fists flexing at his sides like he was trying to decide if he wanted to grab something or break it in half. His nostrils flared as he exhaled slowly through his nose, teeth catching his bottom lip. Not angry. Not quite.

Something worse. Something hungry.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth like he could taste you in the air. “You always leave the door unlocked like that? Or just for me?” He almost sounded flattered. You cocked a brow. “You broke my window last time. I figured this was safer.” That almost made him grin. Almost.

Instead, he tilted his head and stared at you like he was trying to figure out how loud you'd scream if he pinned you to the wall right now. “You smell that?” He muttered, eyes narrowing. “That’s me. Going fucking crazy.”

“This what you wanted?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “Parading around like that, all soft and smug? You get off on teasing me while I’m like this?” You glanced down at yourself—shorts, tank top, nothing special—but his eyes were molten.

“Are you teased, Mark?”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Shit, you’re—mm…” He grimaced to himself.

His hands twitched again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cross his arms or slam them on either side of your head. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch—just watched, jaw ticking, eyes following your every move like a predator holding himself back by a thread.

“I expected more restraint,” you murmured. “Didn’t think you'd lose control this fast.” He’s mentioned these heats before, almost braggadocious in an excessive way. He was a sexual deviant, skilled within his own right, and you knew that very well… but you don't recall him seeming so… lewd during these ruts.

He scoffed. “Restraint’s for people who aren’t boiling inside their own goddamn skin. You ever felt that? Like your bones are gonna split open if you don’t fuck something?” You inhaled slowly, thighs clenching. “Sounds intense.”

“It is.” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “You drive me fucking insane.”

“You sure you don’t like it?”

He finally moved—just a step, but it was heavy, purposeful, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold back a war. His voice dropped into a growl. “I like watching you squirm when you pretend you’re not dying for it too.” You smirked. “I’m not pretending.”

His pupils blew, and he heaved as if sick. He took another step. “You should’ve stayed away tonight,” he said. “You don’t know what I’ll do to you if you let me.” You closed the space, lifting your chin. “Then show me.” The moment cracked like lightning.

He grabbed your waist hard enough to bruise, spinning you, pressing you against the nearest table with his hips grinding into yours. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, the other sliding under your shirt with zero patience. You gasped, nails digging into his arms. “I’ll be gentle when you stop making it fun,” he hissed in your ear. “You want it rough?” His eyes peered into yours with an intensity that made your heart thrum. He could hear it.

“Good,” he growled. “Let me ruin that attitude while you still remember your name.”

He doesn’t ask for a kiss. He leans in like he’s about to win something—eyes sharp, mouth already curled in that half-smirk that makes you want to slap it off or bite it. There’s heat in his stare, but it’s not desperate. It’s deliberate. Like he’s letting you know what’s about to happen without saying a word. And when he finally does kiss you? It’s firm, demanding, but not cruel. The kind of kiss that says, “I see you. I respect you. Now shut up and let me in.”

His hand’s usually on your jaw, thumb under your chin, tilting your face just how he likes it. He likes a little resistance—loves when you kiss back with a bite, when your teeth graze his lip just enough to make him growl. Your hands wrap around the width of his shoulders, feet shuffling beneath you as his teeth attack your lips. You're barely able to reciprocate the usual energy.

He laughs into your mouth. A low, cocky rumble, like he’s already planning his next move. He kisses like a dare—like he wants to know how much you can take before you start pulling his hair and grinding back. But there’s tenderness under the heat. A kind of quiet reverence in the way he pulls back just slightly to breathe against your lips before diving in again, slower this time, almost careful. Like he doesn’t say the soft stuff out loud—but he lets you taste it. He’s panting, flushed, pupils blown wide. Smirking like he didn’t just almost lose his mind. His tongue flicks over his lips, the cold metal ball of his piercing just teasing you of what could be.

His teeth now bite at your bra strap just enough to make it snap. Your pants come off mid-makeout, fingers fumbling until he just rips them at the seams. “Oops,” he grins, not sorry at all. He doesn’t slow down, his hands linger on your thighs, his mouth hot against your neck. “Shit, you should see how wet you are for me. You feel that?”

He makes a mental note to “kidnap you.” It's about time you lived with him; having to travel so far ticks his gears. You’d assimilate perfectly, having been adorned with a matching mohawk. His thoughts are interrupted the second your nails scratched up his chest—just hard enough to leave a faint trail over the curve of his pecs. He stopped smiling. His jaw flexed. His hands slid down your waist. Then lower.

You hopped back onto the edge of the bed like you’d done it before and you had. With him. Because with Mark, it was always the same deal: you push, he pushes back harder. You spit fire; he kisses it into your throat.

Your legs were already bending when he grabbed them, hauling your thighs up until your ass slid into his lap and your weight tilted. You dropped forward to the floor, hands planting flat against it as your body stretched into that long, open line. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t supposed to be. You didn’t need to be told what he wanted. He didn’t need to say it.

His cock slid against your ass—thick, hot, already leaking—and your mouth curled into a smirk. You arched purposefully. A little taunt, a little “you can take it, right?” attitude radiating off you, even as your thighs trembled from the stretch. He grunted, lips quirking in response. And then he pressed into the sweet nectar that dripped from your cunt. It was dizzying each time, but today especially. The sight of it alone causes him to pant. His scent is overwhelming. Makes the air taste heavy. It forces submission from the inside out as you feel your stomach twisting. The smell sticks to your sweat, resembling charred sugarcane and gasoline.

You felt the give, the pressure blooming in your gut as his cock breached you, thick and unforgiving. He guided your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft skin just above your knees, using your legs to tilt your body into the angle he liked best—deep. He didn’t thrust. He carved. Mark grunted—low, restrained, shocked by how tight you were. You squeezed him hard, involuntarily, and he twitched so violently his hips nearly stuttered out of rhythm.

His hips pummeled forward, nearly knocking you off balance, your fingertips digging into wooden floors. The rocking presses him against every ridge inside of you. “Fuck, you’re tighter than I thought… knew you’d be trouble.” He was thick, his cock pulsing with heat and slick from his own need, and the sensation of being filled that way had your vision going white around the edges. Every thrust after that was short, deep, grinding. You were being taken. And he was barely holding himself together at the seams.

Your pelvic muscles tightened every time he reared back, his fingers gripping you with such vigor that his hands went numb. His gaze purely focused on your ass, the sight alone nearly busting his balls as he gritted. Peering over your shoulder, you watch as he whispers to himself—hand nudging himself deeper with every stroke. Planting your feet against the sheets, you began to bounce back against him; loud pops echo in the room in tandem with your moans.

“You’re gonna ride me like I’m nothing, huh? Fucking do it.” You almost make it look easy, his toes spreading from the pleasure, being your encouragement. “I'm gonna fill you til' it leaks out of your nose, babe. You ready for that kind of damage?” His hand against the small of your back, head lolling backwards as unfiltered groans left him. His voice cracking occasionally, fingers ripping at the sheets, the hairs of his mohawk becoming slick to his scalp.

One hand against his chest, the other gripping his jaw as his whole body convulsed under you, chest arching, hips jerking up in desperate, erratic thrusts even after he spilled inside you. And even when it was over, when he’d emptied himself with a full-body tremble and a cracked moan, he didn’t stop moving.

His hands slid weakly down your back, nails dragging across sweat-slick skin like he didn’t know how to stop touching. His breath came in short, broken gasps—mouth open, throat dry, eyes glassy with disbelief. “Still hard—how the fuck am I still hard?” His spine curved forward as he continued to bounce you against his cock, his jaw slack. “You feel so good, I’ll die here, I don’t care.”

His body twitched under yours, overwhelmed but addicted—his cock still twitching inside you, trying to stay hard even as overstimulation set in. He whined when you clenched. Actually whined. His thighs trembled, head turned to the side, face flushed and lips parted in a half-smile, half-wrecked expression that made it impossible to take him seriously—except he was so serious.

He slipped out of your pussy with a wet, audible drag, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. He was breathing heavily, shakily, even as he pulled you up like you weighed nothing. His hands framed your thighs, one arm cradling your back as he stood with you wrapped around him.

Your cunt was already dripping from being stretched—slick enough that when he used the arousal to lube your ass, it was an immediate, obscene slide. The angle—chest to chest, your back hitting the wall—meant he could slam up into you, balls smacking your ass with every thrust. The shift from vaginal to anal only made it more intense—your walls fluttered around him from sheer overstimulation, gripping his cock like your body didn’t want to let him go again.

It was instinct and control, primal and practiced, each movement slamming forward with just enough mercy to keep it beautiful. The sound of your skin meeting his hips echoed in the room—wet, filthy, rhythmic.

He reached down and grabbed the back of your neck, not to choke, just to feel your pulse as you took it. You barely had time to turn before he lifted you. One arm behind your back, the other under your thigh. His mouth slammed into yours again—sloppy, hot, teeth and spit and praise held between clenched teeth. He licks into your mouth like he’s chasing something—dominance, control, maybe a bit of sanity he left behind two cities ago.

You clawed at his shoulders. Bit his bottom lip. His cock was slick, messy from the first round, pressing against your slick folds as he walked you toward the wall like a man on a mission.

You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, and he fucked you standing—hard, deep, devastating. But still precise. Still so goddamn good it made your knees shake even while they were off the ground. He whispered something against your cheek, nothing coherent, just the sound of someone wrecked and reverent.

The stretch? Piercing and intense. His knot leaves you gasping, trying to squirm, but he holds you down, ramming his knot deeper with each thrust until it pops inside and locks you together. You can feel it throbbing, almost bruising, and he loves the way you twitch around him. He grinds through the swelling, making it worse for both of you—and better. “Too much? That’s the point.” There’s no warning. Just a cocky snarl, his hand locking in your hair and shoving your head to the side. “You ready, sweetheart?” You don’t get the chance to respond—he sinks in hard. Deep enough to bruise. You scream, and he laughs, moaning into the skin. “God, that’s hot. Fuck, keep squirming.”

Annoyance floods your veins as you crane your neck. You sink your teeth into his collarbone, and he shouts, hips snapping. “FUCK—oh, that’s what you’re on? You wanna bite now?” He’s panting, pale, flushed, eyes wild. “Bite harder. C’mon, make me bleed, I dare you.”

You clench around him, “Yeah, make me your little toy. I’m built for it.”

Lensless Invinicble

He hasn’t said a word for over an hour— which, for No Goggles Mark— is basically a war crime. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he’s been shot, one arm flung over his face, the other dangerously close to palming himself through his sweats, and you know he’s doing it on purpose. That self-sabotaging little shit. He’s so obviously in heat it’s comical. Sweat slicks his collarbone, his jaw is clenched tight, his shirt is lifted over his abs like a mating call, and a flush rises from his chest to the tips of his ears. And still, nothing, not a single word.

So you break first. “You good?”

His fingers twitch. His mouth moves like he might respond. Then, silence again. Of course.

You walk over, stand above him, arms crossed. “Mark.”

He groans, dragging his arm off his face to reveal bloodshot eyes and a crooked grin. “Dude,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to cave.”

“Cave?” you echo, raising a brow.

He smirks, shifting slightly, letting his hips roll just enough for you to see the outline of him pressing hard against his pants. “Yeah, cave. I mean, I’ve been lying here like a Victorian heroine in heat, and you didn’t even check my temperature. Rude.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“Little bit,” he chirps, breath catching as his thighs tense. “Dude, like, on a scale from 1 to melting down in your lap? I’m somewhere around… please slap me, choke me, tell me to shut the fuck up, and I’ll still get hard.”

Your face twitches, and that’s when he knows he’s got you.

“You like this, huh?” He taunts, grinning through a low, shaky breath. “Me all pathetic and wrecked. Just lying here, trying so hard not to hump the fucking couch. You gonna be a hero and save me, or… just watch me lose my mind?”

You kneel beside him, now he twitches.

“God, I love when you do that,” he mutters. “All serious and controlled while I’m three seconds away from grinding myself into a puddle.” You glance down at his flushed neck, already marked up from earlier in the week. Old hickeys, faint bruises—like trophies. Your trophies.

“You are so lucky I have bad taste in men.” You sigh, feigning annoyance as you two share knowing glances. “If I touch you, will you stop talking… or just moan louder?”

“Okay, rude again, but also… accurate. Now come here. Get on me,” he says, voice deepening on the last word. His breath hitches again, and for a moment, he shudders—hands fisting in the cushion, thighs shaking.

You lean close, your lips brushing his ear. “You could’ve said something.”

“No fun in that,” he pants, finally reaching for you. “Wanted to see how long I could suffer. I always ruin the fun too fast. Mark me. Scratch me. I’ll wear it like a fucking badge, babe.”

He rolls over, yanking you into his lap, lips ghosting along your jaw. “C’mon. Don’t make me beg.”

“You already are.”

“…Shit. That’s hot.”

His heat ruins him. He’s unhinged, usually pacing the walls of your shared home like a caged animal, trying not to wake you, but failing. His brain short-circuits with the memory of your mouth, your voice, and your bite. It's self-inflicted torture—he delays touching you just to feel the high of suffering. And when he finally breaks? It’s like watching a dam explode. You’re not just his girl—you’re his goddess, his favorite kind of punishment. And this need? It’s sacred, in the dirtiest way possible. For a loose cannon with unparalleled brutality, you’ve got him on a leash.

His hands hovered at the hem of your shirt, fingers twitching like he was trying not to break apart mid-touch. “Dude, I can’t—I need—fuck, just lemme, please—”

You didn’t even answer. Just raised your arms, and that was all it took. He yanked the shirt over your head, tearing it in the process, and shifted you beneath him with a groan, mouth already dragging over your stomach like he didn’t know where to start. Your bra went next—half-bitten, half-torn—and when your chest spilled free, he just stared. Wide-eyed. That smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful, but his eyes were already glassy—like he was drunk off the tension and starving for your skin. It was a smile like he knew a secret and you were the punchline. All teeth and dark promise.

His tongue found your sternum, teeth grazing as he mouthed down one side, up the other, breath shaking against your skin. “I’m gonna say the worst shit if you let me keep going. Like, really bad. I’m so fucking gone for you.”

Ten minutes passed, and he still hadn’t made it past your ribs—just kissing, licking, groaning, hands dragging up your thighs like a prayer with no end. You knew he was struggling, his sweat pebbling against your thighs. It was sudden, your fingers curling just below his jaw and yanking him upward. The sound he let out was between a groan and a chortle.

He looked at you like you were the final scene in a movie he’d watched a thousand times—obsessed, twitchy, reverent… and just a little off. It was unhealthy. He was in love. His smile didn’t match the heat in his eyes; it was crooked, teasing, like he was holding in something far worse than words. His fingers ghosted along your thigh, warm and slow, but there was nothing calm about the way they twitched—like he was barely holding back from sinking them in.

It was dangerous. Like if you stopped now, he wouldn’t ask you to stay. He’d make you. And still, you didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You let him worship you like the pretty little problem you are.

And so, with shaking fingers, he shoved his slacks down like they offended him, groaning when his cock sprang free—already flushed, already wet at the tip. The air hit him, and he trembled, panting through his teeth as if just being exposed was enough to short-circuit his control.

Your hand snapped up to his throat—tight, deliberate—and the moan that tore from him was instant, filthy, a cracked whimper that vibrated against your palm. You pressed him back into the cushions, straddling him with one thigh slotted between his twitching legs. His hands found your hips, but they were too unsteady to hold you down—more like he was asking permission with every touch.

You kissed him mid-moan—sloppy, messy, mouths colliding with teeth and spit and breath you didn’t care to control. His lips chased yours like he needed them to stay grounded, like losing contact for even a second would break him. His tongue was desperate. Uncoordinated. He whimpered every time your hips rolled. You reached down between your bodies, guided him to your entrance, and sank down.

He groaned. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a pathetic little sound trapped in the back of his throat as your warmth surrounded him—tight, slick, all-consuming. His head hit the back of the couch, and his mouth hung open in disbelief, fingers digging into your thighs before thrusting upward. A thick, wet sound of arousal coated flesh echoed between walls, his lip caught between his teeth. As you set the pace, his hand clasped the width of your ass as he forced you to swallow him whole.

That’s all it took for your fingers to tremble, for your grasp to slip. “You hear that? That slick sound when I push in? That’s what I do to you. That’s mine now. Say it.” Words refused to form, only a disgruntled sigh escaping in their place. “Shaking already? C’mon, baby, you like when I talk like this. Look at you—gripping me like you want me meaner.”

Finally, your gaze shifted towards him as your hand cracked across his face once more. Your body leaned forward as you pressed weight against his windpipe. Head bowing to catch him off guard, biting his shoulder, the muscle jumping beneath your teeth, as a stinging pain filled his side. He stops moving, his breath catching. He gasped for air, rasping beneath your palm. “Dude. Holy shit—okay, okay, that was—fuck.” He’s grinning like he’s about to explode. He was a whore. Your whore, and he loved every second of it.

Each roll of your hips dragged a strangled noise from his throat. His hands flew to your waist but didn’t guide—just held. Clung. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. His cock twitched inside you every time your walls clenched, and his abdomen jumped with every bounce of your hips. “Oh my god, that’s not fair. That’s—you’re cheating; this isn’t normal. No one’s supposed to feel this good.” His toes curled into the couch foam, unable to tell if he was cumming or unprecedented amounts of precum were coating his cock.

You leaned down, lips ghosting his cheek, your chest brushing his as your breath fanned across his ear. And while staring him in the eyes, while he was mid-moan, you spit into his mouth before delivering a final slap.

And that was it. His grip faltered. His hips jerked. He started to move—just a little—shallow, instinctive thrusts as he gasped beneath you. His eyes widened between delight and surprise. You could feel the sweat pooling at his lower back, the way his thighs flexed beneath you with every slow grind of your core against his pelvis.

Then you pulled off—just to tease, but not before you were flipped around and impaled once more; your ass nuzzled against his pelvis.

He made a noise like he’d been stabbed, both hands flying to your hips as you sank back down onto him in reverse cowgirl. Shivers crawled down your skin as heat from an impending orgasm made your vision blotch. You took all of him at once, and his reaction was feral. His head rolled back, a curse strangled in his throat, and his legs shook like he was trying not to thrust up blindly.

Your ass smacked against his abdomen as you rode him—harder now, rougher—and you reached between his legs to cup his balls. They were already tight, already twitching, the heat and overstimulation building to an unbearable edge. You rolled them in your palm, gentle but precise, and he nearly screamed through his teeth, hips jerking up so hard it lifted you both. His hips unrelenting as he fucked up into you. “You ride me like that again and I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna fucking die. Keep going.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mark. Just take it. I don’t want soft.” And with that he just lunges, no warning, no restraint, sinking his teeth into the nape of your neck like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered to reality. He moans like biting you is better than cumming. He didn’t speak for a brief pause, and that's when it became sickly.

His scent is of bruised plum and metal. It's strongest when he’s holding it in—when he won’t speak, won’t beg, won’t stop. When his heartbeats migrated to his dick. Then he keeps biting. Little ones. Bruising ones. Like he’s chasing the high of your yelps. “Dude, it hurts so good. I don’t even know if I’m still hard or if I’m just that fucked up. Keep going. Keep going.” Your fingertips curl into his calf muscle.

His entire body convulsed beneath you. One hand fisted in the couch cushion. The other grabbed your ass like he was trying to ground himself—but failed. You felt his cock pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming, as he came hard, breath leaving him in broken, unbelieving bursts. He twitched beneath you, thighs quivering uncontrollably, soft curses tumbling between panting moans. He’s rutting even though he knows it makes it worse. He’s overstimulated and absolutely getting off on it. You reach back to touch him, and he moans, full-body shaking, begging you to keep going until he breaks again.

So, you don’t stop. Neither does he, because he’s having too much fun. “C’mon let's go again. Don’t start whining now—you’re the one who started this.”

His knot swells too fast, too hard, and he’s already trembling before it locks in. Hips stuttering as he tries to pull out and realizes—he can’t. And the look on his face? “Oh my god—dude—I’m stuck. I’m literally stuck in you. This is—holy shit—this is the best day of my life.”

Shiesty/Hooded Mark

You found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen— acting as if nothing was wrong, like he wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown heat spiral. He was shirtless, his hair matted with blood, and a bandage hung off one shoulder as if he had forgotten it existed. His hair was pushed back, and his veil hung low around his neck, revealing a face that was too calm for someone whose chest was visibly heaving.

“Stop staring,” he muttered without looking up, a crooked smirk playing at his lips. “Unless you’re planning to help.”

“You look like shit,” you deadpanned. He rolled his neck slowly, his eyes finally meeting yours. They glowed with that sick, golden hue, and he was sweaty and raw. “I look like someone who just took down three versions of himself and came home hard as fuck. Same thing.”

You squinted. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you love that about me,” he replied, pushing off the counter and stalking toward you. His hands flexed at his sides as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pin you or put them through a wall. “You know what this is, don’t you? I can smell your damn skin, and it’s driving me crazy.”

You crossed your arms. “So suffer.”

“Oh, I am,” he breathed. “But not for long.”

He backed you against the fridge, slow and heavy, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. His mouth hovered at your neck, not kissing, just breathing in deeply as if he could swallow you through scent alone.

You shoved him, but it was pointless, really, more instinctual than anything else.

He grinned. “Still so fucking defiant,” he muttered, grabbing your wrists and slamming them up against the cold metal behind you. “God, I missed this mouth. Say something cruel.”

You stared him down. “You whine more than a virgin.”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering as if you’d praised him. “Do that again. Be mean to me.”

“You’re a freak,” you said flatly.

“And yet you’re the one who’s been riding me for months,” he replied through a tight grin. “Guess that makes you my freak.” His voice came out in a rasp. He loved how cold you could be; it made it all the more fun to ruin you, to watch you fuck yourself on his cock until you went limp. Usually by now you’d be bent over before finishing your sentence—yet he couldn't bear to. Not with his body practically vibrating, completely feral for you.

You gritted your teeth. “You’re bleeding on me.”

“Guess you shouldn’t have waited so long to come home,” he said, burying his nose against your pulse. “Didn’t wanna admit I was in heat. You’d gloat.”

“Am gloating,” you replied with a smirk.

He growled low in his throat, his hips rutting into yours with zero finesse. “Yeah? Let’s see how smug you are when I’ve got you shaking.” You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a promise or another Mark-level bluff?”

He licked the corner of your jaw—slow and deliberate. “I’m starving and you’re wet. Bite me, babe.”

So you did. Your teeth sank into his throat, and he groaned, his head tipping back. “Oh, fuck yes, there’s my girl.” He was panting now, grinning. “Shit. You like hurting me, don’t you?” He grabbed your hips hard, pulling you closer. “Do it again. I want bruises.”

His adam’s apple bobbed. Usually, he wasn’t a masochist; if anything, he was overly dominant in bed, but his inhibitions were loosened. Breaking even, as his eyes held a different reality than his words. It was only to taunt, as when your tongue flicked over your lips, preparing for another taste.

His lips crashed into yours as if he had just lost a fight and this was his prize. His mouth dragged against yours with a growl in his chest—blood still on his tongue, and the weight of battle clinging to his skin. He was cocky even here—biting at your lips between each kiss as if testing how far he could push before you snapped. When your nails dug into his biceps—he laughed against your mouth.

You rolled your eyes as he smirked against your lips, already dragging his teeth across your bottom one just to be annoying. “Careful,” you murmured, gripping the front of his suit. “Do it,” he muttered, his voice low and gleeful. Oh, how he loved when you pretended to be in control.

His hand grabbed your thigh, lifting and pinning you to the wall without warning—your lips barely parted before he was back on you, kissing you like he had something to prove. You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, panting against his mouth. “You really think this is working?”

“Oh, it’s working. You’re already grinding on my thigh,” he replied, his voice thick with desire.

“Because you put me there,” you shot back.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, as if he wanted to make you forget what you were about to say. His tongue flicked against yours in a rhythm that was just a little too practiced. You pulled back, your eyes narrowed.

“You kiss all your enemies like this?” you asked.

“Only the hot ones,” he responded with a smirk.

He did it mid-banter, almost annoyed by your clothes. One second you were snarking back, the next—rip. The seam of your shirt tore in his hands. He chuckled when you glared at him, his lips grazing your ear. “Buy you another one,” he breathed before kissing down your spine. Pants? Gone in a blur. Underwear? Teased off with one finger and a smirk. “You always taste better when you’re pissed at me.”

He sat back on the bed with that infuriating grin still tugging at his lips, watching you crawl toward him with that glint in your eye—the one that said you were going to cause problems on purpose.

You slid to his right instead, your shoulder brushing his thigh, your eyes locked on his cock as it twitched between his legs. You placed one hand on his knee, your lips parted, and then slowly bent forward until your head rested just above his lap. His breath hitched.

And then your mouth wrapped around him.

He groaned, his head tipping back, but he didn’t get to stay passive for long. You shifted slightly, lifting your hips—giving him just enough of a view to see how wet you already were. Your legs bent at the knee as your back arched, your ass high and ready to be touched—and he got the message.

His hand slid down the curve of your spine, lingering just above your ass like a threat, before diving between your thighs. His fingers met slick heat, and his cock twitched inside your mouth.

Two fingers pushed in slowly—testing—before curling as if he already knew exactly what spot made you twitch. You gasped around him, and he moaned in reply, his free hand tangling in your hair as your hips rocked into his touch.

Every time he thrust his fingers deeper, you sucked harder, like a trade-off. Every time you moaned, he pressed deeper into you, his fingers soaked, knuckles dripping as your body clenched around him like it was begging.

Your thighs quivered against his ribs. Your spit dripped onto his lap. His abs tensed every time you swallowed. You were both losing it. His fingers caressed every ridge—pads searching for that gummy spot that made you keen. The strokes were long, ending at the tip of his fingers before plunging in once more—your own arousal coating your insides as it glued his fingers together. It took everything in him to not bring his digits to his tongue and swirl your arousal across it. His taste buds ached as his mouth swelled with saliva. He could imagine it now—the faint tang of sweat, sweet like molasses and burnt herbal.

Your mouth worked over him like you were daring him to come too fast—your lips swollen, your throat taking him deeper each time you sank down, your tongue dragging slow and purposeful. His cock twitched between your lips, and you felt it—every pulse, every subtle tremble of restraint breaking. “Fuck… that’s it,” he whispered, his head spinning.

And he felt you, too. The way your body clenched around his fingers, soaked and twitching as his hand pumped between your thighs with growing intensity. Your hips rocked against his wrist, your heels kicking air each time his fingertips curled just right.

You choked just slightly, his cock hitting the back of your throat as your body jerked—but he didn’t stop. His palm slapped wetly against your ass, the obscene sound of his fingers fucking into you barely audible over the slurp of your mouth and the low, guttural whimpers pouring from his chest.

His voice was tight, right on the edge. But your pussy was shaking, your thighs trying to close, your back arching in that telltale way—and he felt it coming. You moaned around his cock, a deep, muffled sound vibrating against his length, his legs jerking in response.

His fingers slammed deep, curling sharp. You gasped, mouth full, throat convulsing, and then everything snapped. You squirted all over his hand with a cry you couldn’t hold back, your legs shaking, your ass twitching in the air. Your arousal spilled down his fingers, soaked his wrist, dripped onto the sheets.

And the second you spasmed like that around him, his hips stuttered, his breath hitched, and a low, fucked-out growl rumbled in his chest as his cock throbbed inside your mouth. You felt the first warm spurt hit the back of your throat, followed by another—and another—as he came hard, one hand yanking your head down to bury himself deep, the other still stuffed inside you, his fingers riding out the pulses of your orgasm.

His thighs flexed. His stomach clenched. His voice cracked with a half-moan, half-laugh that sounded just a little too close to worship. You swallowed it all, deliberately.

Then let him slip from your lips with a slick pop, your breath ragged, sweat cooling on your back as his hand finally slid from between your thighs, his fingers shiny and trembling. He looked down at you like you were divine punishment, still twitching from overstimulation, breathing like he’d fought a war—but grinning like he’d die to do it again.

His chest heaved like he couldn’t get enough air, his jaw slack, lips parted around a breathless whine. You could still see the way his muscles jumped—little tremors of pleasure his brain had no control over.

Temptation overtook him as his hand shot up—twitchy and instinctual. He couldn’t speak. He just leaned forward, his lips brushing your fingertips, and licked your arousal clean. Each drag was shaky, his mouth hot and eager, licking the mess he'd made like it was sacred. His lashes fluttered as his tongue circled your knuckle, the sound of his breath catching every time your taste hit his tongue. He whimpered—soft, broken—like it hurt to keep going, but he couldn't stop.

Every noise he made was involuntary. Every twitch in his hips, every stutter in his breath, every faint jerk of his cock against his thigh—it was pure overstimulation. His body was wrung out, undone, and still begging. And when he pulled your fingers from his mouth, licking the corners of his lips like a man starved, you knew he wasn’t done.

To him, heat felt like madness dressed in power. Everything was louder—your heartbeat, your scent, the memory of your lips. He was a god in a cage, and you were the only key. You were the one thing he didn’t need to conquer—he wanted you willingly, but if you fought, he ached harder. Every roll of your hips, every defiant glare, only sharpened his focus. He would fuck you like he was trying to outrun the heat clawing at his brain—but the truth? He didn't want it to end. Mating with you wasn’t about reproduction. It was absolution.

“It’s consuming me,” he spit out, breathless. “I can feel it in every goddamn nerve.” You touched his shoulder. He grabbed your wrist instead, shoving it to his chest. It hit like tension in a dim room—quiet, deliberate, intoxicating. The kind of scent that makes your breath catch before your thoughts do. There’s intimacy in it. One that thickens as your taste is savored on his tongue. The smell was of black tea and a faint rosewood, perhaps ink-stained leather. He grabbed your chin—dragged his tongue along your neck, then bit down slowly. It was deep, controlled, like he was branding you. His chest rumbled, almost pridefully.

He didn’t need to speak—you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, steady and possessive. You pushed up onto your hands, your spine arched, your thighs trembling as your knees left the bed. The tension in your core burned as he slid his hands beneath your pelvis and lifted. Your body tipped forward, your thighs locking tight around his waist, your ankles crossed at his back as his cock pressed flush against your slick folds—heavy, aching, ready.

He adjusted his grip, one hand under each thigh, supporting the weight of your lower half as your toes dangled uselessly in the air, your legs trembling from the position. The angle was unnatural—perfect—your arms still grounded you, your pussy tilted toward him like an open mouth begging to be filled. Your thighs tightened with every breath he took, every twitch of his cock as he positioned himself. And he pushed in all at once. “I can feel your heartbeat around my cock,” he said, his voice a gritted rasp.

Your mouth dropped open in a soundless gasp, your head tilting back, your arms shaking beneath you as your cunt clenched around him from the sudden fullness. You could feel every inch of him—every throb, every twitch—so deep it felt like he’d never leave your body again.

Your legs locked tighter. Your arms strained to keep balance while your body pulsed around him, helpless to anything but the slow, punishing drag of his hips. And he moved. Just a steady, ruthless rhythm, rocking you forward with every thrust—forcing your body to take him in angles that made your stomach tremble. “Don’t pass out yet—I’m not done proving I’m stronger than you.”

“Oh, fuck off. You’re disgusting,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm.

His heart nearly swelled. Fuck off? He’s influenced you. “Call me disgusting again. Go on. I’ll moan your name while I keep ruining you,” he said, his voice thick with desire. It was sudden; the knot started swelling so fast it pulled a ragged sound out of him—a half-moan, half-growl, his teeth clenched like it hurt to feel this good. He was trembling—addicted— and pulsing around the knot that wouldn't let go. He was fighting for his life. You clenched down at his words, your heels nudging him deeper as his knee nearly buckled.

“You’re mine, mouth and all. So shut the fuck up, or I’ll make it worse. Just tell me I’m your bitch. I’ll wear it like a crown. I can take more. Sit on my face again, like last time—I’ll breathe later. Tie me down and fuck me dumb; make me useless. That’s what you want, right?” It all spilled out in broken fragments like a truth serum.

“We’ll see,” you responded.

Variant #17 (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!)

You come home to silence, which is odd. Because Variant 17 is never quiet. He likes to remind you he’s there—pacing, hovering, teasing, demanding attention even when he doesn’t need it, especially when he doesn’t need it. The apartment looks fine. There are no signs of a fight. But something buzzes under your skin the second you shut the door behind you. That strange, oppressive heat in the air… You round the corner to the bedroom and stop short.

He’s already there, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows on his knees—breathing like he just ran a marathon. His skin is flushed, and his pupils are blown. The second he sees you, he grins.

“Finally,” he says, his voice low and gravelly with strain. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.” Your eyes flick to his throat, bitten and bruised from the last time he threw you against the wall. The marks still haven’t faded, just like yours. “Oh no,” you mutter. “Again?”

His smile sharpens. “You say that like I planned this.”

He stands slowly, almost lazily, despite the twitch in his jaw, and stalks toward you. His suit is on the floor, and his knuckles are bruised. He smells like sweat, ozone, and you. You backpedal, but he doesn’t chase. He just says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You scoff. “Because you’ve been humping the couch like a damn dog in heat—”

“Because I am,” he snaps. “And you left me here suffering.”

You try to shove him, but he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head. “Still so stubborn,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Fine. I’ll fuck the resistance out of you.”

He doesn’t kiss your mouth—not yet. Just watches you. That cool, calculated expression is gone now, burned out by the haze of his heat. He’s not just attempting to be dominant—he’s deranged with it, shaking slightly as he presses himself harder into you.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Before you, I had an ex that resisted too. You know what I did?” His eyes narrow. “I fucked her until she cried and then begged me to make her a queen.”

“You’re disgusting,” you say flatly.

He just smirks. “You say that now.”

He knows you don’t mean it, and if you did, you're now stained by his very presence, defiled by his wants. The desperation takes over. His hips rut against yours shamelessly—his teeth dragging across your jaw—fingers digging into your thighs as he hoists you higher. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance, but it only makes him hungrier.

“I was gonna be patient. I was gonna convince you,” he growls. “But this—this is your fault. You made me wait. You let me suffer. And now you think I’m gonna stop before you’re begging me to stay?”

The slick from his precum smears against your bottoms. He is feral, utterly consumed by his desires. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to chide him. “How many orgasms does it take to turn a little rebel into a queen?” His authority is being questioned with every action. He walks like he owns you, talks like he’s already won. His words are sharp, cocky, laced with superiority and amusement, like he’s just entertaining you until you break. But his body tells the truth.

He kisses you like every second your lips aren't on his is a personal insult. The moment your mouths meet —his hands slide into your hair, tilting your head back with a quiet, commanding drawl. It's slow at first, but controlling. But when your hands fist in his shirt—tugging—he loses it. He bites your lip and moans into the kiss. His hips rock into you, and he groans like he hates how good you feel. He pants, licking into your mouth again like he's ready to devour the last of your resistance.

His fingers twitch at his sides when you don’t move fast enough toward the bed. The way he breathes through his nose to keep it even—calm, cold—while his pupils are already blown wide from scenting your skin. The clench in his jaw when you lean in close, and he doesn’t flinch, but he stops blinking. He says he’s in control. He says he’s patient. But his hands shake when they finally touch you.

Every article of clothing is gone. There’s no grace anymore, just hunger. He strips you like you’re the only cure, moaning when your thighs press together. You’re left as his equal, in lust and in the nude, as his damp cock presses against you within the confines of his boxers.

The second the fabric left your skin, he changed. What started as cocky hands pulling your underwear aside—slow, smug, practiced—now turned frantic. The moment your bodies were bare, he hesitated, just for a second. Like the sight of you finally being exposed knocked the breath clean out of his chest.

His cock twitched, and his jaw clenched. He groaned—low, guttural, like his body betrayed him by reacting before he had the chance to mock you for it. He didn't speak. Otherwise, the words would've come out shaken, and his pride couldn’t handle that.

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, hooked his arms under your knees, and folded you in half—knees tucked high to your chest, back arched off the mattress. Your hands instinctively gripped behind your thighs, holding them there, perfectly presented.

Then he moved over you. His toes dug into the sheets, his body hovering just enough to control the angle—forty degrees of domination, cock aligned with brutal precision as he pressed forward with an unsteady breath. The slide-in was deep. His composure crumbled almost immediately as he realized you held the very power he attempted to steal. Completely open and vulnerable to him, and yet his nerves felt alight.

You watched his expression twist, his eyebrows pinched, mouth parted, pupils dilated—as the sensation rocked through him. He moved hard from the first thrust, his hips slamming into yours with rhythmic force, his abs tightening with every movement. But for all his aggression, it wasn’t anger—it was panic masquerading as power. He was unraveling too fast. Your walls fluttered around him, and he twitched, his thrusts faltering.

He tried to hold it together. Tried to go faster, deeper, rougher—tried to dominate. But his face gave him away. “You’re not as untouchable as you pretend to be, Mark,” you mused, although through choked sobs. The air leaving your lungs came in short bursts, unable to breathe as he pummeled into you, your body curling into itself. You open your mouth to taunt, only for his face to close in, his breath fanning your face. “Say it. Say you’re not mine. I dare you.”

His brows knitted tighter. His mouth hung open. A trembling gasp escaped when your body clenched just right. His hands, once firm on your thighs, now gripped like he was afraid of being pushed out. And when your legs shook in his hands, when your slick dripped down to his balls with every brutal thrust? He lost it. “I’m supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.”

You felt him stutter—his hips stalling, jaw slack, and his body shaking from the effort to keep control. His cock throbbed deep inside you, his breath turned ragged, and still, he fucked into you like you were the only anchor he had left. Then suddenly… he remembered who the fuck he was. Sure, he could be a brat, even doing this for the sake of vengeance. He persevered regardless.

He pulled out in one slow, wet slide, watching the way your body clenched and twitched at the loss. His back arched inwards, and he looked down at you—ruined, smug, triumphant—and for a moment? He just stared. His hands were everywhere now—pushing your legs apart wider, guiding your hips into the perfect angle, dragging your ass back into place. You tried to shift. He didn’t let you. His grip was unyielding, fingers sinking into your flesh with possessive finality.

It was different, one fluid jerk. Buried to the hilt, grinding slowly, deliberately—just to feel your walls flutter. His body rolled against yours like a machine built for precision destruction. Each thrust carried weight and rhythm like a punishment laced with adoration. He felt it. Felt your legs twitch, your walls tighten, and your breath catch. Instead of slowing, he pistoned forward, chasing your peak like it was his right to feel you come around him again and again, until your moans weren't pretty anymore.

“You live with me. You sleep in my bed. And you still act like you’re not mine?” He was falling apart. And you never said a word. He could throw a fit if he wanted to, but your defiance is what drove him mad. Because this was his undoing—not the position, not the pleasure, but you. The way you let him think he was in charge… until he wasn't. And when your body clenched around him, slow and deliberate? He moaned, not cocky, not cruel, just ruined. His knee momentarily bent into the plush mattress as his thighs shook. It was like you’d stolen something from him. And he was grateful.

His hips continued to piston as if to punish you. But every word was backed by panic. Just this involuntary drive to make you stay, to make you need him back. Because underneath all that power, he was terrified that if he lets up—just once—you’ll walk away. And that thought derails him. So he fucks you like he’s proving something. And every time you moan his name, every time you whimper, or beg, or tease him? His heart races. He’s more addicted to you than he’ll ever admit. And that’s why he dominates. Because if he doesn’t stay on top, he’ll fall apart.

“You’re lucky I even let you touch me like this. You’d be a wreck if I left right now,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Your cunt squeezes, causing him to slam deeper, earning a yelp to crawl from your throat. His ego and god complex nearly shattered upon hearing it. His dick was twitching, muscles jumping beneath his skin as he grimaced in pleasure.

Burned sugar, sandalwood, scorched velvet, and ash. That’s his scent. It’s infuriatingly addictive. Sweet in a toxic way, like cotton candy laced with smoke. It doesn’t feel like comfort—it feels like compulsion. You hate how much you like it. It clings to the back of your tongue, gets stuck in your hair, and when he’s inside you? It’s everywhere. He leans down, nose nuzzling into your scalp as he inhales it like a drug fix. He reeks of dominance slipping into madness.

Dipping his head slightly, he bites into your clavicle with no mercy. A sound between a snarl and a moan leaps from his throat. The unrelenting pounding of his hips caused his teeth to grind slightly. If he doesn't claim you now, he’d lose himself. Not like you two had a choice, as he came without warning—a strangled groan being the only indication as your insides spasmed around him. He murmured into your collarbone, “Tell me I’m yours. Say it. Even if you don’t mean it, lie to me.” You obliged, the words barely coherent but enough to make his ears ring. A pained and pleasured whine left you; no amount of tensing his abdomen withheld the flood he released, his dick bulging inside you as the knot formed. Your insides practically latched onto him.

With bated breath, he leaned back, staring proudly at his work before he sighed, frustrated. “I was winning, and then you made that noise—fuck.” A quiet whine echoed in his voice. “All that attitude and you still came first. Typical.” Your eyes finally focused, narrowing on his gaze.

“Don’t… don’t fucking look at me like that. I meant to last longer,” he says, his voice ragged. “I was supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.” His eyes scanned over the marking, almost like his name was carved into it. Suddenly leaning up, you clamp down on his chest with your teeth, and he freezes mid-thrust, then growls. “Ohhh, so that’s how you want it?” His breath is ragged now. “You little fucking traitor. You think biting me’s gonna save you?” But his hips rut harder. “Do it again. Prove you’re mine too. You’re coming into my empire anyway.” Truthfully, you didn’t mind. But he had finally earned you. TEASERSSSS (Part 3, if requested. Congratulations, reader!!)

@ploiigee

(Photo stitching made by me!)

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elikajinnie · 6 days ago

Note

priest vampire sunghoon plsplspls

P: VampirePriest!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (18+)

Warnings: Mature Themes, Explicit Content, Blood, Power Imbalance, Religious Themes, Obsession, Moral Dilemmas, Vampirism, Temptation, Forbidden Desire, Profanation, Blasphemy, Suggestive Content, Touchstarved!Sunghoon, Stalking, Supernatural Elements, Seduction, Emotional Turmoil, Hints Of God Complex, Gothic Elements, Feral Behaviour, Body Worship, Begging, Corruption, Death, Destructive Obsession, Slight Smut (munch!hoon), Implied Mind Control, Dirty Talk, Sadistic Behavior, yall hes messy.

Synopsis: A summer visit home becomes a tempting mistake when you're dragged to church and meet the priest, Sunghoon. Mysterious and cold, he ignites a dangerous desire within you, drawing you closer. But what you don’t know is that he’s barely holding himself back from worshiping you with the hunger of centuries. After all, it’s been lifetimes since he let himself corrupt someone so divine.

a/n: For all my fellow girls who crave to be desired in a way that’s inhuman, proceed.(Commentary and reblogs are appreciated! MDNI!!!)

now playing : night crawling by miley cyrus | judas (80s ver.) by gabriella raelyn | oxytocin by billie eillish | take me back to eden by sleep token

Desire is a dangerous thing. It is the ache in the pit of your stomach, the throb beneath your skin that no logic can quiet, no reasoning can soothe. Everyone knows it, in one form or another of this insatiable yearning, this quiet hunger that stirs within, threatening to consume all that is good, all that is right.

It begins innocently enough, a glance, a word, a touch—but once it takes root, it grows like a vine, winding its way around the soul, suffocating the senses. Desire doesn’t come with warnings. It doesn’t come with kindness or restraint. It doesn’t care about the fragile nature of human hearts or the sanity of minds. It is a predator, relentless and cunning, knowing that the weaker the will, the more easily it can take hold.

Humans were made to want, to need, to crave—but it is those who are already broken, or those who have yet to understand the depth of their own weakness, who fall hardest. Once it has taken root, desire doesn’t fade. It doesn’t relinquish its grip once it has tasted blood. It grows, claws its way deeper, burrowing into the marrow of a person’s soul until they are left nothing more than a hollowed shell, a slave to their own longing. And the more it pulls them in, the more they fight against it, the stronger it becomes.

The mind, fragile and worn, will betray the body, and in the face of such overwhelming need, there is no escape. When desire has settled its claim, it will never leave, not until it has destroyed everything in its path. It is relentless, unforgiving, and it promises only one thing: satisfaction, at any cost.

With no summer plans in sight and a quiet ache for the familiar, you didn't hesitate much to spend your vacation back home. The long, warm days seemed endless and devoid of anything exciting, and the thought of retreating to your childhood home, where everything was comfortingly known, felt like a relief. Yet, as you pulled into the driveway, something felt off.

The house, once a place of chaotic warmth, was now adorned with crosses—large, ornate ones hanging on every wall, their dark wood contrasting sharply with the usual homely decor. The smell of incense was heavy in the air, cloying and thick, almost suffocating. It curled around the doorway like a persistent, invasive presence.

The familiar sound of your parents' voices calling your name from within was the same, but there was a coldness to it, an undercurrent of something...different. You paused, your hand resting on the doorframe, taking in the unfamiliar sight of your own home, now draped in the symbols of something you hadn't thought about in years. Something that made your pulse quicken, though you couldn’t quite place why.

You shook off the strange atmosphere that clung to the house, ignoring the overpowering incense and the rows of crosses in favor of hugging your parents, who were as warm and welcoming as always. Their smiles, though slightly strained, put you at ease for a moment.

You escaped to your old bedroom, which, thankfully, hadn't been changed. The faded posters on the walls, the cluttered desk, the soft bed you used to sleep in—it all felt like nothing had shifted, like you were just a kid again. You unpacked quickly, not giving the house or the unsettling changes much thought. It was easier to pretend everything was the same.

After a quick change into something more comfortable, you decided to head out into town, hoping to clear your head and reacquaint yourself with the familiar streets. You hadn't been back in years, and the nostalgic idea of revisiting old hangouts, grabbing a coffee at the local café, and catching up with old friends seemed like the perfect way to ease into your summer.

But when you stepped into the small town, the reality felt different. The streets were quieter than usual, and as you passed by the few pedestrians, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle detail that seemed almost... unnatural. Almost every person you passed had a cross hanging from their necks, large and prominent, some of them shining with a strange intensity under the sun. It wasn’t just one or two people—it was almost everyone. The sight of the crosses clashed with the warm familiarity of the town, making your skin prickle with unease.

You didn’t know why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t like people hadn’t worn crosses before, but this... it felt wrong. There was something in the way they wore them—too purposeful, too synchronized. The way they all seemed to move in the same rhythm, eyes cast downward or forward, never meeting your gaze. It felt as though the town itself was holding its breath, waiting for something. And you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were the outsider, the one who didn’t belong.

The longer you wandered through the town, the more that strange feeling grew in your chest, like something was tightening around your ribs, constricting your breath. You couldn't ignore it. Something had changed in this town. Something... off.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, you started searching for a familiar face. Someone who could shed some light on the unsettling shift in the atmosphere. That’s when you spotted Wonyoung, one of your old friends, lingering by a jewelry kiosk in the mall. She looked the same but there was a certain distance in her eyes, a coolness that hadn’t been there before.

You walked up to her, and her face lit up with recognition. The reunion was warm, like slipping into a favorite sweater, but something felt strange in the way she held herself, how she glanced around the area before speaking.

"I didn’t expect to see you back here," she said with a faint chuckle, her eyes flickering nervously to the others in the mall, all of them with crosses around their necks.

You couldn't hold back any longer. "Wonyoung, what’s going on? Everyone... everyone is wearing crosses, and they all seem so... strange. Why? Is there something happening here I don’t know about?"

Wonyoung hesitated for a moment, glancing down at the cross around her own neck before meeting your eyes. There was something in her expression—reluctance, maybe fear—that set off another alarm in your mind.

"It’s... the church," she finally said, her voice low, as though speaking louder might draw unwanted attention. "The local church. We got a new priest a few months ago. And after he came, it’s like the whole town shifted. More than half of the town became his parishioners, and they all started wearing these." She tugged at the chain around her neck. "It wasn’t like this before. People didn’t used to... worship like this. Not so openly."

You frowned, trying to process the information. "So it’s the priest?" you asked, trying to connect the dots. "What’s so special about him?"

Wonyoung shifted uncomfortably, as if the words themselves were heavy. "I don’t really know, but he... he’s different. The way he speaks, the way he looks at you—it’s like he’s pulling you in, making you want to... believe, to follow. People feel like they need to be closer to him, like he’s some sort of... beacon."

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, "What about you, Wonyoung? Are you one of his followers?"

Wonyoung shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, her fingers playing nervously with the chain around her neck. She seemed torn, as if battling with something inside her before finally looking up at you. “I really wasn’t at first,” she admitted, her voice quiet, almost apologetic. “I mean, I didn’t really believe in all of it. But... after my parents dragged me to one of his sermons, things started to change.”

She paused, gathering her thoughts, her eyes drifting downward. "At first, it was just like any other service, but there was something about the way he spoke. The way he looked at everyone—it felt... different. He has this presence, like he sees right through you. It made me feel... seen, in a way. And then, it wasn’t just the sermon—it was the people. The congregation. They all seemed so... together. Like they were all part of something bigger than themselves, something important. I guess I started to like that feeling. The idea of belonging.”

Her voice trailed off, and you could see the conflict on her face—the way she was fighting against her own admission. You could tell she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the path she had found herself on, but there was also a longing in her eyes that made it clear she had been drawn in, just like everyone else. It was as though this priest, this man, had found a way to pull at something deep inside her, something she didn’t even realize she was missing.

“It’s not just about religion anymore, though,” Wonyoung continued, her words more hesitant now. “It’s more about... him. And how everyone around him seems to glow with this... certainty. He makes you believe. Not just in God, but in him. It’s... unsettling, but it’s also... comforting.” She swallowed hard, her gaze flicking back up to yours. “I know it sounds strange, but I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t want to become one of his followers. But now I don’t know if I can walk away.”

You couldn’t ignore the chills creeping up your spine. There was something in the way she spoke, in the way she seemed almost resigned to it, that made you realize how deep the grip of this man had taken hold.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but something’s wrong here,” you whispered, your stomach twisting. “Do you think... do you think he’s changing people?”

Wonyoung blinked at you, then let out a soft, incredulous laugh—as if you’d told her the punchline to a joke only she didn’t find concerning. “Changing?” she echoed, shaking her head. “What are you talking about? How would he? That’s crazy.”

Her tone was light, but there was something behind her eyes—something flat and unreadable, like a door that had quietly shut.

“Listen,” she continued, brushing her hair behind her ear, her fingers still lightly grazing the cross around her neck. “If you saw his sermons, you would know. He’s not dangerous. He’s...” She paused, her eyes softening, distant. “He’s everything this town needed.”

That struck you more than anything else she’d said. There was a strange calm in her voice, too smooth, too rehearsed. You looked at her—really looked—and suddenly it hit you. Wonyoung was different. Not just in the way she spoke, but in the way she carried herself. There was a quiet rigidity to her posture, a steadiness to her smile that hadn’t been there before. She looked like Wonyoung, sounded like her—but something underneath had shifted. Subtle. Deep.

You felt a chill curl up your spine, but you didn’t press it. Something in your gut told you not to.

Instead, you forced a weak smile and nodded. “Yeah... maybe you’re right.”

Wonyoung smiled back, satisfied, and for a moment, it was like nothing had changed at all. But as you watched her turn and walk away, slipping into the slow, measured crowd moving through the mall like a school of sleepwalkers, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just spoken to someone who was no longer entirely herself.

With a hundred questions, zero answers, and a gnawing curiosity you couldn’t quiet, you made your way back home. The air outside was cooler now, dusk creeping across the sky, soft shadows stretching long over the sidewalks. The town looked normal—peaceful, even—but everything felt off.

When you finally stepped inside your house, hoping to decompress and rest before you started investigating whatever was happening around you, you were immediately met with your parents standing in the hallway. Their faces were calm, expectant.

“There you are,” your mother said, smoothing down her blouse like it mattered. “Go get dressed, we’re leaving soon.”

You blinked. “Leaving? Where?”

“Church,” your father replied. One word. Final. “We don’t want to be late.”

Your stomach turned. “Church? Now? It’s almost dark.”

Your mother offered a thin, practiced smile. “Evening mass. It’s a special service tonight. Father Park asked everyone to attend.”

Father Park. That had to be him. The priest. The one Wonyoung had talked about with such unshakable reverence. The one who had supposedly arrived just a few months ago and already had the town in his grasp.

You hesitated, your pulse picking up slightly. “Since when do you go to church at night?”

Your father’s expression didn’t shift, but there was something steelier behind his eyes. “Since he came. Evening masses are more... intimate.”

You stared at them, a thousand protests forming behind your lips, but none of them made it out. The weight of their stare, calm but expectant, like they already knew you’d say yes, made it feel pointless to argue. So you nodded slowly, feeling like your body moved on its own.

You stared at them, a thousand protests forming behind your lips, but none of them made it out. The weight of their stare made it feel pointless to argue. So you nodded slowly, your limbs moving before your mind could fully catch up, as if something unseen had already been decided for you.

You slipped into your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. For a moment, you just stood there, your back against the wood, the silence of your childhood bedroom pressing in around you like a cocoon. You exhaled shakily, trying to shake the eerie numbness clinging to your skin.

You hadn’t planned for this. You hadn’t packed for church. Especially not church at night.

Dragging your suitcase onto the bed, you rifled through the contents with vague frustration. What did people even wear to mass now? Especially one led by a priest who seemed to have the entire town wrapped around his finger?

Eventually, your fingers landed on a dress—simple, dark, soft to the touch. It wasn’t overtly modest, but it wasn’t scandalous either. It hugged your figure in a subtle way, with a neckline just high enough to be respectful. Pretty, but not loud. You threw a cardigan over it for good measure, telling yourself it was just for warmth—but you knew it was more than that. You didn’t want to stand out.

As you slipped it on, brushing down the fabric, you caught your reflection in the mirror.

A beat passed. Then two. And for the first time since coming home, you felt it settle inside you.

Anticipation.

You didn’t know what was waiting at that church, but some part of you—some reckless, curious part—wanted to find out.

You did your final touch-ups in the mirror—lip balm, a quick brush through your hair, and a spritz of the perfume. Just enough to feel composed. Presentable. Your heart beat a little faster than it should’ve as you stood, smoothed down your dress, and stepped out into the hall.

The moment your parents saw you, they lit up—not in the way parents usually do when they’re proud, but more like they were relieved. Like your compliance had sealed something.

“You look nice,” your mother said, adjusting a curl behind your ear, too gentle.

Then your father opened the door and gestured out. “Come on. We have to walk. Father Park hates lateness.”

You blinked. “Walk?” you echoed, eyes flicking toward the car parked in the driveway. “But the church—”

“No time,” your mother cut in, already nudging you outside with a gentle but firm hand on your back. “It’s a beautiful night. You’ll see.”

You wanted to protest, to at least ask why, but something in their tone—their urgency masked as casual suggestion—made your words die in your throat. So you didn’t fight. You just started walking.

The three of you moved in near silence. The only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas in the trees. Your parents walked on either side of you, not speaking, not even glancing your way. They didn’t seem nervous, but their stillness made you feel like you were walking through a dream. One that didn’t entirely belong to you.

As you moved farther from the heart of town, the houses became more spread out, the streetlights dimmer, the woods thicker on either side. The church sat near the outskirts—always had. Nestled close to the forest line, surrounded by whispering trees and low stone walls draped in ivy. You’d walked this path before, years ago, but it felt different now. Hollowed out.

You remembered the church from before. The old building was nothing fancy—a faded wooden structure with white-trimmed windows and a creaky steeple bell that only worked half the time. The sanctuary had always been small but warm. The former priest, Father Yoon, had been kind, if not a little pushy. He talked too long during sermons and tended to ramble about the “youth losing their way,” but there had been nothing sinister about him. Just an old man trying to hold on to something that was slipping from him.

But as the forest began to thin and the roof of the church came into view, you felt a cold pull in your chest.

This wasn’t the same church anymore.

Visually, it had changed. The building was larger now, its structure taller, more imposing, a solid black silhouette against the night sky. The wood, once faded and weathered, now seemed sleek and unnatural, as if it had absorbed the very darkness around it. Thick, twisted vines crawled up the sides of the church, their tendrils blackened by the night air, creeping like living things—like they were trying to claim the building, wrap it in an unsettling embrace.

The tall doors of the church stood wide open, as if welcoming the town. And the people, those same figures you had seen earlier, drifted in one by one, filing through the entrance with the same slow, synchronized steps, their faces unreadable. The flickering lights inside cast long, eerie shadows across their faces, but none of them looked at you as you approached. They simply moved forward, as though they were part of something that had already begun, a ritual too far gone to interrupt.

You didn’t know when you had started walking slower, but now you found yourself frozen at the edge of the churchyard. The old feeling of comfort was gone. All you could feel was the weight of the place, pressing down on you. The church, once a simple, humble place, now seemed like a fortress. And the vines—those strange, living things that clung to its walls—looked almost alive in the moonlight, as if they were growing in time with each passing moment.

You took a deep breath, your feet moving almost involuntarily as you stepped into the building. The moment you crossed the threshold, a heavy stillness settled over you. It was different from the church you remembered—much different. The walls, once simple and light, now held a dark, polished sheen, reflecting the pale light of the lamps that hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room. The flickering light from the lanterns seemed almost too warm, too intimate, but it did little to chase away the cold feeling crawling up your spine.

The large windows, once clear and bright, now let in the moonlight in sharp slivers, casting long beams that split the room into dark patches and pools of light. The entire space felt like it was bathed in an eerie glow, the pale light falling onto the rows of benches, now arranged neatly and facing forward. It felt more like an arena than a place of worship, the rows of seats rigid and orderly, leaving no room for deviation, for choice. All eyes would be on the stand, on the pulpit where the priest would stand, a figure of unquestionable authority.

You instinctively looked toward the altar, but your gaze was pulled away by something else. To the side, there was a confession booth, much larger than the one you remembered, and something about it made your skin crawl. It seemed too close to the shadows, too hidden in the corners of the room. But it wasn’t just the booth—it was the staircase that caught your attention.

A spiraling staircase that curved both up and down, disappearing into the dark, unknown spaces above and below. You could feel the weight of it—the spiral seemed endless, its steps disappearing into the shadows like they led to places you weren’t meant to see. The stairs felt wrong—too grand, too foreboding, and there was an unsettling sense of movement in the air, as if something was waiting there.

You stood frozen for a moment, your heart beating harder in your chest, fighting the overwhelming urge to flee. The place felt like a trap, as if it was waiting for you to step further into its embrace. Your parents were already sitting quietly in one of the pews, their faces serene, unbothered by the strange atmosphere. You wanted to join them, to blend in, to pretend nothing had changed.

But before you could take a single step, the tall entrance doors groaned shut behind you.

You turned just in time to see a woman—dressed in long, flowing black robes with a white veil pinned tightly over her hair—close and latch them with practiced ease. Her movements were graceful, reverent. You guessed, by her modest attire and solemn expression, that she must be a nun. She gave no one a second glance as she walked forward, past the rows of silent, seated townspeople, her footsteps echoing in the heavy stillness.

Suddenly aware of your own lingering presence at the back, you scanned for an empty seat. Your parents were far ahead, already facing the altar with their heads slightly bowed. Everyone else sat perfectly still, their posture straight, their gazes fixed downward. There was no room beside them, and no time to hesitate. You slid into an empty space near the back, away from the eyes of the crowd, trying to quiet the unease gnawing at your spine.

The nun reached the front and turned to face the congregation. Her voice rang out, soft yet commanding.

“Please rise for Father Park.”

At once, the room responded. People stood with eerie synchronicity, the sound of movement uniform, mechanical, almost rehearsed. You stood too, though slower than the rest, feeling out of step, like a foreign body in a ceremony that wasn’t meant for you.

And then you saw him.

He emerged from the spiraling staircase behind the altar, rising slowly from the depths of the church as though he had been waiting below, nestled in the dark. You held your breath as his figure came into view—and your breath caught.

He was beautiful.

But not in a way that felt safe.

Tall, composed, with black hair slicked back from his forehead, his pale skin nearly luminescent under the flickering lanterns. His features were sharply drawn—angular jawline, high cheekbones, and a mouth set in a line of quiet, unreadable discipline. His eyes scanned the room with unsettling precision, dark and penetrating, like they were cataloging every soul in the pews.

Young. He was young—too young to be the man everyone had spoken of with such reverence. He looked more like a model than a priest. And yet, every inch of him radiated power. Control.

He reached the altar without a sound, his long black coat brushing the floor as he moved. When he lifted a gloved hand and made a simple gesture, the entire room sat down as one, the wooden pews groaning softly beneath the movement.

You hesitated, then sat too, your eyes never leaving him.

The gloves. Black, elegant, and tight over his fingers. He wore them as though they were part of his uniform, but something about them struck you as... odd.

His gaze swept across the hall like a blade, slow and calculated, dissecting each face with unnerving precision. When he began to speak, his voice carried easily through the church—deep, smooth, laced with an unfamiliar accent that made his words drip like honey and iron all at once.

He spoke of sin.

Of temptation.

Of how the human soul was weak by design, always yearning, always reaching for things that could destroy it. He spoke of how one must repel sin, reject desire, cast away pleasure in favor of purity. His words should’ve been cold, should’ve sounded like warning bells—but they didn’t. They drew you in, low and rhythmic, like a lullaby sung too close to a flame. There was something dangerous in the way he spoke, something addictive in every syllable that left his lips.

“Sin does not scream,” he said softly, walking slowly behind the altar, gloved hands moving with controlled grace. “It whispers. It waits. It watches until your soul is quiet... and then it moves.”

But then—he looked at you.

And everything stopped.

His voice halted mid-sentence, mid-thought. His eyes locked onto yours across the room like a vice closing around your throat. You felt your heart skip, then stumble. You swallowed hard, unsure why his gaze felt like it had pierced straight through your skin, straight into your spine. He didn’t blink. He didn’t look away.

You didn’t notice the way his chest rose with a sharp inhale, like he’d caught scent of something he hadn’t expected. You didn’t see how his hands tensed, knuckles pressing through the leather of his gloves, the sound of creaking fabric just barely audible. You didn’t hear the quiet swallow as he forced down the sudden pooling of saliva in his mouth.

But you did notice when he spoke again.

Because he didn’t look away from you when he did. Not once.

“And yet,” he began again, his voice lower now, richer, like wine left to darken in the bottle, “the greatest danger of sin… is not when it arrives like a beast at your door.” He took one slow step forward. “No. It is when it comes softly.” Another step. “When it wears beauty like a mask. When it makes you want it. When it looks you in the eye and asks if you’re still strong enough to say no.”

Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the bench, a strange heat crawling up your spine.

“It is not the devil who is hardest to resist,” he murmured, eyes still on yours, voice barely above a whisper, “it is the angel… with blood on their hands.”

His words struck something deep inside you—so quiet yet so thunderous it echoed in your bones. The air in the church shifted, thickened, like every person in the room had collectively forgotten how to breathe. But he didn’t break eye contact. Not once. As if the rest of the congregation had vanished, as if the sermon itself had been for you all along.

Your breath hitched. Something deep in your stomach twisted—not out of fear, but something stranger, something heavier. His voice, his presence, the way he spoke of sin as if it were a seduction rather than a warning… it lit a fire under your skin. One you didn’t know you’d been carrying.

He finally looked away, but the spell didn’t break.

You barely registered the rest of the sermon. His voice faded into the background, low and reverent, but you heard none of it. All you could think about was the way he had looked at you—like you were something he’d been waiting for. Like he knew things about you that even you hadn’t admitted.

When the final prayer was said and the congregation rose to their feet, the room began to shift back into motion—shuffling feet, quiet murmurs, coats being pulled on, doors creaking open. You stayed seated longer than you meant to, but your parents found you quickly, their smiles gentle, as if nothing about tonight had been strange at all.

“We’ll head home first,” your mother said softly, brushing a hand over your shoulder. “You should go introduce yourself to Father Park. He’s always eager to meet new faces—especially returning ones.”

Your father nodded in agreement. “He'll appreciate it. And it’s only polite.”

Polite.

That word rang hollow in your head as you hesitated, watching them disappear out the church doors without another word. The crowd had thinned fast, most people filing out with the same calm, synchronized rhythm they’d arrived with. And up at the front, near the altar, Father Park still stood.

Tall. Still. Unmoving.

He wasn’t addressing anyone. He wasn’t pretending to be occupied. He simply stood there, watching the people as they passed him with slight nods or murmured goodbyes. His hands remained behind his back. His presence was quiet, but it filled the entire space, commanding without effort.

You swallowed hard and made your way down the center aisle, your footsteps softer than they’d ever been. Each step forward felt louder in your ears than it should have, like the church was holding its breath again just for you.

He wasn’t watching the others anymore.

His head turned the moment you approached, and then—his eyes found yours again. And this time, they didn’t leave.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even pretend not to stare.

His gaze stayed locked on you, dark and unreadable, and something about it rooted you in place. There was no smile. No welcoming gesture. Just a long, piercing silence and that look—like he’d been expecting you long before you ever stepped foot in this building.

And then, finally, in a voice like velvet stretched tight over steel, he spoke. “I’ve never seen you around before.” His words weren’t a question, but a quiet observation. His voice carried no warmth, but it wasn’t cold either. It simply was, like truth laid bare. You felt it settle in your spine, low and humming, as though your name were perched on the tip of his tongue without ever being spoken.

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of how small the space between you felt, despite the cavernous size of the church. “I’m just visiting,” you said, doing your best to sound composed. “I came back for the summer. My parents—” you glanced toward the doors, “—they still live here.”

He hummed softly, a low, thoughtful sound that sent a ripple of heat down your neck.

His gaze drifted down your figure and slowly returned to your face, unapologetically. Not lewd. Not hesitant. As if he had every right to look, to see. The weight of it made you feel exposed, like you were standing beneath a spotlight instead of the flickering lamplight of the altar.

“I see,” he said finally, tone unreadable. “The summer.” He repeated it like the word itself was strange on his tongue. Like it was new. Or irrelevant.

There was a long pause, the kind that might have been awkward if not for the sheer gravity of his presence. You had the strangest feeling he wasn’t just studying your appearance—he was studying your soul, peeling back the layers of your thoughts, tasting your fear, your curiosity, your desire.

You shifted slightly under his gaze, unsure of what to say next.

“Well,” he said, voice just above a murmur, “then I hope you plan to stay a while. Summer can be... transformative.” The way he said it—low, the faintest touch of something darker beneath his words—sent a jolt through you. His tone wrapped around your spine like silk and thorns, and before you could stop yourself, your thighs pressed together instinctively, your body reacting before your mind caught up.

You hoped—prayed—he hadn’t noticed.

But he had.

Of course he had.

Father Park’s eyes didn’t flicker, didn’t change. He didn’t smirk, didn’t taunt. His expression remained perfectly composed, his features carved from something cool and ancient. But deep beneath the surface of that carefully maintained mask, he had felt it—that flicker of want in you, the smallest tremor of hunger responding to his voice.

And he savored it.

Not outwardly, no. That would be undignified. Unrefined. And if there was one thing Father Park had mastered over the centuries, it was control. He had honed it like a blade, sharp and precise, learning to curb his desire, to bury his hunger beneath layers of stillness and sacred words. But even the most disciplined predator knew when to watch, when to wait. And now, watching you struggle to keep your expression neutral, your posture steady, he knew—you felt it too.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” he said softly, as if it were nothing more than a polite gesture. But beneath those words, there was a deeper pulse, something that stirred the air between you like a warning… or a promise. His eyes lingered just a second longer than they should have. Then, he tilted his head slightly, voice dropping even lower—intimate, like confession. “If you ever find yourself burdened,” he said, “if you ever feel your demons clawing at the edges of you… come to me.” A pause. “I can help you repel your sins. I’ll guide you. Cleanse you.”

The words sent another chill down your spine, but not out of fear. There was something in his tone that suggested he already knew your sins. Or worse—that he was ready to create them.

You swallowed the dryness in your throat and nodded—silent, unsure of what else to say.

He studied you for a moment longer, unreadable behind the perfect stillness of his face. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. Just that unshakable calm, carved into him like stone.

Then, without a word, he turned.

His footsteps were silent, impossibly so, as he moved through the dim light of the altar. The shadows clung to him, rising like smoke, curling around his figure as if they knew him—as if they welcomed him back. And just like that, they swallowed him whole. One blink, and he was gone.

You stood there, motionless in the now-empty church. The last few traces of candlelight flickered low on the walls, casting long, twitching shapes across the pews. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was thick. Watchful. Like something in the walls was still awake.

Only when your chest began to ache did you realize you were holding your breath.

You exhaled and turned, slowly making your way toward the doors. Each step echoed louder than it should have. Louder now that the room was empty… or nearly empty. You didn’t dare look back again.

The moment the heavy doors creaked open, the cold night air rushed in to meet you, sharp and clean against your flushed skin. You stepped outside, pulling your cardigan tighter around you as the chill seeped through the fabric.

You took one final glance over your shoulder, eyes drawn back to the church.

It loomed, silent and black against the sky, its sharp steeple cutting into the clouds like a blade. And there, just faintly visible under the pale shimmer of moonlight—you saw them.

Ravens.

Perched in a loose cluster along the roof’s edge, their glossy feathers barely shifting in the breeze. Unmoving. Watching.

Dozens of them, gathered like sentinels.

You stared, unease curling in your gut. It was too late for birds. Too cold. Too quiet. And yet they remained, still and silent, like they, too, were part of whatever lived in that church now.

You turned away.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

You didn’t go to the next sermons.

They were all held at night—just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, as if darkness itself were a requirement for gathering. That alone felt peculiar, unsettling even, though no one in town seemed to question it. Your parents asked you, more than once, voices soft and hopeful, if you’d join them again. “Father Park mentioned you,” your mother had said one evening, her tone casual, but her eyes too careful. “He’d be happy to see you return.”

You only offered a weak smile and the same excuse each time: “I’m not feeling great.”

They didn’t press, but they always left looking disappointed.

The truth, though—you wanted to go.

God, did you want to go.

Not for the sermons. Not for the hymns or the words meant to lift your soul. You wanted to go for him.

For Father Park.

The man who had looked at you like you were a secret he’d been waiting centuries to uncover. The man who spoke of sin like it was sacred and watched you like he knew exactly what kind of thoughts had crept into your head at night. Thoughts you shouldn’t have about a priest. Especially not one so young. So sharp. So... seductive.

He didn’t belong in a place like this. Not in a pulpit, not with scripture in his mouth. He belonged in smoke, in silk, in shadows.

He was a contradiction. A temptation wrapped in control. And he was a change.

Something new in your otherwise familiar world. You came back to this town to revisit old memories, to walk down quiet streets and remember who you were before everything got complicated. You didn’t come here to be unraveled. To ache for something you couldn’t name. To feel seen in a way that scared you.

And that—that—was what compelled you to stay away.

Because you knew if you went back, if you looked into those eyes again…you wouldn’t leave untouched.

And maybe that was what terrified you most—how ready a part of you already was. How your thoughts betrayed you late at night, imagining things that had nothing to do with salvation. Things that didn’t belong in pews or beneath stained glass windows.

Things that had everything to do with him.

You told yourself you were doing the right thing, that distance was control. That ignoring the magnetic pull you felt was a kind of strength. But each night you stayed home, while your parents filed into that dark church along with the rest of the town, you couldn’t help but wonder what you were missing.

Was he thinking of you?

Did he look toward the door, expecting to see you slip in late, breathless and repentant? Did he preach the same way, with the same quiet hunger in his voice, now that you weren’t there to watch him?

You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know. Because deep down, you were afraid of the answer. Afraid that yes, he was waiting. And worse—that if you returned, he would welcome you with open arms and fire behind his eyes.

So, you stayed away.

But every time the sun dipped low and you saw your parents put on their coats, every time you watched the quiet procession of neighbors walking in unison toward that looming black church at the forest’s edge, your heart thudded with something shamefully close to longing.

You weren’t avoiding temptation. You were circling it. Waiting for it to notice. Waiting for it to come find you.

But temptation was hungry. Temptation was patient.

It lingered in corners, nestled in silence, waiting for your resolve to thin like parchment under fire. It didn’t need to rush. It knew your name. It knew the rhythm of your breath when you dreamed of things you wouldn’t dare say aloud.

Temptation could be salvation or damnation—depending on how you knelt for it. Temptation could whisper like a prayer or choke like a curse. Temptation could wear holiness like a mask and still be made of sin. And temptation… could take any form wanted. Any form needed. Any form desired.

And desire—desire was the real sickness. The quiet rot that lived inside every person who ever wanted something they couldn’t have. Desire could bring a weak-willed human to their knees in a second. Strip them bare, not of clothing, but of reason, of restraint. It was intoxicating, relentless, and it never asked for permission.

And you weren’t built to resist it.

All it would take was one push. One glance. One word spoken too low, too close to your ear. Just one carefully timed breath against the hollow of your throat, and you’d fall.

Because temptation knew how to play the long game. And desire, when tangled in the hands of something eternal—something ancient and starving— wasn’t just dangerous.

It was fatal.

It didn’t knock. It seeped in. Through cracks in the walls, through dreams you barely remembered upon waking. It laced your thoughts, curled itself around your tongue when you tried to speak of anything else. It made the air taste different. It made silence feel watched.

And so it came for you, not with violence but with a whisper. A scent. A memory that didn’t belong to you.

The feeling of velvet against your skin though you hadn’t touched anything. The echo of your name when no one had called it. The pulse between your legs when you hadn’t even been thinking of him or maybe you had.

You told yourself you were strong. That distance was protection. But all the while, temptation waited, watched, just beyond your reach.

Because you could avoid the church. You could dodge the sermons. You could pretend not to miss the way his eyes burned through you like holy fire. But you couldn’t hide what was already inside you. And he knew that. He didn’t need to chase you. He only needed to wait.

Because something like you... something soft and full of quiet hunger would come back on its own.

The question was never if.

It was when.

And after all… you could only be strong for so long. Restraint was a thread—thin, fraying, stretched tighter with every passing day. And deep down, you knew it: your resistance was a performance. A little show you put on for your own conscience.

Because you were weak. Not for everyone. Not always. But for pretty men in black, with sharp eyes and sharp tongues. Men who wore their darkness like a second skin, who carried danger in their posture and poetry in their voice.

You were weak for men who spoke softly but left bruises on your thoughts. Especially when they looked at you like you were the answer to their own damnation.

And Father Park... He was every one of your weaknesses stitched into a single man.

A priest who dressed like a funeral. Who spoke like sin was an art form. Who gazed at you like you were both temptation and redemption wrapped into one trembling body.

He made holiness feel obscene. He talked about purity while looking at you like he wanted to ruin it. He spoke of sin in that velvet voice, low and reverent, and you found yourself wondering, how would that same voice sound pressed against your ear? Whispering not scripture… but filth?

It was a thought you tried to smother. But it grew. Festered. Bloomed in the dark like something unholy. And no matter how far you stayed, no matter how long you avoided the church, the truth was simple:

You were already halfway on your knees. All he had to do… was reach.

And reach he did...

It was late—later than you realized. The clock had long slipped past midnight, and the house was silent, wrapped in the kind of stillness only small towns knew. Your parents had returned from the evening’s sermon hours ago, murmuring softly about the beauty of the night’s message before retreating to their room like obedient sheep. Unlike you who was still awake, you could not sleep. Not when your thoughts were so loud. Not when his voice still echoed in them, warm and sinful and patient.

So you sat in the dark, curled on the couch in nothing but an oversized T-shirt, the TV screen casting dull flickers across the room as some late-night program droned in the background. You weren’t watching it. You were just existing, caught somewhere between dread and longing.

And then came the knocks. Three sharp raps at the door.

You froze, breath caught in your throat. Who the hell would be knocking this late? Your parents were fast asleep. There were no lights on in the neighborhood, no cars passing by. The silence outside was thick, unnatural. Brows furrowed, you rose slowly, bare feet silent against the floorboards as you made your way to the door. For a moment, you hesitated. That strange, gnawing pull gripped your stomach again—like you already knew, on some instinctive, animal level, what waited on the other side.

Still, your hand reached the handle. Still, you turned it.

And when you opened the door—you stopped breathing.

Father Park stood there. Still cloaked in black. Still composed. Still devastating.

His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d been walking through wind or shadow or both. The collar at his throat was pristine, every inch of skin covered, but something about him felt more… real this time. Less untouchable. Or maybe it was just the absence of the altar between you.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice soft—too soft for the hour.

You stared at him, heart hammering wildly, words stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat. “What are you—” you began, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze sweeping over your face, down your bare legs, pausing just long enough to make your skin prickle before returning to your eyes. His look wasn’t vulgar. It was far worse.

It was intentional.

“I noticed you haven’t returned,” he said, the hint of something unreadable in his tone. “And I was... concerned.”

Concerned.

A priest concerned for his wayward sheep. That’s what he wanted it to sound like. That’s how it should have sounded. But it didn’t. It sounded like a warning. Like a whisper against the skin. Like the first drop of blood in the mouth of something that had waited too long.

You swallowed hard. And still, you didn’t shut the door.

Instead you cleared your throat, trying to mask the tension in your voice. “I… I haven’t been feeling well,” you offered, casting your eyes slightly downward, pretending the floorboards were suddenly fascinating. It was the safest excuse you could manage. Safe, distant, neutral.

But he didn’t budge. Didn’t even blink. Instead, he tilted his head slowly, eyes still locked onto you, his expression unreadable—but focused. Focused in a way that made your skin warm and crawl all at once. “It’s been two weeks, my dear,” he said smoothly, almost scolding, but with something far too tender laced into the words.

My dear.

The way he said it—it shouldn’t have meant anything. Just a phrase. A polite gesture. But your heart stuttered anyway, and you felt your fingers twitch at your sides. You didn’t respond right away. Just shrugged, feigning indifference, as if the simple petname hadn’t sent heat straight to your core. As if you didn’t want to lean against the doorframe and let him call you that again.

You didn’t notice the shift in his shoulders. Didn’t see how the leather of his gloves creaked slightly from the force of his grip behind his back. How his fingers were curling into fists, nails biting into his palms through the fabric. He had to resist. He had to.

“I see…” he murmured, voice low now, laced with something darker beneath the calm. “Are you feeling any better now, then?”

The question was innocent on the surface, but it didn’t feel that way. Not in the way he said it. Not in the way he was looking at you—like your answer might decide everything.

You met his eyes again, slower this time. And you saw it—just for a second.

The restraint.

The tension under the surface. The crack in the porcelain. Like he was holding something back. Barely.

And for the first time since you opened the door, you wondered:

What would happen if he stopped?

He looked so put together. Always immaculate, always composed—like nothing ever touched him. Not the heat, not the dark, not even desire. Everything about Father Park was controlled, from the way he spoke to the way he moved to the way he watched you with eyes that never seemed to waver.

But you wondered… what if he did waver?

What would he look like when ruined? Would his voice shake? Would his breath hitch the way yours did around him? Would those hands tremble if you let them touch you?

Would he beg?

The thought—so sudden, so shamefully vivid—made your lips part slightly. Your gaze softened, glassy, as your mind drifted somewhere far less innocent than the front door of your parents’ home. You didn't even realize you'd spaced out, lost in fantasy, letting the silence hang too long between you.

And to him, it was a gift. You weren’t looking. Weren’t guarded.

So he inhaled.

A slow, silent breath through his nose—deep, indulgent, hungry.

And God.

You were divine. The scent of you—warm skin, subtle perfume, something sweet and alive underneath it all—it hit him like a revelation. His chest rose with it, and for a brief, uncontrollable second, his eyes flashed—deep crimson, glowing beneath the surface like dying embers stoked back to life.

But you didn’t see it. You were still in your head, still dreaming. And the moment passed quick, the red bled away, and when your eyes finally flicked up to meet his again, he looked the same.

Put together. Unshaken. Holy. At least on the surface. But beneath the surface, temptation was coiling tighter in his chest, aching beneath layers of practiced restraint. His voice remained calm, smooth as silk, as he asked, “May I come in?”

The question lingered in the air like incense—faintly sweet, quietly intoxicating.

You blinked, lips parting slightly. The question shouldn’t have caught you off guard, but it did. You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the hour, maybe it was the way he looked standing there—too composed for someone knocking on a door past midnight. Or maybe it was just the way he asked, like it wasn’t really a request at all.

“...Why?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended, uncertain. You didn’t mean it to sound suspicious, but it did. And not because you feared him. No, that wasn’t it. You feared yourself. Feared what yes might mean.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he tilted his head—just slightly—and looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was deciphering a language only he could hear, or quietly marveling at a puzzle he'd already solved. The silence between you stretched, but it didn’t feel empty.

Then, finally, he spoke—soft, measured.

“You seem… restless.”

You swallowed, throat dry, fingers tightening on the edge of the door. You couldn’t tell if it was a guess or a confession. You didn’t know how he knew—but he did.

You shrugged, brushing off his so-called concern with forced nonchalance. “I’m fine,” you muttered, eyes flicking past him like the night beyond the porch suddenly held something worth seeing. “Just haven’t been sleeping well. That’s all.”

He didn’t press. Of course he didn’t.

Father Park never needed to press.

Instead, he nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on you a heartbeat longer than necessary, like he was waiting for something—an opening, a flicker of doubt, a confession you weren’t ready to give. But when none came, he simply straightened his posture with the grace of someone who was never truly off-balance.

“The doors of the church remain open for you,” he said, voice smooth, patient. “Should you ever feel the weight of your sins… should you ever need to speak them.” His eyes seemed to gleam then—not with judgment, but with something deeper. Something hungrier.

Then, without warning, he murmured something else. The words rolled off his tongue in a language you didn’t understand, soft and ancient. Latin, you guessed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for your ears to grasp—it was meant for something older. Something listening. And then he bowed. A slow, elegant dip of his head—formal, reverent. Like you were the altar.

“Good night,” he said simply, his voice velvet and dusk.

You barely managed a faint reply before he turned and walked off into the night.

Only… it didn’t look like walking. His steps were too fluid, too quiet, like his feet barely touched the ground.

You remained in the doorway, frozen, watching his figure slowly disappear down the street. The night swallowed him in pieces—first his silhouette, then the glint of his collar, and finally the memory of his voice, still echoing softly in your ears.

You closed the door. But the heat he left behind stayed with you.

He hadn’t fed in awhile.

The hunger coiled in his gut like smoke—writhing, gnawing, whispering to him in the dead hours of the night. A low, constant hum beneath his skin. He was used to it by now, the ache, the restraint. It was part of wearing the mask. Part of being Father Park.

An alias. A role. A cage.

Sunghoon had worn many names before this one, walked through centuries with different faces, all while pretending to be something he wasn’t. He never stayed anywhere long. It was too dangerous, too exposing. And, frankly, too lonely.

He hadn’t had a home since the one that mattered burned to ash, centuries ago—its scent still carved into the deepest parts of his memory: smoke, blood, charred skin. After that, he stopped trying to belong. He didn’t need comfort. He needed survival.

When he found this town—small, crumbling, reeking of hollow faith and rotting piety he hadn’t planned to stay long. Just long enough to feed. To satisfy the ache. The church had already been dying, its sermons empty, its people desperate. The original priest had been pitiful, really. A man praying on his knees outside the chapel, begging his silent God for a miracle.

And a miracle had come.

A miracle with crimson eyes and hunger in its mouth.

Sunghoon hadn’t hesitated. He’d stepped out from the trees like an answered prayer, calm and quiet, then ripped into the priest’s throat with such force that the man didn’t even have time to scream. He’d fed under the cross that night, blood soaking the soil like a new form of baptism. By dawn, he wore the collar.

And just like that, Father Park was born.

It was supposed to be temporary. A few weeks, maybe a month. Just long enough to drain the desperate faithful who wandered in, seeking salvation. He would give them a taste of something divine, and take so much more in return.

But then you appeared.

He hadn’t expected you.

The first time he saw you walk into his church, he felt it—the stillness, the hum beneath his skin sharpening into something feral. The hunger shifted. Changed. Focused.

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t hollow. You weren’t praying for salvation. You were temptation incarnate.

And worse—you didn’t even know it.

You smelled like warmth and sin. Like something he had no right to touch, and every right to take. Every moment he looked at you, listened to your voice, watched your eyes flick toward him like you couldn’t help it—he unraveled, just a little more.

He couldn’t leave. Not now.

Not until he had a taste of you.

Just one taste.

But he already knew one would never be enough. No. He couldn’t have just one simple taste.

Sunghoon knew himself too well. A taste would never satisfy. A drop would only drive him mad.

He needed the whole meal.

He needed your blood on his skin—hot, slick, divine—trailing down his throat, staining his clothes, slicking his chest. He needed it under his claws, beneath his tongue, between his teeth. He needed to taste you completely, until you were part of him, until no part of you was untouched, unclaimed.

He needed to feel you everywhere—your scent in his lungs, your warmth pressed to his cold flesh. You on his lap, your thighs trembling around him. You under him, breathless and pliant. You over him, riding out his hunger like it was your penance. You on your knees before him—not in worship of something above, but of him. Only him.

You’d pray for salvation, and he’d answer with ruin.

He wanted to hear it—your voice cracking, your pleas faltering, his name spoken like a hymn and a curse. He wanted you to whisper it like he was your God, and scream it like he was your undoing.

He could only imagine how sweet you’d taste, how delectable your innocence would be on his tongue. It wasn’t just hunger—it was need. An ache in every cell of his body to feel your heartbeat where his had long gone quiet. To wrap himself in your warmth, where he was nothing but cold shadow.

Sunghoon didn’t pray. Not really. But for you? He would.

He’d pray for your soul, not to save it—but to make sure it was pure. So when he sank his fangs into your throat, when he dragged you into the abyss with him, it would mean something. He wanted to ruin you for anyone else. To mark you so thoroughly the idea of another even looking at you would be laughable.

He’d pray for your goodness. So he could be the one to strip it away.

And once he did. You wouldn’t want to be saved. You would want to be worshipped. By him.

And he would worship you in ways no God ever could. With lips, with teeth, with devotion carved out of centuries of hunger. He would fall to his knees not for salvation—but for you. His altar. His sacrifice. His sin.

You were his undoing. His Armageddon.

He, who had survived kingdoms rising and burning, lovers dying, centuries of silence and solitude—you were the one thing he couldn’t survive. The one soul too bright, too soft, too dangerous.

And he wanted to ruin you the way you had ruined him.

He wanted to crack you open like you’d done to him. Take your name in his mouth like blood and never spit it out. Fill your veins with him until there was nothing left of the girl who opened her door in a T-shirt and bare thighs, blinking sleep from her eyes like she wasn’t already calling down a monster with her softness.

And yet... Even as he hunted, prowling the woods for a young couple who had dared to scoff at his sermon, dared to turn away from his church—he felt it. That snap deep inside him. That shift.

The taste of their blood was warm. Familiar. Easy.

But it was wrong.

They didn’t satisfy him. Not even close. He drained them quietly, quickly, like routine. Left their bodies beneath the roots of an old oak and stared at the sky, blood drying on his hands.

Something had changed. Something in him had broken the moment he first caught your scent. And now… he realized the truth.

He needed you more than he needed blood. More than he needed to feed. More than he needed to survive.

You had become his only craving. Not the chase. Not the kill. You.

And he would starve before he tasted anyone else.

You didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way the night air had felt heavier lately. Maybe it was the dreams—warm hands, whispered words, lips that never touched but always hovered too close. Or maybe… maybe it was just him.

But the next sermon, you went.

You didn’t protest when your parents knocked gently on your door, their voices laced with hope. You just nodded, and they seemed surprised. You didn’t explain. What could you even say?

That you were going for God? No. You were going for something much more dangerous.

This time, you dressed differently. Carefully.

White. Soft. Lacey.

A dress that clung in just the right places, short—but not too short. Modest enough for the occasion, yet just enough bare skin to invite attention. You told yourself it didn’t matter if he noticed. But you wanted him to. You needed him to.

The church was already full when you arrived, the lanterns burning low, casting golden light that made the air feel thick, like honey. Your parents found their usual spot near the middle, but you lingered further back, sliding into a pew alone, heart quietly pounding.

And then he entered.

The moment his black-clad figure emerged from the shadow of the spiraling staircase, the room fell into reverent silence—yet somehow, it got louder in your chest.

His gaze swept over the congregation like always. Calm. Composed.

Until he saw you.

His eyes locked onto you like a pin striking the center of a map. Unblinking. Unmoving.

And you held your breath—just for a second—waiting for something. A flicker. A shift. Something.

But his face didn’t change. Not a twitch. Not a blink. His expression remained carved in stone, as unreadable and perfect as ever.

And to your surprise… you felt a flicker of disappointment.

He didn’t react. Not to the dress. Not to you. Not to the white lace you chose deliberately to contrast everything he wore.

But what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was the way his jaw clenched behind the collar. How his fingers twitched once at his side. How his fangs pressed, achingly, against his gums.

You only saw the mask. Because he was practiced. He was patient.

But inside?

He was scorching.

It was worse than the burn of sunlight on his skin— that searing, instant agony that blistered through every inch of him when he miscalculated the rise of dawn. Worse than the sting of silver slicing through flesh like butter, hissing and smoking as it left behind angry, rotting welts. Worse than the pain of holy water splashing across his face during a too-close encounter with the faithful fool—his skin peeling, his body convulsing in silent fury as he choked down the scream.

Worse than all of it.

You were worse.

Because this burn was deep. Slow. Consuming.

You sat there in white lace like a vision sent to torment him, thighs pressed together, your lips slightly parted as your eyes searched his face, so eager to find a crack in his armor. You didn’t know it, but you were glowing in that pew—like the church light was drawn to you, wrapping around your shoulders, kissing the hem of your dress, illuminating the softness of your throat.

You didn’t know what you were doing. Or maybe… you did. Maybe some part of you wanted to be his undoing.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw tighter, forcing the sermon to fall from his lips like scripture—fluid, measured, and holy. But behind the collar, behind the mask of Father Park, he was falling apart.

His gaze lingered on your legs longer than it should have. Drifted higher. Imagined.

He imagined that lace torn. Imagined you beneath him, arching into his mouth, crying out for a God that wasn’t listening—because he was already there. Your God in black.

And still, he did nothing. Even if he wanted to do everything.

He remained still, stoic, and composed—while inside, he was chaos incarnate.

His mind conjured the most sinful visions: You, back arched beneath him, lace torn and forgotten. Your breath hitching as his tongue traced devotion into your skin. You on your knees, flushed and desperate, whispering his name like a prayer—like a plea.

His control tightened like a vice.

He couldn’t let his fangs elongate—not here, not now, even if the hunger ached in his jaw, even if he could already taste the phantom sweetness of your blood. He couldn’t let his claws slip free, though his fingers twitched inside the leather of his gloves, aching to grip you, to drag you closer and feel your pulse flutter beneath his hands. He couldn’t let the growls building in his chest rise to the surface, those low, guttural sounds that threatened to betray him—remind the room, remind you, that he was not a man preaching salvation, but a predator resisting collapse.

And most of all—he couldn’t let his eyes shift.

He couldn’t let you see the way his irises burned when his hunger overtook him. That deep, infernal red that gave away every secret, every need. You weren’t ready for that.

But God, how close he was to unraveling.

He was a storm held in human shape. A monster beneath silk and scripture.

And you, sitting there in white—unknowing, or perhaps too knowing—were dragging him to the edge of something he hadn’t felt in centuries.

Not just lust. Not just hunger.

Obsession.

And if he gave in.. if he so much as slipped once..

There would be no sermon. No prayer. No salvation.

Only him. And you. And the ruin that would follow.

Sunghoon's voice didn’t falter as he continued preaching, but every word tasted like ash in his mouth. The scripture meant nothing now—it was noise. Hollow syllables meant to distract from the war inside him. Each verse a chain he tried to wrap tighter around himself, each sacred word a blade digging into his tongue to keep the monster in check. Because if he let himself slip—if he gave in to the need that had been festering since the moment he first laid eyes on you—he wouldn’t just taste you. He’d devour you.

He’d press your hands together like prayer and kiss the blasphemy into your skin. He’d feed from your throat and moan into your mouth. He’d drag you to the altar and make you his, body and soul, until even your shadow belonged to him. Until you forgot what it meant to be untouched.

You weren’t just a passing temptation.

You were his trigger. His fall. His holy, aching obsession.

And still, he stood there, perfectly composed, delivering holy words with a voice that belied the beast underneath. Every syllable burned on the way out, and every breath he took felt like it could be his last if he didn’t have you soon. Because this was no longer hunger. This was starvation. And all it would take was one moment—one crack in his restraint, one slip of your voice, one glance too long—and the leash he’d kept wrapped around his nature for centuries would snap.

And God have mercy on you if it did.

Because he wouldn’t.

When the sermon ended, Sunghoon didn’t linger.

He didn’t offer his usual soft nods or faint smiles to the congregation. Didn’t shake hands or murmur blessings. Didn’t wait at the altar as the people filtered out in quiet, orderly lines, looking to him like he was the answer to all their empty prayers.

He left.

The moment the final word left his lips, he stepped down from the altar, black robes whispering behind him like smoke. You watched him move, confused at first by the sudden shift in routine. Usually, he stayed. Usually, he was still as stone, watching over the exit like a shepherd guiding his sheep home.

Not tonight. Tonight, he moved like a man about to come undone.

He disappeared behind the velvet curtain at the side of the altar, the shadows greedily swallowing his form. You blinked, your heart thudding like a warning in your chest. Your parents stood beside you, speaking in hushed admiration about the sermon, the scripture, how powerful his words had been tonight. You barely heard them. Your eyes were still locked on the altar.

You hadn’t missed it.

The way his voice had deepened just slightly when he looked your way. The way his gaze lingered a second too long. The slight tremor in his hand when he turned a page of his Bible. He had been holding something back.

You felt it.

And now he was gone. Vanished behind the curtain before anyone could ask anything, before anyone could see the cracks in that perfect mask.

But you’d seen enough. You weren’t just imagining it anymore—the tension, the flicker in his eyes, the near-tremble in his voice. No man, priest or not, looked at someone like that without wanting.

And Father Park wanted you. Even if he tried to bury it beneath scripture. Even if he ran.

That only made you more certain.

You stood in the pew, still and silent as the congregation began to file out around you, their murmurs dull in your ears. Your parents were already gathering their things, already walking ahead, already assuming you’d follow.

But your gaze stayed locked on the curtain he’d vanished behind.

You hadn’t come here just to look pretty in white and hope. You had dressed for him. And if he thought slipping away into the dark would shake you loose from whatever was blooming—slow and burning—between you, then he didn’t understand you at all.

You weren’t going to give up.

You wanted him. In every forbidden, dangerous way. And judging by the way he fled the altar tonight, he was closer to breaking than you’d even hoped.

So fine.

If he was going to retreat, you’d step up your game.

Push harder. Closer. Deeper.

Until the mask cracked for good.

From the moment the moon climbed high to the edge of sunrise, Sunghoon lived in torture.

He writhed on the bed deep beneath the church—his sanctuary and prison both, far from the sun’s reach. The underground chamber, cold and lightless, echoed with the ragged sounds of his breath. The stone walls were marked from past nights like this—scratches, splinters, the stains of restraint shattered.

The bedding beneath him was torn to shreds, clawed apart in a frenzy of desperation. The mattress hung in ribbons, shredded fabric and stuffing tangled with broken seams and the scent of him. His sweat soaked through what little remained of the sheets, dripping from his pale chest, his collarbone, pooling on the bedding beneath him. He was burning, despite the chill that filled the air.

And his fangs—those cursed, aching things were fully extended, sharp and gleaming, bared as his jaw hung open in a soundless snarl.

Drool slid messily from his parted lips, thick and sweet-smelling, rolling down his chin, his throat, streaking the length of his bare chest like a mark of surrender. His hands gripped the remains of the bedding, nails tearing through again and again as if punishing it for not being you.

Because all he could think about was you.

Your thighs, trembling and slick against his hips. Your voice breaking into the quiet with breathless, needy whines. Your mouth, your neck, your blood—oh, your blood, how it would coat his tongue, how it would taste running warm into his throat. You, crying out his name like a prayer he didn’t deserve. You, arching into him, full of trust and ruin.

He was in heaven and hell at once. Your name repeated in his mind like liturgy, every syllable a curse.

The chains of his control, the very chains he had forged over centuries were shaking, screaming, cracking under the pressure. He tried to breathe, tried to think, but all that came was you. That white dress. That skin. That scent.

His crimson eyes snapped open in the dark, gleaming like embers, then rolled back into his skull as his body jerked with the weight of his need. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, echoing through the stone chamber like a dying vow.

He was unraveling.

And he couldn’t hold on much longer.

Not when his control only worsened with time.

Because now—you came to every sermon.

Without fail.

And each time, you came dressed like temptation in human form. Sweet, sinful contradictions that made his restraint decay piece by piece. Dresses too soft, too clingy. Skirts that danced just above your knees when you walked. Delicate lace, bare collarbones, slivers of skin that shouldn’t have meant anything… but drove him mad.

It wasn’t what you wore, really. It was the intention behind it. The subtle awareness in your gaze when you met his. The faint, knowing curl of your lips when you caught his stare.

And God, the scent of you.

It filled the church before you even stepped inside. Honey and something warmer—something ripe. It clung to your skin, to the air, to the wooden pews long after you’d left. It filled his lungs with every breath he took, poisoning his sermons, tainting his prayers. Every time you passed him, it wrapped around his throat like a noose made of silk and sugar.

So after each sermon—each torture—Sunghoon would retreat. Down the hidden stairwell. Past the flickering lanterns. Into the cold black of his underground chamber where God couldn’t see him anymore.

And there he came undone.

Every. Single. Time.

He ripped the bedding to shreds. Tore the covers from the mattress. Clawed at the stone walls until his knuckles bled, fangs bared and glistening, chest heaving with curses that echoed like a demon trapped in a confession box.

The scent of you lingered on his clothes. In his hair. In his mouth.

And he would groan into the silence, bucking into the ruined sheets, imagining you—imagining your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails raking down his back, your breath stuttering against his ear as you begged him for more.

He couldn’t preach purity and self-denial when all he wanted was to ruin you—to bury himself so deeply in your body, your blood, your soul, that not even heaven could pull him free.

And with every passing sermon. He got closer to doing it.

His breaking point was simple. Almost laughably so. Not a scream. Not a mistake. Not a betrayal.

Just you. Walking into his church at eleven o’clock at night.

He should’ve known. Should’ve sensed it the moment you stepped through the doors. But he didn’t need to. Your scent announced you before your footsteps even touched the stone. Sweet, warm, ripe—a siren’s call dressed in sinless skin.

He had grown used to you tormenting him during sermons. Used to your stolen glances and your skirts that clung just a little too tightly when you knelt. He could survive those moments—barely.

But now?

You came during confessional hours. Late. Alone. When the church was dark, when no one else came but the desperate and the damned.

From your parents, you knew he offered confession every Sunday at 11 p.m.—something about it being “quiet and intimate.” They told you proudly how devoted he was, how even the most broken souls found healing in his presence.

But you didn’t come to be healed. You came for something else.

You slipped into the church like you belonged there—soft, silent, sinful—and made your way straight to the confessional booth. The air inside was cold, the wood old and dark, polished by centuries of secrets whispered into velvet shadows. And on the other side of the screen, he waited. You knew it. You felt it.

That he was alone. That he was listening.

The thought made your heart flutter.

You stepped inside your side of the booth and sat slowly, letting the silence stretch. Letting it build.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you unbuttoned your coat. And tossed it aside—carelessly, deliberately, like it meant nothing.

He heard it hit the wood. Soft. Thoughtless. Reckless. And it broke him.

On the other side of the thin wall, Sunghoon’s body tensed so hard it hurt. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, the leather of his gloves creaking as his knuckles went bone-white. His breath hitched, shallow, audible. His fangs pressed painfully against his tongue. His eyes burned, pupils thinning to slits, then bleeding red as the image formed in his mind—you, shedding your coat like you were undressing in front of him. Like you knew he was listening. Like you wanted him to hear every move.

The monster inside him—starving, frantic, unhinged pulled its leash.

He didn’t breathe. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, trembling from the force of restraint.

The booth was too small. Too quiet. The air thick with your scent and something far more dangerous—intention. He could hear everything—the soft rustle of fabric, the creak of wood beneath you as you shifted, the exhale you let out like a tired confession in itself.

And then, you sighed. Soft. Slow. Purposeful.

His fingers twitched where they lay.

Through the latticed screen, shadows danced across your outline, just enough for his eyes to catch the movement as your hands drifted over your bare thighs. You rubbed slowly, absentmindedly, like you were comforting yourself—or enticing him.

Then your hands moved higher, subtly gathering the hem of your dress, pulling it up inch by inch. And though he couldn’t see much, he felt it. Knew it.

And when you leaned forward, close enough that he could hear your breath against the screen, only a sliver of wood separating you from the thing you were daring—you spoke.

“Forgive me, Father… for I have sinned.” Your voice was a whisper soaked in honey and fire, and it made his stomach twist violently.

His fangs throbbed. His claws pushed against the inside of his gloves. His thighs pressed together, muscles locked, as he tried desperately not to make a sound.

You continued, slower now. “I’ve had… thoughts. Wicked ones. Cravings. I think I’ve been tempting someone who shouldn’t be tempted.”

Your fingers brushed higher.

Sunghoon’s mouth parted, but no words came. Only the sharp sound of his breath through gritted teeth. His entire body was burning.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And he was seconds away from doing everything you wanted.

All it would take was one more word. One more movement. One more sin.

And Father Park would be gone, replaced by something far darker. Far hungrier.

He felt his fangs grow, aching and full in his mouth, sharper with every word you spoke like scripture meant to break him.

He went through the motions—his routine—voice low and even, asking softly, “What a burdensome sin you feel, child.” But the word child caught in his throat, tasted wrong when applied to you, who sat on the other side of the screen not as a lost soul seeking guidance… but as a devil in white lace, seducing him with every breath.

And you just hummed, as if the very idea of confession was sweet on your tongue. You kept up the act, voice dripping with falsified guilt, your thighs pressed together, breath hitching as you spoke of impure thoughts and shameful dreams. Of desire.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

He didn’t care now. He didn’t care that drool was sliding down his chin, that it dripped from his parted mouth like he was starving—because he was. He didn’t care that the leather of his gloves had ripped where his claws had pushed through, splintering through the seams with sharp, glistening hunger. He didn’t care that the scent of you was driving him insane—warm, slick, sweet, like sin and innocence tangled together. His eyes were red now—fully glowing, animal and furious, wide and locked on the screen that separated you. The only thing keeping you safe.

And even then, barely.

He inhaled, deeply, shamelessly, like your scent was holy. His shoulders shuddered, lips parted around the weight of the groan he bit back.

He could hear your heartbeat.

Louder now. Faster. Racing.

He could feel the pulse fluttering in your neck, between your thighs, in that trembling, lusting heart that beat just for him in this moment. You wanted him. You wanted him to break. And that knowing—that truth—drove him to the edge of madness.

He saw your sin. He felt your want. He tasted your need in the air like blood.

And Sunghoon was barely a man now. Barely a priest. Barely holding on. Because the thing that sat on his side of the booth… wasn’t thinking of salvation anymore. It was thinking of you—under him, crying, clawing, moaning, begging.

“Is it normal to have impure thoughts, Father?” Your voice was breathy—soaked in false innocence, laced with heat. “I feel so hot all the time around him… I dream of his hands on me. His lips on mine. I dream of sin, Father. And I like it.”

He gripped the edge of the booth, knuckles bone-white. The wood groaned beneath his strength, cracking under the force he tried and failed to temper.

Your voice dripped into him like poison, thick and slow, coiling around his restraint. Every word you spoke was a match. Every sigh, a spark.

Then you leaned back. Then you spread your legs.

And then—

You whined.

Soft and wanting, a sound made for him, like a prayer that could only be answered in blood and broken vows. The growl that left his throat was deep, inhuman.

Something snapped.

The confessional shook as the door of his booth was ripped open, hinges groaning in protest as it slammed against the wall. You barely had time to gasp before your door was wrenched open, light from the altar flickering against the silhouette in front of you.

Sunghoon stood in the frame like a fallen angel, hair disheveled, his black clothes rumpled and hanging off his frame in that terrifying, unholy way that made him even more beautiful. His chest rose and fell with shallow, furious breaths. His eyes burned—glowed—with that feral crimson that no longer tried to hide what he was.

His fangs were out. His gloves were ruined, claws fully bared. And his perfect, stoic face was twisted in hunger.

The silence between you stretched, thick with heat and the scent of your arousal. He looked down at you, seated, legs parted, lips slightly parted in surprise, and the sight broke something in him for good.

"What... what are you?" you whispered, breath catching in your throat. There was fear there, yes—but not enough to make you move. Not enough to make you run. Just enough to make the air around you feel electric.

He stood before you like something carved from your worst and sweetest fantasies—towering, trembling, no longer hiding what he was. His eyes glowed like blood spilled beneath moonlight, locked on your throat, your chest, the heat between your parted legs. His jaw twitched, and slowly his tongue slipped out to trace along one of his fangs. He licked the drool from his lips, but more spilled from the corners of his mouth, thick and obscene, stringing down his chin in slow, shining ropes.

And then he smiled. Not kindly. Not softly. Predatorily.

“Something that should’ve left this town the moment it saw you,” he said, voice low, trembling with want. “Something that should’ve let you stay innocent.”

The scent of incense still clung to his robes, now tainted with sweat and the raw edge of his hunger.

“But you kept coming back…” he continued, tilting his head slowly. “Kept looking at me like you wanted to be hunted.” He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the unnatural cold radiating off his skin. His lips hovered just beside your cheek, and the thick, wet drip of his drool landed hot against your collarbone as he whispered:

“I haven’t fed in weeks.” Another breath, sharp through his nose, shuddering. “And you smell better than blood.”

You gulped, throat tightening around the weight of your breath, your fear, your want. You hadn’t even realized you were trembling—not until you felt it, the sharp contrast of him: Sunghoon’s bare, cold hands sliding over your warm skin.

At some point, he’d rid himself of the gloves. There was no barrier now. No mercy. Just the sharp drag of claws over flesh.

You gasped—head snapping back, spine arching as his claws gripped your thighs, too tight, too possessive. The points knicked your skin, slicing clean without hesitation. Blood welled up instantly, dark and warm, trailing down your thighs like liquid sin. It hurt. But it hurt so good.

A choked sound left your throat—half a cry, half a moan.

Sunghoon leaned in, lips brushing your ear, breath cold and heavy against your skin. And then he spoke.

“Little angel… I’m about to taint you.”

His voice was not human. It rumbled deep in his chest, echoed through your head, vibrating along your spine like a voice buried beneath the earth, rising just for you. It clung to your skin like a brand, a vow, a curse.

And then he kissed you.

No—he devoured you.

His lips slammed into yours, fast and brutal, a messy clash of fang and tongue and desperation. The sharp points of his fangs cut your lips, your tongue—thin lines of blood mixing with the flood of his own drool, slick and thick between your mouths like a dangerous, heady concoction.

You tasted copper and heat, the cold of him, the burn of you. There was no rhythm—just need. Raw, unholy need.

His kiss wasn’t something that asked. It took.

Your mouth, your breath, your will.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like every second his mouth wasn’t on you was agony. His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, your waist, sliding up your back and down your front, trembling from the force of restraint unraveling inside him. You could feel the cold of his skin and the sharp scrape of his claws dragging against your flesh, reverent and ravenous all at once.

And then he broke the kiss, only to trail his mouth down your jaw, to your throat, to your collarbones, lips slick with blood and spit as he tasted every inch like it was sacred. His breath hitched against your skin, cool and shaking.

You barely had time to gasp before his hands slid beneath your dress, gliding up your torso with possessive ease, fabric pushed away carelessly. The chill of the air hit your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of him—the cold weight of him lowering, dragging you closer.

And then, without a word, he dropped to his knees.

You felt your breath catch. Felt the confession booth spin. He knelt like you were divinity. Like you were the altar.

Strong hands yanked you forward until you were perched right at the edge of the seat, and before you could even process it, one of your legs was thrown over his shoulder, the position intimate—vulnerable. You could feel his breath on your inner thigh, your skin sticky with the blood still dripping from the earlier cut.

And then you saw it, saw how his gaze lifted—locked on your neck.

His mouth was open, drool now running freely down his chin, and his fangs—those inhuman fangs—were fully bared, far too long, far too sharp, glistening with saliva that dripped in slow, heavy strings onto your skin. And suddenly, he started to beg.

“Please…” he whispered, voice cracked, hoarse, ruined. “Just a taste. Just a taste, I swear.” His lips kissed down your leg, slow, wet kisses that made your toes curl, that made your heart beat harder. With every inch downward, he whispered again:

“Let me taste you, little angel…” Another kiss. “Let me worship you…” Another, slower this time, his tongue flicking out, collecting a drop of blood from your skin. “I’ll be good. I’ll serve. Just let me have it…” He sounded mad—feral—like a deity cast out of heaven, crawling back to the altar on his knees.

His breath ghosted hot against your inner thigh, wet from his lips and heavy with need. He nuzzled into your skin like a beast trying to burrow into warmth, his nose brushing your pulse point, his red eyes lifted to yours—dazed, wild, pleading.

Tears rimmed the corners of his glowing eyes, but they didn’t fall. They shimmered, catching the low light of the church like broken glass. His tongue peeked out again, dragging slowly along your thigh, tasting the copper tang of your blood with a choked sound of reverence. “Please…” he whimpered again, voice slurred, almost drunk. “Just a taste, angel… just a drop.”

You could only stare—caught between horror and something far darker, something that twisted low in your gut like a forbidden thrill. Your breath caught, chest rising and falling as you whispered, barely audible, “You’re the devil…”

He smiled against your thigh, fangs glinting. “For you?” he rasped, voice thick with devotion and lust, “I’ll be anything you want, angel.”

Your fingers gripped the edge of the seat beneath you, white-knuckled. And then—without thinking, without hesitation—you leaned down, your lips ghosting near his ear, your whisper a challenge, a surrender, a summon.

“Then come and taste…”

You barely got the words out before he pounced.

There was no hesitation, no hesitation left in him—he moved like a storm unleashed, like a starving wolf tearing into paradise. One of his clawed hands flew up to your head, gripping your hair, tilting your face to the side—exposing your throat.

You gasped—no, whimpered—as his mouth moved to your shoulder.

And then—he bit.

Fangs pierced deep, sharp, brutal, slicing into muscle with terrifying ease. Your body seized as white-hot pain bloomed and then instantly melted into something blissful, devastating.

You screamed. Not in fear. Not in pain. But in ecstasy.

His mouth latched to your shoulder like he belonged there, sucking greedily, desperately, the wet, obscene sound of feeding filling the confessional like a hymn to madness. He groaned into your skin—low and feral, the sound vibrating through your bones. Your blood filled his mouth, spilling over his lips, slicking down his skin, and still—he didn’t stop.

He drank like it was salvation. You moaned like it was rapture.

And somewhere, buried in the pain and pleasure and ruin—

You realized the truth:

You had given yourself to a monster. And loved it.

When he finally pulled back, there was nothing holy left in him.

His entire front was soaked in your blood—neck to chest, sleeves to stomach. The white shirt beneath his unfastened cloak was ruined, stained crimson and clinging to his skin. His lips glistened, smeared with red, and he licked them with a guttural groan, head tipping back as his eyes rolled into his skull, overwhelmed by the taste of you.

“Delicious…” he murmured, voice heavy, cracked open in pleasure.

You lay slumped back against the booth, limbs trembling, twitching, eyes fluttering as your chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. Your skin was pale now, damp with sweat, mouth parted as you stared up at him—ruined and still wanting more.

And Sunghoon hadn’t had enough. Not nearly.

He looked down at you again, this time with hunger that had shifted—deepened. Not just starvation now. Not just thirst.

Possession.

He bent low again, pulling both of your legs up and over his shoulders, wrapping them around him with a strength that made your breath catch. His mouth descended on your thighs—hot, open-mouthed kisses pressed into the softest skin, slow and searing.

Marking you.

Over and over, he kissed, groaned, let his fangs drag lightly across the surface, each scrape making your toes curl. And then he bit again, not deep, not like before, just enough to break the skin, to draw small, perfect wells of blood. He sucked, moaning against your leg as if your taste was the holiest thing he'd ever known.

And you let him. You wanted him to.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking it hard, making a mess of the usual slicked-back strands. He groaned when you did it, hands gripping tighter at your thighs, claws dimpling your skin.

“Sunghoon…” you whined, breathless, head thrown back. The way you said his name—like a curse and a prayer—made him shudder against you.

Sunghoon kissed you like a man who had never known softness, only hunger—like your thighs were the first silk he’d ever touched and he meant to devour every inch. Each kiss turned sloppier, more feverish, his tongue dragging over your torn skin, mixing blood and spit and sweat in hot, open-mouthed reverence.

You held him there—gripping his hair tight, not just guiding him, but claiming him, like he belonged between your legs, on his knees, feeding from your body like it was divine.

And to him, it was.

You felt it in the way his fangs pressed teasingly to your inner thigh, not biting—threatening. Testing how far you’d let him go. How far gone you were.

And you were.

You were drunk on the feel of him. On the low, guttural groans that rumbled in his chest every time your fingers yanked harder, every time your breath caught when he sucked just right. Your head lolled back, body lax, shivering and twitching from blood loss and arousal, but you didn’t stop him. You opened your legs wider. Arched your hips up. Let him bury himself deeper against you.

He growled—an animal sound vibrating against your skin.

When he finally pulled back to look up at you, his mouth was smeared with red. His eyes were blown wide, pupils sharp and crimson and starved. “Mine,” he declared, voice hoarse, blood-wet.

And with his fingers tightening on your thighs and his lips finding your skin again, you knew this wasn’t about sin anymore. There was no church, no cross, no God above that could save you now.

Not from him. Not from yourself. And not from whatever you’d just become together in that confessional. Because you hadn’t just given him a taste. You’d offered yourself up.

Sunghoon moved with a suddenness that stole your breath. One moment, his mouth was still worshiping your thighs, fangs grazing your trembling skin and the next, he was lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

Your gasp was swallowed by the heat of his body pressed against yours.

One arm hooked securely beneath your thigh, the other gripped the curve of your ass, claws digging just enough to make you gasp again. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, body clinging to him as if it were instinct—as if you’d always been meant to fit there.

He didn’t speak. Just turned and carried you from the booth, footsteps slow but purposeful, like he was parading you through his house of worship, defiling its silence one step at a time. The church was silent and sacred and wrong around you both, your blood still hot and damp between you.

And you—bold, trembling, ruined—took your chance.

You leaned in and kissed him.

Your lips found his in a desperate, messy collision. You didn’t care about the blood, about the taste of iron or the heat of his tongue claiming yours. You kissed him like you were starving for him too. Your hands cradled his face, fingers sliding through his hair, tugging, pulling him deeper into you as he groaned into your mouth.

The kiss was violent and wet, his lips parting around a breathless moan as you dragged your teeth over his bottom lip. He pressed you harder to his chest, clawed fingers flexing around your thigh as he kept walking.

Down the aisle. Past the altar. Toward the hidden stairwell cloaked in shadow.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, breathless against his lips, “Where are we going?”

His eyes locked with yours—red, wild, glinting like polished garnet in the dark. “To where I keep what’s mine,” he answered.

The door creaked open with a groan, heavy and ancient, like it hadn't welcomed anyone but him in centuries. The air that met you was cold, dense, and rich with the scent of stone, old incense, and blood.

Sunghoon stepped through the threshold without hesitation, and the moment the door sealed shut behind him, the world above might as well have ceased to exist.

This space—this dark, secret chamber was his. And now, it was yours, too.

He crossed the room and lowered you onto the bed with reverent ease, like you were the most sacred offering he'd ever laid eyes on. Your back sank into the ruined, claw-torn mattress, the scent of him surrounding you—musk, blood, devotion, lust.

And then he was on you.

His body hovered above yours, his frame broad and trembling with hunger as his lips found your neck again. He kissed your pulse, slow and open-mouthed, tongue tracing the spot he’d already bitten, teeth grazing, not biting—not yet.

Then lower. To your collarbone. To your chest.

You shivered beneath him, your hands reaching to grip his arms, nails dragging against the fabric of his ruined shirt as he slid the hem of your dress further down your chest, exposing more skin to his mouth, his touch, his worship.

His breath was ragged as he muttered something against your skin, the words rolling off his tongue like silk—Latin, dark and fluid, foreign but intimate. Each syllable was reverent, hushed, like a prayer or a curse meant only for you.

You didn’t understand a word of it. But the way he said it. The depth in his voice, the possessive tremble, the soft growl. It made your breath catch. It made your thighs clench. It made you need.

He caged you beneath him, hands on either side of your head, his body pressing down just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the danger of him—fangs inches from your throat, breath ragged with restraint and desperation. "You're mine now," he murmured lowly, switching back to a voice you understood, though his lips still brushed your shoulder. “Body… blood… soul. Mine.”

And though you should’ve felt fear, all you felt was heat. And you didn’t dare deny it.

Sunghoon pulled back, breathless, a string of blood-slick saliva connecting his lips to your collarbone before it snapped and dripped onto your chest. His eyes never left yours as his fingers went to the buttons of his bloodstained cassock, undoing them slowly, one by one, like he wanted you to feel every second of his unraveling.

And when the last layer fell from his frame, you could only stare.

His body was sculpted—inhumanly so. Pale, marble skin stretched over muscle, defined and taut, like he had been carved by the hands of something ancient and cruel. His chest glistened, smeared with your blood and his drool, both clinging to every line, every dip of his torso.

Your mouth parted in awe.

Sunghoon tilted his head, red eyes shining like molten garnet as he leaned closer, his voice low and thick. “I need another taste…” he growled.

Without hesitation, you tilted your head, baring your neck for him again, breath catching with anticipation. But he paused, a slow smirk ghosting over his lips.

“…No,” he murmured. “Not there.”

Confusion flashed in your eyes for just a moment—until you saw where he was looking.

Down.

His gaze burned past your collarbone, over your stomach, lower, darker, hungrily until it settled between your legs.

Understanding bloomed like heat in your gut.

“I need to taste every part of you, little lamb,” he whispered, reverent and possessive, like he was claiming you not just as prey but as sacrifice. “Every inch.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you met his gaze. And then—silently, shamelessly—you spread your legs for him, slow and wide, offering yourself fully.

A holy gesture, turned sinful. An invitation no demonic creature could ever resist.

Sunghoon’s eyes rolled back for a second, fangs bared, and he let out a sound that was almost a purr—but too low, too broken, too hungry. And then he lowered himself between your thighs like a worshiper before an altar. Ready to make you his religion.

He descended between your thighs like a man starved of meaning, of warmth, of purpose—and now he had all three in the form of you.

You, trembling beneath him, blood-slicked and bare. You, spread open like an offering laid at the altar. You, who smelled like sin and salvation tangled together in skin.

Sunghoon didn’t rush. No, he savored.

His claws, still stained slid along your thighs as he lowered his mouth, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive skin. You felt it, the way his nose brushed you, how he breathed you in, groaning like your scent alone was enough to unravel the centuries he’d spent chained by control.

And then his mouth was on you.

It wasn’t gentle.

His tongue was hot and soft, but his hunger was savage. He licked into you with slow, devastating intent—then faster, greedier, dragging obscene sounds from your lips. His fangs grazed delicately near where you were most sensitive, not biting but always a threat, a promise.

Your hips bucked and he growled, arms locking tighter around your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you right there.

Like he was feasting. Because he was.

Between each lash of his tongue, he whispered against your heat, voice low, words murmured in Latin again—litanies not meant for the divine but for the damned. You didn’t know what he said, but your body answered, arching into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, sobbing out his name like a prayer.

He moaned against you, the vibrations deep and devastating, and then finally he bit. Sharp. Precise. Deep enough to make you cry out not in pain, but in rapture. Blood welled again, and he drank from you there, tongue lapping it up like nectar, like he was tasting divinity.

“So sweet…” he groaned, face buried between your thighs, voice ragged and soaked in lust. “I knew you’d be sweet everywhere.”

Your vision blurred, your moans dissolving into whimpers as your body trembled, flooded with heat, with loss, with bliss. He didn’t let up. He didn’t stop. He worshipped you with his mouth like a man who had been denied heaven and finally found a Goddess willing to open the gates.

Summer didn’t last long. Of course it didn’t. Nothing that sweet, that intense, ever did.

But Sunghoon wasn’t something that faded with the season. He was yours. Fully, endlessly, eternally and he planned to stay that way. If you returned to the city, he’d follow. If you crossed oceans, he’d swim through them. If the sky cracked open and swallowed the world whole, he’d hold your hand through the flames. Convenient, really, when your boyfriend was a centuries-old vampire willing to follow you to the ends of the earth with nothing but a hunger for your blood and a hand on your waist.

You loved him. God, you loved him.

He was everything from your wildest dreams—beautiful, obsessive, dangerous. And it didn’t help that he looked at you like you were made of stars and sin.

And maybe, maybe… you liked to tease him.

A lot.

Even if it did end up biting you—hard—when he finally snapped and ruined you for hours after, leaving you trembling and marked in places no one else could see.

But you couldn’t help it. Teasing him was too easy.

You abused the fact that he couldn’t step into sunlight, casually opening the curtains in your room and lounging in the beam just to watch him pout in the shadows, shirtless and fanged, like a wounded predator denied his prey.

You abused the fact that silver burned him, which just so happened to become your new fashion statement. You wore a silver ring to bed and rested your hand over his chest as he hissed, and you only giggled when he snarled and bit your neck for the fourth time that night. You even got a dainty little silver necklace with a charm that sat right above your cleavage, just to make him snarl every time you leaned forward.

And oh… you abused the oldest rule of them all.

He couldn’t enter a house without an invitation.

You’d wait at the threshold, in nothing but lace, smirking as he stood seething outside your door, clawing at the frame like a beast denied his prey.

“Let me in.” “Say it.” “Little lamb, I swear—”

And you’d smile, thighs clenched sweetly, looking pretty, and purr, “No.”

Until the minute you finally gave in, invited him in with a smirk and a raised brow, was when the teasing always bit you back. Hard.

Because the moment you whispered “Come in,” he’d pounce. You’d end up ruined, spread and marked and soaked in the kind of pleasure that only something eternal could give. There was no waiting, no warming up. You barely had time to blink before your back hit the mattress, your clothes were halfway gone, and your wrists were pinned above your head by hands colder than ice and stronger than steel.

His mouth would find your throat first—always. Like a ritual. He’d kiss the places he’d bitten before, tongue tracing the scars he’d left like ownership, like a collector admiring his finest piece.

And then?

He’d ruin you.

You’d end up sprawled, legs trembling from being held apart too long, thighs marked up in crimson and violet from his claws, his lips. Your body ached—in the best, filthiest ways. You’d be soaked, not just in sweat, but in drool, blood, and his obsession. The sheets damp beneath you. Your voice hoarse from the screaming he always pulled out of you.

Because Sunghoon didn’t just take. He overwhelmed. He made you feel like nothing existed outside of him—nothing could.

“Still feel like teasing, little lamb?” he’d whisper, fangs dragging across your collarbone as you writhed beneath him.

You’d try to answer—but your voice would be wrecked, your mind hazy, your lips swollen, breath catching in short, desperate gasps. Your hands would still be buried in his hair, sticky with sweat, and your thighs would tremble from the aftershocks of how he broke you.

And yet—he was never done.

Because the part you loved most? The part that made your core throb and your heart race, no matter how many times he did it?

Was when he got you down on your knees.

When he’d pull you gently—almost lovingly—from the wreckage of the bed, guiding you to the floor like you were porcelain and his. And you’d go, obedient and dazed, letting your knees hit the ground as you looked up at him.

That look he gave you.

Sunghoon would stare down at you like a king before his throne, chest heaving, pale skin streaked in your blood, lips parted, fangs still glinting wet in the low light. His ruined shirt would hang half off his body, exposing the way his abdomen flexed with restraint and need. His eyes—red and blown with hunger would lock onto yours as you sat there, breathless, bruised, waiting.

And God, the power in it.

Because no matter how strong he was, how ancient or monstrous—he looked at you like you were the one who held power. Like you were the altar now. Like he wanted to fall to his knees, too. (Sometimes he would.)

He’d trace a claw along your jaw, tilting your head back just a little more, and say in that low, velvet voice, “Look at you. Perfect. On your knees for me, just like you should be.”

And you’d smile—slow and wicked—because the teasing always came back around. Because the moment you looked up at him with parted lips and that gleam in your eye, you knew he was about to lose control again. Sunghoon was the devil—not in name, but in nature.

And you... You were his corrupted angel.

You sat perched on his lap, back arched sweetly, fingers curled into the fabric of his ruined shirt, head tilted like you still wore some semblance of grace. From a distance, you looked almost pure—like a painting brought to life, divine and glowing under the flicker of candlelight.

But purity had long left you. Your eyes told the truth. So did your hips.

Because your lower body was moving—slow, deliberate, rolling against him in a rhythm you both knew too well. Every grind made him groan low in his throat, hands gripping your hips, guiding you, matching you, until your movements became one long, drawn-out act of sin.

There was nothing innocent left in you.

Not after the blood. Not after the nights of screaming his name beneath holy arches. Not after the way you let him bite, let him break, let him own.

Whatever innocence you had once carried, whatever glow had lived in your chest, had long since been stripped, blackened, burned out like soot. A ghost of holiness now cloaked in the ashes of delightful depravity.

And he loved you for it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, mouth brushing your shoulder, his voice rough from worship and want. “You used to be so pure… Now you ride me like you belong to the dark.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body moved—grinding deeper, slower, tighter said enough.

You did belong to the dark. You belonged to him. And in his lap, corrupted and worshiped, you found heaven again, carved from hell.

The best part of this new life—this life soaked in crimson and devotion—wasn’t just the power, or the ruin, or even the sin.

It was him. After feeding.

When Sunghoon returned from the hunt, he was a different creature entirely. Not the composed, cold priest with honeyed words. Not the teasing, obsessive lover who knelt between your thighs and murmured prayers into your skin.

No—this version of him was feral.

His front would be soaked—chest and jaw smeared in blood, dirt clinging to the folds of his coat, hair wild, eyes glowing brighter than any flame. His movements were sharp, precise, a predator fresh from the kill, buzzing with adrenaline, with dominance, with the high of power surging through immortal veins.

And that was when he didn’t take any of your teasing. Not a single smug look. Not a lifted brow or sarcastic hum. Not even the hint of your bratty tongue.

Because the moment you opened your mouth with anything other than submission, he’d be on you—fast, like a strike of lightning, slamming you into the nearest surface with a growl in your ear and his claws already tearing at your clothes.

He wouldn’t ask—he’d take.

And you loved it.

You loved the way your body responded—how it knew when he came through the door like that. You loved the force, the hunger, the way he’d drag his bloodied hands along your skin, leaving marks that stained just as deep as his fangs.

“You wanna tease me now, little lamb?” he’d snarl into your throat, voice ragged as he rutted against you like he’d die without it. “Go on. Say something smart. See what happens.”

But you wouldn’t. Not then.

Not when his hand was around your throat, when your legs were thrown over his shoulders, when your voice was already breaking from moans and whimpers. When the only words you could manage were his name, over and over, as he ruined you with reckless, starved precision.

That was your favorite version of him. Not holy. Not gentle.

Just yours. Bloody. Breathless. And starving for you.

So screw you. You loved yourself a ruined vampire.

Blood on his chest, sin in his eyes, your name always on his tongue—sometimes in reverence, sometimes in warning, always with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You loved the way he shattered control when it came to you. How centuries of restraint, of silence, of cold detachment melted into madness the second your fingers tangled in his hair or your voice dipped just enough to tempt him.

You loved how he kissed like he was still starving, how he touched you like he feared you’d disappear, how he whispered filth into your skin like a prayer—your name his only gospel.

And you didn’t care that he wasn’t human. Didn’t care that he’d killed. That he burned in the sun. That he fed on the blood of the unfortunate.

Because he knelt for you. Because he would burn the world for you.

What more could you really want?

You had a vampire who worshiped your body, ruined your soul, fed from your love like it was his last salvation. You had a monster who touched you like you were the only thing left that mattered in an eternity of rot and ruin.

So yeah.

Screw purity. Screw salvation.

You’d take your blood-drenched, snarling, fanged lover over any mortal fantasy.

Because you didn’t need heaven. You had him. And he was hell in the best way possible.

a/n: this was supposed to be short and only suggestive, but screw it..

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