opalitelibrary

[opalitelibrary]

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

play previous song? || ◁ PART 1 ▷ || play next song?

summary : After another horny stream, you drop the bomb: fuck-a-fan fridays—seven weeks, seven fans, seven filthy videos. masks on, faces hidden, just you and one lucky subscriber tangled up on camera each week. All they have to do? strip down, get hard, and show you why it should be them. Auditions start now.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, horny simp men

A/N : and so it starts!!! is everyone ready to see the submissions from your favorite horndogs? :) (also i hope you can tell whose who hehehe) i'm trying to keep the writing inclusive for every sort of female presenting person so let me know how i've done!

The next few weeks passed in a blur of lace, lube, and direct deposits that made your head spin. What had started as a desperate half-joke had morphed into a full-blown empire - your empire. The girl who once contemplated selling her underwear for gas money was now clearing rent, tuition, groceries, and still had enough left over to drop serious coin on clothes and silk bed sheets.

You’d gone to the next level. Your friends were of course benefitting from your suspiciously newfound wealth, you casually said you had found a better part-time job, never letting them know the truth when you decided to take them shopping. Not yet at least.

Private requests were your bread and butter. You weren’t just good anymore - you were a professional tease, a digital siren with a library of toys, outfits, and vocal tones that could bring grown men to their knees. They paid for everything; soft whispers, rough talk, slow stroking, filthy roleplays. Some just oddly wanted to hear your moans on loop. Others wanted personalized videos where you called them by username and told them exactly what you’d do if they ever had the balls to show up in person.

You were making big bank. Like “accidental tax bracket change” big. Like “should probably consult a financial advisor” big.

And the men?

Oh, the men were obsessed.

Especially the regulars. Their usernames lit up your screen night after night, tipping with reckless abandon, flooding the chat with unfiltered thirst. You didn’t know who they were in real life, yet, but their personalities bled through the screen in such vivid, chaotic little ways.

EmoWithaBoner was yearning. Desperate in a way that made your chest clench and your thighs twitch. His messages were usually soft, almost sweet - You deserve everything, You looked so beautiful tonight - until something cracked open inside him mid-message and he’d type something crazy like: I would lick your cunt until you beg me to stop. Now that had gotten a small “Oh.” out of you. He wanted to worship you and ruin you all at once.

SixEyesOnly was a fucking menace. Flirty, cocky, constantly sending emojis that were way too smug for someone probably watching with only one hand available. His tips were ridiculous, like, spend $300 just to watch you eat grapes in a bad wig slowly sort of ridiculous, and his messages read like he was trying to fluster you on purpose. You assumed it was some sort of control thing with him, throwing money at people and getting them to do it. No complaints from you.

TempleOfSin was smooth, a little poetic, a little filthy. He asked for long, descriptive videos where you described what you were wearing, how you’d touch him, how you'd taste. He liked to also order roleplay videos where you pretended to worship him like he was some sort of God. Sometimes he called you his loyal little follower. You didn’t ask questions.

daddyissuez was feral. No other word for it. His requests were blunt, primal, always toeing the line of what the platform allowed and your own, now lacking, self-control. He liked spit, degradation, and power games. His tipping was sporadic and a lot less compared to the others, though, it was enough to keep him in your attention.

OfficeAfterHours was different. Polite. Polished. His messages came like little business memos laced with innuendo. “You looked stunning tonight. That color suits you,” followed by a $200 tip telling you to buy more in the same color. Never crude, always composed. It made him stand out more, somehow. Like a man who didn’t need to beg. A man who expected what he wanted, and always got it.

And then there was KingOfRot.

Unpredictable. Crude. Arrogant. He dropped tips like they were nothing. $500 just because you looked at the camera in a way he said was like a ‘deer in the headlights’. Odd, but $500 was a good amount to keep your mouth shut. He called you “pet,” “whore,” “delicious little thing.” You should’ve blocked him. Instead, you kept reading his messages twice over with your jaw unhinged and in wonderment whether or not he actually said that. His energy was intense and you hated how hot that was.

Which brings us to tonight.

You were perched in your new silk sheets, ring light warm against your skin, wearing your most transparent slip where your nipples were clearly on display and a smug little smirk behind that now iconic mask of yours. You’d hyped this stream for days - teased it on your feed, hinted at it in DMs. The chat was already on fire and you hadn’t even said a word yet. Tonight was a big one.

EmoWithaBoner: god ur so fucking hot tonight SixEyesOnly: i logged in 15 minutes early and i still feel late :(( OfficeAfterHours: You’ve outdone yourself this evening. KingOfRot: Come on, get to the fucking point, girl.

You grinned, slow and lethal, dragging your fingers along your inner thigh and ignoring KingOfRot.

“Well,” you purred, “I figured since you’ve all been very generous lately… it’s time I give something back.”

SixEyesOnly: oh fuck You licked your lips, loving the short little power trip it gave you. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice sweet and dangerous. “Maybe it’s time to start a little… tradition.”

You paused for dramatic effect.

“Fuck-a-Fan Fridays.” You bit your lip. Boom. Chat detonation. SixEyesOnly had sent you $200 just for the phrase.

EmoWithaBoner: you’re joking SixEyesOnly: oh shit baby TempleOfSin: Perfect. KingOfRot: You say when and where, pet. daddyissuez: i’ll be first. fuck the line OfficeAfterHours: I trust you've thought this through..

You leaned in close. OfficeAfterHours was cute in the way he was concerned for you. “I mean, why stop at one, right?” You giggled, cheeks burning behind your mask as you kicked your feet a little bit out of the view of your webcam. “I was gonna keep it casual, but um… yeah. What if I made it a thing? Like, a series?”

Another pause. You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried heat.

“One fan. Every Friday. For seven weeks.”

You crossed your bare legs over one another, your slip rising on your thighs as you did so. “Seven Fridays. Seven people. Seven chances to fuck the brains out of a very nervous, very willing woman who cannot believe she’s actually saying this live right now.”

You sat up again, brushing the slip back into place like your nipples weren’t clearly on display.

“I mean..obviously, we’ll keep it anonymous. Like, we’re not stupid here. Masks. No faces. Just hands. Bodies. And my camera.” The chat was still in full meltdown, comments stacking so fast the shitty platform could barely keep up. Your heart was pounding, your skin warm and tingling from the high of it all—of watching them fall apart just from your voice, your words, the soft shift of silk and skin. You hadn’t even done anything explicit yet, and they were on their knees.

God, it was addictive.

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft sigh, the movement pulling your slip just high enough to tease your hips. A final little gift before the curtain dropped.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” you said with a giggle, feigning innocence even as your gaze sparkled with something much dirtier. “You guys are gonna give me a heart attack.” SixEyesOnly: no no no don’t leave yettt!! :(( KingOfRot: You owe me for the buildup, woman. You tilted your head, lips curving into a sweet little smile as you leaned forward, giving them just one more generous view of your tits before the curtains closed.

“But before I go…” you said, voice slipping into something quieter, softer, like a secret you didn’t mean to share. “If you’re serious about Fuck-a-Fan Fridays… I want you to show me.”

The pause that followed had its own kind of weight. You watched the chat stall for half a second. The anticipation was thick enough to choke on.

“Send me a message,” you murmured, “with a picture. No face. Just your body, and cock, obviously.”

You let your fingers trail down your own torso, to your hips, your thighs, hinting at what you wanted to see. “Let me see what I’d be touching.. What I’ll be fucked braindead by.” EmoWithaBoner: fuck i’ll take a hundred SixEyesOnly: don’t lose your mind too much baby KingOfRot: It’ll be mine you dream about when you touch yourself. OfficeAfterHours: Submission will follow shortly. No face. Clean framing. High quality.

You had to laugh—giddy and a little breathless. You honestly didn’t think they’d go this feral.

“Think of it as an audition,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest, playing sweet again. “Show me what you’re offering. How you’d fit against me. In me.”

You smoothed your hand up your own thigh, lazily now, teasing.

“And just so you know,” you added with a little grin, “I’m only really looking at the ones who’ve tipped enough to keep my attention. You know who you are.”

Oh, they most definitely did.

The seven of them were already scrambling—photos incoming, tips rolling, blood leaving their brains. You didn’t need names. Their usernames were burned into your memory. Their obsessions with you were paying your bills.

“Goodnight, boys,” you whispered. “Impress me.” The second you ended the stream, you collapsed backward into your pillows with a dazed little laugh, limbs spread like you’d just run a marathon and won a gold medal in filth. The glow from your laptop cast a soft haze across your legs, the screen already lighting up with the chaos you’d left behind—tips still pouring in, messages stacking, your inbox begging for attention.

And the photos?

Oh, they were already flooding in, from people you didn’t want, but it was there regardless - upping your activity.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin resting in your palm as you clicked open the first one with a half-curious, half-unhinged smile.

No face, just like you asked. Neck down. The guy was standing in front of a mirror, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other lifting his hoodie to show off his chest. His abs were flexed. His cock hard enough to cast a shadow.

You blinked. Let out a slow breath.

“…Damn.”

Another one came in. Different guy, different vibe—tattoos on his hips, hand slick and stroking himself in a dimly lit bathroom, captioned: Fridays look good on me. Want to see how I look underneath you?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, laughing as you pulled your legs up behind you. “This is real. I’m really doing this.”

And you were. One fan. Every Friday. Seven weeks. Seven videos. Each one getting posted to your feed, available for your hundreds of subscribers to watch, rewatch, tip on, comment under, and probably break their dicks to.

It wasn’t just a hookup. It was content. Premium content.

Still riding the rush, you opened your messaging panel and started typing.

New Mass Message Sent to All Subscribers:

Hey babes— If you missed the stream tonight (rip to you), here’s your official invite.

Fuck-a-Fan Fridays is happening. Starting next week, I’ll be choosing seven of you to spend one very intimate night with me. Every Friday for the next seven weeks, I’ll be posting a new video. One fan. One full-length scene. Just me… and whoever impresses me the most.

How to audition:- Send me a photo. - Neck down only. No faces. Masks will be worn on camera, so full anonymity will be protected. But I need to see everything. Cock out. Hard. Your body. Your vibe. The way you'd look on camera—underneath me, on top of me, behind me, inside me.

Show off a little. Or a lot.

Make me want it. Let the auditions begin.

xoxo,

—Your girl

taglist : @frozenmallows @90s-belladonna @moncher-ire @kunareads @blublublubby @grignardsreagent @soozeu @mochiivqi @sweetsformysoul @killak9mi @celloccino @gurlhere4fluff @syubseokie

[opalitelibrary]

you ever think about eddie getting a lip ring….

warnings: piercings(?), brief smut, kissing, mentions of being drunk, that’s it!

you two have been dating for like a year and you always joke about how hot he’d be with piercings. the man loves jewelry, donning himself with tons of rings and necklaces. a piercing would make him any insane girl’s walking wet dream.

he doesn’t think so but after some drunk encouragement from his friends, he decides to go down to the local shop and get a lip ring. he gets home that night, falling asleep and not even remembering it. when you show up the next day, unannounced but always welcomed, you creep into his bedroom as he’s sleeping and curl up next to him. when he rolls over and you see the silver hoop sticking out of his lip, you literally groan.

eddie’s lip have always been perfect. pink, plump, and always wet with his saliva. he constantly licked them out of habit, and seeing them shiny always made you want to press a searing kiss to them.

“what’s that, baby?” you ask, watching your sickly sweet and tired boyfriend barely open his eyes.

his hand crawls out from under the blankets, feeling the slight throb of the pain on his lip. he touches it and winces.

“I did what you said. do I look hot or what?” his voice is so deep and drenched in tiredness. you giggle, grabbing his chin and pulling it towards you.

of course, he looked hot. you were thinking more of a nose ring or maybe even an eyebrow piercing, but a lip ring is a very very pleasant surprise.

“you’re always hot, baby. but this? this takes your look to a whole new level.”

after that day, you jokingly tell him you have to limit kissing him, or not do it at all. he would beg and beg, but you were adamant about ensuring the piercing healed okay.

a couple days later, he’s feeling you up on the couch, trying to get you to cave into his touch.

you turn to him, your voice sultry and deep. “it’s a shame we can’t kiss because that piercing.”

he barks a laugh, shaking his head. “I will take it out if you don’t fucking kiss me, sweetheart.”

you whimper, jokingly acting like your a wounded animal that just got hit by a car. “no, no. it’s so hot I don’t want you to.”

“then come and plant one on me, baby.”

you hesitantly kiss his lips, feeling the cold metal of the piercing on your own. it makes your body buzz how eager he is, having missed your kisses like this for days, almost a whole week.

eddie is a pretty sloppy kisser, but not in a bad way. when he’s ready to take you, he is always moaning into your mouth, his lips wide and eager. with the piercing, it slightly scrapes across your lower lip in an almost maddening way. you did not know kissing someone with lip ring would make your pussy pulsate so quickly.

you pull away from him briefly, inspecting that area as he’s tugging down your pants and underwear. it’s a little bit red, but nothing too insane. you still worry you are going to hurt him.

“baby…”

“shut up,” he says sternly, pressing a kiss to your hip, “i’m going to eat your pussy until you’re screaming. the god damn lip ring will survive.”

you practically melt into a puddle on the couch at his raunchy words. “jesus, I just don’t want to hurt you, baby.”

he grins, the piercing stretching with the curve of his mouth, “I like when there’s a little pain, sweetheart. now lay back and let me do what I love the most.”

[opalitelibrary]

birds of a feather | ryomen sukuna

pairing: god of war!sukuna x goddess of love!reader

summary: when you're married to the most boring god on olympus, who can blame you when you seek out passion with someone a little more exciting?

mythology au. retelling of the affair between ares and aphrodite.

word count: 2.7k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, mythology, infidelity, drama, arranged marriage, piv sex, pregnancy, multiple positions, exhibitionism, public humiliation, reader and sukuna both could NOT care less about morality

a/n: I was originally planning to make this fic about toji but my brainrot took over and now I can't see ares as anyone but sukuna sooooo

You were bored. Painfully bored. 

Because, despite being the world’s most beautiful being, the goddess of love, the object of literally everyone’s desire; your father had decided to thoroughly clip your wings and force you into a marriage with the world’s ugliest and most tiresome god: Jogo, god of the forge. 

You couldn’t even look at him without feeling disgusted, a face that only a mother could love as mortals liked to say, but even that wasn’t true in this case considering that his mother had tossed him from the top of Mount Olympus when she’d first seen him, horrified by his disfigured face.

As you can imagine, being tossed from a mountain definitely didn’t improve upon his looks. 

Not to mention, such disregard led to Jogo’s physical ugliness seeping into his personality. He was a jealous and bitter man, even going as far as to trap his mother to a golden throne for her treatment of him in his childhood. 

That would’ve been amusing to you, if not for the negative impact that the situation had on your life. For in the terms of his mother’s release, Jogo implored the King of the Gods to grant him your hand in marriage, claiming that the only thing that would make amends for his treatment was to have the beautiful goddess of love become his wife. 

Marriage was an easy trade to make for the King, so you were given up easily - all of your sophistication and beauty wasted on this ugly man. It was your idea of hell. 

You loved your freedom, loved flirting with gods, with mortals, warming the beds of men and women alike, experiencing all the pleasures of the flesh that you possibly could. That was the whole point of your life, only for it to be ripped away from you at the hands of your jealous husband, whose one good eye was always watching you, making sure that you’d never be unfaithful to him. 

And it was boring. 

Sex with him was completely uninspiring. He didn’t know the first thing about women, treating you as though you were one of his little machines, taking a logical approach to each action, completing his duty in bed to the letter with the intention of procreation, no pleasure or passion involved in the equation. You hated it. 

You’d close your eyes and pretend that you were fucking someone else, but even that barely worked since your stupid husband couldn’t ever touch you well enough to get you anywhere near getting off. 

It sucked. Of all the gods, why did you have to be married to him? It wasn’t fair.

Lately you’d been wishing that you were married to Sukuna, God of War and Bloodshed. He was everything that your husband wasn’t: exciting and passionate, with a focus on his own pleasure above all else. He was handsome and confident, with sharp features, pink hair, sharp black tattoos curling over his muscular body, and an atmosphere of danger following him wherever he went.

From the way that he so brazenly checked you out at any given opportunity, flicking compliments your way and giving you that cocky smirk, it was clear that the two of you were birds of a feather. Matched in your desires far better than you were aligned with your own husband. 

He was egging you on, waiting to see if you’d make a move, if you were brave enough to ignore the whims of your husband and take the leap. And with his red eyes following you around Olympus the way they did, what were you meant to do? Say no? 

You were only human after all. Well, you technically weren’t but the same sentiment applied. 

So one night when your husband was working late at his forge, you snuck out of your marital bed to seek out the god of war. You’d been so needy since your wedding, unable to be with anyone but your pathetic husband, you had no doubt that Sukuna would help solve that problem - at least, if he fucked with the same passion that he fought with. 

Sukuna had been waiting for you that night, lounging about on his fancy sheets wearing nothing but a short red toga. His grin was all teeth, gaze fixed on you like you were prey that he was about to devour. Little did he know that was exactly what you wanted, coming in here batting your lashes, looking so innocent, as though you hadn’t fucked hundreds of men in your lifetime, wonderfully putting on an act of being a scared little neglected wife giving herself over to the big protective man. 

Because you desperately needed him to think he was in control of this situation, for him to dominate you like he was in charge and you were just a bystander. If he knew that was exactly what you wanted the dynamic would change, you needed it to feel real. 

It's what you’d been yearning for ever since you were thrown into a sham of a marriage.  

“Finally giving in, sweetheart?” He asked, his deep voice rumbling through the room as he rose to his feet, crossing the room to tower over you, gripping your slender chin with his calloused fingers. 

“He’s so fucking boring.” You complained, fluttering your lashes once more as you gazed up at him, pouting your lips softly. “I need someone to show me a good time or I’ll go insane.” 

Sukuna smirked down at you, tapping your chin thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, we can’t have that can we? I suppose I’ve got no choice but to give you what you want…” 

“Mmmm.” You responded, sliding your hands seductively up his chest. Sukuna stared down at you with amusement for a moment before pouncing, lips crashing against yours as he hoisted you up into his arms, wrapping your legs around his big body and letting him manhandle you as he liked. 

It was exactly what you’d been missing from your foolish little marriage. 

And with that, your affair began. That first night had been as filled with passion as you’d expected, Sukuna dominating you completely, fucking you up against the wall, his muscular arms holding you up as he made you come undone with long, deep strokes on his thick cock. 

He spat in your mouth and pulled your hair, called you a dirty slut along with dozens of other filthy names as he forced your head down on his cock, teased your ass with his fingers as he fucked you on all fours, slapping your ass each time you whined and squirmed, shooting several loads of cum over your pretty body and ordering you to lick up any that dripped onto the floor. 

It was passionate, exciting. It stirred your heart like never before. 

And the whole time he was so confident that he was in control, that he was the one inflicting his desire upon you, the object of his affection. Never catching on that you had actively looked to him for this treatment, that you’d been just as desperate for him to touch and degrade you like this as he had been to inflict it upon you. 

You’d left him there in the room when you were done, neither of you were under the illusion you that you were going to cuddle after fucking - no, this was all about raw, unfiltered pleasure, it had nothing to do with safety or comfort. His nature was violence, there was nothing more that you’d get from him. 

Perhaps others would look upon your affair years from now and feel bad for you, assume that you’d yearned for him in a way that he hadn’t yearned for you. But they had the wrong idea. You were the goddess of love, how foolish to think that you’d restrain that love to just one single person - it would be an insult to your very nature. 

You could love Sukuna just like you could love anyone else, the love that you had to give was as infinite as his was nonexistent. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. 

What a pair the two of you made. 

Years were spent with the two of you sneaking around. You'd go to him at night, your legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucked you into the silk sheets. You’d visit him on the battlefield, letting him bend you over his war table, scattering the carefully positioned map pieces as he drove into you so hard that the table shook. 

Sometimes, when you were confident that your husband was away, you’d even invite him into your own bed, getting off on the thrill of him taking you in the same place that your husband would usually have you, letting Sukuna’s cum drip out of you and onto the sheets when you were done - enough for your husband to doubt but not enough to prove your infidelity. 

A calculated risk to stimulate your hedonistic brain.

There were a few times throughout the years that you fell pregnant. Your husband always assumed that the children were his, always stupid enough to be blind to what was happening right in front of him. You knew better. The three children that you had in the years since your affair with Sukuna started all clearly bore a resemblance to the god of war. 

But it's not like that was all that scandalous, they’d be far from the first children in olympus born out of wedlock believing that they were the children of another. Once they grew older you supposed it would be harder to deny their heritage, but that would be a bridge to cross when you came to it. 

What was the point in worrying? 

Neither you or Sukuna were particularly convinced that you were being slick or subtle about your affair - the looks that he would shoot you in public made sure of that, but when you were both finally caught you couldn’t help but feel surprised, frustrated by the way that it had all gone down. 

You’d been out on one of your secret meetings with Sukuna, visiting him on the battlefield - you were in Troy this time, a battle that you had been paying close attention to because of your favor for the Trojan prince who had stolen his beloved away from her oaf of a husband. You were a great supporter of true love, always rooting for and aiding mortals who went for what they truly wanted, sneering at the very existence of arranged marriage. 

Love couldn’t simply be arranged. You were sure of that from your own experiences. 

Sukuna had been in a jovial mood when you found him. He too had taken the side of the Trojans, at your behest. He seldom cared whose side he fought on, as long as there was horror and bloodshed he was content, and this ongoing siege was providing plenty of that - dried blood and guts coating his muscular body when you approached him in his war tent. 

He’d smirked at you, requesting your praise for fighting so valiantly on the side you’d ordered him to support. And you’d given him just that, dropping to your knees and worshipping his cock until he was cumming down your throat. It had become routine for you, to give him whatever he wanted like this. It was what you wanted too. 

It had become so routine in fact, that the two of you barely bothered to make sure that you were alone before pouncing upon one another. That would be your mistake in this instance, for you had an observer from just outside your tent: Yorozu, the goddess of chaos, an obsessively jealous woman who had been madly in love with Sukuna for years, ever scorned by the way he would brush her aside. 

Now she understood why, and she knew just who to tell to bring this troublesome little affair to an end. 

So, weeks after your little rendezvous with Sukuna on the Trojan battlefield, the two of you were finally forced to face the music. Jogo had told you that he was going away for a while, and predictably as ever you had invited Sukuna into your bed, letting him climb on top of you and sink his cock into your warm pussy, just as always. 

And in that moment, the trap sprung. 

There was a mechanical whirring and a golden net was thrown over the two of you, forcibly keeping you both in place, tangled up with each other and pinned down uncomfortably against the bed. 

Your husband strolled into your room, snickering at the predicament that you’d found yourself in, cursing you for your infidelity, face growing red with rage as he started to spit vitriol at the both of you. 

But you weren’t really listening, and you imagined that Sukuna wasn’t either. You didn’t feel any remorse for your actions, and it was hard to focus on your surroundings with Sukuna’s cock still twitching inside you. If anything, it was taking all of your willpower not to start laughing.

“Let us go, Jogo.” Sukuna grumbled, pushing against the golden net only to find that it wouldn’t budge even under the weight of all his godly strength. 

“Not even an apology for fucking my wife?” Jogo hissed, and Sukuna shrugged, his body vibrating with chuckles. 

“Not like you were doing a good job.” 

“Whatever.” Jogo responded, and you couldn’t help but laugh, giggling softly into Sukuna’s muscular shoulder despite the uncomfortable situation you were in. 

At least you were in it with Sukuna. 

“Stop laughing, whore.” Jogo spat. “Since you’re so keen to open your legs for other men, how about we let all of Olympus see you like this?” 

Now that was humiliating. The golden net was inescapable, and all you and Sukuna could do as Jogo invited the other gods in to look and laugh was lie still, bodies still thoroughly entwined. You weren’t keen on every god getting to look upon your body, but considering that every statue of you depicted you as nude anyway, you decided that this was something of a lenient punishment. 

So as Jogo asked you if you were truly sorry, and made you promise that you’d never ever stray from him again, that you’d remain faithful for eternity, you nodded along compliantly. Pretending that you’d be his perfect little wife so that he’d release you from these bindings and move on, trying desperately not to whine or squirm at the way Sukuna’s hand was squeezing at your breast needily where your bodies were joined together, right under your husband's nose. 

Jogo seemed satisfied with your agreement, even if Sukuna’s simple ‘whatever’ just served to further temper his rage. In Jogo’s mind this was about you, not Sukuna. He had no jurisdiction over the god of war, but it was his job to control his woman. 

It was just embarrassing if he couldn’t. 

Unfortunately, Jogo was in for a life of embarrassment, because you and Sukuna weren’t so easily separable.

As time passed and your husband’s rage started to fade, you found yourself in Sukuna’s bed once more. Right back where you started, he had you bent over, fucking into you like he blamed you for the embarrassment of the two of you getting caught, his cock slamming into you until you were crying and clawing at the silk sheets, screaming his name loud enough that the whole of Olympus was likely aware of your continuing affair. 

You didn’t care, it wouldn’t be the last time - it never would. Just as easily as before you’d been caught, you fell back into the pattern of seeking him out, coming undone on his cock night after night and regretting absolutely nothing. 

What? Were you really meant to stay loyal to your husband just because of some silly golden net and a little bit of humiliation? What a waste. 

Such incidents were the spice of life, and Sukuna was like a drug that you were addicted to. You wouldn’t give it up so easily, and neither would he. He was yours and you were his. Love and violence had always gone hand in hand, what better pairing was there? 

Birds of a feather flock together.

a/n: thanks for reading! I had so much fun writing this one, absolutely adore writing the reader as completely unapologetic lol

if you like mythology fics, I have another sukuna one here (inspired by apollo and cassandra), and a gojo one here (inspired by paris and helen of troy). I'm planning on bringing out a choso one soon too :)

© sukunahs

[opalitelibrary]

Sacred Hell

Pairing: Priest!Hongjoong x Demon!FemReader

Genre: +18, Smut, Dark Romance, Supernatural, Slow Burn, Horror Undertones, Gothic/Religious Aesthetic

wc: 8,5k

Summary: In a quiet church tucked away from the chaos of the world, Father Hongjoong lives a life of peace, purpose, and unwavering faith. But when a strange confession shatters his routine, he finds himself haunted by a voice—one that knows too much, feels too close, and sounds far too human.

Some sins don’t knock on the door. They just enter the sanctuary.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (MDI!!), graphic oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, marking/bruising, rough intimacy, mild dirty talk, sensual tension and manipulation, Non-consensual metaphysical claim over a soul, religious imagery and theological themes, dark fantasy/demon lore, obsession, paranoia, and identity crisis. Power imbalance. Light body horror (visuals: horns, charms, black eyes) Unreliable perception/reality distortion.

Request: Yes. Thank you for your request, hope you like it 🫶

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The scent of incense hung like a veil over the chapel—sweet cinnamon wrapped in smoke, and something faintly acrid beneath it, like the last breath of a snuffed candle.

The pews sat mostly empty, shadowed and silent, save for a few souls adrift in prayer: an elderly woman whispering decades of sorrow into her clasped hands, a janitor polishing brass with devotion more ritual than routine, and someone crying—quietly—beneath the cold gaze of Jesus Crist.

This was the hour Hongjoong loved most.

The world outside dulled, muffled by thick stone and stained glass. Time stilled. And in that stillness, the church seemed to breathe—as if the divine stirred only when no one else was watching.

He’d loved this place since he was thirteen.

The first time he stepped into a chapel, the hush of it moved something in him. Not fear, not awe—just peace. A peace he chased until it became purpose.

His parents hadn’t argued when he said he wanted to serve. His friends didn’t laugh. Not really. They called it noble. Maybe even brave.

And it was enough.

He liked helping people. Speaking to the grieving. Teaching children how to listen for God's whisper in a noisy world.

His life was quiet, structured, and deeply his. At twenty-six, it still was.

Well. Until recently.

Mingi had always teased him, of course. They still did.

“You’re gonna die a virgin, Joong,” Mingi snorted once over coffee, “And not even a mysterious one.”

He had laughed. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t missing out.

He didn’t crave noise. Or indulgence. Or chaos.

He craved the calm. The certainty. The closeness to something bigger than himself.

But then the confessional door creaked open.

He didn’t look up right away. Instead, he straightened his collar, folded his hands, and spoke in the calm, careful tone he used with everyone.

“Tell me your sins, my dear.”

A breath, long and quiet, answered him. Then a voice.

Soft. Smooth. Curiously calm.

“Father… Why do people think that telling their sins to someone like you will keep them out of Hell?”

The question landed gently. But the tone behind it wasn’t right.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t pained.

It was… amused.

Unbothered. Too comfortable.

His breath caught, just slightly. He swallowed it in silence.

“May I ask why you think that way?” He replied evenly.

“Because they’ll sin again,” The voice said, slow and sure. “They can’t help it. That’s what they were made to do.”

His fingers tightened around the rosary in his pocket. The beads were warm from use, worn smooth by nights spent praying for others—never for himself.

But tonight…

“Why are you so sure?”

A soft exhale from the other side. Then:

“Because that’s the nature of your kind.”

His chest tightened.

“They were created to sin.”

The booth grew warmer. Or maybe he just imagined it. But the space suddenly felt smaller, like the air had thickened between the panels of carved wood.

He told himself it was just a strange confession. Philosophical. Someone trying to provoke him. That happened sometimes.

But then the silence stretched too long. Uncomfortably long.

And then the voice dropped lower.

“Kim Hongjoong, I’ve been watching you.”

The blood drained from his face.

His skin prickled with cold. The hairs on his arms rose. He turned toward the screen instinctively—but the lattice was too fine to see through.

Only shadow. Still. Watching.

“Who are you?” He demanded, voice thinner than before.

The voice didn’t answer. Not directly.

“Have you ever sinned, Hongjoong?”

The way they said his name—like it was something intimate—made his stomach twist.

Not cruel. Not playful.

Certain.

Like they knew him.

His mouth opened. But nothing came out.

Because deep beneath his calm exterior—under the robes and prayers and purpose—was something he’d long buried.

And it wanted to hear that voice again.

˚₊‧ა ♱ ໒ ‧₊˚

He hadn’t slept much.

Seven nights had passed, but that voice still wrapped around his spine like smoke.

He remembered opening the booth and finding nothing. No shadow. No scent. No footsteps in the chapel. Just stillness—and the suffocating certainty that he hadn’t been speaking to a human soul.

He started locking the doors earlier. Checking the pews. Double- and triple-checking the booths.

And still, he felt eyes on him. In the mirror. On the bus. Walking past shop windows. Especially in the church, where the saints watched him with unblinking stone eyes.

He told Father Jongho.

Jongho had laughed, brushing it off.

“Probably some weird prank. Kid with too much time. You know how they are.”

But Hongjoong didn’t believe that.

Because it didn’t feel like a prank.

It felt like… a promise.

And it was keeping him awake at night.

♱

The seminar was already underway when he arrived. Twenty, maybe thirty young women sat in the front rows, all neatly dressed and attentive.

Jongho was introducing the session on spiritual service and church community roles, but Hongjoong’s attention drifted.

Until you entered.

You were late. Quiet.

And the moment you walked through the chapel doors, the world… shifted.

Nothing about you screamed for attention.

Your outfit was modest—long skirt, buttoned blouse, rosary tucked at your throat. Your hair neat. Your steps soft. And yet his eyes snapped to you like metal to magnet.

He felt something in his chest tighten.

Familiarity. But no memory.

Déjà vu laced with dread.

You walked slowly down the aisle, bowed politely, then sat near the front.

But something clawed at the back of his mind.

He told himself it was nothing. That he was tired. Paranoid.

Still… when your gaze lifted and met his—just for a second—something inside him recoiled.

Or maybe… leaned in.

After the seminar, you approached him.

“Father Hongjoong?” You asked gently.

He turned.

You were closer than he’d realized.

“I was told I’d be assisting you this week,” You said with a warm smile. “I’m here for the convent program. I hope that’s alright.”

He stared for a beat too long.

You smiled again. Pure. Kind.

But your eyes… There was something behind them.

Something veiled.

He couldn’t place it. But he could feel it.

˚₊‧ა ♱ ໒ ‧₊˚

The sweet click of your lip gloss echoed through the room, thick with the scent of sulfur and cherry.

You puckered your lips in the mirror, spreading the soft pink sheen over your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes.

Behind you, Wooyoung’s voice rang out, dripping with mockery.

“So what, now you’re gonna play the innocent good girl?”

You smiled, sly and feline, without turning around “If you want to put it that way,” You said, running your fingers through your hair, tousling it just right, “Yes.”

“Cute little angel on the outside…” You paused, your voice dipping, “…monster underneath.”

He scoffed “Tits and ass out, then.”

You turned and shot him a look “No. Not completely,” You said with a shrug, standing to smooth the skirt over your hips. “I'm just dressing like I always do.”

He gave you a flat look “So, tits and ass out.”

“Wooyoung!” You scolded, launching your comb at his head. He dodged it like a seasoned pro, hands raised.

“Hey! Say no to violence!” He grinned, demonic and smug, pointing to the other side of your room. “Ask Seonghwa. Bet he agrees.”

You turned, and sure enough—Seonghwa was there, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, lips tilted in an amused smile. He looked like temptation dressed in silk and sin.

“Seriously? You agree with this idiot?”

Seonghwa pushed off the wall and strolled toward you, all lazy grace. He reached out and cupped your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing just under your glossed bottom lip.

“Baby,” He said, tone soft as smoke, “Sometimes you do dress like a slut.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“But,” He continued, “You always look beautiful. And we love you just like that.”

You rolled your eyes and slapped his hand away with a grin.

“Asshole.”

“Truth hurts.”

“You’re all so annoying,” You muttered, even as San flopped down beside you with his usual chaos in tow.

“And you’re about to make history, babe.” San grinned, sharp canines gleaming. “You really going through with it?”

You arched a brow “Of course I am. A priest? The holiest of holy boys? What better way to earn another charm?”

You tugged the collar of your blouse down slightly, revealing the edges of your demon mark—the ink over your chest that glowed faintly with power.

Several small charms already adorned it: a dagger, a flame, a bleeding crown.

Each one earned. Each one a symbol of sin committed, souls cracked.

“Hongjoong won’t stand a chance,” You added, dragging your nails lazily down your exposed collarbone.

San leaned in with a grin “Don’t disappoint me now. You lose, I get you. You win, you get another charm.”

“Deal.”

Your lips curled as you faced the mirror once again, voice smooth and seductive.

“Let’s see how long it takes to drag a priest to Hell.”

♱

“Good morning, Father.”

The voice rang out as soon as he stepped into the parish hall. Gentle. Respectful. Polished—like light reflecting off a blade.

Hongjoong hesitated for the briefest second. Barely noticeable. But enough. He turned toward you with a tight smile, shallow and practiced.

“Morning, sister,” He murmured, eyes barely grazing yours before flicking to the floor.

He walked past quickly, almost as if something at his back might burn him. You followed. He could hear your footsteps, light and even.

You didn’t rush to catch up. You didn’t speak. You just… trailed him, like a shadow that smiled.

He hated how aware he was of you. Of your presence. The faint floral scent that shouldn’t have lingered so long. The heat he felt when you stood too close—even when you weren’t close.

His whole body was tense. He kept his gaze forward, feet moving faster than usual, hoping you'd get the message.

You didn’t.

Of course you didn’t.

—

“Father, what would you like me to help you with today?”

Your voice was warm when you asked, sweet enough to pass for kindness, but he swore there was something beneath it.

You both stepped into his office. A small, square room, one that had always been a safe space.

Quiet. Private. Familiar.

But now… Now it felt stifling.

The scent of frankincense and old pages surrounded them—dozens of Bibles stacked on overloaded shelves, framed prints of saints hanging like silent witnesses. Rosaries lined the edge of his desk.

Candles. Scripture. Order.

And then there was you. You paused at the threshold, eyes scanning the room. You looked normal. Curious. Polite. Until you locked eyes with the statue of Jesus in the corner. A simple carving, usually overlooked.

But your gaze lingered, just a second too long. And for a fleeting moment, Hongjoong thought he saw something in your eyes.

Something aware.

Your smile didn’t falter. A shiver crawled under his skin. He turned quickly and busied himself with a stack of papers.

“I need help organizing the lectures for tonight’s mass,” He said, placing the bundle on his desk. “These are the weekly announcements. Just put them in order by date.”

“Of course, Father,” You replied, taking the stack delicately into your hands.

Your fingers brushed his as you did, light as air. He flinched internally. Why did your skin feel like static?

You glanced around for a place to sit, standing still, almost hesitant. He noticed and before he could stop himself, he gestured toward the chair beside his desk.

“You can sit here.”

You gave him a grateful smile. Sweet. Perfect.

You didn’t have to do anything. Didn’t bat your lashes or tilt your voice or pout your lips. And yet—he had offered.

He should’ve told you to sit farther away. Should’ve pointed to the corner chair. Should’ve remembered how unsteady he’d been feeling all week.

But now you were sitting beside him. Close enough to feel your warmth. Close enough to smell that damn perfume again.

You flipped through the papers with practiced ease, crossing one leg over the other.

He turned back to his own work, pretending to read, pretending to focus—while every nerve in his body screamed at him to do the one thing he swore he wouldn’t:

Look at you.

♱

Monday

He tried to pray it away. That heat. That pull. That… wrongness.

But you sat beside him again, close enough to brush shoulders, flipping through liturgical schedules like you belonged here. Like you’d always belonged.

He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. But the corner of his eye betrayed him.

Your skirt was too short. Not scandalous, but short enough to see the soft curve of your thigh when you crossed your legs.

Your blouse dipped low, hugging your chest like it was stitched just for sin. Your lip gloss shimmered like sugar in candlelight.

And yet—no one noticed.

Father Jongho passed you twice without a blink. Sister Lily complimented your modesty. Even the elderly woman from the parish clutched her rosary and called you “such a lovely girl.”

Was he imagining it?

Was he the problem?

—

Tuesday

The crucifix fell off the wall.

It had been mounted above his door for five years.

Never moved. Never loosened. Never even tilted.

But the moment you entered his office—bright smile, folders tucked against your chest, heels clicking too deliberately—it fell.

Not loud. Just a soft thud as it hit the carpet.

You bent to pick it up before he could move.

“Oops,” You said sweetly. “I didn’t touch it.”

He nodded stiffly and took it from your hands, your fingers grazing his again, and the metal of the crucifix burned cold in his palm.

He didn’t hang it back up.

—

Wednesday

He had a dream. It wasn’t graphic, not exactly. But it was wrong.

He remembered your lips. Soft, shimmering. The feel of fingers brushing over his collar.

The way you knelt before him, not in prayer, but in offering. Your eyes looked up at him, full of something between reverence and ruin.

He woke up gasping.

That morning, you arrived in a slim black skirt, blouse slightly sheer under the light, lips glossed pink and perfect.

Everyone smiled at you. Said you looked radiant.

He bit his tongue so hard it bled.

—

Thursday

You spoke during mass. It was a brief reading, nothing complicated—something Father Jongho asked you to do. But the moment you stepped up to the pulpit, the entire room seemed to… still.

You read slowly, voice soft, every word soaking into the stone like oil on silk.

And for the first time since he’d become a priest, Hongjoong couldn’t hear the words of Scripture.

All he heard was your voice. Every syllable carved its way under his skin. Every breath dragged along his spine.

He gripped the edge of the pew until his knuckles went white.

That night, the Jesus statue in his office was facing a different direction.

He hadn’t moved it.

—

Friday

You wore red. No one else seemed to notice.

Not the color, not the way the fabric curved over your waist, not the flash of leg when you walked.

But he did. He felt it.

You stood in the hallway, speaking to Yunho—a visiting seminarian who was annoyingly charming and far too friendly with you—and you laughed.

A soft, girlish sound. Bright.

His stomach twisted.

You turned, and for just a second, you looked at him.

Direct. Slow. Knowing.

And smiled.

He excused himself to the confessional that night. Not for a parishioner. For himself.

But when he stepped inside, he felt it. The memory. The weight of that voice in that very booth. The echo of that whisper: “Have you ever sinned, Hongjoong?”

He couldn’t answer then. He still couldn’t now.

But he was starting to wonder if the answer was yes.

˚₊‧ა ♱ ໒ ‧₊˚

The church was quiet. Deceptively so. The kind of quiet that felt like something was holding its breath.

It was well past ten, and he should’ve sent you home hours ago. But the bulletin printer had jammed, and you’d insisted on helping.

Of course you had. Always so eager. So helpful. So... near.

Hongjoong sat at his desk, flipping through hymn sheets with hands that trembled more than he wanted to admit.

Across from him, you stood filing announcements into neat folders, lips pursed in concentration, soft hums escaping now and then as you worked. Your voice was light, innocent, lovely—and it burned in his ears.

Your skirt slid up slightly when you leaned forward. The neckline of your blouse dipped just enough to show the rise of your breasts. Glossy lips glistened in the candlelight like temptation itself.

He clenched his jaw and looked back at his papers.

It’s not real. She’s dressed modestly. The others would’ve said something if she wasn’t.

It’s just you. It’s your weakness. Your sin. Yours.

And then—

Crack.

The sound made him flinch.

He looked up just in time to see a small ceramic statue tumble from the shelf behind you. It hit the wooden floor and split down the middle.

Saint Cecilia.

The patron saint of purity and music. Her painted hands folded in prayer now lay separated across the floor.

You turned slowly, lips parted in a little gasp, but your eyes… your eyes sparkled like you weren’t sorry at all.

“Oh no…” You said, voice soft and breathy. “I didn’t even touch it. I just walked by.”

He stared at the broken figure, frozen. The timing. The saint. The silence that followed.

You bent to pick it up, too slowly.

Your skirt lifted just a little more. Hongjoong looked away immediately, biting the inside of his cheek.

When you stood again, you held the cracked statue like it was a sleeping baby. You walked toward his desk, setting it down gently in front of him—and then leaned forward, both palms flat on the desk.

Too close.

Your blouse shifted. He could see the soft line of your cleavage. Smell your perfume—sweet and dark like pomegranate and honey.

Your eyes locked on his “You think it’s a sign?” You asked, voice low now.

Different and closer to the one from the booth.

His breath caught.

“Maybe something… divine… is trying to speak to us.”

That smile. That curve of lip like you already knew the ending of a story he hadn’t read yet.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the wood.

“It’s late,” He said. Too quickly. “We’re done for tonight.”

You blinked, feigning innocence “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” He said tightly. “I just— I need to lock up.”

You gave him a soft little nod, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt. As you turned to leave, you let your fingers trail along his desk—and then down his wrist, barely a touch.

But his skin burned there, long after you’d walked away.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

He stared at his ceiling for hours, sheets tangled around his legs, heart pounding like he was running from something.

From you. From himself.

He hated how vividly he could picture your mouth when you said his name.

How the scent of your perfume lingered in his office even after you left.

How you made him feel like his soul was trembling.

And worst of all—He wasn’t even sure he wanted it to stop.

♱

The chapel was dim, lit only by soft candlelight and the blue tint of evening seeping through stained glass.

The parish had long since emptied after evening mass, and silence wrapped itself around the church like velvet.

Hongjoong had stayed behind to pray. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But prayer had become harder lately. His words stumbled in his throat. His fingers hesitated over the rosary beads. His mind kept wandering where it shouldn't.

To you.

To the girl who wasn’t really a girl at all.

Who looked like sweetness and smelled like sin.

Who stood just behind him now, her heels silent on the old stone floor.

He felt you before he heard you.

That gentle hum in the air. That shift in pressure. That low ache building in his gut every time you were near.

“Father,” You whispered from behind, your voice velvet-smooth. “You forgot your reading for Sunday. I thought I’d bring it.”

He turned, startled—and there you were. Not the modest girl everyone else saw.

You were dressed in red again. Bare legs, glossy lips, soft blouse tugged slightly off one shoulder, exposing the delicate line of your collarbone.

You looked like no one had ever touched you, and like everyone should.

He swallowed hard, taking the pages from your hand, careful not to brush your fingers this time.

But then, you stepped closer. One step. Then another.

Until your body was close enough for him to feel the warmth rising off your skin. Your perfume was heavier tonight—dark fruit and crushed petals. It curled into his lungs and tangled itself there.

“You look tired, Father.” You tilted your head, voice a quiet purr. “Shouldn’t you rest?”

He couldn’t move.

“I can help,” You said, lifting one hand—not touching, just hovering. “Let me ease your burdens. I know what you need.”

His breathing hitched. He should've stepped back. Should’ve told you to stop. Should’ve remembered his collar. His vows.

Instead, his eyes fell to your lips—soft, parted, gloss catching the candlelight.

“Don’t,” He rasped, voice low and broken. “Please…”

But you leaned in anyway, just a little. Not touching. Just… there.

Your powers pulsed softly through the air like a lover’s sigh. Not overwhelming. Just enough to make his body ache with need.

You didn’t have to kiss him. He was already falling. Your fingers brushed over his chest, right above his heart, and he flinched—not from pain.

From how good it felt.

“You’ve been strong all week,” You whispered, close enough for him to feel your breath on his cheek. “But everyone breaks eventually, Father. Even the saints.”

He didn’t breathe. His lips parted—like he wanted to speak, or scream, or maybe say your name.

Then—

“Hongjoong!”

The door creaked open, heavy and loud. Father Jongho’s voice snapped through the air like lightning.

You stepped back instantly—eyes wide, expression shifting like a mask—innocent, unreadable, perfect.

Hongjoong blinked. The spell shattered. Jongho looked between you both, brow furrowing slightly.

“Everything alright?”

Hongjoong swallowed and nodded, too quickly “Y-Yes. She was just giving me the Sunday reading.”

You held up the papers with a soft smile “Just doing my duty, Father.”

Jongho nodded slowly, then turned to Hongjoong “Mind if I steal you for a minute? There’s something in the rectory.”

“Of course.” His voice was hoarse. He didn’t look at you again.

When he followed Jongho, he felt your eyes burning between his shoulder blades.

He didn’t speak the rest of the night.

But when he lay in bed hours later, sweating under cold sheets, he could still feel your fingers on his chest… Still hear your voice…

“Even the saints break, Father.”

—

The air in the rectory was heavy with incense, the scent clinging to every book, robe, and breath. Hongjoong sat stiffly in the chair across from Father Jongho’s desk, fingers clenching the hem of his robe, jaw locked tight.

He didn’t know why it took him this long to say something. Maybe part of him hoped he was imagining it all.

But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

Jongho looked at him expectantly, calm as ever “What’s wrong?”

A pause.

Then Hongjoong finally spoke, voice low “It’s about… Her.”

“What about her?”

Hongjoong hesitated, then exhaled through his nose and pushed forward.

“It’s the way she… dresses.”

Jongho’s brows rose slightly in surprise “What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Hongjoong pressed. “The skirts. The heels. The lip gloss. The—” he stopped himself, voice heating. “The way her blouse fits—tight. Low cut. It’s—”

“She wears long skirts, Hongjoong.” Jongho’s voice was firm, a touch confused. “Always. Past the knee. Her shirts have collars. Sleeves to her wrists. She wears a rosary around her neck every day.”

Hongjoong stared.

Jongho leaned forward a little, eyes narrowing “Are you… seeing something I’m not?”

Silence.

“You think I’m imagining it.” Hongjoong said finally, voice tight.

“No,” He replied gently. “But maybe you’re projecting something. You’ve been under stress. You haven’t been sleeping. And you’ve had… doubts, haven’t you?”

Hongjoong stood abruptly, agitated now.

“That’s not all.” He started to pace. “Since she started helping me, strange things have been happening in my office.”

Jongho raised a brow “Strange how?”

“The crucifix fell from my wall—out of nowhere. Saint Cecilia, the statue, it cracked clean down the middle without being touched. And the Jesus statue…”

He hesitated.

“It turned around. I didn’t move it. I would never move it.”

Now Jongho was watching him carefully. Not dismissive. Not skeptical. Just calm.

Too calm.

“You think she caused it?”

Hongjoong didn’t answer. Not directly.

“There’s something… wrong. I don’t know what it is, but when she’s around—everything feels off. I can’t think. I can’t pray. And sometimes…” His voice dropped. “Sometimes, it feels like she already knows what I’m thinking.”

Jongho leaned back in his chair.

“Temptation has many forms, Hongjoong.” His voice was thoughtful. “Sometimes the devil doesn’t appear with horns or fire. Sometimes it’s a voice. A thought. A doubt in the mind.”

That only made the knot in Hongjoong’s chest tighten.

Because Jongho didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

This wasn’t just temptation. This wasn’t just lust.

This felt designed.

Jongho continued, unaware he was pouring gasoline on the fire:

“But you said she dresses inappropriately. No one else has mentioned it. The sisters compliment her modesty. The parishioners say she’s graceful. Soft-spoken.”

Hongjoong’s eyes slowly lifted to meet his “Then why do I see something else?”

The silence that followed was long. Cold.

Jongho folded his hands over the desk “Maybe it’s not about what she is.” A pause. “Maybe it’s about what you’re becoming.”

—

Hongjoong left shortly after, the chill of that last sentence clinging to his spine like ice.

By the time he returned to his office, the rosary had fallen from the wall hook. Again.

But that wasn’t what made him freeze.

The Saint Cecilia statue—the one cracked in half—had been moved.

Now it faced the door.

˚₊‧ა ♱ ໒ ‧₊˚

He woke up gasping. Heart pounding.

A cold sweat clung to his back. The room was too still, too silent. No wind. No creak of wood. No night sounds.

Just... that feeling. He was not alone.

Then—

A breath.

A shift.

His eyes snapped to the far end of the room, and there she stood.

Not human. Not even close.

Her skin shimmered bronze under the moonlight, smooth like obsidian dipped in fire. Black hair curled down her back in waves too perfect to belong to anything real.

Tiny horns, barely peeking from her hairline, gleamed faintly. Her eyes—bottomless black, void of light or mercy—locked on his, and he froze.

She smiled.

A cruel, beautiful thing. Lips painted the color of fresh blood, glistening like sin. Her dress—a slip of silk the color of spilt wine—clung to her curves, rising high on her thighs and dipping low over her tattooed chest.

There, etched into her skin like a mark of royalty, were dozens of charms—tiny infernal sigils wrapped around her collarbone like a demonic rosary.

Flames. Serpents. Broken wings.

She was terrifying, breathtaking, and wrong. So deeply, viscerally wrong.

“God—” Hongjoong gasped, scrambling backwards in bed. “Get away from me!”

The thing—the creature—laughed softly.

“Is that really how you greet a visitor, Father?”

Her voice curled into the air like incense—familiar, almost, but distorted, deeper. Older. Something in him twitched at the sound, but the fear swallowed it before it could bloom into thought.

He reached for the crucifix hanging around his neck, clutching it so hard the chain bit into his palm.

“Deliver me, O Lord—” He began to pray, voice shaking. “Shield me from the enemy—”

She walked toward him slowly, bare feet whispering over the floor like smoke.

“Your Lord isn’t listening tonight,” She whispered. “He’s not coming. You’ve already let me in.”

He wanted to scream, but his breath stuttered. She climbed onto the bed like it was hers, slipping over him with catlike grace. He tried to crawl away—tried to shove her off—but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, like the air itself had turned to syrup.

And then she was straddling him. Hongjoong shook from head to toe. The crucifix trembled in his grip.

“What do you want?” He spat, trying to sound stronger than he felt.

She leaned down, lips grazing the shell of his ear “I want what’s already breaking.”

One hand trailed up his chest. Her fingers were long, nails black and curved just enough to tease the border between a caress and a cut.

He flinched.

“You’ve been so faithful, haven’t you?” She murmured, nails trailing the edge of his collar. “So good. But you’re tired of silence, aren’t you? Tired of praying and hearing nothing back?”

His body was locked in place, heart pounding like it would burst. He shut his eyes and whispered another prayer.

Louder this time. Desperate.

“Deliver me. Deliver me. Deliver me…”

She giggled, childlike and cruel “I already have, Hongjoong.”

He froze.

“How—how do you know my name—”

But when he opened his eyes—She was gone.

No trace. No warmth. No scent.

Only silence.

And the crucifix? Cold. Lifeless.

As if even it had turned away.

He lay frozen for what felt like hours.

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe deeply until the sun started to rise.

And when he finally stood, eyes sunken and wild, he didn’t go to morning prayer. He went to the restricted archives of the church library, the one sealed to all but ordained priests.

He needed answers. Because that thing knew him. That thing had touched him.

And worst of all? Somewhere in the deepest part of him… a part of him had wanted it.

˚₊‧ა ♱ ໒ ‧₊˚

Your chamber smelled like smoke and roses, thick and heavy, blooming in the air like a dark promise.

You stood in front of your ornate mirror, slipping on a blood-red slip of a top, cut low enough to make angels weep and devils grin.

Your chest tattoo shimmered under the candlelight, dozens of little charms circling your heart like victory medals. But tonight, there would be one more.

There had to be.

You could still taste Hongjoong’s fear from last night. Still feel his heartbeat pounding against your thighs. He hadn’t recognized you, not under your real form, but oh, he felt you. Every inch of you.

The terror. The temptation. The ache.

He was so close. One thread away from unraveling. You grinned, dragging a finger along the edge of your lips as you admired your reflection.

And then—

“So…” San’s voice curled into the room like smoke, lazy and teasing. “Did I already win the bet?”

You turned slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement as you watched him lean against your doorframe—shirt unbuttoned, black tattoos running up his neck like thorned vines, mischief glowing in his amber eyes.

“What do you mean?” You replied smoothly, tossing a black lace slip onto your bed. “I’m still in the process.”

He raised a brow “It’s been two weeks. I haven’t seen you take anything. I’m assuming you’ve failed.”

You scoffed, walking past him to your armoire, hips swaying in that unbothered way that made lesser demons tremble.

“Of course not. He’s breaking.” You turned your head, smirking. “And after what happened last night? I’m sure tonight’s the night I get that fucking charm.”

San clicked his tongue, unimpressed. He pushed himself off the frame and crossed the room in a few casual strides. When he reached you, his fingers hooked under your chin, lifting it until your eyes met his.

“Sweetheart,” He drawled, voice a slow threat wrapped in velvet. “I’m not waiting any longer for your little cat-and-mouse fantasy."

"Either take his soul tonight…” He leaned in close, lips ghosting your cheek “Or I take you tomorrow.”

Your lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. Then you slapped his hand away.

“Get lost, Choi San.”

He laughed. Loud. Taunting. But you were already turning your back on him, reaching for your shoes—black stilettos sharp enough to kill a saint.

“You think you scare me?” You said with a playful hum. “I’ve walked through hell in nothing but my smile. I’ve eaten kings. I’ve made priests slit their wrists just to hear my name again.”

San tilted his head, watching you with open hunger “Then prove it.”

“I will.” You smirked, sliding the heel on and standing tall. “Tonight, he breaks.”

You looked into the mirror one last time. Your skin glowed like firelight, your lips were sinful, and your eyes—deep, black, endless—promised the kind of pleasure even demons prayed for.

One more charm. One more sin.

And Hongjoong would fall. Not to your power, but to his own desire.

♱

“Father, are you okay?”

The voice made him flinch. Hongjoong slammed the book shut with a force that startled even him. The aged pages of the thick, leather-bound tome shuddered closed, its spine exhaling dust into the candlelit air.

He looked up, and froze. You were standing at the office door.

Beautiful.

Wrong.

Tonight you looked different. So different, it made the hair on his arms rise.

Your skirt was shorter than anything he'd ever seen you wear, just above the knees, hugging your hips.

A corset laced tight along your torso, pushing your breasts up in a way that made him swallow hard and immediately hate himself for it. One slight movement, and they’d spill out, he was sure of it.

Your heels were thin and high, clicking with every soft step. Your hair was sleek and glossy, falling like silk down your back. And your lips—

Red. Blood red. Glassy. Luscious. Sinful.

His heart beat once. Twice. Harder.

“Yes—what brings you here, Sister? It’s your… your free day.” His voice cracked a little despite the calm tone he tried to maintain.

He hated how hard it was to look away from you. You smiled politely—gently even—as if you were truly just a pious, sweet girl. But he could see the gloss glinting under the low lamplight.

Could see the way you slowly approached his desk, each step making his body tighten with dread.

“It’s already past ten, Father,” You said softly, tilting your head. “What are you still doing here?”

He blinked. Looked at his watch.

You were right.

Past ten.

Had he really been reading that long?

He rubbed his temple, weariness sinking deep into his bones—no, into his soul. Ever since last night—since that visitation, that hallucination, that creature—he hadn’t been able to stop shaking.

The book on his desk—thick, old, bound in cracked leather—had confirmed his worst fear.

He hadn’t even noticed the hour. Hours had passed since he first opened that forbidden text, a catalog of known demonic classes and entities.

He’d read about the high-ranking ones, marked by charms carved into their skin, like a crown of corruption on their flesh. Seductive, powerful, destructive.

Once invited into your life, they don’t leave. Not until they own you.

Just like she—it—said. And that thing from last night? It had those charms.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose “I didn’t know it was this late,” He said. “But… what are you doing here, Sister?”

“I came to confess.” You shrugged, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

His brows furrowed “Confess? At this hour?”

“I know it’s late.” You walked closer, each step an echo against the hollow chapel halls. “But something inside me told me you'd be here. And if I don’t confess tonight… I don’t think I’ll sleep.”

He should’ve said no. He should’ve told you to come back in the morning. That this wasn’t appropriate.

That he wasn’t… stable enough tonight.

But instead—He sighed “Very well.” He stood. “Let’s go to the booth.”

You walked side by side in silence. Each click of your heels made his pulse throb in his ears. His body tensed more with every step, not because he feared you’d do something… but because he feared what he might feel.

You walked like temptation itself, and no one else ever seemed to notice.

Only him.

When you arrived at the confessional, he gestured for you to enter first. You did so gracefully, your hands folded, expression calm. Then he moved to the other side, sitting behind the old carved screen, now suddenly very aware of how thin that wooden barrier really was.

He let out a slow breath, calming himself.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Your voice whispered through the screen, soft and trembling.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

A long pause.

“...I’ve never truly confessed before.”

Something in your voice was off. Not in tone, but in depth. Like the words were being pulled from a deeper place. Something old. He felt his chest tighten.

“Then speak,” He said quietly. “God is listening.”

You were silent for a moment. And then—

“Since I came here… I’ve been watching a man.”

The world stopped spinning.

“A holy man.”

Hongjoong’s throat dried.

“At first, I only watched. I wanted to know how he prayed. How he spoke. How he carried the weight of purity like it was a gift and a burden.”

You inhaled shakily.

“But something about him made it impossible to stop. I memorized his voice. His walk. The way his mouth moved when he whispered scripture under his breath.”

His hands clenched tightly in his lap.

“I watched him at night, too.”

“What?” His voice cracked. “You—”

“I stood at his window. I learned his shadows. I imagined things. Dreamt things. His hands on me. His body pressed to mine. His voice… not praying, but moaning.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. He could hear it in your voice.

“I didn’t want this. I didn’t mean to fall this deep. But I want him. In ways I shouldn’t. In ways that make me burn. And every day, I get closer to doing something I can’t undo.”

You sobbed.

Real, wrecking, aching. And that was what destroyed him.

Because it sounded real. Not like a seduction. Not like a trick. But like a broken confession.

A woman in pain. A soul unraveling.

He hesitated only a second before rising from his seat. He stepped out of his side, hand trembling, and slowly opened the door to yours—And you looked up.

Eyes filled with tears. Lip quivering. Face flushed and wet from crying, and for the first time since you came into his life… He didn’t see temptation. Or corruption.

He saw pain. A girl hurting.

“Sister…” He whispered, stepping closer. “I didn’t know…”

You reached up, timidly. A single hand against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered. “I don’t want to feel like this. But I love him. I love him so much it hurts, and I don’t know what to do.”

He placed his hand gently over yours “You’re… not alone. You don’t have to suffer alone.”

You rose from the seat slowly, body shaking as you stepped into his arms, and he didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. He held you.

Tightly.

You looked up at him, lips barely apart “He makes me feel like I’m something more than what I was made to be…” You whispered. “Do you think that’s wrong, Father?”

“No,” He said breathlessly. “No, I—”

You leaned in, and kissed him.

Softly. Desperately. Brokenly.

And he hesitated.

For a second—one second—he held his breath, clinging to the last fragile thread of faith holding him back.

But then, you kissed him again, and that thread snapped.

His hands cupped your face. Your tears smeared against his cheeks, and he kissed you back.

Deeper. Wilder. Hopelessly.

He didn’t know it yet, but the moment his lips met yours, his soul stopped being his.

You had him.

Now, it was only a matter of time.

The moment Hongjoong kissed you back, the air in the confessional thickened—warm, syrupy, laced with the scent of melted candle wax and something darker, something like burnt sugar and myrrh.

His hands trembled against your face, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your lips, but he didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

Your fingers curled into the front of his robes, tugging him closer until his body pressed flush against yours.

The fabric of your corset dug into his chest, the hard edges of the boning a sharp contrast to the softness beneath.

You sighed into his mouth, sweet and needy, and he made a sound—a broken, half-choked noise, like a man drowning in honey.

"Sister—" He gasped when you pulled back just enough to let him breathe. His voice was wrecked. "We can’t—this is—"

You silenced him with another kiss, slower this time, your tongue tracing the seam of his lips until they parted for you. He groaned, low and involuntary, and you felt the exact moment his resolve cracked.

His hands slid from your face to your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise—if you were human.

"Tell me to stop," You murmured against his lips, even as your fingers worked at the buttons of his cassock. "Tell me this is wrong."

He didn’t.

Instead, his breath hitched as your hands slipped beneath the heavy fabric, skimming over the thin cotton of his undershirt. His skin burned under your touch, his hips jerking forward when your nails scraped lightly over his stomach.

"You’re shaking," You teased, nipping at his lower lip. "Is this your first time, Father?"

The flush that spread down his neck was answer enough. You laughed, soft and wicked, and dropped to your knees.

Hongjoong made a strangled noise, his hands flying to your shoulders as if to push you away—or pull you closer.

"Wait—"

But you were already undoing his belt, your fingers deft and sure.

His cock sprang free, already hard, flushed a pretty pink and twitching against his stomach. You hummed, tilting your head as if admiring a sacred relic.

"Beautiful," You breathed, and then—without warning—you took him into your mouth.

Hongjoong bucked, a ragged cry tearing from his throat. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging almost painfully, but you didn’t stop.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deep, your tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. His thighs trembled, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you worked him over with slow, filthy drags of your lips.

"Fuck—" He choked out, hips stuttering. "I—I can’t—"

You pulled off with a wet pop, grinning up at him "You can’t what, Father?"

His eyes were glassy, his lips swollen from kissing. He looked ruined already, and you hadn’t even fucked him yet.

"I can’t… do this," He whispered, but his hands were still in your hair, his cock still dripping against your chin.

You leaned forward, licking a slow stripe up his length, and watched his eyelids flutter.

"But you want to."

He didn’t deny it. You stood then, pressing your body against his, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered:

"Take me to your bed."

For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then—

He moved.

His hands gripped your hips, spinning you around and pushing you toward the door. The chapel was empty, the halls dark, but neither of you cared.

You stumbled through the rectory, his mouth hot on your neck, his fingers digging into your skin like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

When you reached a room, he slammed the door shut with his foot and pinned you against it, his breath ragged against your throat.

"Last chance," He gritted out, his voice raw. "Tell me this isn’t real. Tell me to stop."

You smiled, slow and knowing, and reached between you to stroke him again.

"Make me."

Something in him snapped.

He kissed you like a starving man, his hands tearing at your clothes with none of the reverence he showed in the chapel. Your corset hit the floor with a thud, your skirt following soon after.

When his fingers finally found your cunt, you were already soaked—and the noise he made at the discovery was filthy.

"God—" He groaned, his fingers sliding through your slick. "You’re… you’re dripping."

You arched into his touch, your nails scraping down his back.

"For you," You purred. "Only for you."

He shuddered, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he pushed two fingers inside you without warning. You gasped, your hips rolling against his hand, your breath coming faster as he curled his fingers just right.

"You like that?" He murmured, his voice rough with desire.

You moaned in response, your head falling back against the door. His lips found your throat, his teeth nipping at the delicate skin as his fingers worked you open.

"Hongjoong—" You whined, your legs trembling.

He pulled his fingers free, ignoring your frustrated noise, and lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bed.

When your back hit the mattress, he was on you in an instant, his body covering yours, his cock pressing against your entrance.

"Tell me you want this," He demanded, his voice dark.

You grinned, wrapping your legs around his waist "Make me yours, Father."

He snarled—and then he was inside you, finally, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

You screamed, your back arching off the bed as he filled you, the stretch delicious, the burn even better. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just pulled out and slammed back in, setting a punishing pace from the start.

"God—" He gasped, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "You feel—"

You cut him off with a kiss, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fucked you into the mattress.

The bed rocked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust. His breath was hot against your lips, his moans sinful, filthy things that would’ve made his congregation faint.

"Harder," You demanded, your voice a breathless whine.

He obeyed, his hips snapping forward with enough force to make you see stars. You could feel him everywhere—his skin against yours, his cock stretching you open, his breath mingling with yours as he chased his release.

And then—You changed.

Your skin darkened, your horns curled from your hairline, your tattoos glowed with infernal power. Hongjoong froze above you, his eyes widening in horror as he realized—

"You—" He gasped, his voice shaking. "It was you. That night. The—"

You grinned, all sharp teeth and wicked promise, and rolled your hips beneath him.

"Say it, Father."

He sobbed, his hips stuttering "No—"

"Say it." You clenched around him, watching his resolve crumble.

"Demon," He choked out, his body trembling.

You laughed, low and sinful, and dragged your nails down his back.

"And yet you’re still inside me."

His breath hitched—and then he was coming, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled with a broken cry. You arched beneath him, your own climax crashing over you as his warmth filled you, his body collapsing against yours in the aftermath.

For a long moment, there was only silence—broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing.

Then you felt it. The charm forming on your chest, a new mark joining the others—a rosary, broken and bleeding.

Another soul claimed.

You smiled, running your fingers through Hongjoong’s sweat-damp hair as he lay trembling against you.

"Welcome to Hell, Father."

Taglist: @almostholypirate @domfikeluva @hurryupmars @a-tiny-thing @silenttrxxs @innocygnet @alliecoady98 @posseup @yothangie @a-atiny_niawoo @justconniez @niaee @0407files @maidens-world @zaynsfl4m3s @maplelilly05 @xh01bri @sannieily @nkryuki @lemonkait00 @khaskl08 @badbitch69420sworld @jilxxasu @vnxlla @lezleeferguson-120 @lunaryoongie @stayatinykatsy @milliesupremexx @unbroken-shadows @itzyejiluv @lover-ofallthingspretty @queenofdumbfuckery @johaeyeon @xopierrot @m0onchild-98 @nyx-y @daniela-f-uwu @atinyno1likeme @bbyunicornbby @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @byongmingcomehome @enbysforhongjoong @zaynsfl4m3s @arilevenatz @hwa2tiny

@dekyepunn @scheepmans @yuuuuuuusthings @blue5ummer @soobieboobiebaby @twancingyunhao @prchiquita8 @estrnrea @yoonglesbae

@ilovemommyhwa @blniight @blueginz @bxnnibabie @herpoetryprincess @hecateslittlewitchling

☆○☆○☆

All rights reserved ♡bunny-hwa. Do not copy or translate my work.

[opalitelibrary]

cw: incubus Gojo, dub-con, borderline non-con, gloomy loner reader, exhibitionism, groping.

a/n: find full length work here!

INCUBUS!GOJO Who latches onto gloomy and loner reader. And for the first few days he just floats around you without trying anything.

INCUBUS!GOJO just moves around you, nuzzles in your cheeks, sniffs your hair, sits beside you and twirls a strand of hair while you work. Or comes up from behind and places his head on your shoulder and stares at your face.

Until one day INCUBUS!GOJO catches you off guard by poking you in the eye, out of curiosity, because he really liked the color of your eyes, and realizes this entire time you could see him. You shriek in pain and start cursing him out. And he takes full advantage of that.

INCUBUS!GOJO Starts with just caressing you here and there. Building things up. Talking your ear off. Mostly with dirty talk.

“Ughhh I wish I was inside you right now.”

“I bet I can fit my entire cock in one go.”

“I want to eat you out and have you watch me. I bet you'll like that.”

And it takes you everything to ignore INCUBUS!GOJO 's words. While you silently sit and get more agitated and flustered with each word. As he simply leaves you tightening and rubbing your thighs together.

And god forbid INCUBUS!GOJO catches a whiff of it. “Oh shit! Did you get wet already!??? Ahhh, see I knew you were special! So sweet and sloppy, ice cream sundae has nothing on you. I would rather eat a hundred of you.” Is what he will say while he groped your thighs over your pants and runs his hands under your shirt.

INCUBUS!GOJO is a hazard to have around. From every waking moment to until you sleep. He makes you cum at least six times a day. And it is getting more annoying with the limited amount of underwear you have left to wear. But he would rather prefer you did not wear one. Better access. And takes the initiative to make you realize how much better it is to just go commando, by stealing and hiding your clean underwear as well.

INCUBUS!GOJO will sit in a seat that you're about to sit down in, then flash a big grin while patting his thighs. If you are in no position to opt for a different seat, count it as his lucky day. Once you were in a meeting, and he sat down in your designated seat at the table before you could take it. And left you no option but to sit through the entire thing on his lap.

And he made the most of it.

Roamed his hands all over your body, opened up your shirt and pulled your bra down to put your tits out on a show. And bunched up your skirt to push aside your panties and ram his cock into your hole, which is still wet and stretched out from him waking you up in the morning by eating you out and fingering you.

At that moment you were first confused why no one gave any reaction, only to later get so engrossed into the whole thing that it took your coworkers at least four times to call you out of it .

Thankfully INCUBUS!GOJO later told you that anything he does to you isn't noticeable by the ordinary eyes, except for your own reactions to him. That he told you reluctantly, because he finds it more fun to have you melt and become a nervous wreck in his arms, thinking that everyone can see you doing these obscene things. Only because you got really angry and threw salt at him thinking you might be losing your job, which made him unable to pester you for a few hours. 

INCUBUS!GOJO is the worst in public, crowded spaces. Because on your way to work, he is pressing himself against you in an already crowded train. 

“Ah, let me have my fill, sweets. Didn't even get to have my breakfast since you woke up late.” And his chest is pressed up to your tits, his one hand is holding up your leg, while the other rubs your pussy through your underwear. Which is already wet enough. So he further ruins them.

INCUBUS!GOJO will shove one finger in at first and rub it around. Watching you trying your best to not contort your face in a way that deems you as a criminal charged with public indecency.

“Aw. come on sweets. You can scream right? It's not like anyone will notice.” He will say as he shoves two more fingers inside, while his thumb rubs on your clit. And he will finger you until your station comes and you cum as well.

FULL FIC>>

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

a/n: dividers by @/cafekitsune

tag list: @cheralith @madamechrissy @gojosperms @teddytoru @cuntphoric @cuntyji @cuntphoric @aishi-toru @rriwyu @exquisink @lover-lyn @buckysm @wwwritererm @soupicidesquad @indiewritesxoxo @gojosconsort @shouiow @user25384959574 @dxmnsaera @kazupop @slayzzz @undercvrfan444 @miizuzu @getoistic @infinitatis-ink @theorphicangel @ricecake-mochi @emochosoluvr

[opalitelibrary]

Pondering my orbs.

[opalitelibrary]

A Night Of Symphony

∿➤ Word Count: 15.2k (wowza...)

∿➤ Tags: Sylus x fem!reader, brat taming, dom/sub undertones, exhibitionism, public sex, jealousy, rough sex, possessiveness, unprotected sex, creampies, humiliation, overstimulation, teasing, nicknames like kitten, sweetie, dirty girl, aftercare at the end,

∿➤ Summary: The dress was just too sexy to leave on a hanger. He said no, that it was for his eyes only. Buuuut you wear it to the date anyways. After all, what's he going to do? Send you home? What was supposed to be a normal date turns into a punishment you'll never forget...

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

"Please! Wait, I'm sorry! Not in front of all these people...Sylus!" you whined, trying to squirm away from him. But Sylus was unforgiving. Red mist curled around your limbs, spreading your legs apart and holding you in place to prevent you from escaping. You felt a surge of fear and coiling heat in your groin as you heard the sound of his zipper being undone. He was going to take you...right here?! As he leaned over you on the table, lining his hard cock up to your soaking entrance, you felt your walls squeeze in anticipation. You were horrified, but at the same time, you couldn't deny the excitement and arousal that was building inside you. "What's wrong? You wanted attention," Sylus whispered, his voice low and husky. "I'm giving it to you."

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

∿➤ AN: Hi guys!! I was on a road trip, finally got back and had time to finish this!! You guys wanted more brat taming/jealous Sylus so I just had to deliver! First time writing public sex kinda nervous xDD. This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit. Pretty sure an anon asked for this scenario but I couldn't find the ask (つ╥﹏╥)つ. Quick reminder that my fics have no specific skintone or body type for the MC, I just used the image I felt best represented the dress! This is a self insert fic after all!! Enjoy! :33

@chwesuh-imnida @skylarkse @tapiokay @birdiegirl-jpeg @mcdepressed290 @zhrqnklii @hyphensei @cherrywinetuscany @fallen-herondales

“What are you still doing awake, kitten?”

The velvet rumble of his voice startled you so sharply that you jumped beneath your covers, sending your phone clattering painfully onto your face. You bit back a small yelp, heart racing so fiercely that it felt like it might burst through your ribcage.

He was back already? How was that possible? More importantly, how was he so utterly silent? You hadn't heard the soft creak of the door or the whisper of footsteps on the floor—nothing. Just silence, as if he'd materialized out of thin air.

Slowly, your eyes adjusted to the dimness, making out Sylus’s figure looming gracefully by the doorway. He leaned against the frame casually, but there was an unmistakable, amused gleam in his eyes.

“You startled me, Sy” you breathed, heart still hammering wildly.

He crosses the room quietly, each step muffled by the plush rug on the floor, until he's sitting gently on the edge of the bed. You sense the mattress dip beneath his weight and instinctively clutch the blanket tighter around yourself, cocooned in warmth and nervous anticipation.

Slowly, he leans forward, and you feel his eyes studying you intently through the layers of fabric still drawn protectively over your face. The warmth of his presence radiates through the thin barrier, sending a subtle shiver down your spine.

“Clearly,” he murmured, lips curving into a shadowy smile. “I asked a question. Why are you still up? Don't hide from me.”

You hesitate before responding, gathering the courage to reveal yourself. With a slow breath, you lower the blanket just enough to peek out, meeting his gaze tentatively. His red eyes gleam with a mixture of gentle humor and unmistakable affection, illuminated faintly by the soft glow of moonlight slipping through the parted curtains.

You quickly rack your brain for an excuse, heart racing slightly with the anxiety of being caught. Admitting outright that you'd blatantly defied his clear instructions—spending the night binge-watching the entire new season he'd specifically told you not to—was absolutely out of the question. The thought of confessing made your stomach twist nervously.

Instead, you summoned your sweetest, most innocent expression, softening your features as convincingly as possible. You let your lower lip quiver ever so slightly, eyes widening just enough to enhance your sincerity. Leaning toward him, you pout gently, drawing out a soft, pleading tone.

"I was just so excited about our date that's coming up," you murmured, voice infused with just the right amount of vulnerability. "I couldn't sleep, Sylus. I'm really sorry. I just kept imagining everything we'd do together, and I couldn't settle down at all."

You watched him carefully, hoping your performance was convincing enough to distract him from the truth. The gentle whine in your voice was carefully calculated, aiming to soften his reaction and win him over. Internally, your breath caught in anticipation, awaiting his response and hoping fervently he'd let the matter slide.

Sylus chuckles softly, a low and melodic sound that sends a shiver down your spine, gently tugging the blanket away until your face is completely visible. His eyes gleam with amusement and a touch of affectionate authority as he gazes down at you.

"That's a cute lie, sweetie," he murmurs softly, the edge of a smile playing at his lips, "but you know better. Hand me your phone, its bedtime."

You immediately pout, lips pursing stubbornly, and let out a small, frustrated huff. It figures, your carefully practiced attempt at innocent charm didn't fool him for a moment. You feel your cheeks flush, embarrassment mingling with irritation as the playful challenge in his tone ignites a stubborn defiance within you.

Frustration bubbles steadily up from your chest, intensifying the urge to push his buttons just a bit further. After all, you had been completely absorbed, deeply invested in the climax of your favorite show's newest episode. How could he expect you to stop right at the best part?

Impulsively, and with a hint of rebellious bravado, you slip your phone quickly down your shirt, clutching it tightly against your breasts like a prized possession. You arch an eyebrow challengingly, tilting your head at an angle that you hope appears both daring and irresistibly adorable. Your eyes widen with exaggerated sorrow, a deliberate pout forming as your voice drips dramatically with heartfelt pleading.

"But Sy...I was almost done! Please? Just a few more minutes..." Your voice trails off into a soft whine, perfectly pitched to tug at his patience and affection alike, hoping desperately that perhaps this time, just this once, you could sway him to your side.

Sylus sighs, the weight of authority settling over him like a second skin. The playful glint that had momentarily lit his features vanishes, replaced by a steady, unflinching seriousness as his eyes fix on you with unrelenting focus. His tone drops, calm but absolute.

"You know how this ends. Hand it over or get the belt."

You meet his gaze without flinching, your chin tilting up in that familiar display of defiance, eyes narrowing with mock challenge. "Actually," you say, voice laced with sass and boldness, "I've decided I rather enjoy the belt."

A slow chuckle rumbles from Sylus's chest, his body relaxing ever so slightly as he straightens. There's amusement dancing behind his serious exterior now, though it doesn't soften the power in his presence. "Is that so?" he murmurs, his smile spreading into something more dangerous. "Then I suppose I’ll need to get creative. Clearly, the belt isn’t much of a deterrent for such a feisty kitten."

Your curiosity flares, mixing with adrenaline. The tension between the two of you is thick enough to cut. You shift slightly, leaning toward him on instinct, drawn in by the dangerous allure of his words. "What kind of punishment?" you ask, voice low and teasing, though your heart skips a beat in anticipation.

Sylus doesn’t blink. His gaze sharpens like a blade honed for a single purpose. The warmth vanishes completely again, replaced with that signature calm intensity that always has you second-guessing your next move. He leans in slowly, bringing his face inches from yours, the air between you thick with challenge.

"Trust me" his voice low, voice like ice over fire, deliberate and slow. "You won’t like it."

You feel your confidence falter slightly, the weight of his words cutting through your boldness like a slow-burning ember. A small, involuntary shiver rolls down your spine, and you grit your teeth against the urge to show weakness. You could still play this off. But part of you knew he’d already won this round.

Alright, enough playtime then.

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver, you let out another dramatic huff, shoulders stiff with attitude. With a deliberate, theatrical flourish, you pull the phone from your shirt and toss it beside him on the bed like it meant nothing. Your pride bristles, cheeks flushing slightly with a mix of frustration and reluctant submission. Crossing your arms tight across your chest, you turn your back to him with a final flick of your hair and yank the blanket up to your chin in an exaggerated sulk.

Behind you, there's a pause. Then a low chuckle rumbles from his chest—a rich, amused sound that coils around your spine like velvet rope. It only fuels your frustration. Of course, he was enjoying this. You bite your lip to keep from saying something snarky.

You hear the faint click as he picks up your phone and plugs it into the charger on the nightstand. The soft rustle of clothing follows, as he unbuttons, unzips, and shrugs out of the day’s attire with slow, practiced movements. Each sound, normally so mundane, seems deafening in the charged silence of the room. You can picture it perfectly: the way he moves with controlled precision, like everything he does is measured and intentional.

The mattress dips behind you as he climbs in, the shift in weight pressing toward your side. Your body tenses instinctively, but it’s too late to retreat—his arms, still cool from the air outside the blanket, wrap around you from behind. You shiver again as his bare skin meets yours, his touch both startling and grounding.

His hands are slow and deliberate as they slide beneath your shirt, fingers splaying wide across your stomach. The chill of his touch sends goosebumps across your skin, but it’s the quiet authority in his movements that leaves you breathless.

You try to keep your breathing steady, to ignore the heat creeping up your neck and the flutter in your chest.

To distract yourself, you start tracing lazy circles on his arm with your fingertip, the motion slow and repetitive. The silence stretches between you, comfortable but thick with unspoken things.

"Are you going to sleep?" you whisper quietly, voice almost lost in the stillness. "You don't usually lay down at this time."

Sylus shifts slightly behind you, then gently captures your hand with his, intertwining his fingers through yours. The grip is firm but tender, as if anchoring you in place. "No," he says softly, voice rumbling low and warm, close to your ear. "But you should be. I just wanted to hold you."

You exhale slowly at that, a small sigh slipping from your lips as you finally shut your eyes. The weight of the day and the tension from earlier begin to pull at your limbs, making them feel heavier beneath the blanket.

The room falls into a deeper silence, the only sound a low hum from the air conditioner. It's rhythmic, almost soothing, blending with the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his skin. You try to focus on that—on the quiet, on his presence, on the safety of being wrapped up like this.

You really do try to sleep.

But your mind won’t stop.

Thoughts begin to unravel in the dark, slipping past the quiet and creeping in from the corners. What if he was truly upset? What if he decided not to take you dress shopping tomorrow after all? The thought lands heavy in your chest. You'd been so excited for that. It wasn’t just about the clothes...it was about being with him, about that shared promise to spoil you and spend time together.

You shift slightly under the covers, trying not to disturb him, but your chest tightens at the thought. You didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of upsetting him unsettled you more than you expected. Regret starts to swirl low in your stomach.

You hesitate, lips parting but no sound comes out. The words feel heavy and unformed, sitting at the back of your throat like a storm refusing to break. Your heart pounds louder with each passing second, but still you stall, caught between the need to speak and the fear of what might come out if you do.

"Speak, kitten. What is it?”

His voice startles you slightly. You hadn’t realized you were being so obvious—but then again, you’re not truly surprised. Sylus didn't need to see your face to know exactly what’s going on inside your head. Of course he read you. Of course he pulled the words straight from your silence before you even formed them.

His arms don’t loosen around you, but you feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the change in energy that lets you know he’s listening. The silence that follows feels like a space made just for your voice.

Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you squeeze your fist together out of nervousness.

"I'm really sorry I didn't listen," you murmur, your voice fragile and laced with guilt. "Please don't be mad at me..."

The words trail off into a soft whimper, barely audible, as though your throat might close up from the shame of it. There’s a pause—long enough for anxiety to twist deeper into your gut—then a low, comforting hum from Sylus. Not angry. Just...aware. As if he’d been expecting your apology all along.

Instead of scolding or lecturing, he simply tightens his embrace, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his chest at your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing—it’s all grounding. Then, without a word, he leans in and places a gentle kiss at the nape of your neck. The touch is tender and slow, but it ignites a quick, involuntary squeal from you as the ticklish sensation catches you off guard.

"I'm not mad, sweetie," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin with each syllable. "You're so cute when you talk back to me. Just makes me want to put you in your place."

A wave of heat rolls through you—part embarrassment, part flustered excitement—and before you can formulate a reply, he’s already planting more kisses along your neck. One after another, feather-light and teasing, like he’s drawing out your reaction on purpose. He moves with methodical affection, pressing his lips into every spot he knows will make you squirm.

"S-Sylus—! Hah—s-stop! Hahaha—"

You writhe beneath the onslaught of sensation, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. It’s not just giggles—it’s full-on helpless, breathless fits of laughter. You can’t escape him, not that you want to. Each kiss, each whisper-soft graze of his lips fuels the warmth between you, washing away every lingering trace of anxiety.

Your fingers dig lightly into his hand, still entwined with yours, as your body folds into his in surrender. His chuckle vibrates against your back, deep and satisfied, and he finally relents just enough to let you catch your breath.

"That’s better," he murmurs, voice low and amused. "There’s that sweet laugh I love so much."

You can only nod, breath hitching with the last of your giggles, your heart still fluttering wildly in your chest. The sound of your laughter lingers briefly in the air, mixing with the low hum of the air conditioner and the warmth of Sylus’s breath at your neck. You take a few deep breaths, letting your body finally begin to relax, pressing a little more into his body as his arms remain wrapped firmly around you.

Still, a flicker of uncertainty gnaws at you, making your thoughts race in circles again. The feeling of peace threatens to slip away before it can settle fully. Almost cautiously, you shift slightly in his embrace, enough to turn and catch a glimpse of his face. The room is dim, shadows playing across his features, but his eyes—crimson and sharp—lock onto yours with that familiar, unreadable calm.

"So...you’re still taking me dress shopping tomorrow?" you ask softly, tentatively. Your voice barely breaks the silence. "For our date later this week?"

His expression doesn’t change immediately, and for a breath, you brace yourself. Then he raises a hand and gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing lightly against your skin. His palm is warm, steady, grounding. His gaze softens, the hard edge in his eyes mellowing into something closer to fondness.

"Of course," he replies, his tone low, patient, reassuring. "I'd never go back on a promise for a punishment."

Relief blooms quietly in your chest, loosening a knot of tension you hadn’t realized you were still holding. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment, just feeling the safety of his presence. But before you can fully settle into that comfort, he adds, almost casually—

"I'll find some other punishment, though."

Your heart skips.

Just like that, your excitement sinks like a stone. His voice wasn’t threatening, just certain. Of course. Just because he wasn’t angry didn’t mean you’d gotten away with anything. Sylus didn’t yell. But he remembered everything. And he always followed through.

You feel your smile waver, the momentary joy dimming under the reminder. You glance down, unsure how to respond, suddenly very aware of how small you feel curled up in his arms. A punishment was still coming. That fact hung in the air between you—unspoken, but undeniable.

Still, you nodded, trying your best to swallow the unease rising in your throat. You deserved it. But maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be something small. But then again, this was Sylus. He didn’t do anything halfway.

You glance up at him once more, but his eyes are closed now, his face unreadable in its stillness. Calm. In control. Like he’s already made up his mind.

At least the shopping trip was safe. That much you could hold onto.

"Do you like this one? I don't like the way it makes my hips look," you say, fidgeting slightly as you turn yourself from side to side in front of the full-length mirror. The soft fabric clings just a bit tighter than you'd expected, hugging your frame in a way that feels more exposing than flattering. Your brows knit together in mild frustration as you tug at the hem, trying to make sense of how you feel in the dress.

The lighting in the boutique is warm, casting a soft glow on everything, and yet you can’t shake the tiny insecurity worming its way into your chest. Maybe it’s the cut. Maybe it’s just you being overly critical. You glance over your shoulder, checking the back view, before turning back toward Sylus.

True to his word, he had taken you dress shopping, just as he’d promised. Just the two of you combing through hangers of fabric and color, trying to find the perfect look for your upcoming date. It had been surprisingly peaceful—well, as peaceful as it could be under Sylus’s intense, unwavering gaze.

He sat relaxed but purposeful in a sleek, high-backed chair inside the dressing room. One leg crossed over the other, his posture almost regal, he looked as though he belonged there. His gaze hadn’t left you since you tried on the first outfit, and now, he was studying you in this one like you were the only thing that existed.

His eyes followed your every move, drinking in the dress, your posture, the subtle discomfort written across your face. And yet, he didn’t look unimpressed. Quite the opposite, actually.

"Well, I surely do," he said, voice smooth and steady. The words weren’t rushed. They landed softly, but firmly, like stone against silk. "What's not to like about this one?"

It wasn’t really a question. Not the way he said it. His tone had a quiet authority to it, the kind that offered no room for negotiation. No doubt he was already planning to buy it for you.

"I mean...it is cute. I'm probably overthinking it. But I can't choose," you sigh, turning back to the mirror with a dramatic pout. You shift your weight, spinning slightly from side to side as you examine yourself from every angle.

The dress you're wearing is undeniably flattering—a soft blue color that complements your skin perfectly. It's cinched at the waist with delicate, hand-stitched pleating that cascades down into a fluttery, layered skirt ending just above the knee. The fabric moves like air, graceful and light, and the subtle sweetheart neckline lifts the entire silhouette into something that feels almost ethereal.

Your eyes drift down to the way it hugs your hips. Not tightly, but just enough to make you hyperaware. You smooth your hands over it, hesitating. "I just don’t know if it’s right for me."

Sylus, still seated in a sleek leather chair inside the fitting room area, watches you with a steady, unreadable gaze. In one hand, he flips a silver coin between his fingers, the metallic shimmer catching the boutique lights.

"Then don’t choose," he says, voice calm, almost indulgent. "I can buy all the dresses here and you can pick later."

You turn toward him, the corners of your mouth pulling into a greedy, amused smile. There it was—classic Sylus. Always ready to buy you an entire store.

"No, no, Sy," you giggle, stepping back toward the mirror. Your fingers fumble for the zipper as you glance at him over your shoulder. "We don't want to stress out the seamstress like last time. Remember the look on her face when you cleared an entire rack?"

He chuckles lowly, a soft, knowing sound, still flipping the coin like it’s second nature. The casual rhythm of metal against his fingers provides a quiet percussion to the moment. He leans back slightly in the chair, eyes following your every movement. His gaze doesn't falter—not when you turn, not when your hand reaches for the zipper, not when you begin to slide the fabric down.

As the dress loosens at your shoulders, you feel the air kiss your skin, and the warmth of his gaze makes your breath catch. Even though he hasn't moved from his seat, the weight of his attention alone is enough to make your heart flutter. He looks at you like he’s committing every detail to memory—like he’s not just looking at the dress, but at you in it, and everything that it implies.

You carefully hang the dress back on its hanger, smoothing it one last time before turning toward the next set of options. Sylus is still watching, the coin now resting idle in his palm. He doesn’t speak, but the message is clear in the slight curve of his lips, the content gleam in his eyes.

He’s enjoying this—every second of it.

Trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck as you sort through dresses in nothing but your underwear, you let your hand glide slowly across the rack of delicate fabrics. The cool air of the boutique brushes against your bare skin, making every brush of silk and satin feel that much more intimate. You keep your back to Sylus, focusing on the colors and textures before you, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered you are.

You only have a few selections left, each one more dramatic than the last. Your fingers finally stop on one—a strikingly short dark red dress, smooth and heavy beneath your touch, rich like wine and just as bold. It cowl neckline that drapes softly across the chest, the kind of piece that demands attention. You slide it carefully from the rack, holding it up in front of you to get a better look. The color deepens in the light, casting a sensual glow against your skin.

"Do you think I'd look good in red, Sylus?" you call out, trying to keep your voice light, playful, though there’s a hint of challenge tucked beneath your words.

From behind you, you hear the low, familiar rumble of his chuckle. It's quiet but unmistakably amused.

"I think you already know the answer to that, kitten," he replies, his tone dripping with confidence. The sound of his voice washes over you and you don’t have to turn around to know he’s watching you closely—his eyes locked onto the smooth lines of your back, the subtle sway of your hips, the blush rising beneath your skin.

You smirk faintly, keeping your back to him. "Just testing you," you murmur, letting the fabric slip through your fingers with calculated ease. The dress flutters slightly as it falls against your side, your fingers tightening around the hanger as if deciding whether to commit to the game you're playing or to let it end here.

Then he speaks again, voice slightly lower, smoother. "Keep testing me, and I might just decide you don't need to wear another dress. Or anything else for that matter."

Your breath catches, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling too much.

You slip the deep red satin dress on, the fabric gliding over your skin like melted silk. It fits like a second skin—clinging to your waist, tracing your curves with deliberate elegance. Thin straps rest gently on your shoulders, while the cowl neckline drapes low across your chest, soft and suggestive without trying too hard. The dress pools and hugs down your hips, smoothing over your body until it parts at your thigh with a daring slit, flashing skin with every step.

You step back a little, breath catching as you see yourself in the mirror. This one is different. There's something magnetic about the way the fabric clings to you, as if it knows exactly what kind of power it's meant to wield. Your eyes sparkle with awe as you take in the full effect, twisting slightly to see how the dress moves with you, every sway of your hips bringing it to life.

Excitedly, you turn toward Sylus, unable to keep the thrill out of your voice. "What do you think? I love this one!! It’s so flattering!"

He lifts his gaze slowly, taking you in from head to toe. His eyes drag over every inch of you with methodical precision, lingering just long enough at every curve to make your skin heat under the weight of it. His nod is subtle, but there’s no mistaking the approval in his expression. Then he makes a small circling motion with his finger, the command in the gesture unmistakable.

"Spin for me, sweetie."

A touch of shyness creeps into your expression, but it’s laced with something else—something charged. You obey, slowly turning on the spot. The dress flares with your movement, the slit revealing your thigh as the dress shifts gracefully. You can feel his eyes following every shift of fabric, every breath you take. You finish the slow twirl and meet his gaze, your smile wide, heart fluttering.

Sylus uncrosses his leg, his smile deepening as he leans forward slightly. There’s a quiet hunger in his eyes, but it’s tempered by that unshakable control.

"Very flattering..." he says finally, his voice smooth as silk. Then he tilts his head slightly, the corners of his mouth curving. "Not for our date though."

Your smile falters, the excitement flickering like a candle in a sudden gust of wind. You blink, caught off guard, and your shoulders pull in slightly as your brow furrows. Crossing your arms, you let out a soft, incredulous scoff.

"Why not? I actually like this one! It looks great on me..."

He pockets the coin he was flipping and stands up, the smooth glide of metal vanishing into his jacket as he rises with effortless authority. "It does. I'll still get it for you," he says, his voice calm but resolute, "but you're not wearing it on our date. That's the kind of dress only I should see you in."

He walks closer, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing with purpose across the boutique floor. His presence expands with every stride, until he's standing directly in front of you. You have to tilt your head up slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes roam over you with a possessive intensity, gleaming with satisfaction as he takes in your pouty expression. The small frown on your lips only seems to amuse him more.

The air shifts subtly between you. The way he looks at you makes your pulse quicken. You cross your arms instinctively, trying to hold onto your resistance, but it’s slipping, bit by bit.

"Besides," he adds, his voice dipping lower, the words curling around your ear like silk, "this should also teach you to listen to me when I tell you to go to bed."

Now you're irritated. More than irritated. Your arms remain crossed tightly over your chest as you drop your gaze to the boutique floor, jaw clenched as if it might hold back everything you want to say. Your mind spins, cycling through a dozen snarky, smartass retorts that would feel so good to throw in his face—each one sharper than the last. You want to bite back. You want to push him, just one more time. But even as the words form on your tongue, something stops you.

Frustration builds thick and fast, coiling hot in your chest and rising behind your eyes like a tide. You blink rapidly, but it's no use—you feel tears welling, traitorous and burning.

Bastard probably planned this from the start, huh? Getting you all worked up, making you try on that dress just so he could take it away from you the second you liked it. It had felt like power in your hands, and he’d reminded you, with maddening ease, who it truly belonged to.

You sniff quietly, trying to force the storm back down. But Sylus, of course, notices everything. He always does. And he definitely senses the shift in your posture, the tension in your breath, the subtle quake just beneath your skin. Without a word, he steps closer, and his hand reaches out gently, his fingers curling under your chin.

He lifts your face with controlled, deliberate care, guiding your eyes to his. There’s nothing harsh in his touch.

His gaze is steady, piercing but calm. His crimson eyes, so often intense and unreadable, are soft now—yet no less commanding. There’s no trace of mockery.

Just firm understanding.

"Think about what you're about to say before you say it, kitten," he murmurs, his voice low and unwavering. "You know just as well as I do that this isn't for no reason, don't throw a tantrum now."

You glare at him tearfully, biting your tongue hard enough that it almost hurts. Your throat feels tight, and you try to keep your breathing steady, even as frustration and emotion swirl in your chest. You don't want to cry, but the pressure is mounting fast. He's right, you do deserve this for your little stunt last night. Plus part of you already knew he'd never let you go out in a dress so revealing, as possessive as he is. And yet...

"I said I was sorry though..."

"I know. Just breathe, it's okay," Sylus says softly, his voice calm and steady, like he's done this a hundred times. He steps closer, gently leaning in to plant a series of soft, grounding kisses across your forehead. The contact is light, careful, and entirely focused—likely an attempt to soothe you, to keep the tears from spilling.

His touch is gentle but assured, the warmth of each kiss lingering as if to remind you you're still safe, even in this vulnerable moment. You close your eyes briefly, soaking in the sensation, letting his presence steady your spinning thoughts.

"You do look beautiful, sweetie," he murmurs, his lips brushing the skin just above your brow. "That dress makes me want to hide you away forever."

He chuckles lightly, the sound low and rich, more amused than possessive, but the intent behind the words still lands. It’s a compliment, wrapped in a veiled promise. The way he says it makes something flutter in your chest—equal parts flustered and comforted.

You let out a long breath, the tension slowly melting from your shoulders. A slight laugh escapes you despite yourself, soft and short. The moment stretches quietly between you as you finally meet his eyes again, that little laugh bridging the gap between too much and just enough.

Sylus makes you take breaths to calm down, standing close as he grounds you with soft words and steady hands. The sting in your chest slowly eases, not gone but muted under the heat of his presence. Eventually, with a few deep breaths and a few more kisses, the emotional storm begins to clear. You cling to those small touches like lifelines, letting the strength of his calm cut through the noise in your head.

You end up picking out several other dresses—more modest, more suitable to Sylus's liking—though you don’t leave behind the red one. The forbidden one. No, that one you make sure he remembers his promise to buy it too, even if you’re not allowed to wear it out. It’s a small victory, tucked in a shopping bag, but a satisfying one. A quiet reminder to both of you that you still have him wrapped around your finger.

You understand his intentions. Sylus wants to teach you. Guide you. Protect you. But he also likes it when you push. And push. And push. It’s what drew him in the first place. You almost never follow his instructions without a little twist, a challenge in your eyes, a stubborn flicker in your smile. You toe the line on purpose. He knows it, and even when he pretends to disapprove, you can feel the way his eyes heat every time you do.

And so, the night of the date arrives.

The reservation is set for 9:30. The day has been a slow crawl of anticipation. You’d spent hours preparing—showering, shaving, choosing every accessory with intention. You're dressed and ready, hair styled just the way he likes, makeup subtle but striking. The kind of effort that looks effortless. You examine yourself in the mirror and smile, knowing exactly the reaction you want to get.

Sylus had some last-minute business to wrap up and called to inform you that Luke and Kieran would be driving you to the restaurant instead.

You're just about to add the finishing touches to your makeup when your eyes shift toward the walk-in closet. You pause, brush in hand, frozen mid-motion as something glittering catches your attention through the open door.

The dress.

It hangs there like a promise and a threat all at once, its deep crimson fabric shimmering under the soft closet lights. Just enough sparkle to catch your eye. Just enough memory attached to make your pulse skip.

You stare at it for a long second, your reflection caught between the mirror and the open closet. The neckline, the slit, the way it hugged your body when you tried it on—it all flashes through your mind in vivid detail. You can practically feel the sensation of the cool fabric against your skin again.

No...don’t. That’s the first thought. The logical one. If you showed up wearing that, you wouldn't just get a lecture. You’d be in trouble. Real trouble. Sylus had been crystal clear—this dress was not for the public. It was too much. Too exposed. Absolutely, unquestionably off-limits.

But then your mind drifts.

God, it would be satisfying to see his face. To watch that flicker of emotion crack across his usually controlled expression. Shock. Disbelief. Fury, maybe. But that other thing too…heat. Possession. The way his jaw tightens and his eyes narrow when he sees you in something you’re not supposed to wear.

You press your lips together, heartbeat thumping louder in your chest. It would be the ultimate power move. The perfect rebellion. The sweetest revenge—all wrapped in satin and silk.

Your hand lowers the makeup brush slowly to the counter, a new kind of clarity settling over you. You glance at the clock ticking steadily in the background. You’ve got time. Enough time to change, to slip into that forbidden second skin and still be ready before the car pulls up.

Then your eyes drift back to the dress, and you make the decision before you even realize it.

A spark lights in your chest.

It was worth it.

You move toward the closet, the rustle of your current outfit the only sound in the room as you reach for the hanger. The fabric feels just as dangerous as you remember. And the thrill that surges through you as you unzip your current dress and step into the red one?

Unmatched.

If you were going to make Sylus mad, you were going to look damn good doing it.

You fastened the last strap on your heels, stood tall, and gave yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress clung like it had been made for you, sculpting your shape and catching the light with every small movement. You smirked at your reflection, applying a final touch of gloss to your lips.

Luke’s arrival text arrived just as you finished adjusting your earrings.

You hurried down the stairs, each step echoing with the click of your heels. Your pulse was racing—not with anxiety, but exhilaration. The air outside was cool, brushing against your skin like a secret. The night felt charged, alive, and your anticipation buzzed just beneath the surface.

The sleek black car was already waiting at the curb, headlights low and humming softly. You walked with practiced elegance, hips swaying, shoulders back.

The moment you approached, Luke's voice called out from the driver's seat. "Hi Miss! Are you—oh..."

His words trailed off awkwardly. You couldn’t see his face through the mask, but the way his back straightened, the stiffness in his posture, it told you everything. He looked down and away, clearly trying not to stare.

Kieran, seated in the passenger seat, leaned out the window slightly to greet you, but the words caught in his throat the moment he saw you. His body tensed, and he quickly turned his head forward again. "Y-you uh...look nice, Miss! Very nice! Hold tight, we’ll be there in thirty minutes."

You smiled to yourself as you opened the back door and slid into the car with the grace of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The cool leather met your skin, and you crossed your legs slowly, deliberately, shifting your dress in the right position.

The door shut with a soft click behind you, and you leaned back into the seat, exhaling slowly through your nose. You could feel the heat of your own boldness rising through your chest.

You peered over curiously when Kieran’s phone rang, his screen lighting up with a contact you didn’t need to see to recognize. The way he straightened in his seat told you everything.

"Yes, bossman? Yes, we have her," he said calmly, though the tips of his fingers twitched nervously, betraying the tension rising in his voice.

There was a beat of silence. Then—

"She is. Yes. Red."

Your heart jumped. A thrill sparked in your chest. Was he referring to the dress? Of course he was.

Now you were really intrigued.

Kieran’s posture stiffened with each passing second, his fingers tapping anxiously on his knee. "Yes...I’ll try and forget what I saw of it, sir."

The call ended abruptly.

You sat back with a sly little smile tugging at the corners of your lips, your heart pounding with excitement. So Sylus knew. You imagined the look on his face, the way his jaw would clench, that barely restrained tension in his voice. The idea alone made your blood buzz. You’d pulled off your little rebellion—and now he was waiting for you.

Neither twin turned to look at you for the rest of the ride. Their usual banter and light conversation vanished entirely, replaced with stony silence. Every so often you caught Luke adjusting the rearview mirror, only to look away again immediately.

It was kind of funny, honestly.

Even when you were dropped off at the restaurant and turned to thank them for the ride, both Luke and Kieran kept their eyes fixed anywhere but on you—the dashboard, the sidewalk, the sky, the inside of their own eyelids if they could.

Luke gave a stiff nod, his voice a little too formal. "Have a good evening, Miss."

Kieran didn’t even try to speak. He just gave a small wave without making a sound.

The doors closed behind you with a soft finality, and you stood on the curb in your red dress, heels perfectly balanced, the night breeze curling around your legs. You smoothed your hands down the sides of your dress, feeling the heat of anticipation crawl up your spine.

You tilted your head toward the front doors of the restaurant, already picturing Sylus inside. His eyes narrowing. That slight scowl of his lip as he realized nothing was stopping strangers from getting a good look.

You readjusted the back of your dress as you walked through the doors, tugging the hem down slightly. For the first time that night, you almost—almost—regretted choosing such a short dress on a chilly evening in the N109 Zone. The air bit at your skin with each step, but you refused to let it show. You had a statement to make.

Just as you reached the entrance to the restaurant, one of the tall, polished doors swung open abruptly.

Sylus.

He stood framed in the doorway, and you nearly jumped out of your skin at the sudden appearance—but you caught yourself, forcing your body to still and quickly recollecting your cool.

He looked devastatingly composed. He wore a tailored dark red suit, deep burgundy that matched the storm in his eyes. The jacket was sharp at the shoulders and tapered flawlessly at the waist, paired with a black shirt underneath—no tie. The top buttons were undone just enough to hint at the inked lines of his collarbone. Gold cufflinks glinted subtly at his wrists. Every inch of him screamed wealth, danger, and absolute control.

You felt your heartbeat pick up just looking at him.

Not wanting to seem thrown off, you quickly approached him, heels clicking confidently against the ground. Your chin was lifted, your pace graceful. You had come this far. You weren't going to flinch now.

Heart pounding, you lean up and press a kiss to Sylus’s cheek, your lips brushing the sharp edge of his jaw. "I'm honestly shocked you finished up in time to be here first."

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he stares at you. Slowly. Thoroughly. His gaze sweeps from the curve of your shoulder down the edge of your chest, across your waist, and along the hemline that danced dangerously high on your thighs. It’s not just a look—it’s an inspection, like he’s committing every inch of forbidden fabric to memory. And yet, there’s no fire in his expression. No sharp inhale. No trace of visible disapproval.

A slow smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. "Well," he drawls, voice like velvet over a blade, "some provocations require a live audience."

Your breath catches. What was that supposed to mean? You brace yourself. Surely, now he’ll say something about the dress. A warning. A quiet reprimand. That delicious falter of control in his voice, the one that always signaled you’d gone too far—just far enough. You wait for the shift, the cold edge in his tone, the tightening of his grip.

But it never comes.

Instead, he leans in, presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your lips—one that lingers just long enough to confuse you. It isn't possessive. It isn’t punishing. It’s maddeningly gentle. It offers no ground to react to, no footing for you to push against. Just soft pressure and warmth.

"You look gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice low and even, as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world.

Then he places a firm hand on your waist and guides you smoothly inside. You blink, slightly thrown.

That's it? That was all he had to say?

Your heels click against the polished marble of the entryway, and the restaurant’s soft ambient lighting bathes you both in gold as you move together like something choreographed. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t break stride. Every step he takes is unhurried, precise, like he has every second of the night under control.

The silence between you doesn’t break. It thickens. It hums beneath your skin, pressing in around the edges of your thoughts. You can feel it—the restraint. The deliberateness. He hasn’t said a word about the dress. Not even a glance that scolds.

And somehow, that’s worse.

When you reach the table, he pulls out your chair for you with the same graceful control. His hand doesn’t leave your waist until the moment you sit.

Then he takes his seat across from you, unhurried, leaning back slightly like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s letting you stew. Like he’s waiting for you to realize something you haven’t yet.

His expression is unreadable, lips neutral, eyes sharp. Razor sharp. But not angry. There’s no tension in his jaw. No crack in his composure. That makes it harder. Makes you second-guess every choice you made tonight. Every breath. Every inch of red fabric clinging to your skin.

You shift slightly in your chair, adjusting the hem of your dress even though you told yourself you wouldn’t. His eyes follow the movement, subtle but unmistakable. You offer a sheepish smile, trying to play it off—trying not to let him see that the tension was starting to get to you. That the silence, the composure, the absence of reaction—it was all beginning to unravel your confidence. It was maddening. He should've said something by now. Anything. But instead, he just sat there, poised and unreadable, like the calm before a storm you couldn't predict.

You force yourself to breathe and glance down at your hands resting in your lap. You were supposed to feel powerful right now. That was the whole point. To wear the dress. To catch his attention. To push the boundary just enough to feel the crack in his control. But he hadn't cracked. Not even a hairline fracture. And now, the silence felt like a trap.

Then something clicks.

You frown slightly and glance around, your eyes moving slowly across the room. A host hadn’t guided you to your table. There was no maître d’, no smiling server waiting with menus. This wasn’t some casual diner where people just sat wherever they wanted. This place was luxurious, upscale, the kind of restaurant where every detail was curated. There should have been someone at the entrance, someone offering champagne, someone announcing your name.

But there wasn’t.

You look around again, this time more carefully.

Your stomach begins to twist as your eyes move from one empty table to another. The tables around you are vacant. So are the ones farther in. There’s no clinking of cutlery, no background hum of conversation, no servers weaving between tables balancing trays. You hadn’t passed a single person on the way in. Not even another guest.

The soft background music playing is the only sound, and suddenly it feels loud against the unnatural stillness of the room.

What was going on? This place is usually packed. Especially on a weekend, there should be people everywhere.

Your pulse picks up. You shift again in your chair, this time out of unease rather than vanity. You open your mouth, ready to ask—something, anything—when Sylus finally speaks.

"How was the ride here?" he asks casually, his voice smooth, calm, as if you hadn’t just stumbled onto something that suddenly made the room feel colder.

You blink, caught completely off guard by the question. Your eyes snap back to him. He’s looking at you like nothing’s wrong, like he hasn’t noticed a thing. But you know better. You know him.

He knows exactly what you’ve realized.

And that’s when it hits you.

He planned this.

The lack of other patrons. The way the restaurant had looked open from the outside, but felt like a stage once you stepped in. He'd arranged every inch of it. Every absence. Every silence. Every second without interruption.

You don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You force a little smile, trying not to show how unsettled you suddenly feel. "It was...fine," you reply softly, your voice thinner than you intended, the words barely registering as your thoughts race.

Sylus hums in response, reaching for his glass of water with an easy, deliberate motion. "Luke and Kieran didn’t give you any trouble, did they?" he asks, casual as ever.

You shake your head slowly, still processing—but your mind is no longer on the car ride. It’s spinning, unraveling one realization after another. He had bought out the restaurant. That much was obvious now. Not a single patron in sight.

You wonder how. How had he managed to do something so drastic in the short amount of time between your phone call and your arrival? Or...had this been in motion long before that? Had he known you would wear the dress? Had he anticipated this rebellion and calmly, masterfully, set the stage to counter it before you even stepped out of the house?

Your head spins with the possibilities. He hadn't reacted when you arrived. Hadn’t even flinched at the sight of the dress. Because he didn’t need to. He had already moved the board. He had already made the first move—maybe the only move.

"H-how can I help you two this evening?" you hear a nervous voice ask, his voice quivering just enough to give away his discomfort.

You look up, blinking in disbelief, as your eyes land on the source of the voice. A waiter stands beside your table, notepad clutched tightly in his gloved hands. His posture is stiff, formal, as if standing at attention for inspection. The uniform is flawless—crisp white shirt, pressed black vest, a silver pin gleaming at his collar—but none of it matters.

Because he’s blindfolded.

A smooth, black silk cloth is tied neatly over his eyes, concealing them completely. There’s a slight tremor in his posture, the stiffness of someone trying very hard not to get something wrong. He tilts his head slightly toward the sound of your breathing, the notepad in his hand held in an awkward, overly formal grip, pen poised yet clearly tense. He doesn’t stumble, but there’s a certain tightness in his jaw, a hesitation in his chest like he’s holding his breath. It’s clear he was trained for this, but not comfortably. A fresh wave of unease crawls down your spine.

Your brain halts. The absurdity of it seizes your thoughts for a moment, like static noise blanking out everything else. You glance around, searching for context, for someone else, for anything to make this make sense. But the restaurant is just as silent as when you entered. The same dim ambient lighting. The same soft music. Not a single clatter of cutlery. No clinking of glasses. No hushed conversation. Every table still empty.

No guests. No chatter. Just you, Sylus, and this man in a blindfold.

Your gaze snaps to Sylus.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t so much as blink.

Instead, he sits in his chair with the same unshakeable composure he’s held all night, his dark red suit as flawless as the rest of this illusion. He rests his hands on the edge of the table, fingers loosely interlaced, then speaks in that same smooth, commanding tone that never fails to carry authority.

"I’ll have the wagyu—rare—and a gin, neat."

The waiter nods soundlessly, jotting it down without question. His movements are practiced, routine. Like this was normal. Like serving food in the dark was just another Tuesday night.

"And for the lady?"

Then Sylus turns his attention back to you.

That smug, knowing smile spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate. It’s the look of someone who has prepared every last detail in advance. Someone who saw the dress and raised you a whole evening of silent dominance. He doesn’t need to speak a word—his expression says it all.

Checkmate.

You grit your teeth, jaw tightening against the urge to say something sharp. Of course he was behind this madness. Every piece meticulously placed, like a play you never even knew you were cast in.

You shift in your seat, gripping your napkin like it might tether you to something sane. The waiter remains patiently at attention, his blindfold unwavering, still waiting for your answer like none of this is remotely strange.

"I’m…still deciding," you say, carefully measuring your tone to keep it light and syrupy sweet. You force the words through the heat rising in your chest. "I’ll just start with some wine."

You're definitely going to need it to get through tonight.

Your gaze snaps sharply to Sylus as you say it, your eyes narrowed, your mouth drawn tight in a controlled smile. It’s a challenge—daring him to explain, to admit how far ahead he’s been playing.

He doesn’t react.

Instead, he lifts his water glass with maddening ease, takes a slow sip, and sets it back down with a delicate, calculated clink against the crystal.

That damn smile remains.

The waiter nods in affirmation, jotting things down in his notebook with shaky hands. You can see the pen tremble slightly as he scrawls something—there’s no way he’s writing anything legible through that blindfold, right? His posture is rigid, his shoulders high with tension, and he flinches subtly every time a floorboard creaks beneath his polished shoes. Every movement screams discomfort, like he’s walking a tightrope blindfolded—because he literally is.

"I…I will be right back," he stammers, voice thin and strained. With one unsteady step backward, he turns, attempting to maintain grace, but ends up brushing his shoulder against the corner of a chair. He murmurs an awkward apology under his breath—though to whom, you’re not sure—and shuffles off, disappearing behind a velvet curtain. You watch him until he vanishes completely, lips parted in disbelief.

You’re not sure whether to laugh, scream, or start throwing silverware. What the hell was this evening turning into?

Your gaze whips back to Sylus, your heart pounding with a mix of confusion and irritation.

"Are you genuinely insane?" you hiss, the words sharp and precise, clipped with disbelief. You’re trying to stay composed, but your patience is unraveling. You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from saying more—too much more.

Sylus leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, fingers lacing together in a slow, deliberate motion like he’s assembling a weapon out of calm. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, deep and infuriatingly entertained.

"Possibly," he replies, smooth as silk, "but your face just now might’ve been the highlight of my evening. Worth every cent."

You glare at him, your eyes narrowing into slits. Your lips press together tightly, your nostrils flaring in quiet fury. A flush creeps into your cheeks, whether from embarrassment, frustration, or something else entirely, you can’t tell. He doesn’t look sorry. Not even close. If anything, he looks proud. Like this is all going exactly how he planned.

You shift back in your chair and cross your arms, the motion defiant. He watches you, head tilting just slightly, like he’s analyzing your reaction frame by frame. His smile lingers—calm, unreadable, and absolutely insufferable.

He raises a single eyebrow, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air between you like a loaded gun. You want to wipe that expression off his face, to see him falter just once.

You exhale slowly through your nose, forcing your pulse to settle, forcing yourself to match his poise. Because this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

He goes through such lengths to make sure no other man can lay eyes on you? Fine. You weren’t just going to sit there and let him have the last word. If he wanted a show, you’d up the ante. He wanted to pretend this was all some curated kingdom where you were his to protect, display, or hide away? You were about to remind him you didn’t come without fire.

"I'm going to the bathroom," you announce coolly, standing up from your chair with deliberate grace. The legs scrape softly against the marble flooring, echoing slightly in the silence that seemed far too engineered.

"Take your time, sweetie," Sylus replies, calm as ever. There’s a lilt in his voice, a smooth, coaxing edge that makes your skin crawl. He reaches out and takes your hand as you pass, pressing a swift kiss to your knuckles. It’s polite, charming even—if it hadn’t felt so much like checkmate.

You yank your hand back a heartbeat too late, his touch lingering on your skin as you turn away. Your heels click sharply against the polished floor, the sound loud in the otherwise eerily quiet space. Each step you take is measured, your stride fueled by irritation and the ache of needing to reclaim your footing. You were done letting him hold all the power tonight.

As you move further from the table, the background music begins to rise, no longer a soft ambiance but something stronger, richer. It spills into the hallway like velvet, curling up the walls and seeping into your spine. It felt too alive to be a recording. Something about it pulled at your curiosity, enough to veer your path slightly.

The corridor darkens the deeper you walk, soft lights embedded into the floor guiding your way. The walls, lined with mirrors and heavy velvet drapes, seem to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The music builds—strings climbing, winds weaving between melodies with practiced elegance.

Then you turn a corner.

And freeze.

At the back of the room, elevated on a grand, arched stage framed in gilded molding, an orchestra performs. A full ensemble—violinists, cellists, flutists, a pianist, even a harpist—playing in perfect harmony. The sound is breathtaking. Full, sweeping, cinematic.

But something is wrong.

Every single musician is blindfolded.

Elegant black silk wrapped over their eyes, tied tightly and deliberately. Yet not a single note falters. Violins hum with emotion. Bows glide with flawless precision. Fingers move over keys, strings, and brass like they’ve memorized the space with their skin. They don’t miss a beat. It’s not just talent. It’s training. Discipline.

You step forward slowly, mesmerized and unsettled all at once. The contradiction of beauty and control sinks its claws into you, and you can’t look away. It’s haunting, like watching something holy that’s been rewritten with sinister intent.

Your mouth parts slightly. A soft gasp escapes you before you can hold it back.

Sylus.

How far had Sylus gone? How much time, power, influence had it taken to orchestrate this? The staff. The guests gone. The waiter. The musicians. All blindfolded. All bound to this strange, almost cult-like performance. No one else’s eyes but his on you.

You wrap your arms around yourself instinctively. Your breath is tight. This wasn’t just a dinner. This was an environment, an ecosystem—and Sylus had shaped every inch of it. A game he had set in motion long before you ever slipped into that dress.

Your heart pounds faster as you slowly back away from the performance. You turn, forcing yourself to regain composure, squaring your shoulders even as the music chases you like smoke. The hallway feels narrower now, like the air itself is pressing closer.

You almost laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and defiance. The absurdity of it all—the blindfolded staff, the orchestra, the sheer scope of Sylus’s calculated control—it should’ve had you unraveling. Instead, it sparked something else entirely. A decision. A wicked little idea that formed like a flame in your chest. Forget the bathroom. If he wanted a performance, you’d give him one.

With a quiet inhale, you spin on your heel and walk back toward the table, your stride more confident than before. You pass through the velvet-curtained corridor with your head high, the echoes of the Fifth Symphony following you like a taunt. Every note seems to mock you—yet also embolden you.

You spot him at the table, still relaxed, still composed, like nothing in the world could touch him. That smug calm only steels your resolve further.

You return to your seat and swiftly lower yourself into the chair. Sylus’s eyes flicker upward as you settle in, a flick of subtle surprise in his expression. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by that maddening amusement.

"Back already?" he asks, his voice lazy and smooth, as if he hadn’t orchestrated an entire psychological maze for you to walk through.

You nod once, lifting your chin slightly. "The orchestra plays beautifully," you reply, your tone laced with irritation. There’s no use hiding it now. He wanted you upset. Let him feel it.

His lips curl into a knowing smile, and a low chuckle escapes him, deep and unbothered. "Yes," he says with an air of satisfaction, "they’re playing one of my favorites—Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony."

He reaches for his glass again, sipping with deliberate leisure.

"You’ve heard this one many times on my records, kitten," he adds, his voice softening just slightly on the pet name. The way he says it feels both intimate and commanding.

You snarl inwardly. Prick. Just you wait.

The tension simmers between you like a pot left too long on the stove. Every smile Sylus gives you is a challenge. Every sip of water, every flick of his gaze—measured, smug, deliberate. The orchestra plays on in the background, the blindfolded musicians serving as a haunting reminder of just how far he’s gone to stage this night. Every note is perfectly in place, and every piece of the evening is perfectly, terrifyingly choreographed.

You trade a few curt remarks—witty, clipped, charged—but the weight of the performance around you makes it difficult to stay composed. The opulence is suffocating, and Sylus’s calm demeanor feels like a wall you can’t scale. Still, you're determined not to let him win.

Before the tension can bubble over, the blindfolded waiter returns. He approaches the table with the same careful precision, balancing a tray that holds Sylus’s wagyu, your wine, and his glass of gin. His movements are deliberate but cautious, the kind of performance that only comes from intense training—and possibly fear. There's a subtle tremble in his fingers as he sets each item down, aligning the dishes with unnatural symmetry. He sets the silverware beside your plate, just a fraction off from center.

That’s when your eyes light up with mischief. Your heart pounds, not with nerves, but with wicked glee.

A wicked smile spreads across your face as you watch him fumble blindly, standing straight again, hands folding against his apron. You lean forward sweetly. "Let me help," you say, voice syrupy and soft, reaching for the utensils as if to correct their position.

Then, with a swift flick of your wrist, you "accidentally" knock over Sylus’s glass.

The crystal tumbles from the table’s edge, falling in a slow-motion arc before shattering dramatically on the floor near the waiter’s feet. The clear, high-pitched ring of glass breaking pierces the quiet elegance of the room. Liquid spreads in jagged streaks across the marble like a wound opening.

The waiter gasps, recoiling instinctively at the sound. "Oh! I’m so sorry, sir!" he stammers, clearly panicked, arms half outstretched as if unsure what to do. He fumbles for a cloth, despite being unable to see where the mess is.

You rise from your chair instantly, pressing a hand to your chest as if genuinely alarmed. "Please let me get that!" you exclaim, your voice dripping in performative sweetness, laced with mock concern so sugary it could rot teeth. Your tone alone is a middle finger.

Then you bend down in front of the waiter, making a theatrical show of retrieving broken pieces that staff protocol would never allow a guest to touch. As you lean forward, your shoulder "accidentally" brushes against the waiter’s groin, just barely grazing him. Your movements are slow, intentional, a silent dare to the man behind you.

The waiter stiffens, nearly jerks back, confused and clearly thrown, muttering apologies he doesn’t need to make. His hands hover awkwardly, unsure of what is safe to touch, his face burning even beneath the blindfold.

Behind you, you can practically feel Sylus’s gaze sharpen. It cuts through you like the chill before a lightning strike.

You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. The silence is weighted now, stretched tight with the tension of a drawn bowstring.

Checkmate.

"Alright. Enough," he snarls, his voice low but cutting, the sharpness in it tense enough to touch glass. The sound slices through the charged silence, freezing you in place. A chill crawls down your spine, skin prickling, your breath halting. The hairs on the back of your neck rise involuntarily, every nerve going taut like a wire stretched too far.

Shit.

Was that too far? Was brushing up against another man too much?

You shift slowly to look at him, your pulse thudding in your ears like warning drums. Sylus’s face has lost all semblance of that smug calm. The collected, composed man who sat sipping gin minutes ago is gone. What stares back at you now is something cold and calculating—his crimson eyes burning with barely restrained jealousy. The kind of rage that simmers, measured and lethal.

"Leave. Clean this up later," he says, voice clipped and laced with steel. The words are directed at the waiter, who stiffens instantly. He nods frantically and scurries away without another word, eager to vanish from the blast zone.

Your heart slams against your ribs as the air between you thickens. You force your body to move, pushing yourself to stand up, arms crossing over your chest in a defiant barrier. You're determined not to let him see your nerves—even as they scream in warning. Your jaw tightens as you begin to speak, but you don’t get the chance.

Sylus is on you in a blink.

"H-hey!"

In one fluid, deliberate motion, he grabs your arm—not harshly, but with a grip that brooks no argument. He pulls you in close, the proximity overwhelming. You can feel the heat radiating off him. He smells of bergamot and danger. The tension rippling off his frame is magnetic.

Your breath catches in your throat.

His face is barely inches from yours. His gaze pins you in place like a blade pressed to your throat. The entire room falls away in that moment, and all you can focus on is the fury simmering just beneath his skin.

"Enough playtime, kitten," he growls, the words slow, venom-laced, deliberate. "You think you can keep acting up without consequence? You actually want me mad at you? Fine."

A humorless chuckle rumbles from his chest—low, guttural, and void of any warmth. It’s the sound of a storm forming, a warning with teeth. You shiver, though you refuse to look away. You give him the same smug expression he’s been giving you all night.

Before you can find your voice, before you can breathe a word in return, Sylus turns on his heel, dragging you along with him by the arm. His grip is tight, purposeful, every step laced with intent.

You yelp softly, startled. Your heels scramble to keep up as you stumble forward. The sharp clicks echo through the cavernous space, each one sounding louder in the impossible quiet. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest.

He leads you toward the center of the grand dining hall. It’s still empty—eerily so—but that only amplifies the pressure. The vastness of the room makes you feel exposed.

The blindfolded orchestra continues in the background, the music rising to a stirring, ominous crescendo. Each note seems to underscore the tension, heightening the surreal drama that now pulses around you.

Your eyes dart around instinctively, but there’s no one to witness this. They're all blindfolded. No one to save you from the storm brewing in his expression.

"Sylus! What the he—” you start, your voice rising in disbelief, confusion twisting your stomach into knots.

But he’s already moving.

In one swift, violent motion, Sylus’s arm lashes out, sweeping the table in front of you clean. Silverware clatters to the ground in a loud, jarring cascade. Plates crash and spin, tumbling off the edge in a violent rain of porcelain. Wine glasses burst against the marble like shrapnel, crimson staining the floor like blood spilled at a crime scene. The destruction is dramatic, deafening, and intentional. There’s nothing subtle about it.

You barely have time to flinch before he grabs you—fast, deliberate, and without hesitation. His hand clamps around your wrist, his grip like iron.

You gasp, a yelp caught in your throat, eyes wide as he spins you toward the now-cleared table. It happens so quickly that you barely register your surroundings. He pushes you down, hard enough to make your palms slap against the cold surface. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, locking you in place. The sudden shift knocks the breath right out of you, leaving you reeling.

“Stop—! Sylus—!” you shout, twisting violently beneath him. Your legs kick back instinctively, your body writhing in pure reflex. But it’s no use. He’s stronger. Impossibly steady. The way his body anchors you, unbothered by your flailing, makes it clear—this isn’t a struggle for him.

His hand remains locked against your back, unshakable, like a steel brace anchoring you to the table. No matter how much you twist or strain against it, he doesn’t budge. That quiet, effortless control of his is worse than brute strength; it tells you he’s not even winded.

Your chest tightens, breath hitching as panic bubbles just beneath the surface, colliding headlong with the heat of your anger. You hate that you’re trembling. Fear and also...excitement begin to build an aching heat between your legs.

Then his voice cuts through the air—steady, smooth, and eerily level. A voice that sounds almost bored, except you can feel the tension curled behind it like a blade coiled to strike.

“Careful what you wish for.”

There’s no shout. No raised tone. Just that cold, calculated authority, the kind that doesn’t need volume to be felt. It wraps around you like a noose, the final punctuation to a line he’s just stepped over—and dares you to drag him further.

The blindfolded orchestra in front of you keeps playing, seamlessly transitioning into a different composition—something softer, slower, but no less dramatic. Their bows sweep across strings in perfect unison, brass and piano following as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening just feet away from them. They act indifferent to the clear chaos unfolding before them, as if blindfolds had turned them into ghosts within the room, present but untouched by the tension between you and Sylus.

Your face burns, heat rushing to your cheeks in waves of disbelief and embarrassment. It’s one thing to have him corner you in private, but this? This was happening in front of so many people—an entire orchestra, even if they were blindfolded. It didn’t matter. The exposure was real.

"Sylus, wait...the orchestra..." you whimper, the sound of your voice trembling as the realization sets in. You felt like you were going to die from embarrassment, like you wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

He leans down close, his breath brushing your skin like a shiver. "Shh..." he whispers, the single syllable almost tender—but it only sharpens the tension. Then, without pause, he begins to kiss a trail down your neck, slow and possessive, his lips grazing the delicate line between your shoulder and spine. Every press of his mouth sends another pulse of heat spiraling through you, clashing with your mortification, your confusion, and something far more electric.

As Sylus's fingers slipped underneath your dress, you felt another surge of panic and embarrassment. He slid your panties down to your ankles, and you gasped as the cool air hit your pussy, making you squeal in mortification. "Please! Wait, I'm sorry! Not in front of all these people...Sylus!" you whined, trying to squirm away from him.

But Sylus was unforgiving. Red mist curled around your limbs, spreading your legs apart and holding you in place to prevent you from escaping. You felt a surge of fear and coiling heat in your groin as you heard the sound of his zipper being undone.

He was going to take you...right here?!

As he leaned over you on the table, lining his hard cock up to your soaking entrance, you felt your walls squeeze in anticipation. You were horrified, but at the same time, you couldn't deny the excitement and arousal that was building inside you.

"What's wrong? You wanted attention," Sylus whispered, his voice low and husky. "I'm giving it to you."

With a single, powerful thrust, Sylus pushed his rigid, hard cock inside you. You gasped at the sudden fullness, your body stretching to accommodate him. A sharp, pleasurable pain shot through you, and you bit your lip to stifle a cry. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning paler as you tried to anchor yourself. The cool air against your exposed skin and the heat of Sylus's body pressed against you created a stark contrast, heightening your senses.

You could feel every contour of him, every ridge, every throb. The red mist holding you in place seemed to intensify your sensations, trapping you in a whirlwind of humiliation, fear, and an overwhelming, undeniable arousal. Sylus began to move, each thrust deliberate and controlled, drawing a whimper from your lips with every retreat and a moan with every push.

"Mghn! Ahh! Stop...!"

As Sylus continued to pound into you, you couldn't help but moan, panting and whining at the sheer force of his movements. His cock was like a piston, driving into you with a relentless rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt like you were being split in two, your body stretched to its limits as he took you with a ferocity that was almost animalistic.

He hadn't even bothered to take his time with you, and you could tell that he was clearly very pissed. The way he was taking you was almost brutal, and you felt a surge of pain and pleasure mixed together as he struck your cervix with a particularly forceful thrust. You cried out, gripping the edges of the table again as it shook with the momentum of his movements. The sound of the orchestra was still playing in the background, but it was almost drowned out by the sound of your own ragged breathing and the pounding of your heart.

Your body was on fire, your skin burning with a heat that seemed to emanate from your very core. You felt like you were being consumed by the pleasure and embarrassment, like it was eating you alive from the inside out. Your muscles were tense, your body arching up to meet Sylus's thrusts as he plunged himself deeper and deeper.

"Mmm, I don't think they can hear you over the sound of the music, kitten," Sylus teased, his voice low and husky. "You need to be louder." He delivered another few hard pumps into your inner walls, and you felt yourself responding, your body shuddering with pleasure as he slammed into the spongey spot inside you.

You let out a low, throaty moan, the sound echoing through the room. "Ahhhh...oh god...Sylus..." you moaned, your voice trembling with pleasure. Your body was on fire, your senses electrified by the sensation of his cock molding its shape within your walls.

Sylus's eyes gleamed with excitement as he heard your moans, his face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and concentration. He pumped into you again, his movements becoming more intense and frenzied. "Louder, kitten," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Let them hear how good you feel".

You obliged, your moans growing louder and more intense as he took you to new heights. "Mghn...Sylus...please...!" you yelled, your body shuddering with ecstasy. Your voice was hoarse, your throat sore, but you couldn't help yourself. You were lost in the sensation of his cock thrusting into you, your body responding to his every move.

You were still acutely aware of the orchestra, of the people listening to you, but you couldn't care anymore. You were too caught up in the feeling of your slick running down your leg, Sylus's hands gripped at the sides of your dress and your heart beating wildly out of your chest as the table shook with every thrust.

Your face was slick with sweat, your eyeliner no doubt streaking down your cheeks like black tears. Your hair was coming undone, strands falling loose from your updo and framing your face in a messy, sweaty halo. You felt like a complete mess, but you couldn't do anything about it. You were still held to the table by Sylus's Evol, unable to move or escape the pounding he was giving you.

The sounds of Sylus's own groans filled your ears, his hands gripping onto your body like a vice. You felt his hot breath on your skin, his voice deep and husky as he whispered cruel taunts in your ear. "You dirty girl," he whispered, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "Begging me not to fuck you and yet you're dripping all over this table. What would that waiter think if he saw you like this?"

You gasp, gritting your teeth in anger at the slimy taunts in your ear. All the snarky words sitting on your tongue dissipate though as he changes the angle of his cock, beginning to hit a spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You gasp, your mouth opening in a silent cry as he begins to thrust into you with a newfound intensity, his cock rubbing against your G-spot with a precision that makes you feel like you're going to lose your mind.

All your anger and frustration melt away, replaced by a wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you. You feel your body start to tremble, your muscles tensing up as you prepare for the inevitable. Sylus's taunts are forgotten, replaced by the sound of his heavy breathing and the feeling of his hot skin against yours.

And then, Sylus's words sent a shiver down your spine, slow and creeping like ice melting down your back. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your skin as he spoke, his voice smooth and sharp, curling with something dark and dangerous. "Should I call him over here and have him take off his blindfold, hm?" he whispered, each word deliberate, every syllable thick with menace and mockery. "Let him get a good look at you...see exactly what you were trying to show off so badly."

You felt a surge of fear and excitement at the thought, your mind racing with the possibilities. Sylus wouldn't really let another man see you like this would he?

You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you shook your head no, but he didn’t stop. "That’s what you wanted, right?" he continued, his tone quiet but biting, as if he were carving each word directly into your pride. "A little attention. A reason to act up again. You were so desperate to see if someone else might notice what’s mine."

You whine and find yourself on the edge with those words, the symphony of pleasure within you swelling to a crescendo, your entire being quivering with an almost unbearable anticipation. Every nerve ending feels electrified, every muscle taut with the impending explosion of pleasure. Sylus leans into your ear, his breath hot and heavy, and whispers, "Close? You wanna cum?" You nod desperately and beg loudly, "Please, Sylus, I need to cum... please, make me cum..." Your voice is loud and desperate, but not quite a yell. You're begging him, pleading with him to give you the release you so desperately need.

You're not caring about the audience anymore, you're not caring about anything except for the sensation building inside you. You just need to cum, and you need Sylus to make it happen.

Sylus's voice is low and husky, his words dripping with excitement. "Go ahead, let them hear how beautiful you sound," he whispers, his breath sending shivers down your spine. 

His voice is all you need. The pressure explodes and transforms.

As you cum, your body convulses and trembles, your muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythmic pattern. Your voice is a loud, keening cry that fills the room, a primal expression of pleasure and release. Sylus's cock is still thrusting into you, his pace steady and unrelenting as he drives you deeper into the orgasm.

Your hips buck and writhe, your body arching and twisting as you ride out the wave of pleasure. Your skin is flushed and sweaty, your hair disheveled and tangled. You're completely lost in the sensation, your mind and body consumed by the intense pleasure that's washing over you.

As you come down from your high, you face plant into the table, breathing heavily as drool pools from your mouth and onto the table cloth. You can barely move, but you manage to muster up the energy to speak, your voice barely above a whisper. "P-please... can I get up now?" you ask, reality starting to come back to you and the embarrassment of your situation hitting you like a ton of bricks.

You just came in front of like twenty plus people. Loudly.

You glance up at the orchestra, all still blindfolded thankfully, but you catch sight of one of the musicians, a man playing a cello, and you notice that his cheeks are flushed a deep red. You feel a surge of mortification.

You begin to beg louder on the table, voice cracking with desperation. "Please, Sylus, let me up. I'm s-so sorry...I didn't mean it... I'm sorry I wore the dress, I'm sorry I touched him!"

The words spill from your lips in a rush, your breath uneven as the cool surface of the table presses against your skin. Shame coils in your chest, hot and relentless, twining with the sharp edge of regret.

But Sylus is having none of it. He chuckles, a low, husky sound, and says, "Oh, you thought we were done? Cute." He pulls his cock back as far as he can, and then plunges it back inside you again, the searing ache of overstimulated nerves ricocheting throughout your lower half. You choke out a groan, your body trembling with the sensation, your mind reeling with the embarrassment and shame of your situation.

“They’re still playing for you, kitten" Sylus grunts, picking up the tortuous pace again. Don’t you think it’s rude not to sing along? Wouldn't want them to think we're not enjoying the show”. It continues, him plunging himself inside you over and over, your slick making a white ring around his length and dirtying the tablecloth even more. Its soaked now. You writhe and moan as your overcome with the torturous sensations of him making you cum again, and again, and again.

All while the orchestra plays. And listens. Tears stream down your face. Every nerve in your body felt frayed and electric, each new movement setting off sparks you couldn’t contain. It was too much, too fast, too deep—but impossible to stop. You were unraveling, caught between pleasure and collapse, breathless and begging and burning alive.

You couldn’t tell if you were still moaning or just sobbing his name now. Your thoughts were gone, scattered somewhere far behind the rush of sensation drowning you, your body straining and shaking as if it couldn’t decide whether it wanted more or mercy.

Finally, finally, Sylus's own moans become erratic and his hips begin to stutter, signaling that he's reaching his own climax. He slams his hand down on the table next to your face, the sound echoing through the room as he shoves his cock inside you as deep as it could go. The force of his thrust is almost overwhelming, and you feel like you're being stretched to your limits.

What comes next is nothing short of exhilarating as hot spurts of his seed shoot into your abused cunt, filling you with a warmth and a sense of completion. You both pant and sweat, your face stricken with tears and sweat as you lay limply on the dinner table. The orchestra continues to play, their music a distant hum as you both bask in the aftermath.

The red mist dissipates from your limbs, leaving only the echo of your own breathing and the steady thrum of the orchestra behind you. Sylus's grip softens. His movements slow. Carefully, almost reverently, he turns you over on the table. You blink up at him through tear-blurred lashes, heart still racing, breath shallow and shaky. You're now facing each other—your chest rising and falling with residual tremors—as his gaze locks onto yours.

His face is just inches above yours, the weight of his body not pressing down but hovering protectively. Strands of his hair fall forward, brushing your cheek in a ghosting touch that contrasts sharply with the ferocity from moments before. The shadows in his expression have softened. Whatever anger had once burned in his crimson eyes seems to have vanished, replaced by something unreadable but gentler.

The change, the tenderness, is what finally breaks you.

Tears spill freely now, hot and silent at first, then building into soft, broken sobs. The embarrassment floods in—the surreal setting, the blindfolded audience, the helplessness. Layered on top of it all is the overstimulation, the ache in your body and your mind, and the emotional crash that follows too much intensity.

You clutch at him instinctively, fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing grounding you. Your voice trembles as you begin to babble apologies, words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think—”

Sylus hushes you, voice much quieter and calmer now. His thumb brushes slowly beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with the same care he uses to load a gun. "Look at me," he says softly, his eyes locked on yours like they’re the only anchor keeping you in the room. "The punishment’s over, you don’t have to apologize anymore. You took it quite well."

He leans closer, resting his forehead gently against yours. "I know you were just trying to get a reaction out of me. And I let you. But you don’t have to touch other men just to make me prove that I care. sweetie."

You blink back fresh tears, his words settling in your chest like they belonged there all along. Deep down, you know he’s right. You had been pushing him—testing him—not because you truly believe he didn't care, but because some part of you always needed to see it play out. It wasn’t about malice. It was about reassurance. You needed to know you mattered enough to stir something in him.

"But I took it too far this time and...and I knew it, even when I did it..." Your voice trembles, barely more than a whisper. The words catch in your throat, raw and heavy with guilt. Your chest tightens, eyes burning as the emotions you’d held back now push forward all at once.

His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, grounding you with his touch. "You’re mine. And when you act out, I handle it. That doesn't mean I don't love you anymore."

You sniffle, making eye contact again, your lashes still damp with tears. "But what about...them?" you ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper, rough from emotion and the strain of everything that just unfolded. Your eyes flick toward the orchestra at the far end of the dining hall. They're nearing the end of their song, the strings trembling in a rising cadence, brass winding beneath it. The musicians remain blindfolded, their faces unreadable, every movement deliberate. They're still playing as if nothing has happened, as if the chaos that filled the room was just another note on the page.

Sylus follows your gaze for a moment, then his eyes return to you with a slow, lazy amusement. He chuckles low in his chest, the sound vibrating softly against you as he leans in. His lips brush yours with a tenderness that surprises you, then linger for a moment longer in a kiss that says more than words.

"I can assure you, kitten," he murmurs, his voice rich and smooth, "they were paid more than enough to keep their mouths shut. Blindfolded for their own good, and very aware of what silence buys them." He tilts his head, smiling slightly against your lips. "And if any of them do talk...well, they’d have hell to pay."

You let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension loosening from your shoulders, though a soft moan of pain escapes as you instinctively try to shift and sit up. Your body protests the movement, still overstimulated and sore. Sylus notices instantly, and without a word, his arms are around you. He moves you with care, guiding you into a seated position like you're something fragile he knows exactly how to handle.

He crouches beside you, retrieving your underwear and slipping them gently into your hands. You don’t even have to ask—he helps you get them back on, his touch now patient and precise. Then, without any sign of frustration or impatience, he pulls a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and begins to wipe away the smudges of eyeliner trailing down your cheeks. Each pass of the cloth is slow, gentle, almost reverent.

He brushes your hair back, fixing it the way he always does, smoothing it with his fingers like a habit he’s never had to question. It’s all very soothing, each action grounding you, reminding you that the storm has passed. And if there’s one thing you’ve always known about Sylus—something buried beneath all the power and punishment—it’s this: he always fixes what he breaks.

When he's satisfied, he cups your face in his hands for a moment, his thumbs resting just under your jaw as he studies you. Whatever intensity had been burning behind his eyes earlier has cooled now, replaced by something steadier.

Finally, he stands and offers his hand. You place yours in his without hesitation.

"Let’s finish dinner, shall we?" he says smoothly, voice low and rich.

Finishing dinner sounded amazing. Despite your disheveled appearance and sore body, you found yourself able to relax, your shoulders finally easing as the heavy tension that had lingered between you and Sylus faded into something softer, quieter. The storm had passed, and in its wake came a strange, satisfying calm.

When the waiter returned—blindfold still firmly in place—you ordered a light meal, opting for the seared duck with grilled vegetables and a glass of red wine to help relax yourself further. Sylus, as composed as ever, placed a second, more indulgent order, watching you with that familiar glint in his eye as you scanned the menu with flushed cheeks and trembling fingers.

But of course, things between you and Sylus were never truly over. Not really.

You shifted slightly in your seat, biting your lip as you felt the unmistakable heat of lingering evidence trickle slowly down the inside of your thigh. You could feel his cum pooling beneath you, warm and humiliating, a constant, sticky reminder of your place and what just transpired. And Sylus clearly got a visible kick out of it. He watched you squirm with barely concealed satisfaction, sipping his wine slowly as if nothing were out of place.

He said nothing about it. He didn’t need to. The amused curl of his mouth said it all.

You were his. Marked. And now you had to sit there, order food, and try to eat while the proof of it slowly slipped down your leg. All in front of the waiter you had barely touched. It was surely gratifying for him.

You gave a sheepish smile, knowing full well this dinner would stay with you far longer than any course served at the table.

[opalitelibrary]

— o is for overstimulation

“shh, baby,” sylus whispered, raw, forehead pressed to your thigh. “i know. i know you’re sensitive. but i can’t help it.”

you gasped, trembling, thighs shaking from the last orgasm he pulled from you with just his mouth. your hands weakly tugged at his hair. your poor, poor legs had long since lost their strength.

“sy… sylus—please, i—”

he kissed your inner thigh, then the soaked, swollen heat between your legs again. tongue slow, reverent, greedy.

“you keep making those noises, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely, fingers sliding back into you, “and you expect me to stop?”

you cried out and he smiled into your skin.

“that’s it. that’s my girl,” he cooed, thumb teasing your clit while his fingers curled deep inside. “so good for me. so perfect. i could listen to you fall apart for hours.”

your mind was mush. your hips kept twitching away from him, but he didn’t let you go. he held you still, kissed you through every trembling wave.

“still dripping for me. still tight. still want more, don’t you?”

you whimpered. he licked you again before he climbed up your body, kissed your cheek, your jaw, your neck. his voice in your ear was wrecked and sweet all at once.

“i need to be inside you now.”

you barely nodded. you didn’t have to. he slid into you slowly. like he was savoring it. your warmth. your softness. the way your walls pulsed around him, already too much, already too sensitive. you moaned, long and aching, and he shuddered.

“fuck,” he choked out. “you sound like heaven.”

he moved deep and slow. then faster and rougher. not punishing, but so needy. every thrust pushed your body further into the mattress, your hands gripping his back like he was your lifeline.

“more,” he groaned. “one more for me. just one. please—just let me have this—”

you came again. tears pricked your lashes from the intensity. sylus held you like you were breaking and kissed your lips with nothing but love.

“i’m sorry,” he breathed. “i’ll stop soon, i just… i can’t get enough of you. i need all of you. over and over.”

you blinked up at him, dazed, glowing, ruined. he smiled. “don’t worry, angel,” he whispered, gently rocking inside you again. “i’ll take care of you after. i promise.”

[opalitelibrary]

who's a heretic now? | ryomen sukuna

summary: there's a witch hunt on and you've been found guilty of dabbling with the occult, it’s sukuna’s job to punish you for your sins.

word count: 3.5k

content: 18+ mdni, smut, non-con, public humiliation, boot licking, cum eating, he gets you off on his shoe idk what to tag that, blow jobs, piv, dacryphilia, bondage, pet play (kinda), dead dove, this is filth im ngl

authors note: @ccazimi ever since I read sanguine nostra I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the foot humping scene and needed to write something with that kink omg

If anyone hasn't read Currit in Sanguine Nostra I highly recommend it, it’s one of my absolute favourite sukuna fics!

You should’ve been more careful. 

Too many people had been coming to your door lately, too many people spreading the word of your ‘miracle cures’ that could resolve even the gravest of ailments. 

You shouldn’t have been surprised when the righteous mob showed up at your door, with their torches and their pitchforks, cursing you as an abomination of god. A witch. An evil that desperately needed to be purged from this world. 

The men broke your windows, forcing their way into your little cottage, gripping you firmly as they smashed up your poultices and herbs. Their hands were harsh on your skin, dragging you out onto the grass and forcing you to watch as they set your home ablaze, cackling at the fear on your face. 

But you were nothing if not a fighter, and even through the fear you kicked and you hissed and you made things difficult. 

Because your only aim in that moment was for them to kill you right here, to get them so angry that they would decide you weren’t worth dragging back to their master. 

The last thing you wanted was to be delivered to their master. 

He was a despicable man, the one who was responsible for all these recent witch hunts. He was renowned for his cruelty, killing wasn’t enough for him - he liked to play, enjoyed torturing each victim for his own amusement. 

You’d only seen him once, but the memory of his deep crimson eyes when he’d looked at you was seared permanently in your brain. It had felt like he’d seen right through you that day, grinning at you with a manic expression as blood dripped from his lips, the ‘witch’ that he had burnt and eaten still laying at his feet. 

Every night you’d see that image when you closed your eyes, as though his face was burnt into your retinas. 

You knew that one day he would come for you too. 

His men were strong, unbothered by your struggles. They bound your hands behind your back with rope, tying your ankles together too. Someone stuck a ball of fabric on your mouth, grunting at you to ‘stop making so much fucking noise’. 

Dragging you by your hair, they brought you kicking and sobbing to the centre of your little village, up to the wooden platform where many other women had met grizzly fates. Their master wasn’t present, and for a moment you had a flicker of hope that this would be quick, that they’d burn you at the stake and you could float off into the afterlife. 

But luck had never been on your side, because as you were tossed onto the platform he came into view: Ryomen Sukuna, leader of this holy crusade against ‘evil’. The crowd parted for him, both his own men and the village folk shying away from him, desperate not to draw too much of his attention. He was a hulking monster of a man, unbelievably muscular with his body covered in sharp black tattoos. 

You looked up at him through your tear-blurred eyes, fear seizing your heart as his red eyes met yours, a playful glint in them that told you that he was going to have plenty of fun with you before he let you meet your end. 

He stepped onto the wooden platform, crouching down before you and gripping a fistful of your hair, pulling your head up forcefully so that he could get a better look at you, the wicked smirk on his face sending your heart racing. 

“Aren't you a pretty one?” He purred, his free hand moving to your chin, turning your head left and right, inspecting you carefully. You wanted to spit at him, to scream at him, held back by the gag in your mouth and your own fear that giving him a reaction would worsen your punishment. 

“Mmmm, very pretty.” He continued as his gaze raked down the rest of your body. “Haven’t had a pretty little thing like you in a while. It would be a real waste to burn you up right away.” Your body froze up at the implication in his tone, and he must’ve noticed because he let out a low chuckle. “Don’t look so scared, there are worse punishments - be thankful.”

A moment later he was releasing your hair and face, dropping you back to the floor for a mere second of respite before his big hands were tearing at your cotton dress, ripping it clean in half. You let out a shriek through your gag, desperately trying to scramble away, your bound hands dragging against the floor beneath you. 

He grabbed you easily, crouching behind you as he propped you up on your knees, presenting you to the crowd. You felt humiliation settle deep within your gut, wishing that your hands weren’t bound so you could at least cover your breasts from the eyes of the onlookers. 

Sukuna’s men were cheering, hungry eyes roaming over your naked form. Many of the village folk were doing their best to avert their gaze. So many of them had known you well, had come to you when they needed help. 

You felt Sukuna move behind you, bringing his lips close to your ear. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you.” He ordered quietly. “Because if you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to share you with my men.” Your body was quivering, in complete disbelief that you’d even ended up in this situation. 

Satisfied that you were at least somewhat compliant, Sukuna reached around and pulled the makeshift gag from your mouth. “There we go, I want to hear all the pretty little sounds you’ll make for me.” He hummed, before moving his hands to your breasts, pulling you back into his chest as he fondled them roughly, his fingers moving to pinch harshly at your nipples. 

You let out a whimper, squeezing your eyes shut in embarrassment, not wanting to see the faces in the crowd while Sukuna touched you like this. Your heart was racing as he toyed with your breasts, humiliated by the way that your nipples peaked under your touch, by the wetness that you could feel growing between your legs at each tug, as though your body was actually enjoying this. 

“Please stop.” You whispered hoarsely, praying that he had at least a shred of humanity to appeal to. 

“Stop?” He asked, with faux concern, fingers still brushing over your nipples. 

“I don’t want this.” Tears were gathering at your lash line, would crying make him more or less likely to take mercy on you? 

“That’s okay.” He cooed. “We can do something else.” And in an instant he was shoving you face-down onto the floor, standing over you as you peered up at him. He didn’t allow you a moment to beg, before he was stepping in between your legs and pressing the tip of his leather boot against your exposed pussy. 

You let out a yelp of surprise, completely helpless as he grinded his boot against your flesh. It was a humiliating sensation, but you could feel yourself growing wetter, the friction of the leather against your clit sending shockwaves through your body with each slow rotation of his foot. 

Against your own will, you felt pressure building in your gut. Tears were seeping freely from your eyes now as Sukuna’s laugh echoed around the square. It felt good, disgustingly good, you couldn’t let yourself come undone here in front of these people. 

“Feel good, little witch?” He asked condescendingly.

“No–” You gasped out desperately.

He tutted at you. “It's a sin to lie, you know.” He started to move his foot a little faster. “You know, I feel like I’m doing all the work. How about you fuck yourself on my boot.” You looked back at him in horror at the suggestion, but the cruel look that he shot back at you reminded you of his threat to pass you around his men if you disobeyed. 

So as his foot stilled, you found yourself moving your hips slowly, grinding your core against the top of his boot, moans slipping from your lips each time you grazed your clit against the leather. “Thaaaatt’s it.” he encouraged. “Cum on my boot, little witch.” 

You squeezed for eyes shut as you moved yourself quicker, feeling that pressure in your gut build and overflow as you came, fluids spilling over the leather. You could hear whoops and cheers from the crowd, Sukuna’s men throwing out lewd suggestions on what their master should do to you next. 

He grinned down at you for a moment before examining his boot, gazing at the clear liquid that now covered it. “Little sluts should clean up their messes, don’t you think?” 

Stepping around you, he stood in front of your head, the tip of his boot by your face. His red eyes were staring down at you expectantly, waiting for you to act. You wanted to recoil, to tell him that he’d already humiliated you enough, but you were well aware that this was tame for him. 

Humiliation coursing through you, you lifted your head and brought your face to his boot, keeping your eyes firmly on the ground as your tongue darted out and began to lap up your juices from the leather. The taste had you pulling back on instinct, but the second you reared back he was placing his other foot atop your head, gleefully forcing you back down. 

“Goood girl.” He cooed. “Make sure you lap it all up like a good little whore.” 

You did as he said, your nose pressing against the leather as you began to lick his boot, trying not to retch as you did so. You were so focussed on your task that you barely registered Sukuna pulling an item from his belt, only noticing when the tresses of a flogger slapped hard against your back. 

Pain seared through your skin, and you jolted at the impact, once again trying to pull back, only for him to shove you back down with his foot once more. “I didn’t say you could stop.” He hissed as he brought the flogger down on your back once more, hitting you with it over and over until you were sure that your back was bleeding and fully mangled with marks. 

Tears were streaming freely down your cheeks, but the whole time you continued to lick his shoe, doing as he asked like some obedient little pet. 

It felt like hours had passed when he finally pulled away from you, dropping the flogger and moving his foot away from your face. He crouched down and gripped your chin harshly, smirking as you forced you to look at him. You probably looked like a mess, with your tear-stained cheeks and slick spread around your mouth. 

“So obedient.” He praised. “Maybe your occult practices were just a misunderstanding! Perhaps you just needed a strong hand to put you in your place, lead you to salvation.” A small glimmer of hope rose in your chest, maybe if you were good enough he’d let you live, let you go free. 

If you could just please him, this would all be over. 

He released your face for a moment as he fumbled with his belt, pulling off his clothes and standing bare before you. He didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the crowd, and you could see why - his cock was bigger than any that you’d seen before, impossibly thick and long. You felt a sense of doom in your chest at the sight of it. He’d rip you apart. 

“Show me.” He said. “Worship me and prove that you want to repent for your sins.” Taking a step forward, he pressed the tip of his cock against your lips, pre-cum smearing unpleasantly across your face. 

You took a deep breath and opened your mouth obediently, letting him slip his cock into you. It was hard to open your jaw wide enough to fit it inside you, already choking with only half of him down your throat. His hands found his way firmly into your hair as you tried to pull back for air, keeping you in place for a moment before forcing you further down his cock. 

More tears were falling now, it felt like you were suffocating as his tip grazed harshly against the back of your throat. The roars from the crowd were deafening, and you hated that anyone was seeing you like this, drool dripping from your mouth as you struggled to appease this monster. You closed your eyes and hoped that it would be over soon.

Gripping your hair tightly, he started to fuck into your mouth, moving his hips with harsh snaps. Your hands were desperately trying to push against the rope that had them restrained behind your back, struggling to keep balanced in this vulnerable position, with Sukuna jolting you so violently. 

“Look at me.” He growled. Your eyes fluttered open and you tilted your head up to look at him. He gave you a cruel smile as he kept his eyes on yours, evidently enjoying the sight of you with his cock stuffed down your throat. “You’re such a little slut, huh? Say it.” 

At first you did nothing, unsure how you were meant to follow his command with your mouth full. But the harsh contact of his palm slapping you across the cheek brought you swiftly back to reality, where whatever Sukuna wanted, Sukuna got. “Say it. Slut.” He said between thrusts, grunting a little from the pleasure you were granting him. 

You tried speaking, your words coming out all garbled as you tried to get them out around his cock, saliva dripping down your chin and onto your breasts. Sukuna laughed and slapped you across the face for a second time. “I can’t hear you, say it louder whore.” 

“-‘m a slut!” You cried out, your words slurred but comprehensible. 

“You are.” Sukuna praised, jerking your head more violently now as he approached his release, fucking your mouth with no regard for your discomfort. “Fuck, keep it open, just like that-” A few more thrusts and he was spilling his cum into your mouth. The salty taste of it made you want to retch but he kept your head firmly in place. “Swallow it.” 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you forced yourself to swallow his load, fighting desperately with your body to keep it down as he pulled out from you. The last thing you wanted was to throw up on the stage, for such an act of disobedience there was no way that he would spare you. Sukuna watched you for a moment, perhaps anticipating an act of defiance, shooting you a satisfied look at the realisation that you were waiting compliantly for his next move. 

He turned towards the crowd, beckoning over one of his men, ordering him to bring a chair. You watched with anxious anticipation as Sukuna’s henchman ran into a house and came back with a wooden chair under his arm, handing it to Sukuna, who placed it down in the middle of the stage, taking a seat upon it. 

You stared at him, unwilling to move until he gave you orders to do so. If that would keep him from eating you alive, keep him from employing all sorts of medieval torture methods on you, keep him from letting you be enjoyed by all his men - then you would do whatever he asked.

“Come here, pet.” He ordered. You crawled over to him pathetically, struggling to do so with your legs and hands still tied. His hands found their way into your hair, patting your head in praise before reaching down and picking you up. 

He turned you so that you were facing away from him, making sure that the crowd had a full view of your body. He placed you in his lap, the length of his cock pressed against your pussy. He was already hard again after cumming in your mouth. You were no fool, you knew what was coming next. 

“Please.” You mumbled. “Not in front of the crowd.” 

“No?” He asked against your ear. One of his hands had moved down to your clit, circling it tenderly while his other hand pinched at your nipple, your body tensing under his touch. 

“At l-least let me face away from them.” 

“Aw, pretty little witch, that’s not going to happen.” He said in a saccharine tone. “You’re an abomination to this world, engaging with the occult is a sin. You need to be punished for it.” 

His hand moved from your clit down to his cock, rubbing it against your opening teasingly. You tensed up each time he got close to pushing the tip in, feeling embarrassed by the joy he was taking in your reactions. 

“This is your repentance.” He whispered, his breath warm against your neck and shoulder as he slowly pressed his cock into you. You let out a strangled whine at the insane stretch of him entering you, feeling like he was going to split you in half. 

He paid no mind to your whining, and fully sheathed himself into you, letting out a satisfied groan as he bottomed out inside you. You forced your eyes shut once more, unable to cope with the sight of the crowd watching you get split open on Sukuna’s length. 

Sukuna’s hands made their way underneath your knees, pulling your legs back and pinning them against your chest, spreading you open and holding you close against his chest in a full nelson, making sure that the crowd had the best possible view of you as he started to thrust aggressively into your pussy. 

It hurt, he was so big that it felt like he was in your guts with each thrust. But there was some sick part of your brain that thought it felt good. Your pussy squeezing around him with each movement, eager to keep him in. It was disgusting. 

“Open your eyes.” Sukuna rasped against your ear.

“Please- no!” You responded, hoping that at the very least he’d give you this, that he’d grant you the opportunity to retain some shred of your dignity.

“Don’t make me ask again.” He growled, making a particularly violent thrust into you that had you seeing stars. 

Your lashes fluttered open, taking a moment to adjust to the light of the mob's torches. Your eyes darted to the crowd, heart speeding up with terror as you took in just how many people were watching you right now. Sukuna’s men were going wild at the sight of you, a few of them even going as far as pumping their own cocks in their hands, getting off at the sight of their master fucking you like this. 

But what made you feel more disgusted with your situation was the sight of the other villagers. Most of them were staring at the floor in shame, knowing that they were powerless to help, but respectful enough of you to not watch. Others, including some men who had come to visit you for remedies in the past, were watching with the same interest that Sukuna’s men were. It made you feel sick. 

“There we go.” Sukuna whispered. “Keep your eyes on them, acknowledge that you deserve  this. It was your own sinful actions that led you here.” Your lip quivered but you nodded, agreeing with his statement. “Say it out loud, little witch. Say ‘I deserve this’.”

“I deserve this.” You mumbled, letting out a gasp as his cock grazed a particularly sensitive point inside you. That familiar pressure in your gut was building up once more, your body infatuated with the sensation of Sukuna’s thick cock filling you up. 

“Louder. Let all of them hear it.” He hissed. 

“I deserve this.” You cried out desperately, Sukuna’s men responding with a gleeful cheer. 

“Good.” He praised, taking a moment to adjust himself beneath you a little, the new angle seemingly allowing him to hit even deeper into your pussy as he sped up, his fingers digging so hard into your legs that you were confident he was leaving bruises. 

Your brain felt like it was turning into mush, letting him use you as he liked, being moved up and down his cock like you weighed nothing. Your vision was blurring, and you could no longer see the crowd, too lost in the pleasure that Sukuna’s cock was providing you. 

It felt like you were reaching the edge, that knot in your gut tightening and your body starting to tremble. “That’s it, you gonna cum on my cock?” You were too fucked out to answer him, your body convulsing as the knot snapped, your orgasm coursing through you and your pussy tightening hard around his cock. 

He laughed, keeping up the pace and chasing his own release, your body going completely limp in his arms as he released inside you, pumping you with his cum until he was completely drained. His cock slipped out of you, and he held you there for a moment longer, letting the crowd watch his cum slowly seep from your pussy. 

As he held you there, he pressed his lips against the shell of your ear almost affectionately. “I should burn you at the stake. But I think I’ll keep you for now.” 

Your life wouldn’t be taken today. Yet you couldn’t help but wonder, would death be preferable to the future that he had in store for you?

© sukunahs

[opalitelibrary]

₊˚.༄ K. HONGJOONG — on deck

synopsis: the captain of the ship cannot stand sharing.

warnings: 1.1k words, pirate AU, porn with a little plot, penetrative sex, afab reader, unprotected, rough, edging, one (1) pussy slap, very light choking and crying, biting, slight exhibitionism (?), cursing and dirty talk, hongjoong is whipped but a lil mean, yeosang mention, “baby” and “joong” used as pet names. not proofread.

you cover your mouth to no avail, the sensation of his skin on yours too much to bear. the bed shakes under your bodies, the wood of the ship’s floors creaking with the force pressed down on it. but hongjoong is laser focused, one of your legs pressed back and the other raised over his shoulder.

“slow down—“ you protest half-heartedly, but the man between your legs doesn’t abide by your request, a droplet of sweat dripping down his sharp jaw and landing on your stomach.

his eyes follow its trail down your navel hungrily, his calloused hand coming down to press on your lower abdomen, “feel me right here, baby? hm? talk to me, fuck, wanna hear you.”

“yeah,” you repeat desperately, legs threatening to kick with the new sensation, “cap’n, i’m gonna cum.”

the name makes his head fuzzy, not used to hearing his title anywhere but on deck, “uh-uh, not yet.”

his thrusts slow down, and he watches with a lopsided grin as your eyes snap open and land on him. you gulp down a complaint, knowing better than to talk back now, “but i apologized, i just… wanted your attention.”

he leans down, gold chains grazing your skin with the new angle. he nudges his nose against your jawline, nipping softly at the skin there, “i know. this is a reminder.”

you arch into him, your chest bumping against his. “joong, i didn’t mean to…” you’re cut off by a moan when he snakes a hand down to play with your clit, his thick rings grazing your skin deliciously, “i didn’t mean to, i promise.”

“no?” he asks, unconvinced by your words, “didn’t mean to flirt with our navigator? didn’t mean to? that’s funny.”

his toxic streak of jealousy shines through his questioning and you give into it, “cause you were ignoring me.”

you feel the sting of a light slap against your cunt and your body shudders at the conflicting pain, your eyes rolling back at the warm feeling.

“so your solution is to brush up against another crew member?” he quips almost amusedly, enjoying the build up of your noises before pulling his hand away from your arousal and tapping his fingers on your bottom lip.

you open up automatically, answering with a muffled groan around his digits. he looks at you, lovestruck but unwilling to relent, “should’ve used your words and told me you were feeling neglected. i would’ve made time for you, baby. i always do.”

you wrap your tongue around his middle and ring fingers, sucking them into your mouth as if your life depended on it. in that moment, it felt like it did, your chest would surely cave in if he edged you again. every time you thought he’d finally forgiven you, he’d slow down or stop, stilling inside you as you clenched around him with exasperation.

but when he finally catches the tears welling up in your eyes, he feels himself twitch, a barely audible moan tumbling from his glistening lips, “fuck, are you gonna cry?”

the humiliation makes tears prick at your eyes, and he removes his hand from your mouth to wrap around your throat and pull you in for a sloppy kiss. the exchange is all spit and teeth, his tongue exploring your mouth as if he doesn’t know how to do anything but that. you move your hips against his and he allows you to, biting down softly on your bottom lip to egg you on.

he’s dazed when you pull apart, his eyebrows knitting together as he watches hot tears spill down your cheeks. he’s licks them up faster than you can even register what he’s doing, the saltiness of the fluid making his eyes screw shut. “are you sorry?” he whispers against the shell of your ear, and you’re so attentive to him that you think you hear a whine.

“it won’t happen again,” you assure him, your arms wrapping around his neck and heels pushing against his backside to push him into you, “joong, please. they probably all heard us by now, they know who we belong to, please.”

hot sparks of desire thrum in his chest as you indirectly call yourself his and him yours. he presses softly against the sides of your neck, “yeah? is that what you wanted? other people to hear this?”

in your fogged mind, you barely capture his words, nodding enthusiastically to anything he says, “please, i just want you.”

he pulls you even closer, roughly tugging your legs to press himself into you at a new angle. he hears the commotion on the deck above and can’t bring himself to care in the slightest when you breathlessly moan his name.

“i want you too. love having you like this,” he rambles as he builds up his thrusts again, “so fuckin’ wet for me. you’re dripping all over yourself.”

you throw your head back against the cushions as his pelvis brushes against your clit with every pointed thrust. he continues, “where do you want me, baby?”

“inside,” you plead, fighting against the urge to close your legs at the overpowering force of your impending climax, “i need it.”

hongjoong thinks he feels drool collect at the corner of his mouth, not questioning your answer as he begins to draw tight circles around your pulsing clit.

your grip on his forearms tightens as stars rise in your vision, finishing with a silent plea of his name. watching you tips him over the edge, his gaze focusing on your face as he follows your instruction to finish inside you.

you both reach your highs with heaving chests and restless hips, meeting each other’s desperate thrusts halfway. when you start complaining, he pulls out, dropping his forehead on your stomach to regain his strength.

a few moments pass before you hear a hesitant knock on the door and a deep voice, “uh, seonghwa says we’re ready to set sail on your command.”

you immediately recognize the voice as yeosang’s, the navigator you’d batted your eyelashes at to get a rise out of hongjoong. the latter looks up at you with an amused grin at the coincidence, his voice hushed against your skin, “you gonna answer or not?”

hongjoong’s petty question makes your heart stutter. he knew the younger man was addressing him, but he wanted you to answer for him and confirm that it was you under him in the captain’s room.

you gulp down your embarrassment, trying to ignore the open mouthed kisses the captain was leaving just under your belly button, “he’ll be right out, yeosang, thank… you.”

“no rush. yeah, we can, uh, we can wait. yeah,” you hear from the other side of the door, the baritone of your friend’s voice wavering slightly.

you feel a slight nibble just over the bone of your hip, a satisfied smile on hongjoong’s face as he straightens up. he watches you clench around nothing, his eyes following the mix of your fluids traveling down your bottom, “you heard him. let’s keep him waiting just a little longer.”

2/8 posted, 6 to go… what AUs do you wanna see? ^^

[opalitelibrary]

...Dragon!Sylus whose tongue is so very long and forked and lined with rows of tiny backwards-facing spines, same as a cat's, except several times larger. Useful for stripping every scrap of meat off the bones of his prey. Absolutely not so good when he gets the constant, irresistible urge to use it on you at all hours of the day.

He's able to manipulate the spines, somewhat, to lay them a bit flatter, but it still feels like coarse sandpaper being scraped against your skin.

In the mornings you wake up to his generous grooming, licking your face and neck thoroughly to clean every bit of dirt and grime off of you, making sure not to leave anywhere untouched, unmarked.

In the afternoons, after a successful hunt, he beelines to you with the singular intent to give you his affectionate greeting-licks—you fight him each time, hollering things like please kindly wash your mouth of that bison's blood before you do that—and the abrasions leave you feeling rather tenderised.

And in the evenings, when you're tangled up with him in your shared nest, little more than a mess of limbs, wings, claws, fangs, and that tongue of his, well...

[opalitelibrary]

His Spoiled Girl

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Bang Chan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Bang Chan loves making full use of his Stray Kids leader money—especially when it comes to her.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, blowjobs, handjobs (you know… all the jobs), lingerie, daddy kink

A/N: Other members were requested! Lmk which Member you desire next.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han ୨ৎ Leeknow

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Bang Chan wasn’t just her boyfriend.

He was her provider. Her protector.

It didn’t matter that he was knee-deep in deadlines, producing tracks until sunrise, answering five calls at once, and coaching the younger members like a seasoned general—

────୨ৎ────

The fur coat was stunning. Hand-delivered from Milan.

Not just fur. Cruelty-free, custom dyed in her favorite shade, with a golden nameplate on the inside that read:

“For my queen. - BC”Real Fendi. Snow leopard print, soft as sin, the kind of thing only his girl could pull off. She hadn’t even asked for it—just sighed once at a photo on her phone—and now it was hanging in her closet like it had always belonged there.

“I just mentioned it once,” she breathed, stunned.

“You don’t mention things to me, baby,” Chan said with a lazy smirk from the doorway, sleeves rolled, veins prominent, eyes dark. “You make declarations. And Daddy listens.”

────୨ৎ────

He was at the studio when she sent him the mirror selfie. Her in the coat, nothing underneath but lace.

Chan nearly groaned aloud, biting his lip as he watched the photo load. It was late, everyone else had gone home, but he was still at the mixer, sleeves rolled up, chest heaving with the weight of his next verse.

And now? Now he was hard.

He called her immediately.

“You tryin’ to kill me, princess?” he murmured, voice already thick. “You really put that on while I’m here working?”

She giggled sweetly. “I missed you.”

Chan’s response was immediate. “Stay right there. Don’t take it off. I’ll be home in fifteen.”

When he got back, she was waiting.

She was lounging on their bed, that coat slipping off one shoulder, her lips glossy, eyes wide and waiting. Chan stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, watching her like he hadn’t seen her in weeks.

“Come here.”

She obeyed instantly, crawling to him on all fours, the coat dragging behind her like a queen’s train.

He caught her chin between his fingers when she reached him, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “You know what this coat means, don’t you?”

She nodded. “That I’m yours.”

“No, baby,” he corrected, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. “That you’re my only. And I take care of what’s mine.”

────୨ৎ────

There were perks to dating the leader of Stray Kids.

Like when she wanted a quiet date night, and Chan rented out an entire theater. Not just the movie—they projected a montage of her favorite K-dramas, edited together by a professional team he personally directed.

While she sat curled up in her fur, eating popcorn from a crystal bowl, Chan lounged beside her in joggers and a tight black tee, arm around her shoulder, legs spread like he owned the whole damn city.

Because he did. When it came to her—he did.

“Everyone should know what kind of taste my baby has,” he murmured against her temple. “And no one gets to enjoy it but me.”

────୨ৎ────

Her nails were fresh.

Long, almond-shaped, with crushed diamonds embedded in a sheer pink base. Chan had flown in a nail tech from Japan who only did private celebrity sessions. She didn’t even ask. He just made it happen.

He watched her trace a finger down his chest one night, those expensive nails glinting in the warm bedroom light.

“You like them?” she whispered.

Chan didn’t answer with words.

He grabbed her by the wrist, pressed her palm flat against his abs, and dragged it slowly lower until her hand was resting right over the hard bulge in his sweats.

“I paid for those hands,” he growled, voice thick. “Now put ‘em to work, princess.”

Her fingers twitched against the heavy outline in his sweats. He was already hard, aching, and she could feel the heat through the fabric—how thick he was, how much he needed her.

She didn’t rush.

Instead, she trailed her nails—slowly, teasingly—up his length, letting the crushed diamonds scrape softly through the cotton. Just enough to make him hiss.

Chan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t play.”

But she only smiled, sinking to her knees between his legs, those glossy, dangerous nails curling under the waistband of his sweats and pulling them down with a drag so slow it felt like torture.

His cock sprang free—heavy, flushed, leaking.

And her breath hitched at the sight.

All that for her.

She wrapped one manicured hand around him—delicate, expensive fingers closing around his base like they were sculpted for this. He groaned low, head falling back, and the sound made her clench.

She stroked him slow. Luxurious. Worshipful. Letting her rings clink softly with every glide. Her thumb swiped across the tip, spreading the bead of pre-cum with a practiced motion, her other hand resting light on his thigh, nails biting down with each twitch of his hips.

He looked down at her, eyes blazing.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked. “Spoiled little thing… working Daddy’s cock like a fucking jewel thief.”

She grinned—wicked and proud—and twisted her wrist just how she knew he liked it. Grip just right. Pressure perfect. The way only she knew how to do.

And when his hips started to stutter, when he cursed under his breath in three different languages, she leaned in and whispered, sweet and smug:

“Wanna come for me, Daddy? All over the hands you bought?”

His groan broke in his throat.

And seconds later, he did.

────୨ৎ────

Studio nights weren’t quiet anymore.

Sometimes, she came barefoot, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies and nothing else, curling up on the sofa while he clicked through beats. Sometimes, she sprawled across his lap, thighs bare, pressing lazy kisses to his throat while he adjusted synth levels like it was just another Tuesday.

“Need to focus, sweetheart,” he’d murmur—but his hand would already be gripping her thigh, stroking slow circles, letting her know she was welcome anywhere he was.

She slid under the console like she belonged there, eyes glinting in the dim studio lights, lips already parted.

He didn’t say a word. Just let out a breath and leaned back slightly in the chair, the hand not working the mixer dropping to the side—to her.

She unzipped him slow. Silently. Pulled him out with both hands like unwrapping a gift she already knew by heart.

He was half-hard already. That changed the moment her warm breath ghosted over the tip.

She started with his balls—because she liked to tease. Wet, open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin. Tongue tracing slow circles. Gentle sucks, one after the other, until his thighs twitched and his breath caught in the mic.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

She giggled against him.

And then she moved up.

Took the tip between her lips. Swirled her tongue around it like candy. Then sank down in one long, greedy motion—until he hit the back of her throat.

Chan slammed his hand on the desk, pretending it was about a track beat.

In reality, he was struggling not to thrust into her mouth.

She set a rhythm—slow, wet, deliberate. Hands twisting at the base, spit dripping onto her fingers as she bobbed her head. Every time she hollowed her cheeks and moaned around him, his grip on the chair tightened.

“You’re insane,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m working—”

She pulled off with a pop. Whispered, “Then work, Daddy. I’ll just keep your stress levels down.”

And went right back down on him.

Deeper this time. No mercy. Her nails dug into his thighs while her tongue worked underneath, tip pressed into that sensitive spot beneath the head. She sucked like she was trying to milk him, and Chan was fucking losing it.

When she went back to his balls—licking, sucking, slurping—and stroked him at the same time?

That’s when he came. Hard. Into her mouth, into her throat, with his head thrown back and a low growl muffled by his sleeve.

She swallowed everything.

And when she came back up from under the desk, licking her lips like she’d just come back from brunch.

────୨ৎ────

When she missed him during tour, she didn’t cry. She waited—with full trust that he would make it up to her.

And oh, he did.

The moment he stepped through the door, he lifted her up, walked her straight to the bed, and unwrapped her like a present.

“My good girl,” he whispered, voice rough, eyes dark with hunger. “Waited so sweet for me.”

She moaned as his hands explored her body like it had been years, not weeks. His thrusts were punishing, praise spilling out between every deep stroke, his voice laced with so much heat and pride, it broke her open.

“Missed this pussy,” he growled. “Missed my perfect, spoiled baby.”

────୨ৎ────

Once, a stylist made the mistake of telling her she “looked expensive.”

Chan had overheard. And later that night, he chuckled as he kissed her bare shoulder and whispered:

“She is expensive. And I’m the only one who can afford her.”

────୨ৎ────

Chan knew she didn’t love him for the money. Not the furs, not the jewels, not the VIP service that followed her around like a shadow.

She loved him.

It was in the way she waited for him to get home, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, sleepy-eyed and soft. In the way she packed snacks for the studio because she knew he’d forget. In the soft kiss she left on his temple every morning before he woke up.

And God—when she showed up at the studio late at night, just to sit quietly and wait?

That did him in.

She’d curl up on the studio couch, that coat wrapped around her, half-asleep but still humming along to the beat he was mixing. No complaints. No demands. Just there for him.

That was why he spoiled her. That was why he had to.

Because she was more than his girl.

She was his Life.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

@sapphirewaves @bemyaehiweloveskz @velvetmoonlght

[opalitelibrary]

favorite spots ⋆.˚

synopsis: i just want to talk about the most sensitive parts of their bodies...

featuring: hongjoong, san, and mingi

word count: 1.7k

warnings: SMUT (18+), soft!boys, oral fixation, biting/sucking lips, pda, french kissing, finger sucking, blue-balling (lol), groping, nipple play (m), hickies, for san -- reader has hair that fingers can grip into, mild choking, dry humping, premature orgasms, they're sensitive and aren't afraid to show it

masterlist

✧ HONGJOONG - MOUTH/LIPS ✧

Hongjoong isn't a big pda guy.

The most he does is rest his hand on your waist, hold your hand, or gently fix your hair. Words of affection or acts of service are big in your relationship, but kissing is absolutely a no-go.

Not in public, at least.

In the beginning of your relationship cute pecks on the lips were allowed, though Hongjoong would start acting more antsy and possessive after (you didn't notice as much as his friends would). Short kisses lasting less than a second he could handle -- or that's what he'd convince himself.

Beneath the surface, however, he was holding himself back. He was exerting a concerning amount of self-control over himself every time he tasted your sweet lips, willing himself to hold back from instantly melting against you.

His hands would squeeze into a fist as he'd watch you with dark eyes, going back to whatever you were doing, acting so unaffected -- as if you didn't leave him wanting for the rest of the day.

At the time, you could tell that he enjoyed the affection and attention (a bit too much), and you were more than happy to dish it out. But then one day, he started to shy away from your kisses, turning strategically so you'd kiss his cheek instead of his lips.

At first you thought it was because he wanted to keep your relationship private. He's never been the type of guy to flaunt you like an accessory, so it made sense why he acts so low-key about your love life when in public.

But then you started noticing how he'd act after you'd give him more than a peck.

---

A make-out between the two of you usually leads to sex.

Okay, scratch that, it always leads to sex.

It's like he can't help himself.

As soon as your tongue traces the seam of his lips, he's roughly pulling you against him. He overly indulges in tasting you, laving his tongue against yours as he moans wantonly into your mouth.

You thought he was just enthusiastic about sex, but it was something else that had him shivering against you.

So you began subtly experimenting with your boyfriend:

Tracing his lips with the soft pad of your finger as you feed him a juicy chocolate-covered strawberry (he'd look up at you with those adoring brown eyes as he obediently slurps up the sweet juices from your skin)

Playfully nibbling on his bottom lip to draw out a delicious growl from him (he couldn't hold himself back from grinding his hips against yours like a dog in heat, overwhelmed by the pleasurable pain)

Forcing him to suck on your fingers as you ride him roughly (you could feel the vibration of his broken groans as you pressed down on his silky tongue)

It became increasingly clear that Hongjoong's lips were a bit more sensitive than the average person. The real test was a kiss in public.

It was right after one of his concerts. You were so proud of your boyfriend that when he finally got off stage, you jumped in his arms and pressed your lips to his, eager to give him a deep kiss.

His hands, wrapped around your waist, tighten their hold on you as soon as your lips met his, pressing your body to be flush with his.

Barely a few seconds into the kiss, you feel it, pressing so eagerly against your stomach.

He's hard already, throbbing for attention under his tight pants as his slick tongue meets yours in desperation. His adrenaline from performing may be influencing his sudden boldness, but it's the kiss that was making him so hot and bothered.

"Mmph~" You try to break the kiss, worried that you were receiving stares from others, but he won't let you.

"Not yet, baby" He whispers hotly against your mouth.

"Hongjoong--!" You hit him playfully on the chest as you force him to separate from you. "Later." You grit out, handing him your jacket to use as a barrier between his obvious boner and everyone else.

Your face is heated with a blush as you turn to look around at the sly smirks that the others were sending you. It seems to sober him up a bit as he awkwardly coughs and starts a speech commending everyone for a great show.

So now you know -- Hongjoong's lips are for home.

✧ SAN - CHEST ✧

You were the one who sprouted a sudden obsession with his chest.

He's been working out a lot lately and he loves showing off, even if he doesn't admit it. He comes home in his tank tops or compression shirts with a shy smile, subtly flexing until you say something.

"Ooh, look at my boyfriend!" You tease, smiling as he saunters through the door. "He's so big and masculine~"

San laughs gently, shaking his head at your words (+ slightly fluffing his hair). He loves the way you dote on him, period -- small hands feeling over his biceps and showering him with compliments until he's pink in the face, begging with cute boba eyes for kisses and cuddles.

When you cuddle with him, naked -- or nearly there, your hands are like magnets to his chest. It's just so built and his skin is so hot and smooth, you can't help it!

San didn't get it at first, simply amused by the way you knead his skin like a cat. Sometimes you get particularly feral and start biting his biceps and shoulder -- another odd, yet endearing habit you've gathered recently.

He has started working out with longer-sleeved shirts because he's dotted with bite marks and bruises all over his upper body (with a few on his thighs and one on his cute butt).

You can't get enough of his body and he loves it.

But biting his chest -- that he wasn't expecting.

And he didn't expect that he'd like it so much either.

--

You were timid at first, placing soft kisses against his ribs and torso before gradually moving upwards.

He shivered as you brushed your lips against his right pec, his skin already buzzing from the lustful look you had in your eyes as you assessed his body.

You pressed gentle kisses over his skin, drinking in the soft sighs that fell from his pretty lips.

He gasped quietly when you gently licked over his nipple, flicking your soft tongue over and around his sensitive bud. Your eyes glanced up at him to see his reactions.

His pink lips were plump and shiny, bitten so deliciously from his attempts to ground himself, not used to this new sensation you were giving him. His flushed chest was rising rapidly under you, unwittingly pressing himself closer to your mouth.

He let out a whisper of a groan as you sucked his nipple in hot mouth, laving your slick tongue over him. A shock of pleasure traveled straight to his cock, making him achingly hard for release.

You squeaked as fingers were suddenly weaved into your hair, tugging slightly at the roots -- not pressing you closer or pulling you away.

You moved your mouth to the other pec, giving his other nipple attention. His hold on your hair became harsher the more you'd suck on him. And you loved it.

You moaned with him as you pulled him into your mouth, teeth just barely pressed against his skin.

"N-nghh~" He shivered, "Baby -- fuck -- p-please."

"What is it?" You swiped a finger over his hard nipple, finding the pleading look on his face to be unbearably adorable.

"I'm gonna bust if you keep going." He groaned softly as you pinched him teasingly, "Lemme get inside you."

"I don't know... I think I'd like to see you finish from this..."

✧ MINGI - NECK ✧

Mingi is a very sensitive boy, overall.

When your fingers intertwine with his, he can't help but squeeze your smaller hand in his, staring down your hands like he can barely believe that you're allowing him to touch you -- even as innocently as this.

When you press sweet kisses to his lips, teasingly and soft, he's instantly smiling against you from happy he is, pressing harder to deepen the kiss and eliminate the space between you.

When you drag your hand over his thighs, settling to your knees in front of him, he holds himself back from throwing you on the bed and fucking you into the mattress.

He's constantly overwhelmed with his affection for you.

Everything is intense for him.

But when your small fingers wrap around his neck, squeezing so gently as you pull him in for another kiss -- he almost makes a mess in his pants.

You sit above him, weight settling nicely over his lap, pinning him to the couch as you lick over his puffy lips.

Mingi whines against your lips as your grasp tightens around him, loving how his head grows hazy from the way you control his breathing.

His cock throbs under you as you start to pressing wet kisses on his chin, jaw...and his neck. Your slick tongue flicks over his heated skin, laving over fading marks that you've left over the past few days.

"Like it?" You whisper, staring up at his flushed face. He shudders as you drag the edge of your teeth against the crook of his neck, eagerly leaning into the feeling.

"You know it do..." He groans deeply as you suck his sensitive skin into your mouth. His large hands hold you by the waist, pressing your body down against his as he grind against your ass, making you feel how desperately hard he is for you.

You suck harder and his hips jolt against yours, stuttering deliciously as he mewls from the intensity.

"F-fuck -- wait --"

You don't. You go to that spot right under his ear, the one that makes him lose it, and suck another love bruise into his skin.

And it ruins him.

His back arches slightly as he throws his head back with a broken moan. You release his skin, licking your lips as you watch him shake under you, panting out heated breathes, coming down from his high.

"So sweet." You coo, comfortingly rubbing a hand on his chest as he starts to calm down.

"It's embarrassing..." Mingi whines. This isn't the first time this has happened.

You place a gentle kiss on the spot, pulling away when he starts to shudder again.

"I like it."

[opalitelibrary]

Sylus has a habit of squeezing your face.

You’ve got a mouth full of food? He’s grabbing your cheeks. Got something on your lips? He’s squeezing your cheeks until your lips pucker like a fish.

Got new lip gloss on? He’s using one had to cup your chin and press his fingers into the soft skin, once again making your lips stick out so he can kiss them and taste the gloss.

“Shy-lus pleash!” The words are stuck, coming out as if you have a lisp because your face is being bunched together by his large, warm hands. “Hmm? Can’t hear you kitten.” And he’s placing a fifth kiss on your puckering lips. “You look quite cute like this, so soft and squishy.”

Sylus, the leader of Onychinus, a man who snuffs the life out of someone with the flick of a wrist, just called you cute and squishy. Yeah, you’ve got him wrapped tight around your finger. Completely smitten.

“Shy-lus I can’t breathe like thish!” You’re squirming, giggling, and scolding him all at once. “You’re fine, kitten. I’ll let you go… eventually.” Another little squeeze, followed by another kiss. “Shy-lus c’mon!”

[opalitelibrary]

I Thee Bled

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

Summary: On the eve of your arranged wedding, you flee into the woods with trembling hands and a bloodstained gown—only to slip a ring meant for another onto a graveyard root and wake something ancient beneath the soil. Remmick is not a man, not anymore, but he remembers how to be tender. Touch-starved and centuries dead, he offers you the one thing the living never did: choice. In a forest that breathes and remembers, where the dead dream and the moss learns your name, you find yourself questioning everything you left behind. After all, what is a monster—if not a man who waits for you? And what is love, if not something you’re willing to bleed for?

(or: A Corpse Bride au)

wc: 15.2k

a/n: thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support you’ve shown my fics, it means the world to me!! I originally planned to release I Thee Bled on Monday to celebrate one month since Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her Insta story (!!!), but life had other plans, so she’s arriving fashionably late. This one’s especially close to my heart, and I want to dedicate it to the lovely Moga @somnolenthour, whose beautiful fanart for this fic when it was still just an idea (completely unprompted!!) lit a fire under me, this one’s for you <333 shout-out to my beta readers, starting with Liz who also came up with the title: @fuckoffbard @titaniasfairy @jaythewriter @anhelconhmuda @kkniveschau

warnings: Corpse Bride!au, gothic horror, supernatural romance, blood, vampirism, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, touch-starved monster, monsterfucking, sub!remmick, ghost town setting, period-typical misogyny, vague Victorian era, Tim Burton aesthetics, mutual pining, tragic undertones, Remmick in his final monster form

likes, comments, and reblogs as always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Masterlist

It was a quiet kind of death—to walk toward a future that never belonged to you.

The candlelight danced in its sconce like it too was afraid of the dark, throwing gold and shadow in uneven patterns across the walls of your bridal chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of crushed lilies—white, thick-stemmed, and already browning at the edges—as though the blooms themselves had second thoughts. A bridal veil hung limp from the mirror. You had not put it on.

You sat at the edge of the chaise, corseted to breathlessness, the bony ridges of your knuckles straining beneath the thin layers of skin from how hard you're clutching the ring.

Not your ring. Not yet. It was his—your would-be husband's—a man who smiled without his eyes and spoke of love like it was transactional. Whose name alone made your face pucker like you just smelled curdled milk. Mr. Langdon. So old your mother whispered “distinguished.” So cold the maids whispered other things when they thought you couldn’t hear.

Outside, the wind howled through the wrought iron balcony rails, shrill and wild like something mourning. You stood slowly, your bare feet silent against the marble floor, gown whispering around your ankles like the ghosts of every woman who’d gone quietly before you. The gown had been sewn for beauty, not for running. But you would run in it anyway.

You packed light, brought a white shawl and gloves to combat the chill. You brought the ring.

Not because you meant to keep it. Not because it held sentiment. It didn’t. It had no warmth, no story, no soul—just gold, cool and dull beneath your thumb. But it was worth something. Enough to pawn. Enough, maybe, to buy a train ticket. A meal. A room somewhere with a bed that didn’t come with a price pinned to your spine.

You told yourself that was why you kept it clenched in your fist as you slipped out the servants’ gate and into the dark. Not because it was his. Not because it had ever touched your skin. But because the world beyond your wedding had no place for a girl with nothing—and a gold ring, even one never worn, could be a lifeline.

Or a curse.

Fate hadn’t decided yet.

A band of simple gold, dull with fingerprint smudges, too loose for your thumb. You had not even worn it yet. It was handed to you this evening after supper, set beside a slice of blood-orange cake you hadn’t touched. “Keep it close, darling,” your mother had said, smoothing your hair as if you were already a corpse. “It will be yours come morning.”

You slipped it into your palm. And now it pulsed there like a secret.

The hallway outside your chamber creaked and groaned, the house settling into its evening sighs, and still you waited. You waited until the grandfather clock struck eleven, slow and solemn, each chime echoing like nails hammered into your future. Then—silently, so silently—you fled.

The woods did not wait to welcome you.

They swallowed.

The moment your slippered feet hit the dirt path behind the manor gates, the trees leaned in like they were listening, thick with Spanish moss and shadow. The moonlight fractured through their limbs, casting the path in broken, silver stripes. Your breath came out fast, clumsy, fogging in front of you as the night grew colder with every step, every frantic press forward into bramble and black.

The hem of your gown—once bone-white satin—darkened with mud. Then blood. A snag of thorns caught your ankle, sliced skin. You barely flinched. Pain felt like permission.

You weren’t sure where you were going.

Only that it has to be away.

You didn’t stop until your lungs burned and the trees had turned unfamiliar, too thick, too silent, the air tasting of copper and something older—stone, earth, iron. You collapsed against the base of a twisted tree, your gown a tangle of ripped silk and smeared petals, a bridal bloom gone to ruin.

The ring was still in your hand.

You looked at it—glared, really—angry at its weight, at the heft something so small contains. “To have and to hold…” you muttered under your breath, voice bitter, breathless, a mockery of a vow.

Your fingers fumbled blindly through the loam, sticky with sap and rainwater, until you found what you thought was a root. Something slender and pale rising from the earth like a bony finger.

You laughed, delirious. “Here,” you whispered, sliding the ring onto it. “Do you, strange tree, take me to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The wind rose.

“I do.”

You reached out to steady yourself against the gnarled bark—but as your hand met the tree’s twisted surface, a sharp edge of wood caught the pad of your finger, snagging your bridal glove and the soft meat underneath. You hissed.

Blood welled—bright and living. It wobbled off your fingertip and fell. One drop. Then another. The red hit the base of the tree and sank into the soil like ink into paper. The bark beneath your palm felt warmer now. Almost…breathing.

Something moved. Beneath the dirt. Beneath you. You blinked. Sat up straighter. Listened.

Nothing.

Then—again.

A twitch. A shift. Like the earth itself was exhaling after a long silence. The root curled, moved, wrapped just slightly around your finger. Cold as the grave.

You yanked your hand back with a startled gasp. But it was too late. Blood had already spilled from your hand, sliced on bark or thorn or bone, and soaked into the black, thirsty soil. You watched it disappear.

The tree shuddered. Not in the breeze—there was no breeze anymore. The air had gone still, heavy as boiled milk, clinging to your throat, your hair, the space behind your knees. Your breath hitched. The birds had gone quiet. The crickets. The frogs. The world was listening.

And below you, the earth moaned.

A sound like old wood splitting. Like ribs breaking beneath dirt. Then, suddenly, a violent lurch—wet, sucking, earthly. The ground near the tree root cracked open, moss peeling back like flesh. You scrambled backwards on your palms, your gown tangling around your legs, but you couldn’t look away.

It didn’t feel like waking the dead. It felt like being watched by something that had never closed its eyes to begin with.

First came a hand.

Wide-palmed, thick-knuckled. Fingers unnaturally long, his nails cracked and gray and dirty, like shale. A gold ring gleamed faintly from the third finger. The wedding band you slid onto what you thought was a gnarled uproot.

Then the second, this one skeletal, stripped clean of flesh and muscle and tendon.

And finally, the rest of him.

He rose in pieces, as if gravity itself hadn’t yet decided whether to allow him back. His body pushed through layers of sod and clay and root like a memory that refused to stay buried. His shoulders were broad, shoulders that had once carried something heavy—tools, a body, a burden. One arm braced against the edge of the grave, veins bulging under pale, slick skin.

You saw the sweep of a dark, deep blue tuxedo, its fabric dulled by dirt and time, stitched with the memory of ceremony. The jacket clung to his shoulders unevenly, one side sagging low with centuries of damp, the lapels wrinkled and soil-smudged. Beneath it, a white collared button-up lay partially unbuttoned at the throat, the linen stained faintly at the seams.

A slightly lighter blue tie hung askew from his neck, knotted but loosened, the silk puckered where it had weathered through the grave. His trouser legs matched the tuxedo, tailored once, but now creased and grimy at the hem. Shoes to match—oxfords, maybe—scuffed to near ruin, soles coated in moss and wet earth.

He pulled himself from the dirt slowly, deliberately, like someone waking from a sleep they weren’t meant to return from—each breath thick in his throat, each movement dragging time behind it.

And his face—God, his face.

He was beautiful. In the way statues are beautiful. The way a ruin is beautiful. Pointed cheekbones beneath a mask of grave-filth. Mud in the seams of his short, messy brown hair, clinging in dark curls across his forehead. His mouth parted as he panted for breath he didn’t need, and you saw the right side of his jaw was ruined—torn open, exposing ribbons of raw muscle and the gleam of sharpened teeth. All of them sharp. Uneven. Crooked in places, silver-fanged and jagged like they weren’t made for a human mouth.

He drooled. Milky and thick, slow as syrup, threading from his teeth to the black soil.

His skin was a deep, post-mortem blue—something between bruised flesh and storm-lit sea, like teal left to darken in shadow. In the moonlight, with his veins just barely visible beneath the surface, it looked like cracked glass. His chest heaved. His head turned. And then—

He looked at you.

His eyes were wide as a frightened dog’s. But in the shadows, they shifted—black, almost red, glowing from somewhere behind the pupil like dying coals still clinging to that cherried spark.

He didn’t speak. He just…stared. Watched. Not like a stranger. Like someone trying to remember you. Like someone who knew you. Maybe before. Maybe in another life.

“Are—are you…” Your voice broke, shamefully small. You didn’t finish the question. Couldn't.

He swallowed, thickly. The sound was wet. And then—he smiled. Not cruel. Not ghoulish. Soft, tender.

“I knew ye’d come,” he said.

His voice came low and lilted, thick with the cadence of an Irish accent—rounded consonants, vowels pulled soft and long, a kind of music in his throat whether he meant it or not. The kind of voice made for stories. For lullabies. For oaths.

He took a single, stumbling step forward, mud pulling at his shoes, laced tight enough to keep the soil from suctioning them off his feet.

You couldn’t move.

“Ye put a ring on me hand,” he said again, gentle this time. Coaxing. He held up his fingers, all blood-caked and twitching, the wedding band glinting faintly beneath the filth, fractals of moonlight dancing off the polished gold, a stark contrast to the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. “And ye spoke a vow. That counts, don’t it?”

He tilted his head, like a curious animal. “Didn’t reckon ye’d be so bonnie.”

You should have run.

You knew that. Every part of you knew that. The sensible part. The terrified part. The part that still heard your mother’s voice whispering warnings about strange men, and worse things still, things that didn’t breathe right, didn’t die right.

But something rooted you.

Maybe it was the ring still snug around that pale, twitching finger. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Like you were the first warm thing he’d seen in centuries.

He took another step forward. Then another. His oxfords left deep, sucking impressions in the soil, and his gait wasn’t quite right—like a marionette with its strings pulled too hard, or a man remembering how to be one. You flinched when he got too close, but he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stood there, arms slack at his sides, mouth slightly open, that thread of spit still hanging from one fang like an afterthought.

His head dipped low, curls shadowing his brow, and when he spoke again, his voice was almost shy. Like he feared you might bolt.

“Was it the blood that roused me, then?” he asked, one brow raising slowly. Thoughtful. “Or the vow ye whispered?” He swallowed, working his jaw with a faint wince. “Might’ve been both. Hard to say.”

You blinked at him. Swallowed the lump that had risen hard and high in your throat. “Who…who are you?”

His smile faltered. Just a flicker. Not hurt—more like confusion.

“Don’t remember me, do ya?” His voice dropped low, almost tender. “But you called, lass. I heard ya—clear as day, so I answered.”

He tapped his skeletal palm against his chest, right over his sternum, his eyes round and brows raised in a puppy dog look, a pleading little tilt to his head like he's desperate for you to believe him.

“I felt you in here.”

You opened your mouth. No sound came out.

The man—the thing—before you cocked his head again, just slightly. His eyes were too soft for the rest of him, too warm. And the accent in his voice made everything worse, somehow. Made it gentle. Comforting. It stripped you of fear, piece by piece, until all that remained was the strange throb of something you didn’t understand.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

His gaze lit up like the question pleased him. He didn’t answer right away. Just dragged a hand through his hair, leaving streaks of mud and grit and grave soil across his temple.

“I’ve been called a lot o’ names,” he said after a pause. “Some of ’em I earned. Some I didn’t. But the name I remember best is…” A thoughtful frown pulled at the less-damaged corner of his mouth.

“Remmick. That’s what me ma called me,” he said, almost shy now. “Back when the sky was still thick wi’ peat smoke and the land hadn’t yet learned the sound o’ English steel. When we carved prayers into stone ‘stead o’ paper, and the rivers boiled not from fire, but from the rage o’ gods long buried.”

He glanced at you then, as if expecting you not to understand. But you didn’t flinch, causing his smile to grow like a decaying flower that didn't know it was dead yet.

“Back when the forest had a name you weren’t meant to speak after dark,” he added, voice gone soft and faraway. “And folk still left cream out on the stoop, hopin’ to keep the hills quiet.”

You said nothing. You had no words.

He glanced down at himself as though just now noticing the state he was in. Fingers touched the torn lapel of his jacket before dusting the front off next. His nose wrinkled faintly, sheepish, eyes round and sorry.

“Would’ve cleaned meself up a bit had I known,” he said, glancin’ back up at you with a crooked smile. “But by Gods, ye caught me right in the middle of me dirt nap, didn’t ye?”

And then he laughed. A soft, broken sound. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t hollow. It was almost—sweet. You didn’t realize you’d taken a step back until your spine hit bark.

He noticed.

“No need to fear me, lass,” he said, quickly, voice pitching soft, hands raised just a little, his eyes bleeding red like a freshly weeping cut, “I won’t hurt ye. I wouldn’t.” His fingers curled back toward his chest again. “Not you.”

“Why me?” you asked, finally. “Why—why do you think I called you?”

His smile returned, slow and tender. He lifted his hand—the one with the ring, the one that was intended to collar you to Mr. Langdon before you turned tail and fled, looking sleek and shiny against grimy blue skin.

“’Cause ye put this on me finger,” he said. “Ye made a promise. A vow.”

You shook your head, your breath catching like a bird startled mid-flight, wings beating frantically in your throat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real enough for me.”

He looked down at the gold band, turned it with his thumb. “You bled for it, didn’t ye?” he murmured. “Spoke words into the trees. Placed a ring on a buried hand. That’s old magic, love. Older than graves. Older than the Gods above.”

His eyes flicked back to you—red blooming around the edges now like ink through water.

“Old magic don’t care whether you meant it.”

You didn’t know if it was the way he said love, like it meant something eternal…or if it was the silence of the woods, how they held their breath around him…but your world had suddenly been flipped upside down like you'd been living inside a snow globe and someone decided to just come along and shake it. All because you'd gotten cold feet. All because you couldn't bring yourself to walk down the aisle and wed a man who barely made your acquaintance prior to the arranged ceremony.

You recall last night in great detail, the last time you were alone with Mr. Langdon. It had been in your father’s study—dark-paneled, smelling of tobacco and power. He hadn’t touched you, not exactly. But his hand had rested too long on the curve of your shoulder, fingers splaying toward the top of your spine like he was trying to gauge how much pressure it would take to snap it.

“I prefer quiet girls,” he’d said with a smile that didn’t reach his shrewd eyes. “Ones who don’t ask so many questions. Obedience is a virtue, you know.”

You had smiled. You nodded. Because what else could you do?

He had leaned in close, breath stale with wine and something bitter, suppressing the reflexive urge to recoil, “After tomorrow, your body belongs to me. That’s what marriage is. Best you start getting used to the idea.”

You hadn’t answered. You’d gone to your room and vomited in the basin. And tonight? Tonight—you ran. You didn’t bring a bag. You didn’t bring a plan. You brought the ring.

And you brought the no you hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It’s only then that you start to notice—the world around you moves. Not with the subtle rhythm of wind or wildlife, but with a kind of strange, theatrical breath, like the forest is alive.

The tree behind you creaked like a yawning coffin, bark groaning against your spine as if waking from its own long sleep. Overhead, the moon hung too round, too large, almost theatrical in its glow—more paper lantern than celestial body. It cast light not white but a washed-out bluish silver, the kind that made every shadow look like it was up to something.

There were no clouds. The sky didn’t need them.

Instead, the forest itself began to shift—bending at the edges like a curtain drawing inward, branches twisting and stooping with exaggerated grace, their tips curling into crooked little hooks. The trees no longer stood tall and noble; they hunched and leaned like gossiping old women, knotted spines cracking as they bent to get a better look at you.

The leaves above clinked faintly like dry metal. One branch spiraled down and hovered beside your shoulder, like it was waiting for permission to touch you.

And still, Remmick didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he was used to it—the way the world rearranged itself around him, the way nature bowed and blinked and breathed differently wherever he walked.

Maybe he’d never known a forest that didn’t follow.

He took another step toward you.

He was close enough now that you could see where the flesh on his cheekbone pulsed faintly, still clinging to old life. Where blood had dried in a crooked path down his exposed jaw. Where some of his teeth weren’t perfectly sharp at all—some had chipped, split, yellowed in ways that proved he hadn’t always been what he was now. He had once been a man.

You stared. Not at the horror. At the detail.

His collar was unbuttoned. There was a ring of skin just below his throat that was somehow clean, as if protected by the chain that still hung there.

“You’re real,” you breathed, as much to yourself as to him.

He smiled again. Small, head bowed slightly. Like the thought embarrassed him.

“Aye,” he said. “At least I was.”

Your heart skipped. The accent curled around that last word—was—turning it melancholic and soft. He sounded deeply lonely in a way that didn’t scream or shudder, but bled slow and quiet—like a candle left to burn itself out in a chapel no one prayed in anymore.

You didn’t realize your hand had risen until he caught it. His grip wasn’t strong. In fact, it was hesitant. Loose. Like he feared you might flinch, and he was giving you time to do it. To reject it.

You didn’t.

His thumb dragged over the small wound on your finger where your glove was torn. The one you’d cut on the tree. Your blood had dried there, rust-colored and still.

“’S’what woke me,” he murmured. “This wee thing.”

You tried to speak, but the words tumbled over each other, panic and fascination tangled in your throat. “What are you?”

Remmick looked up at you, then down at your hand in his. He didn’t let go.

“I was a man once,” he said. “Before they put me in the ground like a secret.”

There was no anger in his voice. No grief. Just barebones honesty.

“I remember cold,” he continued. “I remember bein’ bound.” His brows drew together. “I remember hunger.”

You swallowed.

His head tilted slightly again. “But now I remember you.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that you weren’t anyone, that this was all a mistake. That you weren’t his. That you weren’t meant to be anything.

But the woods behind you had gone too still. And he was staring at you with a gaze so tender it made your stomach twist.

“Ye came in white,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a bride. Ye gave blood. Ye spoke vow.” He brushed a skeletal knuckle to your chin with aching slowness, the bone surprisingly soft, “don’t reckon the veil’s far behind.”

The branches rustled above, though there was still no wind. You realized the forest wasn’t closing in. It was gathering.

And Remmick…he was looking at you like he was home.

It was no longer night in the way night should be.

Time moved differently now. The sky above bled grey and silver and rust, but the moon never shifted from its throne behind the trees. The light stayed fixed in place, like the forest had slipped sideways into some pocket behind the world. Hours passed like fog. You slept, but never fully. You walked, but your feet left no prints.

And Remmick—Remmick stayed near.

Not hovering. Not leering. Just there, always just far enough not to crowd you, yet always within reach, like the forest had redrawn its laws to keep him at your side. Like you were its axis now.

You thought of Langdon.

Of his voice—measured, polished, practiced. The kind of voice that never raised itself above a certain register, as though passion was unsightly. He had a way of looking at you that always felt more like study than affection. Like you were something to be assessed, not adored. His fingers, when they grazed yours, were cold from gloves and colder still beneath them. Everything about him had been lacquered to a shine: his shoes, his manners, his hollow future he spoke of with such sterile pride.

You remembered one night, not long ago, when you’d dined together at his family estate. A private supper. Three courses. Too many forks. You’d asked him if he liked poetry.

He blinked. Set down his wine glass. “I tolerate it,” he said. “In women.”

That had been it.

No questions in return. No warmth. No wanting.

You’d spent the rest of the meal smiling at your plate, wondering if it would be considered madness to simply climb out the window and run.

And now—here.

Now, you were with a man who’d crawled out of the earth, with dried blood under his nails and a ruined jaw, and somehow he made you feel safer than any lace-draped parlor ever had. Remmick, who flinched when he touched your skin like you were the sacred thing. Remmick, who didn’t ask you to perform, or flatter, or prove anything—who simply stayed close because he wanted to be near.

He was a walking corpse.

And he seemed more human than Mr. Langdon had ever been.

Remmick spoke in murmurs. Half-conversations.

“My folk used to call this part the belly,” he said, gesturing toward a clearing that bloomed only with pale fungi and white moss. “Said the trees grew too thick with memory. Said it weren’t safe for the livin’.”

You stepped forward slowly, the hem of your gown brushing through the hush of strange underbrush. The clearing pulsed in stillness, like something held its breath just beneath the surface.

The fungi were long-necked and ghostly, some capped in translucent bells, others curled like fingers mid-spasm. They glowed faintly in the dark—not enough to see by, but enough to feel seen.

Overhead, the trees now leaned inward with impossible arches. Their bark smooth and gray as drowned bone, and where knots should’ve been were instead hollowed faces, soft and suggestive, as though the trunks had grown around someone who once leaned too long against them. One of the branches creaked in a slow, pendulum sway, even though there was no wind.

You tilted your head. The white moss underfoot looked soft, inviting—until you noticed it wasn’t growing in any natural pattern. It coiled in tight spirals, some large enough to circle your slippered feet, others small and delicate as lacework.

When you asked what he meant, what memory had to do with the trees, he only gave a crooked smile and pointed at your feet.

You looked down. The moss had formed perfect circles beneath your heels.

Spirals.

“See?” he said. “She’s already learnin’ you.”

And sure enough, even as you stood there, the spiral beneath you shifted. Just slightly. Not like a plant reacting to pressure, but something alive—tracing the shape of your sole, marking your weight, remembering the heat of your blood. It liked you.

Or worse—it recognized you.

He never called the place a graveyard. He called it “the kept.”

You first saw them while following a worn path between black pines—stones laid flat into the dirt, unmarked, sunk deep with age. You almost stepped on one before he reached out and caught your wrist, not harshly—just quick.

“Aye, mind where ye tread,” he said, voice gentle, Irish vowels lilting around the warning. “They don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed.”

You stared at the stone. And then you realized it was moving. Not rising. Not moaning. But the soil above it—it breathed.

You took a step back, heart climbing into your throat.

“They don’t wake unless they’re called,” Remmick said softly. “But they listen.”

Far off, from a hollow deeper in the woods, a chime echoed. High and delicate, like a piano key played underwater. Another answered, lower, more metallic. You didn’t see the source, but you could feel them vibrating in your bones. And yet it didn’t frighten you.

He never told you how he died. You tried to ask. More than once.

The first time, he looked away. The second, he closed his mouth mid-sentence and didn’t speak for a full hour. Not angry. Never angry. Just—withdrawn. The third, he reached up and touched the ruined side of his jaw, as if he’d forgotten it was there.

Then he whispered, “Not yet,” and nothing more. You didn’t press.

Some things, you could feel, were kept buried by more than soil.

It was on the fifth day—if you trusted your own body’s clock—that you tried to leave.

You didn’t make a show of it. You waited until Remmick went still beneath the shade of a hollow tree, head tipped back, eyes closed like he was listening to something beyond your hearing. You crept away quietly. You didn’t look back.

You hadn’t meant to stay that long. You told yourself it was only curiosity, only caution, only until you understood what he was. But the forest had begun to feel too quiet in the right places. Remmick had begun to speak too softly, like a prayer meant only for you. And that was precisely the problem. He was too gentle. Too kind. Too patient.

You weren’t supposed to like any of this—weren’t supposed to be lulled by a dead man’s voice or find comfort in a world where bones lined bird nests and laughter came from unseen mouths. You ran not because you feared him. You ran because, terrifyingly, you didn’t.

At first, the trees parted for you. The path unfolded.

You ran.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t call his name. You just ran. But the forest…it shifted.

The branches overhead grew too low, too tangled. Vines curled beneath your feet like hands reaching out to stop you. A bramble reached out like a whip and slashed across your collarbone, slicing clean through the dress, nicking your skin just enough for blood to bead along the uneven seam of your cut. Still, you kept going.

Until you hit it.

The edge.

It wasn’t a wall—not exactly. It was air. Thick, humming, wrong. The veil between life and death. When you stepped into it, your skin felt like it peeled. Your lungs refused to fill. The world blurred and bent at the corners like warped glass.

You stumbled back, coughing. Gasping. Remmick was there. Not chasing. Not angry. Just there.

He caught you around the middle before your knees buckled, arms strong but careful, like you were made of spun sugar and he was afraid you'd shatter.

“Sshh, now,” he whispered, curling you to his chest, soothing, the brush of his lips, the bloodied network of muscle fiber and tendons woven through his jaw pressed to the side of yours, wet and textured, “easy, easy, you’re alright.”

“I—I had to try,” you managed, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t mean to—I can't stay.”

“Shhh,” he soothed again. “I know.”

You felt him exhale into your hair. Slow. Shaky.

“I know wee bride,” he murmured, the accent softening everything it touched. “But she don’t open the same way twice. Not once she’s taken a name.”

You pressed your forehead into his shoulder, trembling. And for the first time—you wondered. Not how you got here. Not how to undo it.

But if you even should.

You thought of Langdon. Of his thin lips, the contracts, the expectations. Of your mother, her quiet threats tucked into lace gloves. Of the veil that felt more like a burial shroud than a blessing.

And then you thought of the way Remmick had caught you—like a man catching the last soft thing left in the world.

Later—how much later, you couldn’t say—you sat with him in the moss-ringed clearing where the mushrooms bloomed like broken teeth, soft and damp and glowing faintly blue at their tips. The forest had gone quiet again, but not heavy this time. Not watching. It simply…was.

Remmick had taken to lying on his side, propped on one elbow, his ruined jaw turned slightly from view, though you were never sure if it was for your comfort or his.

His fingertips brushed through the withered stems, and chose one near the base of a crooked stone. It was long-dead, crumpled and brittle at the edges, the color all but drained. He held it up between thumb and forefinger, and as he rolled the stem, you watched something shift. The petals darkened—deepened—like blood soaking back into flesh. It bloomed, slow and unnatural, into the shape of a dried red rose. Not living, not quite—but remembering life. Like something dressed for mourning.

“These only grow where the veil’s thin,” he said quiet-like, voice laced with that low, lilting Irish bend. “Where things slip in and out. Couldn’t say for certain which side they’re meant for, if I’m honest.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him.

There was dirt under his nails. sediment clinging to his collarbone. His oxfords were still caked in grave mud, but he hadn’t touched you with anything other than gentleness.

Your voice felt small when you spoke. “Why did you wait?”

Remmick blinked slowly. His fingers stilled.

You clarified before he could pretend not to understand. “All this time. You said you felt me. But you were already down there, weren’t you? In the earth. Waiting for someone to call you back. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look at you. And just when you were sure he wouldn’t speak—he did.

“I didn’t know I was waitin’,” he said, voice gone low, just a touch rough. “Not truly. Time goes quiet when you’re laid under like that. Y’don’t count the years. Some days, y’don’t even remember your own name.”

He looked at the sky through the trees.

“Sometimes I’d dream o’ faces. Yours, maybe. Or someone who looked like ye. Sometimes I’d think I heard someone weepin’. I’d think, was it me?”

You felt your chest tighten. Remmick smiled again, faint and lopsided, like a man recalling a song he hadn’t sung in years.

“But when I felt ye, I knew. I knew it weren’t just hunger or ghosts or wind. I knew it was real. Ye bled for me. Ye called for me.” He glanced over. “No one’s ever done that before.”

You stared at him. At his hands, broad and veined. At the faded chain around his throat. At the ring you’d slipped, thoughtlessly, onto the hand of a tree like a promise.

A tree that had promised back.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” you said.

“I don’t care.”

You swallowed.

He said it without venom. Without accusation. Just—resolute. And maybe something softer curling underneath. He rolled onto his back, the moss giving way beneath him like a cradle.

“I’d have waited another thousand years for that drop of blood,” he said, quiet now. “Another thousand after that just to hear your voice say I do.”

You turned away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because some part of you did. And it made your throat ache.

Your gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where the trees stood thick and close.

“Will it ever open again?” you asked. “The forest.”

Remmick didn’t move. “Aye. Someday. When she’s good and ready.”

“And if I’m not here when it does?”

He was quiet for a beat too long. Then:

“Then I’ll follow.”

That made you look back. He didn’t smile this time.

“I’d walk through fire to find you, wee bride.”

His voice was still Irish—but there was something else behind it now. Something old. Ancient. Something so sure of its longing it didn’t need to shout. It just was.

You realized, in that moment, how terribly lonely he must’ve been. How quiet his world had become. How loud your heartbeat must be to him now.

And how warm you still were.

He asked if you wanted to see the rest.

Didn’t demand. Didn’t lead without waiting. Just…offered.

With a hand half-outstretched and those eyes still puppy-wide, still lit like you were a miracle he was afraid to touch too quickly, lest you vanish into smoke.

You hesitated. But not long.

The forest parted for you both this time. Not like it had when you tried to run. Now it was more like—inviting. The way a house might creak its doors open when it recognizes one of its own.

You slipped your hand into his, the one that still wore flesh. His fingers were cold, yes—but not corpse-cold. Not the kind that bit. His hand was rough in places, as though he’d lived long enough to carry calluses even through death. His thumb flexed gently along your knuckles, testing. Not possessive. Just…checking.

Reassuring himself you were real.

He showed you the orchard first. Or what was left of it.

A grove of trees that no longer bore fruit, only ribbons—hundreds, thousands of them, hanging from the branches like wilted party streamers. Blue, white, ivory, pale lilac. Some patterned, some torn, some fraying from centuries of wind.

You reached up and touched one.

“They’re wishes,” Remmick said, voice softer than ever, his breath beside your cheek. “Made by the dead. Before they were buried.”

You turned to him.

“But they never came true?”

His expression shifted—fond, wistful.

“Some did. Some didn’t. Doesn’t matter.” He touched the ribbon nearest to him, the pad of his thumb brushing its edge. “It’s the hoping that counts, innit?”

You said nothing. The breeze moved the orchard like a lullaby.

Further in, he showed you a town of sorts.

Carved into the side of a crumbling cliff where the rock split into ribs and the stone seemed to breathe, the little village clung to the earth like a half-forgotten secret.

The houses were squat mudstone cottages, weathered and slouched, their chimney pots crooked like snapped fingers. Moss crept up their sides in thick velvety bands, swallowing old lanterns, window frames, and entire doorsteps. Windowpanes blinked with eyes pressed from the inside.

The doors were low and arched, some made of driftwood painted in peeling funeral hues—deep violet, waxy blue, iron black. A few homes had teacups balanced on their roofs. Others had shingles shaped like fingernails or pressed flowers. Bones hung from strings between rafters, clacking gently in the hush, arranged like wind chimes or family crests, each one carved or etched with little initials, or painted with the ash of something you couldn’t name.

A skeletal cat darted past your ankles, all jangling vertebrae and twitching tailbone, its paws clicking faintly against the cobbled path. Its jaw hung open in a rictus grin. You didn’t scream. It looked up at you once—empty sockets glittering faintly—and carried on.

And then the town began to move.

A shutter creaked open. A door whined on its hinges. A hatless man with no lower jaw swept the stoop of what looked to be a bakery, the scent of charred sugar and burnt cinnamon floating faintly from within. He nodded at you politely, bits of soot falling from the collar of his shirt, and kept sweeping. Further down the lane, a trio of old women sat in rocking chairs that had been nailed directly into the wall of a house—sideways, five feet off the ground—and knitted with thread made of silver hair. One of them had no eyes. The second had too many. The third winked at you with a socket.

“Don’t mind them,” Remmick murmured. “They been there long as I can remember. Like to keep to themselves.”

He led you past a crooked fountain that spewed a slow, syrupy trickle of black water, and through a crooked square strung with dim, blue lanterns that hung from lengths of discolored intestine braided like ribbon. In the center was a music box the size of a carriage, its brass bell warped and dented, still playing a waltz you could swear you remembered hearing in a dream long ago. No one danced to it—but some of them swayed.

There was a tailor’s shop with mannequins made of stitched skin and bent spoons. A chapel whose bell tower rang without sound. A bar, glowing faintly green from the inside, where shadows moved across the windows though the glass had long since clouded over with frost from the wrong side. A child floated by without legs, giggling into a jar that held a swarm of candleflies. You saw a man with a flowerpot for a head watering it with tea. A woman selling buttons shaped like teeth.

This was not a place that mourned death.

This was a place that remembered it, wore it, built tea tables from it.

Remmick led you down a sloping path toward a cottage built halfway into the stone, the door crooked, the curtains made of faded funeral veils.

“This was mine,” he said, his voice almost sheepish. He toed at the dust near the doorstep, head ducked slightly.

“When?” you asked.

He smiled faintly, lifting a shoulder. “When the veil was thinner. When the dead and the livin’ shared more than just memory.”

He said it like someone recalling the smell of something they’d never taste again. Like someone who’d tried, once, to live after he’d been buried.

You looked around you.

The town wasn’t decayed. It was…rearranged. It had rules you didn’t yet understand. Gravity worked only where it felt like it. The dead did not walk in straight lines. Some glided. Some bounced. Some stitched themselves together fresh each morning and wandered about humming.

And the strangest thing of all?

You didn’t feel afraid.

Not in the way you should have. Not even when you turned around and the fountain had grown teeth. Not even when a man tipped his hat and his entire scalp followed. Not even when a door sighed open with a voice like your own and whispered, Stay.

Remmick was beside you, his body casting a shadow even here, where most things didn’t. He looked at you not like you were lost—

But like you were home.

That night—you still called it night, even though the moon hadn’t moved—he brought you to a bridge.

It spanned over nothing. No river. No ravine. Just a stretch of fog and sky. A ghost bridge.

You sat beside him at the edge, your legs dangling off as if you could fall somewhere, though you knew you wouldn’t. He sat close. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“Used to dream o’ this,” he admitted, after a long silence. “Not the forest. Not the dirt. Not the blood.”

He looked over at you, slowly.

“Just this. You. Here.”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat ached again.

His voice dropped, deep in his chest, accent thick with emotion he couldn’t hide. “Haven’t been touched since they put me down.”

The confession wasn’t vulgar. Wasn’t even pleading. It was starved. He smiled, crooked and small. “Can’t remember the last time someone just…looked at me. Like I wasn’t somethin’ to be feared.”

He didn’t touch you again, not even your hand.

He didn’t need to.

Your fingers brushed his pinky. Slowly. Once.

And his breath hitched so sharp you felt it in your bones.

By the next day—if you could still call it that—you weren’t watching the sky anymore. Weren’t thinking about what the world looked like outside these woods.

You walked the paths beside him. You listened to the hush of wind that sang like violins through cracked branches. You let him point out where the ghost-lanterns grew, little flowers with glass bell-heads that chimed when you passed them. You started remembering the feel of his shoulder bumping yours and missing it when it wasn’t there.

And you started to wonder.

Would it really be so terrible if you stayed?

You asked yourself that once. Then again. Then again.

At first it was just a whisper behind your ear. A suggestion. But now it nestled behind your ribs. Grew there. Took root.

Because you remembered Langdon, didn’t you?

You remembered his hand on your waist at supper, always too firm, like you were something to steer. You remembered how he spoke over you in every conversation, like a man correcting a child he hadn’t bothered to raise. You remembered how the ring—his ring—had been handed to you by someone else. No kneeling. No asking. Just expectation.

You remembered the way his lips never curled unless he was closing a deal.

And then there was Remmick.

Who asked if you wanted to see the rest. Who offered you his hand like it might be too much. Who waited every time you hesitated, and looked like it hurt him to do so.

He smiled with his whole mouth—ruined and all. He grinned when you laughed, even if he didn’t understand why. He softened around you like someone desperate to remember warmth. Every time he brushed against you, it wasn’t accidental. It was careful. Measured. Hopeful.

He looked at you like he was still not sure he deserved to.

You sat on the bridge again. Together.

Remmick had his hands in his lap, thumbs tracing nervous circles against each other. Every now and then, he’d glance at you. Say nothing. Then glance again.

You finally looked back.

“What is it?” you asked.

He startled slightly, sheepish. “Ah—nothin’. I just…”

His jaw clicked when he closed his mouth, then tried again.

“Ye don’t wear nothin’ on your finger,” he murmured.

Your breath caught. “Remmick—”

“No, no, love, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, huffing a laugh with no sound. “I know ye didn’t mean what ye said under the tree. I know ye weren’t…ye weren’t askin’ for all this.”

He paused, eyes dropping to the ring still on his own hand, the one you'd given him. “I just thought,” he added, quieter now, “maybe it’d feel a little less lopsided, is all.”

You didn’t know what to say. But your silence wasn’t rejection.

He must have felt that, because something flickered behind his eyes. He turned his palm over, and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. From it, he drew something strange.

A spool of hair, spun fine as thread—white and silvery-blue, like spider silk in moonlight. A broken thorn. A sliver of bone, no longer than a sewing needle. And the petal of one of those ghost-lantern flowers, shriveled but still glowing faintly at the edges.

He looked at you. Not for permission, exactly. Just to be sure you were still there.

Then he began.

He wrapped the hair into a loop, whispered to it in a language you didn’t understand—soft, low, rhythmic, like a lullaby hummed through soil. The thorn pierced the bone. The petal melted as it touched the band, fusing everything together in a slow flicker of light. It wasn’t magic like fireworks. It was quieter than that. Sadder. But it was real.

When it cooled, it had taken shape.

A ring. Fragile-looking, but solid. Matte white, like pearl gone to sleep. Veined faintly in red.

He offered it, resting on the flat of his palm like an offering. You looked at it. Then at him.

“It’s not a bindin’ spell,” he said softly. “I’d never do that to ye. It’s just a…a mark. That ye’ve been seen. That someone loved ye enough to make it.”

Your breath caught. You reached out, fingers trembling, and took the ring. And when you slipped it on—

The forest sighed.

Branches curled in. Flowers blinked open. The bridge beneath your feet thrummed like a harp string plucked once, gently.

And Remmick—Remmick made the smallest sound.

A choked inhale. Then, in a voice so soft it broke your heart:

“Ye look like someone worth waitin’ for.”

You don't remember dozing off.

But you did—still sitting beside him on the bridge, the soft weight of the ghost-ring warming your finger, his presence beside you steady as the moon that never shifted in the sky.

And when you woke, he was gone.

You startled upright, heart lurching. Your hand flew to the ring first—still there. Then to the edge of the bridge—still solid. The air felt heavier. Scented with something faint and iron-rich.

You called his name.

No answer.

Not at first.

You stood, blinking the fog from your lashes—and that’s when you saw it.

Laid carefully across the planks of the bridge, stretching in a line from your feet to the treeline beyond, was a trail of dead butterflies.

Hundreds of them. Each one perfectly intact, wings folded like prayer hands. Black as pitch with veins of crimson. Their bodies still. Sleeping. Dreaming. Waiting.

You followed.

Each step brought a rustle beneath your slippers, the softest stir of powder-dust wings. And up ahead—beneath the crooked trees that hung low like eaves—there he stood.

Remmick.

He had one hand behind his back, and his head tipped, sheepish as ever, like he’d been caught with something sinful in his pocket.

“Didn’t mean t’worry ye,” he said, voice soft.

You looked at the butterflies. Then back at him.

“What…is this?”

His smile wobbled.

“A bit of foolishness, maybe. Or maybe not.” He stepped forward, still holding whatever it was behind his back. “Back where I’m from… when we had no coin, no land, no dowry to offer—only things we’d taken from the earth—we’d still find a way t’make a gift.”

He stepped closer.

“An’ the most prized thing a man could offer…” He brought his hand forward.

In it, he held a locket.

But not gold. Not silver. It was made of bone, carved smooth and rounded into the shape of a heart. Not anatomically perfect—no, it was whimsical and off, a little uneven, the way a child might draw one. Etched into the surface were little spiral markings—like the moss had made beneath your heels that first day.

He opened it.

Inside was a pressed bluebell, perfectly preserved, its color dimmed to twilight. Across from it was a single moth’s wing, paper-thin and gleaming dully like wet stone—its veins iridescent, its edge slightly frayed. It shimmered like dusk and felt like a secret, as if it had been plucked from some dream before it could end.

Remmick didn’t explain right away. He only watched you open it, watched your thumb trace the curve of the petals, the fragile line of the wing. When he did speak, his voice had gone quieter, almost reverent.

“Th’bluebell,” he said, “they grow o’er graves where the dead were loved. Not all graves. Just the ones where someone wept hard enough t’water the earth.”

Your fingers stilled.

"And the wing?" you asked.

He hesitated. His eyes—those soft, wolf-sad things—lowered.

“She followed me once,” he said. “When I had no body. When I weren’t really a man at all. She’d land on me shoulder. Wouldn’t leave. Thought maybe she’d carry me soul somewhere if it ever got light enough.”

His smile came crooked. “She never did. But…I kept her. Just in case.”

You looked down at the locket again. At the love tucked carefully inside it—not gaudy, not gold, not spoken in flowers or poems, but in grief. In memory. In quiet things that didn’t ask for attention, only to be kept.

That was how he loved, you realized. Not loudly. Not demanding.

But devoutly.

With mourning in his blood and hope in his teeth. And you, wearing that little bone heart, felt something ancient stir beneath your ribs. Like maybe you'd been waiting for this place—this grave-bound man—just as much as he'd been waiting for you.

You blinked. Then laughed. It startled even you, the sound of it. But he didn’t flinch. Just watched, like you’d handed him the sun.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, that left side of his face pulling with a skeletal twitch where the wound exposed too much. “But I’d like you to have it. If you want it.”

You took it with both hands.The weight of it pressed into your palms like a heartbeat. You looked at him.

At his eyes—those wide, sorrowful things that glowed only faintly red now, not from hunger, but hope. At the way he didn’t reach for you, didn’t presume. Just stood still. Waiting.

You reached up. Tied the chain around your neck. It settled just above your collarbone. Close to your throat. Close to where he watched your pulse.

When your hand brushed his chest after—just lightly, just shyly—he let out the breath he’d been holding like it was his last. That was the moment you knew.

Not the rose. Not the bridge. Not the ribbon orchard. Not even the ring.

This.

This strange, mournful creature who had carved you a heart from the bones of the dead. Who watched you like you were worth every moment of his waiting. Who asked for nothing except to love you.

And you thought—

I feel more alive here, in this place of ghosts and ghouls and goblins than I ever did among the living.

You didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to. Because the forest heard you.

And so did he.

You held the locket in your palm long after it cooled, long after the weight of his gaze had eased—but not faded. He didn’t speak again. Only watched you with that tremble behind his smile, like he was scared his own heart might make too much noise and scare you off.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The sharp, wolfish teeth. The wound yawning over the right side of his jaw, red-veined and lipless but somehow not grotesque—just raw, unhealed, honest. The way his suit jacket hung slightly crooked over his frame. The moss in his hair from when he’d laid down in the grove beside you and listened to your voice like it was music. The wedding band still on his finger, slightly dirty with time passing but not with meaning.

You thought of the bluebell. Of the moth wing. Of all the things buried. And you asked, gently, “you never did get to kiss your bride, did you?”

He blinked. His breath caught like a match about to light. “No,” he said, slowly, voice cracking around the edges, thick with barely restrained emotion. “Never did.”

You stepped closer. Bare feet brushing bone-white moss, slippers silent as ghosts. The town behind you stirred like something dreaming—warm, moon-drowsy lamplight spilling from crooked windows. A cart creaked past on rusted wheels, pulled by a skeletal mule with eyes like glow-worms. Somewhere overhead, a thousand paper bats took flight from the belfry, flapping on stringy wings like dying leaves.

You lifted your hand.

Touched his face—gently, gently—cupping the uninjured side, but letting your thumb rest just at the edge of that ruined jaw. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just…stood there. As if he was scared his own desire might shatter him.

“Then kiss her now,” you whispered. “She’s right here.”

Remmick’s eyes burned. Not metaphorically. Literally.

A ring of red swallowed his dark gaze—glowing like coals in a hearth that hadn’t felt breath in years. His lips parted, a tiny whimper caught between them. His hand twitched at his side, then lifted—hovering over your waist, then pulling back, trembling.

“I—” he choked. “Tell me if y’don’t want it. I’ll wait, I swear, just—just say it, an’ I’ll wait ‘til the grave grows cold.”

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t chaste. It was raw and starved and aching. His hand finally landed on your back, gripping your gown in a fist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. His mouth was cold—unnaturally so—but the longer it moved against yours, the warmer it got, like you were coaxing heat back into him.

He whimpered into you.

That sound—ragged and small—was almost too much.

His other hand found your cheek. Not greedy. Just reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were solid under his fingertips.

And all around you, the forest bloomed.

Not with roses or lilies—but with boneflowers and glowing toadstools, with lantern-bugs that lit the air like constellations. Wind chimes made from ribs began to sing, and the belltower rang once, a low, humming note that quivered like a heartbeat.

You didn’t want to pull away.

Not because it was perfect. But because it wasn’t. Because it was messy and trembling and stitched together from grief and longing and the quiet, sacred madness of being wanted exactly as you were.

When you finally parted, his forehead dropped to yours.

“Christ above,” he whispered, voice gone soft and accented and wet with disbelief, “Ye taste like warmth. Like bloody spring after a thousand years o’ frost.”

You smiled.

Because for the first time in your life, you believed someone meant it.

His forehead rested against yours, breath shaky and uneven as if he’d forgotten how to need anything until now.

The world around you hummed in its stillness. Lantern-light flickered like breath behind gauze. Something in the cliffs sighed—the sound of wind moving through the hollow spaces of a place not meant for the living. The scent of old parchment and smoke-moss clung to the air. The boneflowers glowed dimmer now, like candles burned low in anticipation.

Remmick’s hand still cradled your cheek, reverent as a benediction. His thumb moved once, a trembling stroke along your jaw.

You looked at him. Really looked. The way his lashes fluttered like he couldn’t hold your gaze too long. The way his lips—wet, bitten, parted—trembled just slightly even though he’d stopped kissing you. He looked stunned. Like a man waking from a century-long dream and realizing heaven hadn’t been a lie after all.

You pressed your hand over the one still clutching your back.

And you asked, very softly, “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He blinked. “Go?”

Your thumb brushed his wrist.

“Somewhere private,” you said. “Somewhere we can be alone.”

You let the weight of your meaning hang there, open. Raw.

His eyes—still rimmed in that glowing red, still almost black where the light didn’t touch—widened just slightly.

He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Y—ye mean…”

You nodded.

He let out a breath that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, but something caught in the middle. His jaw flexed, the muscles around the torn part twitching as if it ached to smile and didn’t remember how.

“Aye,” he said at last, breathless. “Aye, I—Christ. C’ourse there is.”

You followed him through the quiet town, through paths lined with broken gravestones and wrought-iron gates wrapped in black ivy. The skeletal mule lifted its head as you passed, but didn’t move. The sky flickered between colors that didn’t exist aboveground—indigo, absinthe green, deep plum, midnight rust.

The house he led you to was small, crooked, nestled between two weeping trees. Its windows were frosted over from the inside, but lanterns glowed behind them—soft and inviting, not gold but something bluer, like the edge of candlelight seen through tears.

He opened the door and held it for you, eyes not leaving your face even once.

And when you stepped inside, the house breathed around you.

Like it had been waiting too.

The moment you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a hush like a drawn curtain. No click. No finality. Just the sound of something sealing the world away—just the two of you now, cocooned in this crooked little house where time didn’t dare intrude.

It was warm, impossibly so. Not with fire, but with memory.

Lanterns floated untethered above the room, bobbing gently like sleeping fireflies in glass cages. Their glow was the color of old violets pressed between pages—dim, wistful, soft. A chair sat crooked beside a hearth with no fire, its frame carved with sigils too old to name. The walls were mismatched wood and stone, patched in places with stained-glass panels that bled moody light across the floor. Dust danced in the air like confetti made from ash and pearl.

And across the room stood a bed.

Not some pristine matrimonial thing. No, this was older. Lovingly worn. A frame of twisted wrought iron and bone-white wood, headboard etched with curling ivy and crescent moons. The sheets were moth-gray and velvet-soft, tucked in neat but frayed at the edges like they'd been waiting for years—centuries—to be touched again.

Remmick lingered behind you, his presence like a shadow you didn’t want to outrun. He hadn’t stepped closer yet. He was giving you space. But you could feel the way he vibrated with restraint. His hand hovered just inches from your back, like he couldn’t trust himself to touch without unraveling.

“If ye…” he began, and his voice cracked down the middle. He cleared his throat, tried again. “If ye’ve changed yer mind, just say the word. I’ll not take a thing ye don’t want to give, not even a breath.”

You turned to face him.

There was nothing hungry in his stance. Not yet. Just reverence. Just awe. But something in you had already begun to ache with want.

You stepped closer, silent as snowfall, until your fingers found the button of his collar. He startled at the contact—but didn’t stop you.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said, voice hushed. “I want this.”

You slid off the suit jacket, palms skimming the broad expanse of his shoulders, Remmick's lashes fluttering in response. Underneath, you found a pair of suspenders stretched taut over his chest, creating wrinkles in the fabric of his collared dress shirt.

You undid the top button. He didn’t move. Then Another.

His throat worked around a swallow, breath trembling. The glow in his eyes flickered, pulsing, softening. Like it responded to your touch.

Another.

You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow as he tried not to pant. As if the sheer fact of you, undressing him—not in horror, not with trembling hands, but deliberately—was too much.

Another.

You laid your palms flat against his chest now, pushing the shirt from his shoulders. The white wife beater underneath clung to him, threadbare and soft, stretched over his broad frame. He was muscular in that quiet, devastating way—someone who’d labored long past death. His chest heaved with breath he didn’t need.

He hadn’t stopped watching your face.

Not once.

“I dunno if I remember how to do this slow,” he murmured, voice hitching on every word. “I’m too far gone for gentle if ye ask me to take too much control.”

You smiled, cupping the side of his neck. The unbroken one.

“Then let me.”

You stepped back once, your own hands now at the hem of your gown, torn at the hem, blood dried like rust at your shin. You pulled it loose now, bit by bit, letting it fall from your shoulders with the softest sigh of fabric meeting floor, leaving you in just your panties.

Remmick stared. His lips parted. No sound. His knees bent slightly, like he was fighting the urge to fall to them.

“Sweet hell,” he whispered, reverently. “Ye look like…like the night I died dreamin’ someone might love me anyway.”

And then, as if the words had summoned it, the lanterns above bloomed brighter, casting kaleidoscope patterns over your bare skin. The stained-glass windows threw ribbons of blue and red and indigo across your collarbones, your hips, your thighs.

Remmick reached out—slowly, slowly—and let the backs of his fingers trail along your arm. He didn’t dare touch your breasts. Not yet. He touched the hollow of your elbow. The dip of your wrist. The edge of your shoulder where your gown had once kissed your skin.

“Are ye sure?” he breathed.

You nodded.

“Lay with me.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since his last life.

And then he moved.

He moved like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Like the spell might break if he touched you too boldly—if he let himself believe for even a moment that he could have this. Have you.

You were already on the bed, the velvet beneath you rich and rippling like ink-stained water. Your head resting against moth-gray pillows. The locket he’d given you pressed cool against your breastbone, shifting with every breath. The air smelled of petrichor, moonlight, and something sweeter—something you’d begun to associate only with him. A scent like charred lilac and old longing.

Remmick knelt beside the mattress on one knee, wide palms gripping the edge of the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from coming undone.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, his voice thick, slurred just slightly with his Irish cadence. “Ye don’t know what ye’re doin’ to me.”

But you did.

You could see it—see the way his jaw clenched, the left side twitching faintly where the skin had long since been torn away. The way his fangs caught on his lower lip, not bared, but there—unavoidable. You could see how hard he was fighting himself, how deeply he was suppressing the parts of him he feared you’d flinch from.

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the front of his thin undershirt. Pulled him closer.

“Remmick,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He froze above you, nose inches from yours.

“I can’t—”

“You can.” You cupped his cheek, gently thumbing along the edge of exposed muscle. Not in disgust. Not in pity. But in affection. “I want all of you.”

Something in him broke.

He surged forward with a noise caught between a sob and a growl, his mouth crashing against yours. It was not the kiss of before—this one had heat, had desperation, the kind of longing that hadn’t been touched in over a thousand years. His lips were cold, but his tongue burned. You tasted the salt of old grief and something copper-sharp beneath it. His hands—God, those hands—one cupped your jaw while the other slid around your ribs, feeling flesh and bone simultaneously, cradling your back like you were sacred, like he might be punished for touching you too hard but couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

“So soft—” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your neck. “So fuckin’ soft, love, like the world before it soured…”

His fangs dragged the faintest line along your throat. Not piercing—just testing. Just tasting. His breath hitched like it pained him to hold back.

And you whispered again:

“It’s fine.”

That was all he needed.

A low, guttural moan tore from his chest as he finally let himself grip you harder—your hips, your thighs, hauling you into his lap like he needed you closer, needed your skin pressed to his or he might rot again right there on the floor. His body was strong, stronger than a man’s should’ve been, and you could feel that strength now as he spread your thighs wide and settled between them, the weight of him pressing down deliciously heavy.

He groaned when he felt the heat of you beneath the fabric, when your legs wrapped around his waist. He wasn’t shy anymore. His teeth caught on your lower lip as he kissed you again, hungrier now, drooling slightly with want—not from gluttony, but from sheer, unbearable starvation.

“Ye smell like everythin’ I’ve ever lost,” he murmured raggedly. “And everythin’ I thought I’d never be allowed to touch again.”

His hips rolled once, helplessly, against yours. You felt the hardness of him, thick and restrained behind old linen and buttons. His breath hitched, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I’m tryin’, I swear it, I’m tryin’ to be slow…”

“You don’t have to be,” you told him, voice gone small and shaking. “I’m not afraid of you. I want you. All of you. Even the parts you’re trying to hide.”

He lifted his head slowly—eyes glowing red now, the pupils huge and blown with need.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed. “Marryin’ me twice over, sayin’ that.”

You hadn’t meant to tempt him. Not exactly. But you’d said the words—I want all of you—and now you could feel what that meant in the trembling of his fingers as they hovered over your body. Not touching. Not yet. Just breathing you in like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were happening.

His voice cracked through the hush of the room. “D’you know what yer sayin’, love?” He cupped the back of your neck, gentle as a grave flower. His thumb dragged along your pulse like he was listening to it. “A thousand years o’ hunger in me…an’ you go sayin’ that?”

Your answer came not in words but in action—pulling his hand down, pressing it against your chest so he could feel your heart race for him. For this. For the way his eyes glowed like twin embers in the dark.

That did it.

He surged forward, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Then lie back for me, mo chroí,” he breathed. “Let me see what I’ve been dreamin’ of since before I knew what dreamin’ meant.”

You reclined against the velvet, heat curling low in your stomach, and Remmick followed you down—kneeling between your legs like a knight in a fairy tale gone all wrong and better for it. His skin caught the light, that blue like moonlight over still water, marred only by the right side of his jaw—where muscle and bone were laid bare, yet never once did he try to turn his face away from you.

Because you didn’t flinch.

You reached up and traced the edge of the torn flesh, and he shuddered, a sound like something old breaking loose in his chest.

He kissed you then—not hurried, but deep, wet, needy—and his hand came to rest between your thighs, warm despite everything. His fingers traced the seam of your inner thigh first, featherlight, before his mouth followed. Down your jaw. Your throat. Lower.

Praise spilled from him like prayer:

“Look at ye—soft as sin, warm as summer rain—ain’t never seen anythin’ like ye.”

He mouthed at your thighs, biting down just enough to make you gasp, but never break the skin. He lapped at the indentations like he wanted to memorize every tremble, every twitch. When your legs started to close reflexively, he hooked an arm around one, spreading you wider with a low, sinful groan.

“No, no, love. Let me see. Let me taste. It’s been so long—I’ll be good, I swear it, I’ll make ye forget everythin’ but me.”

His hand moved between your legs again—rough palm against soft heat. He doesn't remove your panties yet, content to tease you through the., letting the slick there soak into the cotton. He rutted his palm against you, slow and grinding, until your hips started chasing it.

You keened. And he moaned in response—open-mouthed, desperate.

“Fuckin’ drippin’ f’r me already…ain’t even had a taste…”

And he did.

One long stripe with his tongue over the damp cotton. Then another. Until he was panting into you like a starving man nosing through the seam of your underwear. One hand splayed over your belly, keeping you still.

Then he sucked the fabric into his mouth like he could wring the taste of you through it.

When you gasped, he looked up—eyes blown wide, red rimmed, lips wet and parted.

“Beggin’ ye,” he whispered. “Let me have ye proper, yeah? Just me mouth for now—let me make ye sing, mo chroí, let me worship ye like the altar ye are.”

And when you nodded—more a whimper than a yes—he pulled your panties aside and groaned, deep and broken.

You didn’t expect him to kiss your cunt.

But he did.

Like he meant it.

Like it was holy.

He parted you with reverence—his breath hot against your folds, one trembling hand holding your thigh like it anchored him to the earth. The other lay against your belly, fingers twitching as though resisting the urge to claw, to grasp, to sink into your softness and never let go.

And then…he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. Just lips to flesh, slow and aching, as if the act itself might undo him. As if his very mouth might shatter around you—and he’d welcome the breaking.

Your back arched.

Not from shock—but from the texture.

Because his mouth wasn’t whole.

His lips were soft, yes. Warm, even. But where the skin gave way—where bone and sinew lay exposed, where every sharp, imperfect tooth glistened with preternatural hunger—his kiss became something otherworldly.

It should’ve been frightening.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

You felt it not just in your cunt, but in your spine, your ribs, your soul. He didn’t just use his tongue—though God, that tongue, wet and thick and curling with practiced strokes that told you he hadn’t forgotten how to ruin a woman—he used his mouth in full. The broken parts. The jagged ones.

He scraped—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to tease. Just enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream. That this was him. Remmick. The dead man with the living hands. The monster with the gentle touch.

He licked you like you were spun sugar and sacrament, and when he pressed his tongue flat against your clit and sucked, your hands shot to his hair, tangled in it, dragging him closer—

He moaned. Moaned into you, like the taste alone could kill him.

“Christ alive,” he rasped, pulling back for half a second to pant against your slick. His voice was wrecked, thick with emotion and want, thick with his Irish cadence.

He ducked back down—open mouth, flat tongue, slow circles that made your thighs tremble—and then slid two fingers inside you in one smooth, devastating motion.

“Tight little thing,” he whispered, “grippin’ me like ye missed me your whole life.”

You sobbed something between his name and God and yes, your thighs clenching around his ears, and he groaned again—deeper this time—rutting against the bed like he was getting off on the noises you made alone.

And somewhere between the moaning and the wet pop of his mouth over your clit, somewhere between the slurp of his tongue and the squelch of his fingers moving inside you, the thought came—

My mother warned me of what goes bump in the night.

She whispered it when you were little. When the winds howled. When the floorboards creaked.

She said, “There are monsters, my love. Stay in the light.”

And now here you were, sprawled beneath one, flushed and soaked and gasping, letting him drag you apart with teeth and tongue.

You wondered what she’d say if she saw you like this.

If she knew that you’d chosen the dark—and begged it to keep you.

You felt it coming.

Not like a storm—fast and brutal—but like a tide, rising slow. Heat bloomed between your hips, slow and dangerous. Your thighs ached with the effort of keeping him there, like if you let go he’d vanish back into the earth that made him.

And still he stayed. Mouthing at your cunt like a man devoted. Like a man damned.

His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue circled your clit, drawing wet, lazy shapes—infinity, you thought, or a name—until you couldn’t tell where his mouth ended and your body began.

And then—

His eyes opened.

They glowed dimly at first, that reddish hue flickering like coal beneath ash. But when he felt your hand trembling against his scalp—when you whimpered “Remmick, I—”, his gaze snapped to yours.

Locked. Frozen. Held. It wasn’t lust you saw there. It was awe. It was reverence.

It was a man who hadn’t been touched in thirteen hundred years, now watching you—bare, flushed, trembling—fall apart beneath his mouth like a blessing.

His lips glistened. His fingers curled inside you, stroking something sharp and sacred. And still, he didn’t look away.

He stared at you like he was watching the stars be born. Like you were the only heaven he ever hoped to find.

And you knew—without him saying it—that if you asked him to stop, he would. If you asked him to die again, he would.

But you didn’t want that. You wanted more. So you said nothing.

You only whispered, voice shaking, “Don’t look at me like that.”

His jaw twitched. His breath caught. Then came his voice, low and ruined:

“Can’t help it, darlin’. Ye look like salvation.”

And you broke.

Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched. You came with a sound so soft it felt like mourning. Like prayer. Like surrender.

And Remmick—beautiful, monstrous, trembling—moaned like he’d been given breath again.

He kept licking you through it. Slower now. Gentler. One last kiss to your clit, soft and grateful. He pressed his cheek to your thigh, jaw wound resting against your skin like it belonged there.

And still, his eyes never left your face.

After, you pulled him up.

He came willingly. Crawled over you with something almost shy in the set of his shoulders, the way his body trembled despite its strength. You reached for him—and for a moment, he hesitated, like he couldn’t believe you were still here. That you wanted this. That you wanted him.

You cupped his face.

Cold skin. The torn edge of his right jaw like worn marble. One fang brushing your thumb where it passed his lip. His eyes flickered between black and red—uncertain, afraid he might be dreaming.

“Remmick,” you said, your voice thick and still breathless, “do you want me?”

The question broke something in him.

He nodded too fast, like a man who’s never been given permission to hope. “Aye. Christ, aye, I do—been wantin’ ye since the trees took yer scent. Since ye bled on the bark and woke me.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down the wife beater—until you reached his belt. He sucked in a breath, whole body twitching when your knuckles brushed the tented front of his trousers.

“Then show me,” you whispered. “Show me how much.”

His mouth twitched into a smile, wide and crooked. “Ye don’t know what ye ask, lass.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, your whisper soft and sharp against his skin. “Then show me anyway.”

He kissed you—harder this time, desperate now, hips grinding against your thigh with the ragged rhythm of a man barely keeping himself leashed. His tongue pushed into your mouth, all heat and hunger, and you could taste blood and lavender and something older, something wild, on his tongue.

And God, he kissed like he meant to die in your mouth. When he pulled back, his voice rasped, thick and low:

“Ye sure?”

You nodded once. Twice. Then said it, clear and sure:

“I want to feel you inside me.”

He shuddered. Not just a tremble—but a full-body quake, as if your words went deeper than skin, straight to the buried places inside him.

“Then lie back, ma wee bride,” he murmured, voice shaking, thick with that Irish lilt you’d grown to crave. “Let me make a proper mess of ye.”

He moved slowly, reverently, as he undressed you fully, fingers shaking as they peeled your underwear down. His breath caught at every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing it with his mouth slightly parted.

He bent low, kissed the inside of your thigh again—then your hip, your stomach, your ribs. Worshipful. Starved.

And when he reached for himself, undid the buckle of his trousers with fumbling hands, he looked up at you once more, almost apologetic.

“I—ah—may not last long,” he confessed, shame flickering across his face. “Not when ye’re lookin’ at me like that. Not when I’ve waited this long. I’ll—I'll make it up to ye, I swear it—”

You touched his face again.

“Then come undone for me, Remmick,” you whispered. “You’ve waited long enough.”

He lowered himself between your thighs like a man preparing for worship, not fucking.

His forehead pressed to your sternum. His breath trembled. You felt him—not just the weight of his body, but the heat of him, pulsing against your thigh, thick and straining beneath your touch.

And God, he was big.

You glanced down and saw it—long and flushed dark at the tip, veined like marble, so hard he twitched in time with his breath. The way his cock curved heavy toward his stomach made your breath catch. He looked like something carved from sin.

He saw your eyes widen and started to pull back.

“I—I’ll wait, love, I’ll—”

“No,” you breathed, grabbing his arm. “I want it. I want you. Just…slow.”

He swallowed, hard. His throat clicked.

“Gonna ruin ye,” he whispered, voice thick with Irish dusk and awe. “Gonna stretch ye wide and deep and still wish I could go deeper.”

Your legs parted further on instinct. Your heels dragged the sheets. He looked down at you like you were something sacred, worshipped and half-afraid of.

Then his hand moved between your thighs.

His fingers—two at first, slow and careful—slid back into your soaked heat, working you open gently, watching for every flinch, every sharp breath. His jaw—half-torn and glowing faintly with the light of his hunger—tightened.

“Look at ye,” he whispered hoarsely, breath like a vow. “So soft f’r me. So warm already.”

Your hips arched into his hand. You whined when his thumb brushed your clit, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his name escaping your lips again and again in half-sobs.

“Please, Remmick,” you gasped.

He kissed your knee. Your hip. Your inner thigh again. Then—

He lined himself up with you, shaking. “I can feel ye callin’ f’r me,” he said, voice low, trembling. “Can feel yer body beggin’ mine to belong.”

You didn’t have words for what he made you feel. Only need. Only the hot, aching stretch inside as he finally pressed forward, the thick head of his cock nudging into you with aching slowness.

And God—the burn. It wasn’t pain. It was too much and not enough all at once. You clutched his arms. Gasped. He froze.

“Too much?” he rasped. “Do I stop?”

“No—Remmick—don’t stop,” you moaned, “just—go slow—”

And he did. So slow, like he was trying not to shatter.

His cock dragged deeper, inch by inch, your walls clutching at him, your slick coating him as he bottomed out in you with a shudder that shook his whole body. His arms shook. His forehead dropped to yours. His mouth opened but nothing came out—not until your name escaped his throat on a cracked, desperate sound that felt more like prayer than pleasure.

“Fookin’ Christ,” he choked, barely moving, buried to the hilt inside you. “Ye feel—Gods above—ye feel like fire.”

You were full. So full. Stretched in a way that left your eyes fluttering, your voice catching in your throat. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe. You only wanted to feel him there, pulsing deep inside, trembling like you were the first sunrise he’d ever seen.

And maybe you were.

He stayed there, deep and still, as if even the smallest movement might break you. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw flexed against the side of your throat. You could feel him shaking—not from strain, but from the restraint it took not to move.

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “I can take it.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just trembled, breath warm on your shoulder. But the sound he made when your hips tilted up—when your walls squeezed gently around him—wasn’t human.

It was a groan wrenched up from the deepest part of him. A sound centuries old.

“Ye don’t know what ye’re sayin’,” he rasped. “Ye don’t know what I’ll do if ye tell me I can…”

“I do,” you whispered, meeting his gaze. “I want you to.”

And that’s what broke him.

The first thrust was shallow, but sharp—his hips twitching forward, grinding deep. Your mouth fell open, a gasp slipping past your lips. He did it again. Then again. Each movement just a little rougher, a little more desperate. Until he was fucking you with the kind of pace that spoke of appetite, not lust.

He pressed you down into the sheets, breathing ragged, body arched over yours like he couldn’t get close enough. His lips dragged down your throat, over your collarbone, mouthing at the tops of your breasts like a man starving.

He muttered something in Irish against your skin—raw, thick, ruined—but you didn’t need to understand it. You felt what it meant in the way he rutted into you, deep and fast, his cock dragging along the parts of you no one else had ever touched.

You sobbed his name.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. You felt his back ripple beneath your hands, all sinew and strength, every part of him working to fuck you the way he’d been dreaming of since long before your first breath.

“You feel me?” he groaned into your mouth. “Deep in that sweet lil cunt, aye? So warm—so wet—I could drown in ye.”

You cried out, back arching, thighs trembling.

His mouth kissed down your breast, licking over your nipple before sucking it between his teeth. Your whole body jerked beneath him.

“Fook,” he breathed against your skin. “Ye’re squeezin’ me like you like it when I lose m’self.”

“I do,” you sobbed. “I want you to—Remmick, please—don’t stop—”

He didn't.

He pounded into you, hips snapping, the slick drag of his cock obscene as your bodies slapped together. His jaw wound gleamed faintly with wet, his eyes glowing a deep carnelian red. But even with his mouth parted, his teeth sharp, even with the beast in him taking hold—he still looked at you like he loved you.

Loved you, even if he didn’t dare say it yet. You clenched around him. His rhythm faltered.

He growled, low and broken, “Tell me if I hurt ye, love. Tell me—swear it—”

“You’re perfect,” you whimpered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’re perfect, Remmick.”

His forehead dropped to yours. Then he rutted into you with such bruising depth, you saw stars.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even as his body rocked into yours, even as your legs wrapped around his hips and your nails raked down the meat of his back, Remmick trembled like a man possessed.

“Can’t hold m’self back,” he whispered, voice rough and wrecked and soaked in longing. “Not when ye’re like this—soft and beggin’ beneath me—so fuckin’ warm—”

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Remmick, please—don’t stop—don’t hold back—just take me—”

Your words undid him.

He groaned low in his chest, mouth falling open, and something inside him slipped. His pace turned brutal—not cruel, never cruel—but driven. Like centuries of craving finally had a body to answer to.

Like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and the wait had nearly broken him.

The frame of the bed creaked beneath his rhythm. Your thighs trembled around his hips, slick and trembling, your body rocked with every deep, ragged thrust. And still—still—he tried to speak.

“You feel me, yeah?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. “Deep in that sweet cunt…like I belong there. Like I was meant to be there—"

Your hands curled at his nape. Your lips brushed his ear.

“You do,” you said.

That was all it took.

Remmick let go.

His body slammed flush against yours, hips stuttering hard, cock pulsing deep inside you with a heat so full, so heavy, it knocked the breath from your lungs.

He groaned brokenly against your skin, his whole body arching as he spilled inside you—deep, thick, endless—his forehead resting against yours like he had nowhere else left to go.

You clung to him. His breath hitched. Then again.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your thighs parted with a sticky ache—you saw the proof of him leaking back out of you, thick and warm where you were still stretched around the base of his cock.

A creamy ring of white.

Remmick saw it, too.

He moaned—deep, guttural—and pulled you closer, nosing at your throat like he was afraid you’d disappear. “So full of me,” he whispered, dazed. “Look at ye. Stuffed so pretty…”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Remmick,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

And when you looked into them—when you saw the pain, the wonder, the sheer reverence—you knew. He’d been waiting longer than you’d been alive. For this. For you.

His voice cracked, Irish accent trembling:

“Don’t leave me, love. Not now. Not ever.”

You kissed him back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The air felt different after.

Not warmer, not colder—but fuller. As if something ancient and unseen had exhaled at last. A spell released. A promise made flesh.

Remmick lay tangled beside you, arms wrapped tight around your body like he didn’t know how to let go. His cheek pressed to your shoulder, jaw wound cool and tender against your skin. His breath was shallow, uncertain—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You watched the glow-worm lanterns drift lazily overhead. Somewhere outside, the bones in the wind chimes knocked gently together like teeth. The forest whispered.

You should’ve been afraid.

Of the damp, breathing woods. Of the moss that learned your name. Of the way the moon never moved and the veil hung so thin you could taste it when you kissed him.

But you afraid. You were…calm.

He stirred slightly when you traced a lazy pattern down his back—soft whorls against undead skin still damp with sweat. A low, content sound rumbled in his throat, and he nosed into the crook of your neck, whispering something like “m’wife…” so quietly, you weren’t sure if it was meant for you or just the silence.

And God help you, you smiled.

It hadn’t been love with Mr. Langdon. It hadn’t even been kindness.

It had been a future written in ink not your own. One you’d been expected to accept without complaint, because it was tidy. Respectable. Fitting of a girl raised to smile politely, to never contradict her elders, to marry for property and speak only when spoken to.

Your mother had called it security.

Had warned you to stay away from things that wandered in the woods. From things with glowing eyes and sharpened teeth. Things that hungered.

And now—

Now you lay in a moss-slick bed of dirt and silk, bare and marked and full of one such thing. You wore his locket. His bite. His ring.

You brushed your fingers along the smooth place at your neck where his lips had lingered. A perfect bruise. A signature.

And still you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed. You were…

Content.

“I wish I’d met ye sooner,” he whispered against your collarbone. “Back when I still knew how to be a man.”

You turned your head, met his eyes. Those wide, glowing eyes.

“You still are.”

He swallowed, expression caught between reverence and disbelief.

“I ain’t decent,” he said, voice thick with that Irish lilt again. “Ain’t clean. Ain’t right. I sleep in the dirt, I feed when I must, and I carry more ghosts than I do breath in m’lungs.”

“You’re kind,” you said.

“A monster.”

“You’re mine.”

He closed his eyes at that.

You rested your palm over his heart—cold and still. But when you pressed closer, you could swear something stirred there. Like an echo. Like a wish.

He buried his face in your chest, arms tightening around your waist. And you let him hold you.

You never looked back again.

Not at Langdon. Not at the mother who warned you off the dark but allowed the devil in anyway. Not at the world where your name was written beside a stranger’s in a church you hated.

Instead, you stayed in the belly of the forest. In the town built of bones and moss and memory. You watched the ribbons in the orchard sway like breath. You fed the skeletal cat scraps of peach and laughed when it swiped at your slipper. You kissed your husband when the wind moaned, and whispered promises against his cheek when his hands trembled.

Because you loved him. Because he waited.

And because when you reached for a tree with trembling hands and a bloodstained ring, he was the one who answered.

Not Langdon. Not God.

Him.

On the morning the bluebell bloomed again—only one, shy and frost-bitten—you knelt beside it with Remmick and whispered,

“Maybe this was the wish that came true.”

He stared at the bloom, then at you. And smiled.

“I ran from a man with a pulse,” you whispered, lacing your fingers through your undead husband’s. “But I stayed for the one with a soul.”

[opalitelibrary]

Your boyfriend Sukuna and his evil little habit of making you ride his belly mouth whenever you're being a brat. His tastebuds are heightened down there, so its a perfect place to taste all of you. Its heaven to him, with your begging and whining as a well-appreciated bonus. To you? Torture.

In the best way possible, too.

His tongue felt so good, so thick and warm against your entrance, the pressure pushing at your clit juuuust right to have you twitching. The thing is, his stomach tongue barely fit inside you, the stretch rivaling that of Sukuna's actual cock as it wriggled and pushed against your walls.

Sukuna would touch you everywhere, hands wandering to your thighs and neck especially. Each bit of skin, marked by dark purple bruises and bite marks- courtesy of Sukuna's actual mouth. His large hands would grip your waist, making sure you keep moving back and forth on his stomach as you shiver from the overstimulation.

It felt good, so so good. But you wanted his dick. (Or both of them) You wanted him to fill you up already. And he knew that too. Which makes it all the worse, because he isn't giving them to you.

"Again."

"I said 'm sorryyy-" You choked, thighs shaking as you felt your cunt spasm around his tongue. "I won't, ah- I won't do it again, promise,"

You sniffed, tears still falling from frustration. You just wanted him to fill you you up already. Was that so much to ask?

Sukuna hummed, pretending to mull it over with a smirk playing at his lips. Wiping your tears away with a gentle hand, with the most condescending smile, he answered. "I don't believe in brats."

Thus the cycle continues, where Sukuna would fuck his tongue into you before stopping right before you came. He'd edge you for forever that despite not having orgasmed at all, you'd be so pathetically sensitive to every lick.

In all honesty, he could spend hours with you just perched on his belly, lapping up all of your leaking juices with increasing amounts of greed. No end in sight.

His cocks would twitch behind you, leaking so much pre that you'd think he came already. Any attempt made to touch them will only earn you a harsh smack to your ass and even more waiting.

Your saving grace usually came around when you'd start babbling nonsensically, spewing words of utmost devotion to Sukuna, of how much you love him and would do anything for him to be inside of you. That usually swayed him, a grin on his lips as he could already see how cockdrunk you were without even touching his cocks.

Finally, finally after hours upon hours of begging, he'd flip you over, your slick still glistening all over his stomach and its tongue, he'd actually let the tip of his dick prod against your hole. "Fine, then."

He licked his lips. "Since you claim to love me so much," Sukuna mimicked the high-pitch of your voice. "You'll take my cocks until sunrise, like the good whore you are, mhm?"

Hes so mean :((( I need him so bad

A.N. I wrote this in the middle of a fever haze, why was i horny while fighting for my life smh

[opalitelibrary]

Problem and Solution

Synopsis- Dr. Zayne is getting rather frustrated with his busy work schedule interrupting time with his beloved wife. Smut- 18+ MDNI!!!!!

Word count~ Juuuuust over 2k

Warnings- smut, use of sex toy, voyeurism, Zayne is.... kind of a pervert??? Yearning. All the yearning.

Zayne had a problem.

One that became more and more apparent with each passing day. It only grew worse as the number of Protocore Syndrome patients increased.

Days off. Dates with his beautiful wife. His own birthday. All interrupted at the worse moments possible- when he finally got a moment to be with her. Kissing her. Feeling her warmth. Only to hear his emergency pager go off. Then it was off to another surgery with another life in his hands. Zayne didn’t used to feel guilty when being pulled from other obligations for such things, but his life had changed after her. He was still proud of his job, to be sure. His loving, all too forgiving wife was proud too. She insisted he didn’t need to make it up to her. That she knew what she was getting into when she chose to be with him.

Then she’d be left alone. Again.

The pressure and heavy guilt became too much when, of all days, it happened again on her birthday. On the drive home, when the long, exhausting surgery was done, he decided. If he couldn’t steal some time with her on his days off- if he couldn’t feel her himself- he would find a way to pamper her on days that he at least got to work from home.

After just a few more days of preparations, Zayne finally had everything he needed. It was the perfect day for it, as well. Eight reports needed to be filled out and sent off for filing, requests needed to be addressed, and emails needed responding. Busy, busy, busy. And his sweet wife prepared such a delicious breakfast for him. She was ready to kiss him and send him upstairs to his office.

“Work hard. I’ll be waiting for you with snuggles after.” She went on her tiptoes, puckering her lips and reaching for him. With a soft chuckle he stooped slightly for a small chaste kiss.

What she didn’t expect was how his arm suddenly wound around her waist so firmly when she tried to step away. How he went in for another kiss. This one deeper. Hungrier. Perhaps Zayne let his own pent up frustrations color the kiss. He stepped closer. Pressed her against the kitchen counter with his body. His lips moved with fervor, parting to breath her in and taste her. She smelled subtly floral, like Jasmines, and tasted like her favorite sweet tea.

She’d squeaked in surprise. Wriggled and tried to speak- to remind him he had to work. Then she sighed so sweetly as she melted into him. Only then, when she was giggling into the kiss and breathless, did Zayne slip something out of the pocket of his sweater. He slowly skimmed his fingers along the soft skin of her thigh, up under her baby blue sundress. Slowly- because while he wanted to surprise her, he wanted to allow her room to stop him, if he made her uncomfortable.

Those delightful fingers smoothly moved to her inner thigh. Goosebumps rose in their wake. A whimper left her soft lips. Her legs subtly parted. Zayne could feel her heartbeat hammering against his own. He smiled and kissed her once more before resting his forehead on her shoulder. Of course he’d gone and riled himself up. So hard and starving for her it was almost painful. But it would be fine. He would be fine. As long as she was taken care of.

Zayne slipped his fingers into her panties and pressed his little surprise into her folds, nestled against that bundle of nerves that made her breath hitch.

She whimpered. Her hands grasped at his soft sweater. At this point, her head was spinning, and her body was tense and buzzing with need. Zayne’s lithe fingers withdrew from her, leaving something smooth and cool-to-the-touch tucked in her wet folds.

In a daze, she tried to ask, “Zayne? What-”

Her husband sighed heavily, warm breath shakily fanning across her skin. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, “Be a good girl, and keep that there for me. A gift for you, Darling.” A gentle kiss to her neck and a soft whisper, “No peeking. And don’t touch. Just go about your day.” He lifted his head then, and met her eyes.

With a dizzy little “Oh, o-okay” the poor woman watched her husband go upstairs to sequester himself in his office. She huffed and fidgeted, all too aware of the cold little thing nudging her clit with every little move. Then, she did the only thing she could do. Went about her day. She moved to the living room. Her eye was immediately drawn to the floor to ceiling window of his office that overlooked the living room and entryway of their home.

There he was, working diligently at his computer. As always. She felt herself deflate bit by bit as she sat on the couch. Turned on the tv. Careful, of course, to not dislodge the mysterious little “gift” he’d left her with. He’d had a mischievous spark in his eyes as he’d slipped away from her. This, however, was just plain cruel. She wasn’t naïve- the little “gift” was clearly a special kind of toy. A little bullet. To wind her up and leave her with such a thing all day, expecting her to be able to watch tv or do anything else while he-

Zayne peeked down to the floor below from the corner of his eye. There she was, watching tv. Exactly where he hoped she’d be. Following the inane rules he’d laid out for her. “Such an angel for me…” he muttered under his breath. Next to Zayne’s keyboard rested a small black remote. Sleek and discreet. Only two buttons. One for intensity, the other for rhythm. Zayne briefly tapped a finger on a button, but didn’t quite press it. The inane rules he set for himself- for every competed entry he would switch the rhythm, for every completed form he would up the intensity. Now, he was simply waiting.

-while he worked? How was she supposed to focus on anything after he kissed her like that? With how pent up she already was from months of neglect? “What did I do to deserve this? This is just mea-” Suddenly, vibrations rippled through her core. The jolt of electric pleasure pulled a gasp from her. She gripped the couch cushions under her in surprise, thighs squeezing around the little toy. It only pressed more firmly against her clit. Warm, buzzing pleasure. Her wide-eyed gaze bolted to the office window, half expecting to see him looking down at her. Zayne was still working- back turned to her, hands moving smoothly over his keyboard. All she could do was weakly utter his name. It was a steady, solid vibration, but it suddenly switched and started pulsing. She whined and leaned forward, subconsciously chasing the pleasure.

Zayne dared to look out the window. She was still seated, but now doubled over and trembling slightly. His chest felt unexpectedly tight. His cock twitched. He forced himself to glance at the computer. A finished entry. He pressed enter. Then pressed the button. He noticed something that stole the air from his lungs. A subtle movement. Her hips were rocking.

A moan nearly forced itself from her throat. She bit her lip. With the roll of her hips she tried to match the rhythm, pushing and pulling the bullet along her soaked folds without directly touching it. But it switched up again- to a teasingly slow, then fast, then slow again pulse. She whimpered pathetically. Heat coiled in her gut like an angry snake. Her head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as she fought the sounds rising in her chest. Why is he doing this? Is it to make up for-

Final entry complete. Click. Report sent. Click.

“Mmph-” A small cry threatened her, but she managed to bit her lip again before it escaped. He needs to focus! Quiet. Stay quiet. Hard to do when the pattern and intensity of the vibrations through her sensitive core switched and increased yet again. Intense, slow, long thrusts. She gripped the cushions harder, her knuckles turning white.

Zayne was staring at her now, entranced by her every tiny motion. His body ached for her. The air in the office grew colder, contrasting with his fevered skin. Work. He had to work. His fingers delicately traced the remote, as though he were the one touching her, not that little silicon toy. He tore his eyes away from her to look at his computer like it was the bane of his existence. Only eight reports to be filed. The directions said the toy had ten settings. It would be a shame to not let her experience every bit of pampering she deserved. When he looked back at her again, she was slumped against the couch with her eyes closed, panting, hips rolling, lower lip caught between her teeth.

“Why are you holding back, my love?” he whispered tenderly.

He broke his own rules. Click, click. Click.

The vibrations intensified to a punishing degree- too much at once. And the rhythm switched to something wicked- something that made it feel like the toy was thrusting hard and fast against her wet, throbbing clit. Forcing the air out of her lungs with the heated pleasure that built in her. Her lips parted and she let out the sweetest cry, muffled though it was by the glass and walls between them.

“Good girl.” Zayne praised her with reverence when her muffled cry graced his ears. He kept her like that for a while- torturous to her though it may have been. Another click to amp up the vibration. His eyes rolled and nearly fluttered closed as he listened, fists clenched so tightly his nails carved little crescents into his palms. Chilling frost crept along his too-warm skin, melting almost as soon as it formed- making him shiver.

Knots formed in her stomach, like elastic pulled and pulled and pulled too tight. Her pussy squeezed helplessly around nothing. With her eyes screwed shut in pleasure, she could picture him so clearly. Hair hanging in damp, silky tendrils over his eyes as he leaned over her. Muscles tense and twitching as he moved with her body. Scars decorating his skin. Those eyes. Those piercing, yet gentle, adoring eyes bracketed with tension and pleasure. If only she could feel those scars on that soft skin. Hear him say her name. Fill herself with his scent. “Please…. So cl-close- please, please, please- I-I’m-” she begged over and over, words lost in the thick, empty air around her.

“Close?” Zayne spoke through gritted teeth, his breath hissing quietly. Such a beautiful, pleading body. Such pretty, plush lips. So delicate looking from up where he watched her. Her thighs parted and her hands moved there- as if holding herself open for him, despite the cruel fact that he wasn’t there. The fabric of her sundress dipped between her legs, creasing and catching in all the right places. “So perfect, Darling. Just like that.”

Zayne stood from his desk; his cock strained against his black slacks. Small, sleek remote in hand, he walked slowly around his desk to stand at the window. “Just a little more.” He leaned against the window with his forearm. His free hand raked through his black hair before his forehead pressed against the cold glass, fogging up the glass ever so slightly with his hot, staggered breaths. He could practically feel her skin at his fingertips. Taste her on his tongue. What he wouldn’t give to have her wrapped around him. He groaned, cock twitching at the thought. “I love you. I love you.”

Click, click.

“Fuck, I love you.” He murmured a curse at the breathtaking scene that followed.

She screamed his name. Her head pressed back into the couch as a plethora of lewd moans and sobs raked out of her. Her hips lifted from the cushions. One hand bolted to the armrest, the other to the plush of the couch next to her head, gripping as if it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. The thrumming pressure building in her core released, filling her body with its tingling heat. Her eyes opened wide and locked with his.

Ice encroached at the corners of the window as if to frame him like a picture. He was a wreck, leaning against the window over her. Hair messied. Cheeks and ears flushed. Lips parted slightly as his chest heaved. Even from here, his tented bulge was evident. He was beautiful. Her whole body shook under his molten gaze. She watched his lips move.

“My good girl.” Zayne held her there for a moment, suspended in her prolonged high by the continuous pulsing vibration of his little gift to her. That little bullet that he was now growing jealous of. He pressed each button once more. Back to the initial, gentle settings the toy started on. Her body went limp, twitching every now and then with aftershocks. She glistened with dewy sweat in the sunlight that streamed through the windows under his office. For a few breaths, they stayed like that. Holding each other’s gaze. Soaking in what he’d done to her without even being in the same room with her. Pulse racing. Breathless. Then, with a subtle smirk, he slightly lifted his pointer and middle finger to flash the remote pinched between them and stepped away to return to his desk.

In truth, very few reports had actually been sent off. Perhaps this wasn’t the solution Zayne thought it was, but no matter.

He had all day to keep trying.