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sixeyesonathiel · 18 days ago

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a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: dropping this 3.2k teaser before finals devours me like a cursed koi in a reflecting pond. i am but a humble court scribe flinging words into the wind before academia drags me kicking and screaming into its gilded dungeon. this week will be pain. this week will be suffering. this week will be caffeine, tears, and the haunting echo of “you should’ve started studying earlier.”

to my beloved bbs—my ride-or-dies, my imperial council of enablers—i will miss you terribly. i’ll crawl back next week, dehydrated but victorious. until then… read well, thirst responsibly. TAGLIST IS OPEN, COMMENT IF U WANT TO BE ADDED

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe.

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess.

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company.

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will.

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts.

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering.

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one.

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar.

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both.

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos.

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor.

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria.

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs.

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze.

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace.

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor.

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room.

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything.

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read.

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

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kingkaisen · 1 year ago

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“WHERE IS MY WIFE?”

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: curses & curse users have discovered satoru’s greatest weakness, and it’s you, satoru’s sweet, ordinary housewife. after getting kidnapped by gojo’s enemies, he’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ only - mdni - slightly dark content // brief smut, fem reader, feral gojo, canon-typical violence, reader gets kidnapped, reader is wounded/has injuries, angst, fluff/comfort

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5K

♡ —𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I’d count grains of sand if it meant I could spend one minute alone with feral gojo (:

As evening fell, and after a delicious dinner was eaten at the dining table downstairs, Satoru was in the mood for something else now — you.

His pretty housewife would be his dessert.

The apple pie you baked was sitting on the dark marbled counter of the kitchen island, two big slices missing — and the vanilla ice cream tub in the freezer had, of course, two hefty spherical digs in it where the cold treat was scooped out — but, even after his stomach was stuffed after a hard day of fighting curses and teaching his students, Satoru’s head was buried in between your soft thighs, satisfying his other craving.

As your husband moaned softly, his tongue danced around your aching clit. His large hand massaged your thigh. The moonlight pouring in through the big bedroom window shined upon his wedding ring, making it glisten as he rubbed your delicate skin.

“I’ll never get tired of tasting you,” Satoru smiled a bit, his warm breath patting against your wet folds.

“You were made just for me. God, I love it. I love you.”

Two long fingers sunk into your awaiting hole. He attached his soft lips to your clit, sucking on it.

One of your hands gripped at the luxurious pale-cerulean sheets, while your other hand gripped his hair, fingers getting lost in his white locks.

“Satoru!” A sharp moan escaped your dried throat.

Every little noise you made — every moan, every squeak of the thick mattress — it all boasted his desire to please you.

He didn’t stop his licking-sucking-fingering combo until your legs were trembling around his head and he was satisfied with tasting your juices.

Only after devouring your pussy like a starving man feasting on a buffet-style dinner did he rise from his position and make his way across the bed, hovering over you.

With a smile, Satoru leaned down and planted a soft kiss against your lips. But, when he pulled away, he was met with an amused look of disgust.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, furrowing his brows a bit.

“You just kissed me after eating me out,” you said with a little, playful grimace. “That’s nasty.”

“Mrs. Gojo, I mean this in the most respectful way possible, but hush.” Satoru lightly tapped your forehead. “You have swallowed plenty of my-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” shaking your head, you cut off your husband’s naughty sentence, pressing your hand against his lips.

The corners of your mouth burned as you tried to fight off a smile. His latest affectionate nickname was Mrs. Gojo — although it truly wasn’t a nickname due to it technically being your name now — and at every given opportunity, he addressed you that way.

Even after two years of marriage, he was as excited as a freshly wedded man. Your love was a never-ending honeymoon.

You stared into Satoru’s striking blue eyes. He darted his gaze across your gorgeous face, illuminated by the moonlight, and as you ran your fingers through his white hair and he ran his thumb across your cheek, both of you close enough to feel the gentle pats of each other’s breaths on your mesmerizing faces, you both fell in love with each other just a bit more — if that was even possible.

“Can I fuck you now?”

Satoru’s question made a sudden chuckle spilled out from between your lips. He couldn’t help but laugh too.

“You’re a buffoon. I’m trying to admire your beauty and that’s what you open your mouth to say?” You playfully frowned.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a human being call another human being a buffoon out loud before.”

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes humorously. “We need to do our skincare routine first. We have to do it an hour before we go to bed or else we might just rub all the product off. I read that somewhere.”

“Why didn’t we do it before we got into bed in the first place?” Satoru buried his head in the crook of your neck, pouting, but taking a moment to press a little kiss onto your skin.

“Because you were acting as if you were dying of poison and eating me out was the antidote, so I forgot.” you giggled softly.

“Fine, fine,” your husband slowly rolled off of you in defeat. “Skincare routine, nothing more. Please don’t start trying to organize the bath towels.”

“I’m not making any promises,” you said, getting out of bed and following Satoru into the master bathroom.

There, you and your husband stood in front of the big mirror, cleansing and moisturizing your skin as you both chatted about his students, a movie you watched three days ago, and your breakfast plans in the morning.

And it was those sweet little moments that made Satoru’s heart skip a beat. As he flickered his eyes over to your reflection, watching your smother smooth white cream all over your face as you rambled on about a new egg recipe, he couldn’t help but think about how much he loved you.

—

6:00 A.M.

That night ended with soft sex and gentle kisses.

That morning, Satoru’s white eyelashes fluttered open to the early morning sun starting to rise, casting rays through the drawn window curtains and across his comforter.

He squinted his eyes and yawned.

Typically, he was the sort of man who would never wake up at the ungodly hour if he could help it, but the tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling eggs had traveled from the kitchen downstairs to right underneath his nose.

Tossing on his blue house-coat, the grumpy-faced man dragged himself into the kitchen, greeting you with a slightly gruff morning voice and a messy head of hair.

“Good morning, baby,” Satoru walked around the kitchen island and loosely wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging you from behind. “How’d you sleep? I had a nightmare.”

With a spatula in one hand, you flipped the omelet in the skillet on the six-burner stove. With the other hand, you rubbed his arm, enjoying the warmth his hovering hug had brought.

“I slept alright,” you said. “Did the smell wake you up?”

“Always does,” he smiled lazily although you couldn’t see it.

“Well, your drink’s ready,” you gave a nod in the general direction of the silver espresso machine, which hummed as it brewed Satoru’s steamy beverage.

“I don’t deserve you,” Satoru’s arms hugged you tighter, and he showered the side of your head with kisses.

“Stop it,” your sweet laughter only egged him on as you clenched the spatula and leaned back against him even more. “No fooling around when we’re this close to the stove.”

Satoru eventually backed away after giving you one final kiss against your forehead temple.

“If all goes well, I should be back home tomorrow before dark, then we can check out that new restaurant. What do you say? I personally think it’s time for a date.”

The image of you and Satoru sipping on wine and as you wore your favorite dress flashed in your mind, and you smiled. A date night was certainly something to look forward to in light of Satoru’s overnight trip.

Sorcering duties had often taken him on distant work trips. Truth be told, you were lucky his departure would only last around twenty-four hours and not twenty-four days. Although you missed him whenever he would leave, you understood his choice of career. He was a hero.

You happened to be an ordinary human being. You couldn’t see curses. You couldn’t use cursed energy or cursed techniques, but you were fine with that.

“A date sounds fun! I’m excited now.” You took the omelet out of the skillet and placed it on a nearby plate. “And we’re making time to try out that new pottery class too. It sounds like such a cute date idea, don’t you think so?”

“I’m with you. I’ll make the reservations for the restaurant, you can schedule us for pottery-making.” This time, he was the one blissfully picturing you and him spinning messy clay with him sitting behind you and reaching around your body for the pottery wheel, your fingers intertwined as you both created a pot. Satoru smiled at the thought. “Anyway, now that you’re done cooking, can I kiss you?”

You nodded with a cheeky grin, and your husband pressed his lips against yours sweetly.

It was as if some part of him was frightened that he would never get the opportunity to kiss you again.

—

8:37 P.M.

The bright light far above your head flickered briefly as you stood in the pasta aisle at your local grocery store, but you hadn’t noticed it, too fixated on the different brands of spaghetti noodles lying on the shelf above you.

Shopping at night wasn’t preferable, but only after tossing together a simmering pan of sauce did you realize you hadn’t started boiling your noodles yet.

And, with your pot of simmering water ready, you opened the cabinet to see no noodles.

So, here you were, making a last-minute, unplanned trip to the grocery store.

By now, the only sort of pasta noodles left were the ones that a person of average height couldn’t reach. Every box was too high.

You turned your head to the left and to the right.

You even bothered to walk down a few aisles to search for an employee or anyone who might have been tall enough to reach your needed item, but the only other person staggering around was an older blonde-haired woman who was shorter than you were.

Frowning in frustration, you returned to the pasta aisle.

If you had to climb the shelves, so be it.

Suddenly, a kind voice spoke over the calming public-friendly background music playing softly in the store.

“Need some help?”

Whipping your head around, you saw a person — a taller person, thank goodness — who had a smile that was just as sweet as his voice.

“Yes, thank you!” You found that his grin was rather contagious, as you ended up smiling as well. “I just need the spaghetti noodles on the top shelf. Any brand will do.”

The beaming man with long, dark hair stepped forward, and you moved to the side, letting the apparent hero save your day.

He pulled down your desired spaghetti noodles with ease.

“Thanks for your help. My spaghetti sauce won’t go to waste now,” you said politely.

Your eyes darted up to the stitched scar across his forehead, then quickly, you glanced away.

“You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

The man walked down the aisle and left.

There was something familiar about him, oddly enough.

That hair . . . that smile . . .

He reminded you of an old, deceased friend of Satoru’s, one that you hadn’t ever met due to his villainous behavior before his death, but you had seen an old picture of him that he and your husband took during their second year at Jujutsu High, years ago.

As you placed the pasta noodles into your cart, making your way around different aisles to collect a few more items since you were already at the store, you decided that you’d take another look at that photograph once you arrived home, just for peace of mind.

The brown paper bag stuffed with groceries felt rather heavy as you walked down the street, which was brightened by light pouring out of the windows of local businesses that hadn’t yet closed.

You sighed softly.

The dark sky was sparkling with stars. The air was cool and comforting. Soon, you’d have pasta, and perhaps, you’d watch a few episodes of your favorite binge-worthy Netflix show.

If only Satoru was with you.

Chatting with him on the phone a few hours ago only made you miss him even more, but, at least his trip would be a quick one, and soon, you could have dinner with him and listen to his hilarious commentary as you watched television together.

After walking for around five minutes, you were no longer close to the local businesses that made you feel a sense of comfort during your evening stroll.

Now, you had to rely on the occasional streetlight to guide you home.

But that cold air was no longer comforting. It was a chilling breeze that made you clench your grocery bag a bit tighter.

Your footsteps suddenly halted — you could hear something moving in the nearby bushes.

Turning around, you were greeted with nothing but darkness and streetlights. No one else was with you. You kept walking.

However, something wasn’t right.

You might not have been a sorcerer, but you weren’t a fool.

And you had a gut-wrenching feeling that right now, as your wobbly legs guided you home, you were being watched.

You heard that noise again.

The grocery bag crinkled against your chest. You were certain that the bread you purchased was squished by now. If someone was following you, did you really want to unintentionally lead them to your home?

Where should you go? What should you do?

A tear rolled down your cheek from fear.

You were scared. You only wanted to go home, finish your pasta, and watch television.

You didn’t want to deal with such a potentially terrifying situation.

Pulling out your phone, you opened your dial screen.

Your trembling thumb hovered over the buttons, but before you could press anything, a black, disfigured curse appeared in front of you, screeching loudly enough to make you drop everything in your hands and cover your ears, more tears falling as the horrifying monster started to charge at you.

You tried to run in the other direction, but it was too late.

The last thing you saw before you were engulfed by darkness was that man from the grocery store standing on the sidewalk, that same sweet smile on his familiar face.

—

12:27 A.M.

Satoru’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, as he had spent most of the night tossing and turning because you weren’t lying next to him. But, apparently, he did manage to catch a couple of hours of shut-eye.

When he awakened, there was a terrible ache in his heart. Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, and beads of sweat decorated his forehead. His throat was dried to a crisp.

He was all alone in his dark hotel room.

He couldn’t hear you.

He couldn’t see you.

And yet, somehow, someway, thanks to his great power, he knew that his wife was calling for him.

—

The overwhelming scent of old, wet, musky wood and dust would never be forgotten by your memory. A lifetime of therapy would never be able to erase the paralyzing fear you felt, sitting on the cold, hard ground of an abandoned cabin with your hands bound behind your back.

Maybe the fear wasn’t completely paralyzing, though. Your body seemed to tremble with terror just fine.

The sight of it made Suguru Geto — no, Kenjaku chuckle.

He kept his eye on you for no other reason besides his entertainment, as watching you himself was pointless considering he had two frightening curses looming over you.

Once, Satoru shared a fun fact with you: regular human beings cannot see curses unless they are about to die.

That fact was certainly interesting when the two of you were strolling through the beautiful park, a red and white striped blanket in your hand and a picnic basket in his. But, now, that fact only made sweat drip off of your scarred forehead, because you could see the two, black, disfigured curses.

It was a telltale sign that you could die.

“I haven’t had the displeasure of meeting him myself,” Kenjaku suddenly spoke, relaxing in a chair he had positioned a few feet away from the corner you were trapped in. “But I have seen memories of Satoru Gojo that belonged to this body I’ve inhabited. And, I must say, I couldn’t imagine that his wife would be such a weakling. It’s truly pathetic.”

Even if you wanted to reply to him, fear had snatched away your ability to speak. It created a lump in your throat that couldn’t be swallowed down.

“My best guess is that he needs someone boring and ordinary in his life to keep house while he’s busy saving the world. You’re just the cook and maid with a ring on her finger, hm?”

“He loves me.”

Your voice was small — it was a painfully perfect reflection of how you felt on the inside. Weak and pathetic.

“Oh?” Kenjaku raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Believe it or not, I hope you’re right, or else kidnapping you was a waste of time.”

Your chains rattled as you shifted in your spot on the floor, scooting as far into the corner as you could get. An ache shot up your spine from the wall pressing into your back. Pulling your knees to your chest, more tears slipped from your eyes.

“Aw, don’t cry,” he falsely cooed. “Surely you’ve wondered why the world’s strongest sorcerer would settle for someone who forgets to double-check all of their ingredients before they start cooking, haven’t you? It’s not because of love, or anything of the sort. It’s because those who are deeply insecure would do anything to please anyone who looks their way. Only an ordinary, desperate housewife with low self-esteem and no ambition would waste time caring for a man who risks his life saving strangers. What would make you think he cares for you when he spends more time with curses than his own wife? Helping strangers more than his own family? Think about it.”

Kenjaku’s hurtful words were met with silence, but he didn’t stop speaking.

“I bet you’re nothing but a burden to him. Someone like him probably hates being tied down, but marrying a fool who contributes nothing to society is the only way he can get someone else to handle his laundry while he’s busy working hard, hm? He must carry around divorce papers, ready to serve them to you the day you forget to buy detergent from the grocery store.” Kenjaku’s smile brightened. “Oh, that reminds me. You dropped your detergent and other groceries on the road earlier, by the way. Looks like you’re useless now.”

“You . . .” your teary eyes flickered from him to the hovering curses. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. None of that’s true.”

“You have to believe that I’m speaking honestly, Y/N.” Kenjaku sighed with fake sincerity. “My entire plan rests on the hope that Satoru Gojo is foolish enough to try to rescue you. You see, when you want to lure someone out, the proper way to do it is by discovering their weaknesses. When I found out about you, I was hoping that you would be his weakness. That I could use you to lure him out. Then I met you, and, well, you’re simply disappointing. Sorry to break it to you, but I have memories of the old conversations Satoru used to have with Suguru, and being tied down to a powerless housewife was certainly not how he imagined his future. But, I figured I’d try anyway, and so here you are, and he’s not here to rescue you. What a shame. I bet he’s hoping I’ll kill you so he’ll be free.”

He was lying. He had to be. Satoru loved you more than anything . . . right?

The thought had crossed your mind before; why did Satoru want to be with someone powerless? And this villain’s plan to lure out your husband relied on his hope that he’d come to rescue you out of love, so how would it benefit him to convince you Satoru didn’t love you?

Maybe he was right.

After all, if Satoru cared for you, he would have saved you by now. Where was he?

You couldn’t help but cry even harder.

“Please let me go home,” your tears clouded your vision. “Please let me go.”

“Well, you should know that I hate wasting time,” Kenjaku rested his chin in the palm of his hand, elbow pressing into the arm of the chair he sat in. “I can’t let you leave. I won’t let the effort I put into kidnapping you be a total waste.”

Kenjaku’s smile widened, and suddenly, the curses started to move towards you.

—

1:45 A.M.

The subway station was isolated. No ordinary human beings were lurking around, and Satoru was relieved. Right now, he’d kill anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

His shoes gently shuffled against the ground as he made his way into the middle of the big, bright opening, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into the skin of his palm, hard enough to draw blood.

Two special grade cursed spirits emerged. He recognized them both from a previous fight in the woods.

Volcano head. Asparagus.

“Satoru Gojo,” Jogo suddenly said. “We didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to-”

“Where is my wife?”

When Satoru interrupted the curse, his voice was low. Dark. Startling.

Blood dripped from his palms and splattered onto the ground.

“I was drawn here, but she isn’t here, is she? Where is she? Tell me now, and I’ll kill you quickly instead of slowly.”

Jogo chuckled a bit. Satoru dug his nails into his palm even more.

“Bring us the vessel, Yuji Itadori, and we’ll return that worthless-”

The two curses didn’t have time to blink — weren’t able to register in their minds that Satoru had moved from his previous spot until Jogo was lifted off of the ground and thrown into the flickering light fixture above, shattering it and causing sparks to rain down onto the ground below, where he then fell.

Satoru stepped on Jogo’s head, squishing it underneath his black shoe.

“I remember you. You’re stubborn, right?” Satoru gritted his teeth. “Who the hell do you think you are to take her from me? Whoever you work for must want you dead if they’re stupid enough to send you on a suicide mission. You think I’ll let you leave here alive after this?”

“If you kill us, you’ll never see her again,” the other cursed spirit, Hanami, suddenly spoke up. “Bring us the vessel, and she lives.”

When Satoru suddenly stopped moving, it was only to ensure that he had heard the cursed spirit correctly.

“Did you just threaten . . .” Satoru removed his blindfold, “to kill my wife?”

It was only a matter of time before the branches attached to Hanami’s head were ripped out, and Jogo was beheaded. The subway was reduced to nothing except crumbling walls and darkness. While the cursed spirits were teetering dangerously between life and death, there wasn’t a scratch on Satoru. Instead, there was a smile.

This was simply the consequence of their actions. This was what happened to anyone who laid a hand on his girl.

Hanami’s body was on the brink of collapse as it was forced to come in contact with Satoru’s cursed technique — a blue shield-like piece of infinity that distorted and manipulated both time and space, protecting the sorcerer from attacks and rendering Hanami powerless.

Hanami’s eyes darted over to their beheaded ally — they couldn’t help him.

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” Satoru’s eyes widened. His smile grew. He slowly turned, facing Hanami, and blasted him back against the nearest wall without lifting a finger. “Where is my wife?”

—

2:39 A.M.

Kenjaku had never understood the concept of love, and, perhaps, that was why he failed.

Satoru’s love for you was his weakness, that was true, but it also turned out to be his greatest strength, and this was a fight Kenjaku couldn’t win.

Not today.

One of his curses, which had been traveling to and fro to observe what was currently taking place in the subway station and reporting it back to Kenjaku, had informed him that Jogo and Hanami were on the brink of death.

He couldn’t lose them yet. They were too powerful, and he needed their help for his future plans.

Kenjaku left the cabin, taking his curses with him.

And, without their cursed energy purposely making it difficult for Satoru to find you, he was able to pinpoint your exact location.

It appeared in his powerful mind as he was ripping Hanami apart limb by limb, and he wasn’t a fool. He didn’t know who was behind all of this, but it was clear that the mastermind had suddenly decided to let your whereabouts be tracked down in order to save Hanami and Jogo.

He didn’t want to make that deal. He wanted to kill these two, bring them back to life, and kill them over again. Their pain brought him joy, all because they took part in your capture.

But Satoru didn’t want his bloodlust to backfire. After all, if he killed the cursed spirits now, the person who held you captive could change their mind and move you someplace else and hide your location yet again, or, worse — they could kill you.

That wasn’t a chance he was willing to take.

Satoru stopped using his technique. But, as he left the subway station, he promised himself that eventually, he would kill those two. He would kill anyone and everyone involved.

But you came first.

You would always come first.

—

He found you.

When Satoru kicked open the door belonging to a raggedy, abandoned cabin, the scent of blood overwhelmed him. It dirtied his boots as he kneeled by your side. Your unconscious, bleeding body was lying there, simply left on the ground as if you were nothing.

“Y/N . . .” Satoru called out breathlessly.

He took the chains off of you instantly, his bloodshot eyes darting over every gaping wound.

It was indescribable — the anger he felt. He wanted to return to the subway and finish off those cursed spirits, to make them suffer and suffer and suffer.

But tending to you took priority right now. Satoru scooped up your broken and bruised body, holding you as softly as he could. A tear fell from his eye, splattering against your cheek.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” he spoke gently.

Your eyelids fluttered as you awakened. An overwhelming sense of pain slammed into you once you regained consciousness, and hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Prior to this, the only pain you had ever known was the wholesome body ache from tripping and falling while playing outside with your friends as a child. But this level of misery took away your ability to speak. Left you wondering if you were going to die.

You could make out stains of your blood on Satoru’s clothes.

Even so, you could tell based on the pained look on his face that he was suffering even more just from seeing you in such a condition.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he mumbled, slowly getting off the ground as he carried you. “This is all my fault. They did this to you because of me. I’m so sorry.”

Satoru raised you a bit, gently pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.

He’d give anything to switch places with you right now — to be the one in unspeakable pain. Why couldn’t they have kidnapped him? Tortured him? If he had the power to take away your suffering and give it to himself, he would. For you, not only would he kill, but he’d die, repeatedly and without a second thought or a moment of hesitation.

As Satoru took you to the nearest hospital, his tears spilling onto your body, he said, “We’re almost there, okay? I promise I’ll make them pay for this, and no one will ever lay a hand on you again.”

Arriving into the uncomforting white halls of the emergency room, Satoru handed you off to the nurses and doctors who rushed up to him. But, before they placed you on the nearest stretcher, Satoru kissed your forehead once again as unconsciousness claimed you, and he whispered, “I love you, Y/N.”

—

10:02 A.M.

Two days later, you awakened in a hospital bed. This time, pain didn’t greet you, but grogginess and blurred vision. The gentle beeps from the nearby machines certainly didn’t help your pounding headache.

Your sight started to clear up after blinking a few times.

Soft strands of hair tickled your arm, and when you looked to your left, you saw Satoru slumped in a chair, his head resting in his arms on the side of your bed. You reached over and ruffled his messy white hair a bit.

He shot up, startled. His blue eyes were wide with alarm, then they softened with gratefulness, but, lastly, they darted down with sorrow.

“Y/N . . . thank god, you’re awake.” Satoru croaked out in his morning voice, clearing his throat a bit. He was dehydrated — too focused on your recovery to worry about himself. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so . . .”

Satoru got out of his chair, sat on the side of your bed, and leaned over, resting the side of his head against your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s not your fault,” you mumbled weakly. “It’s mine.”

Satoru pulled his head away from you, staring at you with furrowed brows and a confused gaze.

“What? No, it’s not.”

You couldn’t find the courage to look him in the eye. Kenjaku’s words replayed in your mind. They hurt just as much as getting attacked by curses.

As if reading your thoughts, Satoru cupped your chin, turning your head back in his direction.

“Look at me,” he said. “What happened wasn’t your fault. I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care if you can’t fight curses-”

“You’re just saying that . . . because I’m kinda useful to you. But I’m easily replaceable. Speaking honestly, I’m a burden. You had to come save my life, and put yourself in danger. I’m not worth it.”

“You think I married you because you’re useful?” Hurt flashed in Satoru’s piercing eyes. “I’m in love with you, and you’ll never be a burden. I don’t care if you can’t fight curses. You’re my wife for a reason, and that’s because there’s nothing greater than seeing you get excited over finding your favorite snack at the grocery store or seeing the way you smile when your favorite scene from a show comes on, and you sit there and watch it as if you haven't seen it a thousand times. I love the way your eyes light up when you find a new activity in town for us to try, or a new book to read, or a new recipe. God, I just . . . I love you. I love you more than anything. I don’t know how you’re able to put up with someone like me. Every day I wonder how I got so lucky because I don’t deserve you. You’re too good for me, and I haven’t met anyone as loving as you are. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Do you understand me? I’d kill and die for you.”

Satoru gently wiped away the tear that fell from your eyes with his thumb.

“I love you too,” you smiled softly, leaning into his touch. “I’m sorry we missed our dinner reservations and the pottery class.”

Satoru couldn’t help but lean in and kiss your cheek.

“I’ve already rescheduled two weeks out.”

Moving away from your cheek, your husband softly kissed your lips. And while he had spent time rescheduling your date night and making sure you were receiving the excellent care you deserved while in the hospital, he was also hard at work, tracking down the monsters that dared to lay a hand on you.

He would make them suffer.

🏷️: @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @levisfavoriteteashop @insomniacbehaivour @preciousamethyst @kxmorrx @iwanttohitmyself @shoyosdoll @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @sonarspace @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @nnasv @hyunorue

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mochatai · 1 year ago

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Deja vu starts playing in the backround…

🏎️💀🐟

#See your body..#Into the moonlight #Even if I try to cancel…#Poggers art #undertale #digital art #so pudding in a cup #I eat #and devour

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buttered-water · 5 months ago

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Wings of Fire: Devoured Moonlight | Chapter 2

“Very good,” he says, staring at the contract; unfazed by the contract dissolving into black smoke in his hands. “Time is something no one can escape. It delivers us all to the same end. You can't cover your ears or close your eyes… Wishing won't make it go away.” the boy says, staring unblinkingly at Moonwatcher. As the boy raises his hand, almost as if he wanted a handshake, his body begins to disappear, almost as if it was melting into the darkness of their surroundings “I’ll see you later…”

“Who’s there?!”

Moonwatcher startled, quickly turning to the source of the voice. She sees a female dragonet, looking to be around the same age as her, panicked and breathing heavily. Her scales were yellow with pink dotted patterns; probably a Rainwing. “How can you be… But it's…! It can't be…” the Rainwing said in a ready stance, holding what looked like a silver gun at her side. As she begins to raise the weapon…

“WAIT!” someone shouted behind them as a bright light dashed down the stairs like a ball of fire, raising the temperature around them.

“...!” the Rainwing startled, quickly stares back at the bright light

1:00

“The lights…” the Rainwing says as the lights suddenly turn on all at once. Illuminating the room, letting Moonwatcher see better. As her eyes adjusted to the light she could see that the bright light was not, in fact, a miniature sun, but a dragon; A bright orange dragon with light blue eyes, flames continuously coming out of her body. Moonwatcher could feel the temperature rise as the dragon walked up to her

“Well you certainly arrived late—the name’s Peril. I'm one of the students who live in this dorm” Peril said calmly

“...Who’s she?” the Rainwing whispered, weary of Moonwatcher

“She’s the new transfer student. Clay and the others assigned her here as a last-minute decision. She’ll eventually be moved to the academy” Peril turns to the rainwing and says quietly

“...Is it ok for her to be here?” the rainwing whispers to Peril, her eyes still glued to Moonwatcher

“I guess we’ll see…” Peril sighs before turning back towards Moonwatcher and pointing to the rainwing “This is Kinkajou. She’ll be a junior this spring, just like you”

“…Hi, I'm Kinkajou,” Kinkajou says quickly, seemingly not wanting to talk while looking away.

Moonwatcher wanted to say something, probably her name. However, her mouth was moving faster than her mind. “What’s with the gun?” She blurted out.

“Huh?” Kinkajou said startled, “Um, well, it's sorta like a hobby… Well, not a hobby, but…” She mumbled, continuously cutting herself off, unsure how to explain herself.

As she struggles to come up with an explanation, Peril quickly takes a step forward “You know how it is these days; the war only ended around seven months ago. It's for self-defense” Peril explained. “I mean it's not a real gun, of course.” she quickly added on, sensing Moonwatcher's unease, “anyways It's getting late. You'll find your room on the 3rd floor. Your things should already be there. I suggest you tuck in for the night.” Peril said, clearly trying to move along from the awkwardness of the conversation.

“Oh... I'll show you the way. Just follow me.” Kinkajou said as she and Moonwatcher walked up the stairs towards the 3rd-floor hallway, at the furthest door...

“This is it… Seems easy to remember, huh? ...Since it's right at the end of the hall. So, any questions?” She said smiling

“Yeah umm… What was that contract for?” Moonwatcher asks

“Huh? What contract?” Kinkajou asks puzzled

Kinkajou doesn't seem to know what you're talking about…

Kinkajou begins to walk away, but she stops and looks back at Moonwatcher ”I'm sure you still have other questions, but let's save them for later, okay? Good night.” She says before walking downstairs

Moonwatcher opens the door, walks into her room, and passes out from exhaustion

Previous | Next

Authors Note:

Hey guys, sorry this took so long to get out. I got extremely sick and couldn't look at screens, which meant no writing. I know the dialogue is similar to the game, but I promise the writing will differ more from the next chapter onwards :3. Next chapter will also be longer

#wings of fire #wof #persona #persona 3 #wof au #moonwatcher wof #Devoured Moonlight #p3 protagonist #wof x persona #wings of fire moonwatcher #wof moonwatcher #persona 3 femc

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solefi · 1 month ago

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To Be Devoured

𓂃𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

| 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

〻(muse.) park sunghoon

〻(wc.) 15.1k

〻(genre.) vampire au! smut. dark romance.

〻(cont.) fem! reader. description of female anatomy. unprotected sex. making out. soft dom! hoon, but he turns into hard dom! hoon. virginity loss. fingering. cunnilingus. multiple positions. overstimulation. squirting. mentions of cum. mentions of blood. hoonie feeding. basically porn with no plot.

She is already limp under him, but Sunghoon is a man of his world. His beloved begged to be used, claimed, broken—and he's going to deliver.

You lie beneath him, your breath feathering the air between you, shallow and trembling. The room is lit only by the silver wash of moonlight through velvet curtains, painting your skin in soft shadows he traces with his eyes—eyes that have seen centuries pass, but have never lingered like this. Never stayed.

His touch comes slow, deliberate. Fingers that once crushed bone and wielded power like a god now ghost along your waist, reverent. As though he’s afraid to break you. As though you’re made of something more fragile than glass and more precious than anything he’s ever known.

He exhales softly through his nose as his hands travel upward, brushing the dip just beneath your ribs. You flinch slightly, more from the intimacy than surprise, though the coldness of his skin also plays a part. He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trembling, my love,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rich.

Then his hands shift again, climbing higher, until they find your breasts. He cups them with both hands, gently—thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks, slowly, like he’s learning you by memory. As though this moment could stretch on forever, and it still wouldn’t be long enough for him.

He leans down, lips hovering just over your collarbone. You can feel the coolness of his breath. Hear the restraint in it.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he whispers, the words sinking into your skin. “It’s so loud… like it’s calling out to me.”

He doesn’t move to take more—not yet. He just holds you, listens, worships with touch alone. His thumbs stroke you, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. You feel the tension building in the pit of your stomach, slow and warm. It’s not overwhelming, not yet. But he’s not rushing.

He’s savoring.

Because tonight, he’s not just going to take your purity. He’s going to earn it—inch by inch, breath by breath.

He doesn’t move up or down, not right away. He just stays, thumbing your nipples with careful strokes until your back begins to arch beneath him, and your breath trembles again, this time from want.

“Patience,” he says, soft but firm, a smile in his voice. “Let me love you slowly.”

His hands slide back down, fingers splaying over your stomach. He traces the soft plane there, dipping into the gentle curve of your navel, brushing featherlight over the sensitive skin just below it. Your hips twitch instinctively, but he hushes you with a press of his lips to your shoulder.

Then he begins to move—lower, but not where you ache. Not yet. His mouth follows the path of his hands, scattering kisses along your ribs, your side, the curve of your waist. His fangs don’t touch you—only his lips, plush and cool, searing heat in their wake.

He shifts, nudging your thighs apart with one knee, settling between them without pressing forward. His palms wrap around the outside of your thighs, slowly sliding down until he’s at your knees.

And then he does something simple—he kisses the inside of your knee.

You hadn’t expected it to feel that intimate. But it did. You felt it high in your chest and low in your belly. That place between your thighs pulsed with sudden, aching heat, as though your body understood before your mind could. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim.

He stays there a moment, as though your knees, your thighs, deserve the same worship as your lips or breasts. Then another kiss, a little higher. Then again. And again.

He kisses the hollow of your ankle, the tender dip where shin meets foot, then moves back up—taking his time. You feel his lips on the swell of your calf, soft and lingering. You didn’t know that part of you could be so sensitive. But under his mouth, it’s like your skin has bloomed—become something fragile and new.

Each time he lifts his mouth from you, the air feels cold. Each return is a blessing.

By the time his mouth reaches the softest part of your inner thigh, your fingers are clutching the sheets.

He chuckles softly, eyes flicking up. “Even here, you taste like devotion.”

He doesn’t go further. Instead, he shifts to your other leg, starting over—kissing the outside of your knee, your calf, even your ankle, before trailing back up. You feel every breath, every brush of his lips as if it’s branding you.

Only when he’s kissed both thighs, both hips, and every inch between does he rest his cheek gently on your lower belly, just below your navel. His arms encircle your waist, holding you like something irreplaceable.

“I could stay here forever,” he murmurs. “Do you understand that? Your body… It’s not just beautiful, it means so much more. And by the end of tonight, it will belong to me.”

Then he kisses just above your mound, achingly slow. Not quite where you want him—but close. His lips hover, teasing.

Your skin is aflame, not with fire, but with something slower—thicker. Every kiss Sunghoon lays on your body leaves behind a pulse, like an echo that ripples through your nerves long after his lips have moved on.

He shifts slightly and presses a kiss just below your hipbone. Then another, on the opposite side. His hands stroke your thighs, smoothing down the tension, murmuring something low in a language you don’t recognize. It sounds ancient. Reverent.

Your breathing comes faster now. You feel open. Not just your body, but something deeper. Your chest feels exposed, your heart trembling inside your ribs. You don’t feel afraid. Just… vulnerable. Raw. Like you’re giving yourself away, piece by piece, and every piece matters.

Then he moves higher.

His mouth finds the underside of your breast—a place untouched, unnoticed. And he lingers. He kisses there softly, then drags his lips to the side of your ribcage, and then to the curve of your breast, never quite reaching your nipple. It’s maddening. And exquisite.

Every brush of his lips pulls a new sound from you—a gasp, a whimper, a whispered plea that you don’t even realize you’ve made.

You feel like you’re floating. Like your body is unraveling in slow motion.

He’s doing this. With just his mouth, his hands, and that impossibly calm voice that cuts through your haze like silk.

“I can feel you surrendering,” he says, lifting his head to look at you. “It’s beautiful.”

And it is. You’ve never felt so seen before. So known. Not just your body, but the hidden parts of you. The secret hunger you never voiced. The craving to be touched not just with lust, but with purpose.

And he gives it to you.

His hand slides back up your chest, palm warm now from your skin. He cups your breast again, this time brushing his thumb slowly over your nipple, watching how your lips part.

You feel everything: the rush of heat between your thighs, the fluttering in your stomach, the way your toes curl into the sheets. It’s overwhelming—but not too much. It’s just enough to make you ache.

He leans down again and kisses the top of your breast, then just beneath your throat, and finally, your lips—slow, deep, like he’s drinking from you.

You taste yourself in his mouth. Want. Wonder. Need.

And still… he’s holding back. Worshipping you with lips and hands, teaching you the art of desire—before he even thinks of taking what you’ve offered.

His hand begins its descent.

You feel it, even before he moves—just the intent in his posture makes your thighs tighten, your breath catch. One hand stays on your waist, holding you steady, grounding you as the other travels lower, fingertips tracing that familiar path over your navel, your belly… until it hovers just above the place where your heat has been building for what feels like hours.

You can feel yourself clenching—wanting, waiting.

He watches your face as his fingers finally brush down, between your thighs. His touch is light at first, barely there, but even that sends a jolt through your entire body. And then he finds you.

Two fingers slip between your folds, slow, precise. He parts you gently, stroking down the center until he finds the source of your wetness. He doesn’t push in. He simply lingers there, sliding his fingers through the slick arousal pooling at your core.

His breath catches faintly, and his eyes darken.

“My love…” he murmurs, his voice hushed and reverent, “You’re drenched.”

The words shouldn’t make you blush as hard as they do—but they do. He’s not mocking. He’s marveling. Like your body has given him a secret, and he’s honored just to witness it.

He brings those fingers up, just slightly, and spreads the wetness across your folds with practiced gentleness. Each movement is slow, exploratory, like he’s studying the way your body reacts—how you twitch when he brushes your clit too lightly, how your hips rise when he glides lower again.

“You ache for more,” he says softly, kissing your temple. “I can feel it in the way your body pulses under my hand.”

Then, without asking—because your body has already answered—he slides two fingers down again. This time, he presses inward. Just enough to feel the resistance.

You tense, instinctively. You never imagined it would feel like this. The stretch is foreign, but his voice, his hand on your leg, the warmth in his gaze… they guide you through it.

“Shhh…” he whispers, stroking your thigh with his free hand. “Let me in slowly. Let me prepare you. You’re so tight, sweetheart. So perfect.”

He draws back just a little, circling your entrance, gathering more of your wetness before trying again, pushing his fingers in with agonizing care.

The moment his fingers breach you—even just a little—your entire body seems to fold inward around the sensation. It’s not pain. It’s not even discomfort. It’s pressure—a firm, stretching fullness that sends a ripple of awareness from your core to the edges of your limbs.

Your breath catches. Your thighs tense. Your walls clench around him instinctively, like your body is trying to hold him there, to make sense of the invasion.

You feel impossibly full, and he’s barely inside you. The realization sends a dizzying heat through your belly—tight and low—and your body pulses around his fingers again, your entrance fluttering.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he breathes, now buried just the first knuckle deep. “You feel like heaven. You don’t even know how badly I want to lose myself in you.”

But he doesn’t.

He’s still patient. Still gentle. His fingers move in slow, shallow thrusts, coaxing your body open inch by inch. Preparing you. Worshipping you with every stroke.

And all the while, your heart beats wildly against your ribs. Your skin burns. Your thoughts dissolve into a haze of need.

Because you know what’s coming.

And the thought of him replacing those fingers with something deeper, something more—it’s enough to make your body tighten around the digits already inside you, your hips rising greedily to meet them.

And he feels it.

You’re soaking.

You didn’t know you could be this wet. But you are. You feel the slick heat coating his fingers, easing their path as he slowly presses deeper—just a little more, pausing again as your walls tighten reflexively.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let your body open for me.”

You try. You let your lungs fill, and as you exhale, your body gives just enough. He sinks in a little farther, and your jaw drops, a soft moan slipping from you before you can stop it.

His fingers curve gently inside you, stroking the tender walls—not rough or fast, just steady, exploratory. You can feel the ridges of your inner muscles reacting to him, gripping him, trying to memorize the shape of him.

And god, the stretch.

It’s not overwhelming—but it feels. You feel everything. Every inch he moves, every subtle shift in angle, sends a cascade of sensation up your spine.

Your thighs tremble. Your stomach tightens. Your lips part around a breathless gasp as he curls his fingers ever so slightly—and that… that makes your entire body jolt.

A spike of pleasure blooms inside you—quick, sharp, then slowly unraveling. Your inner walls clench around him in response, and your wetness gushes, coating his hand.

You hear the soft sound of it—your arousal—and it makes your cheeks burn, but also… something else.

Need.

Raw, consuming need.

Because now that you’ve felt this, now that your body is giving way to him, you want more. Deeper. Harder. You want to be taken. Not carelessly—but like this. Like you matter. Like your pleasure is everything.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“You’re gripping me so tightly,” he says, voice low and warm against your ear. “Your body wants this. It’s begging.”

His fingers slide out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he pushes back in, deeper this time. Your walls stretch again, fluttering around him, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

He begins to move in a rhythm now—slow thrusts, each one sending a new wave of sensation through your lower body. It’s not just your core that reacts. Your nipples tighten, your thighs quake, your mouth opens around soft, helpless moans that echo in the quiet room.

And you can feel the tension building.

It coils low in your belly, a warm, tight knot of pressure that grows with each stroke of his fingers, each brush of his knuckle, each shift in angle as he curls just right.

Your hips begin to rock into his hand without thought. You’re chasing it now. The pressure. The high.

And Sunghoon watches, his gaze dark, hungry, but still so unbearably gentle.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Let go. Let me feel you cum around my fingers.”

And you know he will keep going. Keep working your body until it shatters around him. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s worship. And you’re the altar.

Your hips have taken on a rhythm of their own now, rolling against his hand in small, desperate movements. You’re not thinking anymore. You can’t. The pressure coiling deep inside you is too tight, too fierce. It’s all-consuming, every nerve in your body trained on the place where his fingers slide in and out of you with reverent precision.

Sunghoon stays focused—never speeding up, never slowing, just holding you there on the edge, perfectly balanced between madness and release.

And then he curls his fingers again.

There.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—your back arching as that spot inside you explodes with pleasure, the wave hitting so hard it steals the air from your lungs.

“Oh—” The sound tears from your throat, ragged and raw.

Your walls clamp around him, fluttering wildly. You can feel the gush of wetness pouring out of you, soaking his fingers, your thighs, the sheets beneath. But there’s no room for embarrassment. There’s no room for anything.

Because the climax crashes over you in a rush of heat and light, white-hot and unrelenting.

Your hands clutch at the sheets. Your thighs close in around his wrist, trembling violently as the pleasure crests, then crests again, pulsing through you in waves that don’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, broken gasps. Your heart hammers against your ribs, loud and frantic.

And through it all, he never stops.

His fingers keep moving, slow but firm, dragging every last drop of sensation from your shuddering body. You can feel yourself pulsing around him, squeezing, trying to milk the pleasure for all it’s worth. Your core clenches with each aftershock, your body not ready to let him go.

You’ve lost control. Completely.

Your lips part in a silent moan, your neck arched, your whole body stretched tight around the center of that pleasure like a string pulled to breaking.

And still… he doesn’t stop.

He watches your face, drinking in every twitch, every helpless sound you make. His free hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, his voice a low murmur, threading through the haze:

“That’s it, sweetheart… Look at how beautifully you fall apart for me. You were made for this. For me.”

The words only send another shiver through your spine. You didn’t think you could cum harder. But you do. Your body convulses, hips jerking uncontrollably as another wave seizes you. You gasp—sob, almost—your voice cracking from the intensity.

You don’t know how long it lasts.

All you know is the weightlessness. The loss of yourself. The way your mind blanks, drowned under the sheer power of your own pleasure. You can’t speak. Can’t think. You can only feel—and it feels like you’re being remade from the inside out.

When the wave finally begins to ease, you collapse into the mattress, boneless. As he withdraws his fingers, your body clenches around the absence. And from that perfect, trembling space between your thighs, a glistening string of arousal stretches—clinging to his fingertips, to your folds, like your body refuses to let him go.

The sight alone is obscene.

Delicate. Vivid. Sacred.

His gaze darkens. His cock throbs, twitching with need—restrained only by the years he’s mastered his own control. But this… this is different. No kingdom has ever made him feel like this. No blood. No war. No century.

Only you.

Your scent is rich now—intimate, warm, laced with the raw edge of climax. It clings to his fingers, to the air, to him. He lifts his hand, the one slick with your arousal, and parts his lips.

And then he tastes you.

Slowly.

His tongue glides along the length of his index finger, savoring the silken wetness, letting the flavor bloom on his tongue. Salty-sweet. Earthy. Utterly you.

His eyes flutter closed for just a moment.

It’s not just the taste—it’s the meaning of it. The fact that this wetness came from you, from the body he worshipped, from the pleasure he coaxed out of your untouched core. You gave him this. Not through pain or force, but through the softest surrender.

And now you’re lying there, boneless and glowing, your thighs still parted, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run miles through a dream.

He opens his eyes again and stares at you. There’s reverence in his gaze—but also something darker now. Hungrier. Deeper.

“I’ve tasted many things in my life,” he says, his voice low, tight with restraint. “But none have ever stayed with me.”

He slips the second finger into his mouth. Slower this time. Watching you.

“But you,” he murmurs around it, his eyes heavy with desire, “You linger. You ruin me.”

He swallows slowly, and for the first time tonight, his composure falters. He shifts—his body hard and aching, the press of his arousal unmistakable. He’s still holding back. But only barely.

Your pleasure has marked him.

Not just your arousal on his tongue, but your trust. Your body, so soft and willing beneath his. Your moans. Your trembling thighs. Your first orgasm given entirely to him.

And now—he wants more.

He wants to take you fully. To feel that wet, trembling heat stretch around the full length of him. To bury centuries of restraint between your thighs and lose himself in the warmth of your purity.

But not yet.

He leans over you, brushing his lips along your throat, and whispers:

“Do you feel what you’ve done to me?”

His hips press down—just enough for you to feel the weight of him against your entrance. Still clothed. Still restrained. But solid. Throbbing.

You’re still trembling, your body soft and spent, slick and open. But he doesn’t let you fall into the haze of afterglow. Not yet.

Not when he is trembling, too.

“I haven’t even claimed you yet,” he says, his breath hot against your skin, “and already… I belong to you.”

There’s something in the air. It feels changed. Charged. You feel it before he moves, like a storm building beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at you, and his expression is… ravenous. But not wild. No. This is the kind of hunger born from centuries of control finally cracking.

You’ve woken something inside him.

His hand slides back down between your thighs, gentle but insistent, spreading you once more. And you don’t resist. You can’t. Not when your body is still aching, your core still pulsing faintly, needy even in its sensitivity.

He settles between your legs again, lowering himself slowly, as if in reverence to something sacred.

And then you feel it.

His breath.

Warm and steady, ghosting over your already-wet folds. It makes you shiver. Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he places a firm, commanding hand on your hip to keep you open.

You glance down, and his eyes are locked on your center like a starving man denied too long.

“I need to taste you again,” he says, voice like gravel softened by silk. “I haven’t felt this kind of hunger since the night I was turned.”

You open your mouth to speak, to say yes, to tell him to take what he wants—but the words catch in your throat.

Because he doesn’t wait.

His mouth descends, and this time… he doesn’t hold back.

The first stroke of his tongue is broad and slow, dragging from your entrance to your clit in a single, devastating pass. The contact steals your breath. Your hips lift off the bed, and a broken sound escapes you—half-moan, half-shock.

He groans against you. Deep. Like a man drinking ambrosia. Like he’s been dying for this.

And then he dives in again.

His tongue works you open with expert pressure—circling, flicking, then flattening again. He laps at your folds like a man possessed, the soft sounds of his mouth against your soaked heat sending heat racing up your spine.

You can feel the wet slide of his tongue parting you, dipping just inside your entrance, then dragging upward to swirl around your clit. Every motion is deliberate. No hesitation. No mercy.

Your legs start to shake.

You reach for something—anything—hands scrambling until they find his hair, soft and thick between your fingers. You clutch at it, not pulling him away, but closer.

“Sunghoon—” His name spills from your lips, cracked and desperate.

He hums in response, the vibration rippling through your entire pelvis. You cry out, your body jolting.

He doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

He alternates between slow, languid licks and short, fast flicks of his tongue directly over your clit—each one sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core. And just when you think you might fall apart again, he flattens his tongue and sucks gently, then harder.

Your whole body locks, and it is on fire.

Your vision goes white at the edges.

The tension that had only just begun to fade is rebuilding with terrifying speed, the coil snapping back into place, tighter and hotter.

And through it all, he holds you open with one hand on your thigh, the other wrapped around your hip, anchoring you to the bed, to him.

You’re soaked, breathless, legs trembling around his head. His mouth is relentless—each swipe of his tongue building pressure deeper in your core, making your clit ache with hypersensitivity. You can feel it growing again—that hot, maddening tension—but it’s just out of reach. You’re teetering, clutching the edge with fingers made of smoke.

You need something.

And then you feel it.

His fingers.

They return without warning—slick and sure, sliding back into you with the same reverence as before, but now paired with the hunger of a man who wants to feel you cum hard.

He groans against your clit as your walls stretch to take him again, two fingers plunging into your heat with a wet, obscene sound that only makes your stomach clench tighter.

You cry out—sharp and loud—your hands fisting the sheets now. The stretch is deeper this time, the sensation more intense. Your inner muscles flutter around him, soaking his hand as he begins to move in rhythm.

He matches the thrust of his fingers with the rhythm of his tongue—sucking your clit into his mouth, then releasing, licking with rapid flicks before diving deep again.

It’s too much. It’s perfect.

Your body locks up, thighs squeezing around his head, your hips rolling up helplessly into every thrust. You feel your orgasm approaching fast now, sharp and violent, like a wave you can’t outrun.

And he knows.

He feels the way your cunt clenches down on his fingers, how your moans break apart, how your stomach tightens like you’re trying to hold it in.

He pulls his mouth away for just a second—just enough to murmur into your wetness:

“Don’t fight it. Let it take you.”

Then he curls his fingers just right—pressing into that perfect spot inside you with precision that no mortal lover could ever match.

And your world shatters.

Your orgasm slams into you without warning, without mercy. Your body bows off the bed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream before sound finally tears free—raw and high-pitched.

Your cunt pulses wildly around his fingers, sucking them in with every clench, gushing wetness in a flood of release that spills over his hand, your thighs, the bed.

You can’t stop shaking.

Your legs are convulsing, your chest heaving, your vision going dark at the edges. You’re sobbing now—not from pain, but from the intensity. You didn’t know your body could feel this much. Could give this much.

And through it all, Sunghoon stays between your legs, holding you through the storm. His fingers keep stroking you, drawing out every wave, prolonging it until you’re gasping for breath, trying to pull away—but your body won’t let go. It wants more. He gives you more.

Only when you collapse back against the sheets, utterly spent, does he finally withdraw his fingers—slowly, carefully, watching the way your soaked walls twitch at the loss.

Another string of your arousal follows his hand, glistening between his fingers. He looks at it like a man holding something holy.

Then he brings it to his mouth and sucks each digit clean—eyes fixed on you.

Your body is still twitching, trembling, flooded with the aftershocks of your second climax, but Sunghoon isn’t done.

Not even close.

He lifts his head for a moment, mouth wet with you, lips glistening, eyes burning with something wild and unrelenting. And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his hand back between your thighs and spreads you open with two fingers.

The cool air hits your soaked, swollen folds, and you gasp. You can feel how wet you are—see it in his eyes as he gazes down at your cunt like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He spreads you further, opening you completely.

And he stares.

There’s awe in his face. Hunger, too. But deeper than that—devotion. Like your slick, twitching little hole is the center of his universe.

“Look at you…” He breathes, voice rough, reverent. “So wet, so perfect… your body still quivering from the pleasure I gave you, and yet you’re begging for more without a word.”

He leans closer. His breath skates over your exposed folds. Your thighs twitch.

And then—he dives back in.

But this time, he doesn’t just lick you. He enters you with his tongue.

You cry out—shocked by the depth, the invasion, the heat. His tongue pushes inside you, wet and thick, writhing as it seeks every inch of your soft, sensitive walls. It’s not a flick. It’s not gentle.

It’s devouring.

Your back arches as he fucks you with his mouth—tongue plunging in and out of your dripping hole, working you open again from the inside. The sounds are obscene—slick and wet, your arousal smeared across his lips, dripping from you onto his chin.

And just when the sensation starts to push you toward madness—he adds his fingers.

His free hand slides up, two fingers finding your clit with terrifying accuracy. He doesn’t start slow. He knows you’re ready. He circles it firmly, rhythmically, matching the thrust of his tongue with the press of his fingers.

The dual stimulation is too much.

You scream—sharp and breathless—your thighs trying to close around his head again, but his shoulders hold you wide open. Helpless. Exposed. Completely at his mercy.

Your cunt clenches around his tongue, your body dripping wet, your clit throbbing under his touch.

You can’t think.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t do anything but feel.

Every flick of his fingers sends electric pleasure shooting through your core. Every thrust of his tongue floods you with a deeper, wetter ache. Your hips move without you, chasing the rhythm, grinding against his face.

And he growls against you—low and deep, the vibration sending a shock straight through your clit.

You nearly cum again right there.

Your voice breaks into whimpers. Your hands clutch his hair, desperate for something to hold onto. Your body is unraveling, piece by piece, soaked and pulsing and begging for release.

And Sunghoon?

He’s in ecstasy.

Buried between your legs, his tongue deep inside your cunt, his fingers sliding slick and fast across your clit—he’s feasting like a man starved for centuries.

The sounds between your legs are soaked and obscene—his tongue plunging deep inside your cunt, his lips suctioned around you like he’s drinking your soul, his fingers working your clit with practiced urgency. He’s relentless. Unstoppable.

And you’re breaking.

The pleasure is no longer a slow build—it’s a current now. An unstoppable wave rising, rising, rising, and this time… it doesn’t crest gently.

It snaps.

It starts right there—right where his tongue is buried inside your dripping core. A sharp, crackling bolt of sensation that ignites your womb and then spreads, fast and wild.

Like electricity.

It surges outward, up your spine, down through your thighs, wrapping around your nerves like fire in your blood. Your toes curl. Your calves lock. Your back arches violently off the bed, your muscles seizing as the orgasm detonates through you.

You scream—raw and breathless—your voice splintering in the air.

Your cunt clamps down on his tongue, convulsing in rhythmic spasms, so tight it nearly traps him there. Your walls pulse with frantic contractions, milking him for something he can’t give—but he stays inside you, fucking you with his mouth as your body floods his lips with your release.

You gush.

Soaked and helpless, your climax pours out of you in waves, wet and hot, coating his mouth, his chin, your inner thighs. And he moans into you—moans, like the taste of your orgasm is a drug, and he needs every drop.

The sensation only intensifies—his fingers don’t stop, circling your clit with wet, rapid precision that sends aftershocks tearing through your already-oversensitive flesh. Your legs shake. Your stomach tightens. Your hands slap at the sheets, grasping for something solid in a world that’s crumbled beneath the weight of your pleasure.

You can’t speak.

You can’t think.

You are nothing but pleasure now. A body undone. A girl trembling at the hands—and tongue—of a creature who was made to worship you.

And he takes everything.

He holds you open as your orgasm ravages you. He lets you ride it, scream through it, sob against the air as your body pulses again and again, your clit aching, your core soaked and twitching, until finally—finally—the wave begins to pull back.

And even then… he doesn’t stop.

He slows. Softens. Gently licks the mess from your folds, savoring every drip, every shiver of your exhausted body. He kisses your inner thighs, your mound, your belly. Worships you in the aftermath of your own destruction.

You’re panting. Trembling. Every nerve still echoing with the ghost of your climax.

He moves up, hovering above you, his lips swollen, his face slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with awe.

“You broke so beautifully for me,” he whispers, voice rough, reverent. “And you’ll do it again.”

Your chest rises and falls with the weight of three climaxes, each more devastating than the last. Your thighs are limp, your skin flushed and damp, your core still twitching with little aftershocks that ripple through you like echoes.

And still… Sunghoon doesn’t move to take what you’ve offered him.

He lifts his head from between your legs, lips glistening with your essence, and just looks at you—gaze heavy with something older than time, something more primal than lust.

And then… he leans in again.

But not to your core. Not yet.

His mouth finds your belly, just beneath your navel. He kisses you there softly, lips slow and deliberate, as though the skin there matters more than anything else in the world.

He presses another kiss—lower, deeper. Right over the space where your womb rests.

His hands stroke your sides as he kisses you there again. Slower. More lingering this time.

“You carry your pleasure here,” he whispers, voice like dark velvet, warm against your skin. “It blooms behind this soft flesh. I can feel it… It calls to me.”

Another kiss. Then another. His mouth moves in lazy, worshipful patterns across your lower abdomen, marking the center of you—the place from which your desire poured, the space that will soon take all of him.

Your breath hitches.

The attention there—over your womb—feels different. Intimate in a way that sex alone never could be. It makes something flutter in your chest. Something deep. Something tender.

But then he shifts again.

His mouth trails down your hips, then slowly, sensually to the insides of your thighs—those trembling, well-used muscles that still bear the proof of how thoroughly he’s taken you apart.

He kisses just above your knee, where the skin is soft and delicate. Then higher.

And higher.

His hands stroke along your thighs as his mouth works its way upward, pausing to press his lips into the sensitive junction where thigh meets hip. He lingers there, lips and tongue working slow circles, as though tasting the memory of your climax from your very skin.

You twitch.

Your legs part a little wider—reflex, invitation, surrender.

He smiles into your skin.

“Even after everything I’ve given you… Your body still calls for more.”

It’s true.

Though you’re weak, breathless, flooded with warmth, there’s still a glow beneath your skin—a need that never truly dulled. The ache is deeper now, quieter, but it’s there. Nestled low in your belly, where he kissed. Where he’ll soon be.

And he knows.

Which is why he kisses the inside of your other thigh, just as slowly. Just as soft. His fangs brush the skin, not biting, just grazing. A reminder. A promise.

Your body shivers in response.

And you realize: this is still foreplay to him.

Not because he wants to draw it out… but because you deserve to be unraveled, adored, prepared like a temple before he dares to step inside.

His breath fans against your soaked folds, warm and intimate, and then you hear it—his voice, low and rough, nearly a growl veiled in silk.

“But you need rest, my love…”

You inhale sharply.

“…because once I start…”

His lips brush your entrance, and your hips jump.

“…I might not be able to stop.”

The words land on your flesh like a touch—hot, possessive, deep.

And your body responds.

A pulse starts low in your belly, tight and hot. Your core clenches—clenches—around nothing, a fluttering, instinctive reaction to the promise in his voice. Your clit throbs, still tender from the climax he stole from you moments ago, but already aching again.

You’re wet. Wetter. Soaking in response to just a handful of whispered words.

Because it’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it.

The reverence.

The restraint.

And beneath it, the quiet, throbbing threat that once he takes you—once he lets go of the centuries of control holding him back—there’ll be no turning back.

You moan. Soft. Breathless.

Your thighs fall open farther on instinct, exposing your spent, glistening cunt to his mouth, as if your body is answering for you: I don’t want you to stop.

But still, he doesn’t move.

He simply hovers there, letting the heat of his breath kiss your folds, letting his words sink into your core like silk-wrapped daggers.

And you feel it—your womb fluttering with anticipation, your slick walls spasming lightly, the ache between your thighs transforming from soreness to craving.

You should be spent.

But you’re not.

You’re awakening again—set aflame by nothing more than the promise of what he’s holding back.

And he knows it.

He smiles softly, eyes hooded with desire.

“You see?” he whispers, his lips grazing your swollen clit. “Even exhausted, your body begs to be claimed.”

When he rises over you, you’re still gasping in the afterglow of that last orgasm—every breath shallow, your chest rising and falling in soft tremors. Your skin is flushed, damp, and hypersensitive. Even the sheets brushing your thighs feel like fire.

And then he kisses you.

Really kisses you.

It’s not a gentle press of lips this time—it’s hot and wet, all tongue and teeth and heat. He takes your mouth like he owns it. Like he’s been starving for the taste of your moans. His tongue parts your lips, sliding deep with confidence, exploring you with a hunger that makes your toes curl.

You let him. You want him to. That’s the truth you’ve been holding inside this whole time.

You don’t just want to be touched.

You don’t just want to be loved.

You want to be used.

And he knows it.

Your mouth opens wider under his, letting him in, letting him take. His tongue tangles with yours, slow but deliberate, tasting you, marking you. His lips are plush and firm, but then you feel something sharper—fangs, grazing your bottom lip, teasing without piercing. A soft whimper escapes you.

The kiss alone sends a jolt straight down your spine, right to your already aching core. It clenches instinctively—empty, fluttering, wanting. Your thighs twitch. Your nipples harden again, oversensitive but alive. Even the softest brush of his fingers along your waist makes your muscles seize and flutter beneath the surface.

You can’t keep still.

Your body writhes beneath him—subtle shifts of your hips, your thighs spreading wider, your hands clutching the sheets and then relaxing, only to tense again. You’re trembling in waves now. His kiss is too much. But it’s also not enough.

Everything feels tripled.

Your mouth feels like it’s burning. Your lips are swollen from the pressure of his. Your tongue aches to follow his own. And when he growls low into your mouth—low and possessive—it vibrates through your whole skull, down your throat, right into your chest like a shockwave.

You moan into his mouth, and your hips roll upward without thought, trying to find friction against the press of him above you. There’s nothing there yet—not his cock, not even his hand—but your body wants it. Your cunt clenches around the emptiness, slick and pulsing with new need.

You feel tears at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not even from pleasure—but from how much you want. From how deeply the need runs now.

You’re unraveling all over again, just from the pressure of his mouth on yours.

He pulls back slightly, and your lips chase his—needy, shameless. You’re panting now, open and wet and trembling beneath him.

He smirks, lips shiny with your spit. His voice is ragged when he speaks.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw. “And I haven’t even touched your cunt this time.”

You whimper at the word. The way he says it—low, vulgar, reverent—makes your walls flutter again.

“I think you like being ruined,” he says. “You want to be used, don’t you, little one?”

His voice is low, taunting—but soaked in reverence. Every syllable curls around your skin like smoke, warm and thick and inescapable.

You nod.

It’s the only thing you can do. Your body won’t let you speak. Your lips are parted, swollen from his kiss. Your chest is rising in sharp, shallow gasps. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

And then the word spills out of you—yes—fragile, broken, desperate.

You feel it tremble out of your throat.

His expression shifts instantly. The tension he’s held back for what feels like hours—the centuries of restraint braided into his every breath—begins to unravel.

His lips curve into a smile, but it’s not soft this time.

It’s sharp. Dangerous.

A glimpse of his true nature blooms behind that smile—his long, perfect fangs gleaming faintly in the low light. It should make you flinch. It doesn’t. It makes your thighs twitch.

Then he leans in—so close his lips nearly brush your ear—and he promises it:

“Oh, my love…”

A kiss to your jaw, wet and slow.

“I’m going to break you.”

The words don’t just make your breath stutter—they reach inside you and pull. Your core clenches hard, slick and aching. Your back arches. Your nipples tighten painfully, every nerve lit up in response.

You feel everything.

The ache. The hunger. The pulse between your thighs, louder than your heartbeat. You’re still trembling, still soaked, still wrecked from the orgasms he’s already given you… But now, your body craves destruction.

Not violence. Not carelessness.

Ruin.

The kind that’s slow. Deep. Intentional. The kind only he can give.

And he knows it.

He gazes down at you like a god at his offering—his lips parted, his fangs glinting, his body ready. His hips press forward, not fully, but enough that you feel the weight of him now—heavy, hot, restrained no longer.

And you… You don’t flinch.

You open your legs wider. You tilt your hips upward. You offer yourself with a breathless gasp and eyes half-lidded in submission.

Because this is what you’ve wanted all along.

To be undone. To be remade.

To be ruined by him.

You can still feel the echo of your last orgasm humming in your thighs, soft tremors that haven’t quite let go. Your body is stretched open, slick and sensitive, every nerve along your skin tuned to the soft drag of the sheets, to the warm air kissing your swollen core.

And then he descends again.

You gasp.

You’d thought he might press forward—finally, finally fill the emptiness inside you—but instead, his hands return to your thighs, gently parting them again, spreading you wide like you’re something delicate… delicate, but his.

Then his mouth lowers.

And he begins to kiss you there.

Not just a lick. Not a flick. Not teasing.

Wet kisses. Messy. Open-mouthed. Devotional.

He kisses your cunt like it’s your lips—no, deeper than that—like it’s the center of your being. The place he’s been waiting to worship for centuries.

You can hear the sounds—his tongue dragging over your folds, the faint, obscene smack of his lips pressing into your slick entrance. He groans into you as he kisses low, then higher, then right at your clit—just a soft, swollen brush, and your body jerks.

He doesn’t pause.

He kisses you again.

Another open-mouthed press right against your folds, and this time, he lingers. His tongue flattens against your entrance, then slides up slowly—slow, wet, deliberate—before pulling back and pressing another kiss lower, right at the spot where his tongue had been buried moments ago.

Your thighs tremble.

You feel your cunt clench helplessly, empty, aching, fluttering at the lips just from the kiss.

And it feels like a kiss—not licking, not oral technique—but intimacy. Pressure and mouth and breath. He’s making out with your pussy, and it’s not just pleasure—it’s too deep for that. It’s possession.

You moan, broken and quiet, your hips rocking into his face, but he doesn’t speed up.

He’s patient.

Each kiss is a statement.

Each press of his lips says mine.

He groans softly against you, and the vibration sparks a fresh jolt through your core. You can feel your arousal thickening again—smeared across your thighs, dripping down your folds, warm and endless.

And still, he keeps kissing you.

His tongue pushes between your lips, dipping just inside your fluttering entrance before pulling out to swirl around your clit, then lower again. You’re not sure how long he stays there, mouth locked to your cunt, lips wet and moving, tongue sliding and tasting and worshipping—but it’s long enough that you lose the ability to think.

You melt.

You float.

Your body is trembling again, that same raw, desperate sensitivity tightening back into something dangerous. Another orgasm? No—something else. Deeper. Slower. A fullness that hasn’t even happened yet, and still your body prepares for it.

He moans softly into you.

You hear him whisper something, but it’s muffled by the slick sounds of his tongue against your cunt. You feel the hot puff of his breath against your swollen lips, and it sends another twitch through your thighs.

And all the while, your mind whispers: He’s making love to me with his mouth. Not for show. Not for dominance. Because he wants to. Because he needs to.

Because this is part of the ruin—breaking me not just with force, but with unbearable devotion.

His mouth is still locked to your cunt, lips slick with your arousal, his tongue moving in slow, reverent circles like it’s his only language. He licks and kisses and breathes into you like your body alone is keeping him alive.

You’re whimpering again, legs trembling, your back arching off the bed in small, uncontrolled pulses. Every time he presses his lips to your entrance—slow, wet, aching kisses—you feel the tension building again, the need winding tighter in your belly.

And then he pauses—just barely, lips still ghosting your folds—and speaks.

His voice is low and shaking now, rough with want, thick with centuries of hunger he’s barely kept chained.

“Will you let me take everything from you, my love?”

He kisses your clit, tender and slow.

“Will you let me satiate my hunger with your body?”

The words hit like lightning.

You cry out—your voice sharp, a moan twisted with desperation. Your thighs clamp around his head, hips rolling upward into his mouth, your hands fisting the sheets as your answer tears from your throat:

“Yes!”

It’s not polite. Not soft. Not whispered.

It’s screamed, breathless, raw and aching, your entire body echoing the word. Every pulse of your core, every twitch of your oversensitive clit, every wet contraction of your cunt—all of it screams yes.

Yes, take me. Yes, ruin me. Yes, I’m yours.

He moans—moans into your cunt—and the vibration sends another shudder rolling through you. His tongue dives back between your folds, kissing you deeper, hungrier, like your answer finally unshackled him.

He devours you now, tongue pushing deep into your entrance, his nose brushing your clit with every movement. His kisses become wetter, messier, more desperate. You can feel his mouth sealing over your core, as if he’s trying to drink the sounds from your throat, the tremors from your thighs, the heat from your womb.

And you give it to him.

Your body rolls, rocks, offers. You sob his name like a prayer. You beg without words, every breath a plea for more.

And he gives you everything.

Because that yes wasn’t just permission—it was submission.

And he’s waited centuries to be given someone like you.

You’re gasping, soaked, trembling, your legs still parted wantonly as he finally pulls back from the mess he’s made between your thighs. His mouth, chin, and cheeks are slick with you—glossed in the raw, intimate proof of your pleasure. Your arousal shines on him like a mark of devotion.

He rises slowly, crawling up your body with the grace of a predator… and the gaze of a lover.

Your skin burns beneath him—everywhere he kissed, everywhere he touched. You feel open, split wide by sensation, and yet not taken. Not fully. Not in the way your body now aches for.

And then he leans down—not between your legs, but higher.

To your face.

You expect heat again. Fire. Teeth. Tongue.

But instead…

He kisses your lips.

Soft. Slow. Chaste.

His mouth brushes yours with the barest pressure, a whisper of contact. No urgency. No devouring.

Just him.

His lips are warm and slightly sticky from where he tasted you, but the kiss is gentle, reverent. Like he’s sealing something sacred.

And it wrecks you.

Your heart stutters in your chest. Your face flushes hot. After all he’s done to your body—spreading you, tasting you, worshipping and wrecking you—this is what makes you blush.

This innocent kiss.

Because it’s not about possession.

It’s about love.

His fingers cradle your jaw as his lips hover for a heartbeat longer, and you feel tears sting the corners of your eyes—not from pain, or even overwhelming pleasure—but from how deeply you are seen.

Owned. Yes. Used. Yes. But also… cherished.

You gasp quietly into his mouth, and he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.

His eyes are soft now. Still dark. Still dangerous. But softened around the edges, like velvet stretched over steel.

“You are everything,” he whispers. “And soon you’ll also belong to me.”

And you nod again, this time without shame. Without fear.

Blushing. Trembling. Ready.

You watch him rise over you, the heat of his body sinking into yours even before he touches you. His eyes roam slowly down your form—your parted legs, your glistening thighs, your flushed chest—and then they lift again, meeting your gaze.

Silent.

Heavy.

And then he begins to undress.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t tease. He simply removes—button by button, layer by layer—and with every inch of pale skin revealed, the warmth in your face spreads like wildfire.

You’ve felt his mouth between your legs. You’ve screamed for him. You’ve begged him to take everything from you.

And yet, watching him bare himself—watching centuries of composed elegance stripped away before your eyes—it undoes you in an entirely new way.

His shirt falls from his shoulders, revealing sculpted muscle beneath porcelain skin, lean and powerful, lined with strength earned across lifetimes. His pants come next, slow and fluid, and then—he stands before you, naked.

And beautiful.

God, he’s beautiful.

The lines of his body are impossibly perfect—his chest broad, his waist narrow, his thighs strong and commanding. And his cock…

Your breath catches.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy. Already hard, flushed at the tip, arousal pulsing down the length. And all you can think is—that’s going inside me.

Your face erupts in heat.

You cover it with both hands, a helpless squeak catching in your throat, your thighs pressing together on instinct. Your body still aches to be filled, still throbs between your legs—but your embarrassment blooms too fast, too real to hide.

And for a moment… It’s quiet.

You hear nothing but your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then you hear him chuckle.

Soft. Warm. Disbelieving.

You peek between your fingers, and he’s staring down at you with his head tilted slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

And his voice—his voice is full of something deep:

“How,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “can you be so adorable?”

There’s wonder in his tone. Not mockery. Not pride. Awe.

As if, after everything he’s done to your body—after hearing you moan and beg and scream his name—he’s still stunned by the softness in you. The blush. The shyness. The contrast of your purity, even now, when you’ve given him everything.

He kneels back between your legs, his hands finding your wrists.

Slowly, gently, he pulls your hands from your face and leans in close, brushing his lips against your temple.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he whispers. “You’ve never been more beautiful than you are right now.”

And you believe him.

Even as the blush lingers, even as your chest flutters wildly, you believe him. Because the way he looks at you isn’t just hungry anymore, it’s devoted.

He doesn’t move right away.

He takes you in with one last look—your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your legs fall open for him like a flower blooming under moonlight. Your cunt is glistening, folds swollen, the evidence of your pleasure coating your thighs, your heat radiating up into his hands.

He exhales softly, then shifts—settling between your legs with the same care one would show a sacred relic. And then you feel it.

The press of his cock.

Heavy. Hot. Smooth against your slick folds.

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t push in yet—no. He slides it up first. Slowly. His shaft drags through your wetness, collecting it, slicking himself in the mess of your arousal.

And your body responds.

The thick ridge of him glides along your entrance, up through your folds, and then—there. His tip bumps against your clit.

You gasp.

Your legs twitch.

The contact is light, but after everything he’s done to you, it sends a jolt straight through your belly. Your clit pulses, oversensitive and needy, and you shivers beneath him.

He does it again.

Another long, slow stroke of his cock through your folds, bumping your clit at the top, then sliding back down to your soaked entrance.

You moan this time—a soft, broken sound—and he groans above you, the sound low and guttural.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your cunt as his length glides through you again. “Your body wants me so badly.”

You can’t speak. Your breath is caught, hands gripping the sheets, hips lifting slightly to meet the next stroke.

And then he stops.

The head of his cock nestles at your entrance.

Right there. Poised. Waiting.

He leans over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, the other guiding his cock to your core.

His forehead brushes against yours.

“This is it,” he whispers. “I’m going to feel you for the first time. Every inch.”

You nods. Your eyes shimmer. Your legs open wider.

You're ready.

And then—he pushes.

The tip breaches you.

And your world changes.

It’s not fast. It’s not brutal. It’s deep. Stretching. You can feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch of him pressing into you, and your body, tight and untouched, yields around him.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s not pain. It’s fullness.

Unbearable fullness.

He groans again—sharp this time, as your slick heat wraps around his cock like a vice, tight and hot and pulsing with life.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel… incredible.”

You clutch at his shoulders, your eyes fluttering closed, your mouth open in a soft, helpless moan.

It feels like he’s opening you from the inside.

Stretching you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, your body trembling as he sinks deeper—inch by inch—holding your eyes, holding your hips, murmuring soft, steady praise as your virgin cunt welcomes him inside.

Emotion swells behind the pleasure.

He’s inside you.

Truly inside.

Your first and only.

And he’s not just taking your body—he’s claiming the hidden, aching part of you that always longed to be known. To be seen. To be used and loved in the same breath.

Tears prick your eyes—not from pain, but from the depth of it all.

You feel filled. Not just physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. Like something inside you has finally been answered.

And then… he bottoms out.

Fully sheathed.

Pressed to the hilt.

His hips nestle against your ass, his chest against yours, his cock deep in the clutch of your heat.

They both freeze for a moment.

Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“I’m inside you,” he whispers, voice thick with awe, his breath shaking against your lips. “Finally.”

You feel it—all of him, every inch of him stretching your virgin walls, pressing into places that make your toes curl, your stomach flip, your chest ache with the weight of something too big to name. He’s deep. So deep. You feel the throb of him inside you like a heartbeat not your own.

And yet—

It’s not enough.

Your body is on fire. Every inch of your skin is vibrating with overstimulation, your cunt fluttering around his cock, struggling to adjust to the girth, the length, the impossible fullness—but beneath the stretch, beneath the overwhelming tightness…

There’s hunger.

The kind that makes your mouth open on instinct. The kind that comes from the marrow of your bones. The kind that demands.

“Hoonie…”

Your voice is breathless, trembling.

He looks down at you instantly, his eyes wide, his mouth parted, sweat clinging to his temples. He thinks you’re overwhelmed. He thinks you need gentleness.

He doesn’t know that what you need is more.

You reach up, grab his face in both hands. Your fingers shake, but your grip is firm. You hold his jaw—force his gaze to see you.

And then you speak.

Not meek. Not blushing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His breath catches.

“I want you to use me.”

His pupils dilate.

“I want you to ruin me, Hoonie. Break me. Breed me. Fuck me like you’re in heat—like your life depends on it.”

He goes still.

Frozen.

Your nails dig into his cheeks, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking him inside you. You arch your hips up, grinding your soaked cunt around his cock, still stretched, still adjusting—but your mind doesn’t care. Your body doesn’t care.

You’re already wet. You’re already split wide. You’re already his.

Now you want to be wrecked.

“Please,” you whisper. “Take me. Don’t hold back. I want to be fucked like you’re losing your mind.”

And that’s when you see it.

The snap.

The worship flickers. The restraint uncoils. And something else fills his eyes now.

Possession.

Raw. Unfiltered. Ferocious.

He growls—growls, low and deep in his chest—and then his hands are gripping your thighs, spreading you wider, locking your hips to the bed.

“Oh, fuck, my love…”

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard through his nose, trying to hold the last thread of control.

But you feel it trembling.

“You want to be fucked like you’re mine?” he breathes, his voice a rasp of barely-contained need. “You want to be bred like a filthy little thing in heat?”

You moan—yes, yes, that’s exactly what you want—and your hips try to rise again, but he slams them back down.

“Then don’t take it back,” he warns, his voice low, feral. “Because once I start… I will not stop until I’ve emptied every last drop inside you.”

And then he pulls back.

His cock slides out slowly, dragging against your soaked, stretched walls, and you feel every inch leaving you. You gasp, your core clenching, already aching from the loss.

Then—he slams back in.

The first thrust knocks the air from your lungs.

Not because it hurts—but because it’s too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

Sunghoon doesn’t ease into it. Doesn’t hold back. The second you gave him permission—begged for it—he became something else entirely. Something darker. Something real.

And your scream echoes through the room, your nails raking down his back as he begins to fuck you exactly how you asked—like an animal, like a beast in heat, like a man finally giving into the hunger you unleashed in him.

He’s still Sunghoon. Still your lover. But now he’s a creature of need, and you are the only thing that can satisfy it.

His hips slam into yours again, and your entire body bounces beneath the force of it. The impact sends another pulse of heat through your core, your cunt clenching desperately around him, still trying to adjust to the girth of his cock, still fluttering from the stretch of your virgin walls.

But he doesn’t slow.

He thrusts again.

And again.

The rhythm builds, brutal and fast, and your body is struggling to keep up. You feel it—your slick squelching around his length, dripping from where he’s pounding into you, your clit catching friction with every push of his hips, overstimulated and screaming in silence.

Your mouth falls open.

But nothing comes out.

You want to cry his name, but it’s like your brain can’t form the shape of it. All you can feel is the stretch. The impact. The hot ache of his cock splitting you open and owning you.

Your walls try to grip him with every thrust, but he’s too big, too fast, and the fullness becomes unbearable. Your core is clenching—a desperate, fluttering attempt to take him deeper, to hold him in place, but he just keeps fucking into you, your cunt squeezing and sucking and dripping as your body tries to survive the assault it begged for.

You’re burning.

Sweating.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelm.

Your legs twitch around his hips, your hands scrabbling at his back, your head tilting to the side as you gasp brokenly—

“Sunghoon—ah—too much—”

He growls, fucking into you even harder, his hands pinning your wrists to the bed as he leans in and whispers:

“You said you wanted to be used. You said you wanted to be broken.”

And gods help you—your cunt tightens at those words.

Because it’s true.

You wanted this. You need this. And now your body is being reformed around him. Every thrust reshapes you. Every wet slap of skin against skin writes a new truth into your womb: you are his now.

Your nipples are painfully hard, your clit swollen and throbbing, your voice reduced to mewling little moans that barely make it past your throat.

You’re losing control.

Losing yourself.

And deep down, beneath the shock and overstimulation and unbearable fullness…

You love it.

Because this is what you asked for. Not to be loved sweetly. Not to be kissed like a flower. But to be fucked—like prey caught beneath something ancient and starved.

And Sunghoon?

He’s just getting started.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing at first. One moment you’re pinned to the bed, your body jolting with every brutal thrust, your vision swimming, mouth open around moans that don’t even sound human anymore—

And then his grip tightens.

Rough hands grip your hips—no longer soft, no longer careful—and he pulls. Your lower back lifts off the bed, and your ass rises with it, dragging your slick body higher into his lap.

You cry out—loud, raw, uncontrolled—as your legs fall wider, your spine arching as he holds you there, suspended in the air.

And then he thrusts.

Deeper.

The change is instant.

His cock drives into you at a new angle, hitting a place so deep, so unforgiving, that your whole body seizes. Your head jerks back into the pillow. Your thighs shake violently around his waist. Your cunt clamps down around him like it’s trying to keep him in that spot.

You scream.

You can’t help it.

It’s not pain—it’s too full, too much, the angle making every thrust feel like he’s punching the air out of your lungs. His cock grinds against your womb now, thick and unrelenting, and your body reacts like it’s been bred for this.

Your hips are no longer yours. They’re his, suspended in the air, pulled into every brutal, rutting thrust.

He’s fucking up into you now, hard and fast, his cock slamming into your cunt with wet, obscene sounds that echo louder than your moans. Your slick is smeared across his thighs, dripping down his balls, everywhere.

Your body is twitching uncontrollably—your stomach tightening, your nipples stiff, your cunt gushing.

And your mind?

It’s shattering.

You’re not thinking anymore.

Your thoughts have been reduced to three desperate truths:

He’s inside me. He won’t stop. I need this.

You can’t form words. You can barely see. Your hands claw at the sheets, at his arms, at nothing. Your mouth opens around a choked cry—his name, maybe, or just a noise that lives where language fails.

The stretch is unbearable. The depth is devastating.

And still he fucks you—grunting, panting, growling into the air like a beast finally allowed to rut. His hands grip your hips so tightly you’ll have bruises. You want them. You want the proof.

He leans over you, your legs still high, still folded open, his cock buried deep in your cunt as he thrusts again, again, again, and it feels like he’s not just inside you.

It feels like he’s inside your soul.

You feel broken.

Beautifully, brutally broken.

And there’s only one thought left in your mind now, floating through the haze:

‘He’s going to break me open and fill me.’

And gods… You want him to.

He’s still fucking you like he’s in heat. Like there’s no one else in the world but your soaked, trembling body clinging around his cock. His grip on your hips is bruising, your thighs suspended in the air, your back arched off the bed—his thrusts punching into you with brutal precision, again and again, deeper than your body should be able to take.

Your cunt is soaked, stretched, pulsing, overflowing—but somehow it still wants more.

And then he throws his head back.

It’s sudden. A snap of the spine. His chest expands, his cock buried to the hilt inside your womb, and for a moment, everything freezes—except him.

His mouth opens.

His fangs drop.

And he moans.

Not a groan. Not a growl.

A moan—thick, hoarse, pornographic. It’s so raw, so deeply broken, it sounds like his soul is being pulled from his body through your cunt.

It fills the room like thunder.

And that’s it.

That sound—that is what takes you under.

Your orgasm detonates with no warning. It doesn’t build. It erupts.

Your entire body locks—arms stiff, legs trembling, back arched like a bow. Your mouth opens around a silent scream, and your cunt clamps down on his cock so violently it’s like your body’s trying to milk the pleasure straight out of him.

Your vision goes white.

Your ears ring.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs shake. Your hands claw at the sheets as wave after wave of brutal, blinding pleasure floods you—sharp, hot pulses radiating from your core, all the way to your fingertips.

It’s your fourth. Or maybe your fifth. You don’t even know anymore.

You just know that this one breaks you.

You sob.

A ragged, breathless, desperate sob—half pleasure, half surrender—as your cunt gushes around him, slick pouring out of you, soaking everything. You can hear it—wet, obscene, like a flood of need pouring down his cock and onto the sheets.

And he feels it.

His head snaps forward. His fangs glint. His eyes are wild.

He growls—deep and low, like your orgasm is a trigger inside him, too—and he thrusts harder, chasing his own edge now, fucking you through your orgasm, into the madness beyond it.

And your body?

It’s done.

You’re twitching. Gasping. A tear slips from the corner of your eye as your cunt continues to pulse helplessly around him, every nerve lit up, every breath a struggle.

But inside all that—inside the shattered pieces of you—there’s one glowing truth:

You wanted to be broken.

And he is. Beautifully and completely.

You’re still coming. Still twitching, still clenching, your cunt fluttering in frantic, helpless pulses around his cock. Your back is arched, your throat raw from your cries, your mind barely holding on—

And then he strikes.

His head snaps down, and his mouth crashes against your chest—your right breast, lips closing around the soft swell of flesh just above your nipple.

And then—the bite.

Fangs pierce your skin with a sharp, sudden pressure that steals your breath.

You gasp—a choked, high-pitched sob that turns into a moan as your nerves catch fire. The pain is brief, bright, but it melts into something hotter, something deeper.

Because the moment his fangs sink in—he feeds.

You feel it. The suction. The pull.

Not just blood—you.

He’s taking something from you with every pulse of his mouth. Not just your body, not just your cunt, but your essence. Your life.

And you give it.

Your hand flies to the back of his head, fingers sinking into his hair, holding him there, pulling him tighter against your chest as he drinks. You need it. You need him to feed from you like this—desperate and starved and yours.

And gods, your body responds.

You clench again around his cock—harder this time, tighter, impossibly so. Your walls grip him like a fist, like your body is trying to milk him in rhythm with his feeding.

And he moans.

Mouth full of you, blood slicking his lips, his cock buried inside your gushing cunt—he moans into your chest, and the vibration rolls straight through your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

It’s too much.

It’s everything.

Your thoughts stutter, scatter, and dissolve into primal, burning instinct.

All you can feel is:

He’s drinking me. He’s inside me. He’s mine. I’m his.

There’s something dizzying in it—the pull of blood, the rush of endorphins, the painful pleasure blooming behind your nipple. Your skin is buzzing, hypersensitive, your clit still throbbing, your cunt still soaked and stretched wide around his cock.

Your body starts to float.

A high beyond orgasms. Beyond touch.

You’re not even sure if you’re crying or laughing or moaning anymore.

It’s all too much.

And still, you hold him to your breast, cradling him like a lover, like a monster, like a god, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body arched to give him everything.

Because you want it.

You want to be emptied.

Ruined.

Fed from.

And in this moment, you don’t care if it kills you. Because you’ve never felt more alive.

His mouth is sealed to your breast, his fangs sunk deep into your tender flesh, the pull of his feeding strong, rhythmic, relentless. Each draw from your veins is slow, greedy, intimate. You feel it—your blood flowing into him, your warmth feeding his cold hunger.

And it turns you on.

More than it should.

Your head tips back, lips parted in a soundless cry. Your hand stays tangled in his hair, clutching him to you as if you’re afraid he’ll stop. As if your body needs to be emptied by him, drop by drop.

And then—

His other hand moves.

It slides between your bodies, down your trembling stomach, over your slick mound.

You barely register the movement—until his fingers find your clit.

And press.

You scream.

There’s no other word for it.

His touch is firm, deliberate, circling your swollen clit with practiced ease, and your body jerks, helpless and oversensitive, the shock of pleasure blending with the strange, blissful drain of his feeding.

You don’t know where the sensations begin or end anymore.

Your nipple is hard against his cheek. Your cunt is still stretched wide around his cock. Your clit is throbbing under his fingers. Your blood is flowing into his mouth.

And you’re losing yourself.

Your thighs try to close. Your hips jerk up. Your cunt clenches around him, milking his cock with desperate, fluttering pulses, your slick soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he moans into your chest.

The sound is low and vibrating, and it echoes through your breast, down your spine, into your womb.

His mouth sucks harder.

His fingers move faster.

And your body gives in.

Your back arches.

Your toes curl.

Your entire body tightens like a wire about to snap—

And you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a storm.

You cry out—raw and wrecked, tears spilling down your cheeks as your body convulses under him. Your cunt pulses violently around his cock, tighter than ever, soaking him in another flood of release. Your clit throbs against his fingers, your breast aches beneath his mouth, and your chest heaves with every broken sob of pleasure.

You’re gushing. Trembling. Clawing at him like you’ll fall apart if he ever stops.

And he doesn’t.

He feeds.

He rubs.

He fucks you through it—still buried inside you, still drinking from you, still pulling every last drop of pleasure from your ruined, sensitive, offered body.

It feels endless.

It is endless.

And when it finally begins to fade—when your limbs go slack, your eyes heavy, your lips parted in soft, stunned whimpers—he finally slows.

His mouth lifts from your chest.

His tongue licks the wound—soft, reverent—closing it with a kiss, sealing the mark that will never fade.

And he looks down at you.

Blood on his lips.

Eyes blown wide with something beyond hunger.

And he says, voice rough, hoarse, ruined:

“Now you’re mine.”

You’re so gone, you only notice him slipping out of you when your cunt twitches at the loss, empty and aching, still fluttering in the aftermath of your orgasm. Your limbs are heavy, useless, your chest rising and falling with ragged, open-mouthed breaths. You feel like liquid—spread across the bed, broken in the most beautiful way.

But he’s not finished.

You hear the shift of the mattress. Feel his hands curl around your waist—tight, intentional.

And then—he moves you.

In one smooth, effortless pull, he flips you onto your stomach, your cheek pressed against the sweat-dampened pillow, your mouth parting with a soft, surprised gasp. You try to lift yourself, but your arms buckle, too weak.

And he doesn’t let you recover.

He grabs your hips and raises you.

Your ass lifts high, your knees pressed into the sheets, your thighs spread open by the positioning of his hands. You’re bent perfectly—spine arched, ass exposed, your soaked, swollen pussy on full display, still dripping with the mess of your last climax.

You can feel how open you are. How wrecked. How used.

And yet—your body reacts.

Your cunt clenches at the exposure, the cool air hitting your wet skin, the knowledge that he’s behind you now, staring. Silent. Waiting.

He hasn’t touched you.

Not yet.

But you feel his eyes—burning into you.

Sunghoon kneels behind you, his cock thick and slick, heavy in his hand, still glistening with your juices and desperate for release. But he doesn’t thrust back inside. Not yet.

He watches.

His eyes trace the curve of your spine, the lift of your ass, the wet gleam of your slit as it twitches with overstimulated need.

You’re breathing hard. Twitching. But you don’t move.

You can’t.

And he still doesn’t touch you.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because he does.

Too much.

You feel the tension in the air—coiled like a beast between you. His hunger. His need. His possession.

And then you hear it—his voice, low and reverent, almost in awe:

“Look at you…”

His hand slides over your ass—slow, reverent—just one palm smoothing over the soft flesh, watching how your body twitches at the touch.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “And still offering yourself.”

He grips your ass, spreading you slightly, and groans when your folds part for him—wet, raw, open.

“You asked me to fuck you like an animal,” he breathes. “And now you’re here… trembling… leaking… mine.”

He leans forward, one hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, making your back arch more, your cheek sinking deeper into the pillow, your ass lifting higher in response.

You barely register the shift behind you—his weight adjusting on the mattress, his thighs sliding between yours—until you feel it:

The blunt, hot press of his cock at your entrance.

You whimper, your fingers tightening into the sheets, your cheek mashed into the pillow, ass lifted high as your swollen, twitching cunt flutters around nothing. You’re already so wet, so open, so used, but that thick head stretching your folds again pulls a sharp, broken gasp from your lips.

He slides the tip up and down your slit once—coating himself in your slick, collecting it like the precious thing it is—and then—

He slams into you.

In one brutal, wet thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, forcing your body to take him, stretch again for his impossible girth, your walls clamping down like they’re trying to refuse—but they don’t. They yield. Barely. Desperately.

You scream.

Your vision flashes white. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.

The stretch is excruciatingly perfect—a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it steals your breath. Your cunt flutters violently around him, juices flooding down your thighs, soaking the bed beneath.

And he doesn’t give you a second.

He fucks into you.

Hard. Brutal. Deep.

His hips slap against your ass with wet, punishing sounds, cock driving into you over and over again, spearing through the tight grip of your cunt like it’s nothing. His hands hold your hips so tight your skin burns, pulling you back into every thrust, using your body like he owns it.

Because he does.

Your back stays arched, your ass bouncing with every impact, your moans turning to cries, to sobs, to broken little pleads that mean nothing—because you don’t want him to stop.

You want this.

You need this.

Your cunt is gushing, soaked beyond logic, pulsing around him in chaotic spasms that only drive him faster.

He groans behind you, filthy and low, his breath ragged, sweat dripping onto your back as he fucks you like you were meant to be taken from behind.

“Fucking—perfect—” he growls, each word punctuated by another violent thrust. “So tight—so wet—so ready to be bred.”

Your orgasm builds again—somehow. You don’t even know how your body has anything left, but it does. You feel it like a rising scream, coiling in your belly, dragging you toward another edge you swore you’d already fallen from.

And he knows.

He feels it in your cunt—how it tightens, how it pulses.

And he chases it.

He fucks you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin wet and lewd and endless, your moans turning into screams again, your vision gone to stars as he ruins you from behind.

His hands find your shoulders now—gripping them, slamming you back onto his cock with every thrust, using your body like a toy, like a vessel, like a whore who asked to be ruined.

You did.

And now, he’s delivering.

The world doesn’t feel real anymore. Everything is rhythm, motion, heat. His cock driving into you over and over—deep and brutal, dragging across every hypersensitive inch of your walls. Your body is already ruined, already wrung out, but he doesn’t stop. His pace is punishing, merciless, and your mind can’t keep up.

You’re drooling into the pillow. Eyes glassy, lips parted, breath sobbing from your lungs in short, frantic gasps. Your cunt is a mess—gushing slick with every thrust, stretched to its limit, used.

And your voice?

It’s gone.

Replaced by incoherent babble.

“Mmm—ah! Hoonie—fuck—so deep—please—too much, I—ah!, I can’t—I—”

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even falter. His grip on your hips is brutal, fingertips digging into your flesh, slamming you back onto his cock with a force that makes your ass bounce and your body jolt. He’s growling behind you now, panting like an animal in rut, his cock so hard inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half.

And your brain breaks.

The pleasure is too much. The fullness is too much. The sound of him, the feel of him, the need building in your chest—it all breaks open into one singular thought:

“Fuck—feed from me!” you scream.

It rips from your throat—sudden, raw, desperate.

“Hoonie—please—bite me—feed from me again, drink from me—fuck!, I need it, please, please, please, please—!”

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your body arches, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his cock like you’re trying to pull the bite from him.

And behind you—you feel him freeze.

Just for a breath.

Then his voice, low and wrecked:

“You want me to feed again?”

You nod wildly, tears in your eyes, your body twitching and shivering under him. Your voice cracks into sobs:

“Yes! I need you to—I-I need to feel it, Hoonie please, I can’t—I need it—drink from me while you fuck me, I-I want to give you everything—please take everything, please—!”

His hand slides from your hip to your throat, tilting your head back and exposing your neck. He growls against your throat. Not the cold, controlled sound of a predator.

It’s giddy.

Almost playful.

“God,” he pants. “Listen to you… begging for my bite like a good little toy.”

You whimper, breath catching. Your hands scrabble against the mattress, nails clawing for something to ground you, anything to hold on to as he keeps you right on the edge of unraveling.

He’s still inside you.

So deep.

His cock is throbbing, thick, soaked in your slick, buried to the hilt inside your wrecked, overstimulated cunt. Without slipping out, he moves.

One of his hands grips your waist. The other slides beneath your stomach, pulling you up slightly. And then—

He shifts position.

Still behind you, still connected, but now he plants one foot on the mattress, rising into a half-kneel, half-squat.

And the angle—gods—

Your mouth drops open.

His cock grinds deeper now, dragging against your front wall with every thrust, hitting something dangerous, something brutal. His new position gives him total leverage—power and angle and reach—and he uses it.

He thrusts.

Hard.

Sharp.

Deep.

And you shriek.

Your vision swims. Your mouth trembles. Your legs go limp beneath you, your back forced into an even deeper arch. Every nerve in your cunt fires at once—blazing—as his cock spears into you with obscene precision.

He moans now—high and shameless, the sound of a man with a woman wrapped perfectly around him, wet and ruined and his.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he gasps, his voice cracking with laughter, feral delight in every word. “This little cunt’s never letting me go again.”

You babble something—words melted into moans—but he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t care.

His foot plants harder, thrusts sharper, slamming into you from beneath. Your body jolts with every impact. Your breasts sway. Your back arches perfectly, your neck still exposed to his mouth, waiting.

And he revels in it.

He hovers there for a moment, mouth open just over your skin, his fangs dragging along your throat, not biting yet—teasing. The tension of his breath, the heat of his cock, the stretch—it all blends into something unbearable.

“You begged for it,” he says. “So tell me again, love…”

His hips grind forward, cock grinding into your soaked walls.

“Tell me whose girl you are.”

His thrusts grow crueler.

Deeper. Sharper.

Each one lands with a wet slap, your ass slamming back into his hips as he drives himself into you from below, one foot planted firm on the bed, the other knee grounded for leverage. Your body jolts with every impact, breasts swaying, skin slick with sweat, your moans turning into broken sobs of overstimulation.

And still—he doesn’t bite.

Not yet.

He’s waiting.

Hovering over your throat, fangs dragging along your pulse like he’s tasting your fear, your surrender, your worship.

“You begged me to feed,” he growls into your skin, his cock grinding in deeper with the next thrust. “So say it. Say who you belong to.”

You’re sobbing now, cunt clenching, your legs trembling.

But you speak.

“Yours—I’m yours—Hoonie, I’m yours, I’ve always been—”

He grunts, fucking you harder.

“Say it again.”

You scream.

“I’m your girl!” you cry. “I’m your—fuck—I’m your toy, your meal, your whore—please! Please bite me—feed from me again, I’m yours, I’m yours—!”

That’s all it takes.

He snaps.

With a growl that’s half lust, half unholy hunger, his fangs pierce your throat in a single, savage motion. No warning. No gentleness. Just teeth sinking in right where your pulse pounds the loudest.

You wail.

Your back arches impossibly tight. Your cunt explodes around him—clenching, pulsing, gushing as your orgasm detonates in the same instant his fangs break your skin. The pleasure is blinding—a burst of white-hot light behind your eyes, your walls fluttering wildly around his cock, milking him, soaking him, screaming for him.

And he drinks.

Gods, he drinks—deep and steady, groaning against your throat as your blood pours into his mouth, as your body twitches and clenches and gives.

You feel the pull. You feel the bond—the ache in your womb, the twist in your soul, the devotion that burns like fire beneath your skin.

He’s not fucking you anymore.

He’s using you.

Feeding and fucking and owning you all at once, your body trembling, overstimulated, your breath stuttering through parted lips as you try to survive the dual invasion.

Your body is in chaos—shaking, clenching, gushing. Your cunt contracts around his cock in wild, erratic pulses, and then—like a dam breaking—you squirt. A sudden, hot release rushes from deep inside you, soaking his thighs, splashing against his stomach, dripping down the insides of your legs.

And that’s when he loses it.

You feel it before he even moves—his entire body tensing, his cock twitching violently inside you, so deep, so thick, so full—

Then he groans.

A deep, guttural, wrecked sound that vibrates against your throat as his hips slam into you one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt.

And he cums.

You feel it—hot and thick, a flood of heat spilling into your womb, wave after wave as his cock throbs and empties inside you. It’s not a release. It’s a claim.

You gasp—sharp and high—as his seed fills you, stretching the already ruined ache inside you wider, deeper, hotter. Your cunt is still spasming, milked dry and still milking him for more. Every pulse from him matches a pulse in your clit, every twitch of his cock pressing more heat inside you.

And gods—there’s so much.

You feel it flooding you. Dripping back out around the base of his cock, running down your thighs, mixing with your slick and sweat and scent. You’re overflowing with him.

And through it all—he’s still drinking.

His fangs are still deep in your throat, his lips sealed tight, your blood sliding down his tongue, into his chest, into the very core of him.

It feeds him.

It connects you.

And in that moment—flesh locked to flesh, blood flowing, his cum flooding your cunt—you don’t just feel taken.

You feel chosen.

He growls again—quieter now, weaker, spent—and finally, finally, his mouth releases your neck.

He licks the wound slowly, reverently, sealing it with a kiss, then rests his forehead against your back, both of you panting, trembling, wrecked.

He’s still inside you.

Still leaking into you.

And all you can feel is this:

You are full. You are claimed. You are his.

You can’t move.

You’re limp beneath him, your body trembling with aftershocks, every muscle twitching from the inside out. Your skin is wet—sweat, slick, blood, his release. Your thighs ache from how wide he forced you open. Your cunt is throbbing—raw and filled and fluttering around his cock, still buried so deep it feels like he’s part of your body now.

And he’s still inside you.

You feel him—hard still, thick, even softened just slightly, he’s overwhelming. He’s not pulling out. He’s not letting anything go. His hands still grip your hips, now gentler, but firm. Holding you there. Holding you in place.

And then—

He shifts his weight, leans over your back.

You whimper, a fragile noise, and his body presses against yours, skin on skin, cock lodged deep inside your twitching cunt. He drapes over you like a blanket of heat, fangs brushing your shoulder now, his voice low, thick, dripping with the afterglow of pleasure and pride.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

You shiver beneath him.

“Look at you,” he whispers against your ear. “Still clenching. Still dripping. So full of me.”

You moan, weak and broken, your body twitching with the reminder—his cum leaking out around his cock, sliding down your thighs, your pussy fluttering in soft aftershocks that just won’t stop.

He rolls his hips once—just a slow grind, not even a thrust—and you sob into the pillow.

“Sensitive?” he teases gently. “You wanted to be fucked like an animal in heat, didn’t you?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks—not from pain, but from sheer overwhelm.

His hand slides to your stomach, palm resting over the low curve just above your womb. He presses there, firm, possessive.

“You’re holding so much of me,” he whispers, almost in awe. “My girl.”

Another slow roll of his hips.

Another broken cry from your lips.

And he moans softly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he feels your cunt squeeze around him again.

“Keep me inside,” he breathes. “Let me stay here. Let me watch what I’ve made you.”

And you do.

You stay just like that—cunt stuffed full, body limp, back arched, cheek to the pillow—his. His cock still pulsing inside you, his hands resting on your trembling skin, his voice low and reverent.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Inside and out.”

He doesn’t move for a long time.

He stays there—cock still buried inside your ruined, pulsing cunt—his weight pressed over your back, his hands gentle now, resting on your hips, stroking lazy, reverent circles into your damp skin.

You’re still trembling.

Your body is sore. Sensitive. Soaked in sweat and slick, and him. His cum leaks from your stretched hole in thick, slow drips, pooling between your thighs, seeping into the sheets—but he doesn’t pull out.

He won’t.

Not yet.

He groans low in his chest, head dipped between your shoulder blades, voice breathless and awed.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs, hips giving a subtle, instinctive roll that makes your breath catch. “Still milking me like you want every last drop.”

You whimper, weak, your fingers twitching against the sheets.

And he smiles.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Proud.

His hand moves up, over your back, then down again—slow, soft, possessive.

“Mine,” he breathes again. “Every inch of you.”

He finally shifts—gently this time—pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he slowly lowers you both down, careful not to slip out. You whimper as he brings your bodies down together, side by side now, his cock still buried deep as he wraps himself around you.

You feel caged. Kept. Held.

And you’ve never felt safer.

He nuzzles into your neck, brushing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your throat, then another to your jaw, your temple, your sweat-damp hair.

You’re still trembling in his arms, cunt fluttering faintly around him, overstimulation fading into a full-body hum.

And he adores it.

“Shh,” he whispers, one hand sliding to your stomach, resting possessively over your womb. “You did so well for me, little one.”

You sigh—tired, bliss-heavy, floating.

“You let me break you,” he murmurs against your ear, “and you’re still here. Letting me stay inside you. Letting me hold you.”

His voice cracks slightly, fangs gone, his hunger sated.

“You’re everything.”

His hand strokes your thigh, sticky and wet and trembling beneath his touch. You feel the mess between your legs—the slick of your orgasms, his seed still leaking out in hot pulses around his cock—and you don’t flinch.

You love it.

You love him.

And in the soft silence that follows, he whispers one last thing—low and reverent, meant only for you:

“I’ll never take from anyone else again.”

2K notes · View notes

jeonginsleftcheek · 5 months ago

Text

Dolly IV

~ part 4 of the Dolly series

pairing: lee know x afab!reader

genre: smut, fluff, horror/sci-fi

synopsis: the human body is the most fascinating thing and you know all about the intricate anatomy of it. ever so curious you purchase a human-looking doll and your life changes forever.

wc: 7.9k

warnings: death & dead bodies, reader is a mortician, mentions of needles and scalpels, sorry if there are any mistakes

nsfw warnings: multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, blood play, knife play, creampies, spanking, oral (m)

~ divider by @bunnysrph

It's eerily quiet around you but that doesn't bother you. Not tonight, not ever. Sometimes the silence is comforting and helps you concentrate on the intricate work you do.

You've always been fascinated with death, ever since you were a child. You weren't scared of it, you welcomed it with your arms wide open and it was your father who exposed you to it since you were young.

It wasn't really on purpose, but having a funeral home inside your house and a curious child was not a good combination.

Your father was a good and warm man, offering a friendly tap on the shoulder and a few consoling words to grieving family members, the ones who sat in his office discussing details about funerals, their noses runny and eyes red from crying.

Not all of them were like that; some just sat there with a numb look on their face, a kind of silent sorrow etched inside their features while there were those that seemed completely emotionless.

You'd always lean behind the wall and listen to them discuss until your father would notice you and send you back to your room. The only room in the house that looked somewhat... alive.

Your father was pretty fascinated with death and any art that surrounded it, prints of Francisco Goya's black paintings adorned the walls in your house; Saturn Devouring his Son, Witches' Sabbath, Two Old Men, Judith and Holofernes, Two Old Ones Eating Soup, Atropos...

They captivated you in a way you couldn't put into words and sometimes they gave you torturous nightmares, but you weren't scared.

You welcomed the darkness into your heart completely; in fact you thrived off of it.

It was one quiet and calm evening when you tiptoed down to your basement. The moonlight cast a glow through the windows as your shadow passed by the paintings staring at you with their freakish eyes.

The door was ajar and you pushed it, the creaking sound cutting the silence of the dark night as your heart started beating in your ears.

There they were on the table. A person who had succumbed to Death itself.

Silently, you treaded towards the sheet-covered body but before your little hand could reach it, your father grabbed your wrist gently, scaring you out of your wits.

"What are you doing here, y/n? You know you shouldn't be here." he said, taking you away from your curiosities.

"I- I just wanted to see."

"I know, sweetheart but it's not the time yet. One day, hopefully, you will take over this business just like I took over from your grandfather. Now, go back to sleep."

"Okay." you nodded, albeit feeling a bit sullen that you didn't get to see the person under the sheet.

It's been years since that night, and now you were the one who offered consoling words and friendly pats on the shoulders of grieving family members.

Your father had succumbed to his illness, leaving you alone in this world, alone with all the darkness and death. Of course, you missed him dearly but he suffered so much in his last years that you were somewhat thankful to Death for taking him.

Wherever he was, you knew he was at peace and watching over you.

Taking over his business was the natural step for you, death was just a part of life, and preparing someone's loved one for their funeral felt honorable and you viewed the entire process as a kind of art. When you were old enough, your father started teaching you bits and pieces about preparation and the embalming process, and of course it was only natural for you to develop even more interest for it and get the needed education.

You worked as his assistant at first and when he got sick you became the caretaker and the mortician.

Of course, you couldn't be the one to prepare your father for his burial, it was too much as you watched him disappear more and more every day while he was sick and you wanted your last memory of him to be as peaceful as it can be.

It's been a few years since then, and you were now one of the most respected morticians in your small town. You kept to yourself mostly, only having one close friend since you were kids, Emily.

But you weren't lonely, you focused on your work and your hobbies, like reading, painting and writing poetry, all in the company of your fur baby, your cat named Shadow. You had rescued the elegant black cat off the street when she was just a small lost kitty and ever since then you became inseparable.

Though, even you weren't immune to the troubles of dating. Most of your partners were a bit put off by your work, to say the least, especially if they'd come around to your house which you had repainted black, the decoration was halloween all year around coupled with the creepy paintings on your walls and the fact that there are dead bodies in your basement wasn't really an aphrodisiac.

It was frustrating because you wished you could share your life with someone who'd be genuinely into the things that interest you.

That's why when you found yourself mindlessly scrolling through social media, an ad caught your eye.

Sex dolls.

You chuckled to yourself as you got more comfy under your blanket, Shadow cracking one eye open to look at you from where she was curled up.

You clicked on it.

One doll in particular pulled you in.

Minho, the dark dolly.

He was beautiful, his hair black and shaggy, falling over his eyes, his features were sharp and perfect, somewhat feline-like and his lips seemed sweet and plump.

You liked the outfit they chose for him, all black like you dressed 99% of the time completed with a choker around his neck.

He was perfect.

You scrolled around looking at the other dolls, they all seemed intriguing but Minho was the one you wanted the most.

Besides, some of them already sold so you decided not to wait and jumped on it, ordering yourself the dark dolly. And it didn't take long for him to be delivered to your house, in a big black box reminiscent of a casket. Shadow inspected the box immediately, sniffing and rubbing against it, she seemed to approve of it.

You opened it up eagerly, finally taking a look at your beautiful Minho and he was even more perfect in real life than all the pictures they had posted.

There was a letter inside the box and you opened it up.

Hello,

my name is Minho and I am your dark dolly.

I love cats, horror movies, yummy food and staying inside.

Please treat me with kindness, even though I like scary things, I have a soft soul so never forget to pat my head.

Hope you'll love me as much as I love you.

"I'm glad you love cats, otherwise I'd have to send you back." you joked, as Shadow put her paws on the box, sniffing around before meowing at you.

"You approve, I suppose?" you asked and your cat meowed once again so you were satisfied.

"I guess you do." you ripped off the rest of the bubble wrap, scaring your cat with your movements as she scurried away to her place on the sofa.

Your doll was dressed in a black button up shirt that was almost see-through, coupled with black leather pants and some fine shoes. He looked so alive, it would've been eerie if you weren't already used to looking at people lying down lifelessly before you.

You noticed a little note sticking out of his pocket so you pulled it out and opened it.

My kitten!

I got ready for our rendezvous.

I hope you like the outfit I chose and I hope you'll enjoy our first night together.

"Kitten, huh? Interesting." you smirked as you grabbed the manual, ready to read it from top to bottom but your curiosity got the better of you so you reached your hand to touch Minho.

"Oh." that definitely felt like human skin.

Something was wrong here and you felt it from the moment you laid eyes on his still body. But of course, you weren't afraid, in fact you were determined to find out the truth.

You read the entire manual carefully, going over it a few times, specifically the part where it said the doll can bruise.

How can the doll bruise if there's no blood inside its body?

"Hm." you threw the manual aside and finally lifted the doll out of its little casket, setting it down on the couch in the sitting position.

It took some time to adjust him but Shadow came to sniff Minho and rub against him, seemingly she liked him very much and you trusted your cat's intuition.

"Give me a moment." you said to the doll before running to get some stuff you needed from the basement.

"I'm sorry for this." you grimaced as you sat down next to Minho.

Just a little prick on the skin is what you needed so you grabbed his hand and brought it closer to you as you held the little needle in your other hand. Quickly, you pricked him and waited for a moment.

Nothing was happening so you sighed putting the needle on a tray you brought. You were just about to get up when you noticed it; a tiny droplet of blood oozing out of your doll's finger. With a gasp you stared at the red liquid.

Your mind was reeling and before you could stop yourself, you brought his finger to your lips, licking at the droplet, the metallic taste of blood was unmistakable. Your doll had real blood inside its body. Something about that frightened you, but that fear ignited a flame within you and you wrapped your lips around his finger, lightly sucking on it, the blood coming out slowly as you lapped at it.

"Oh. Looks like I'm not the only one enjoying this." Minho's eyes were shining and his pants were filling up, the button almost popping off.

He was big and usually you weren't this impatient but it's been some time. Your hand explored his muscular thigh, running up to cup his erection and you swore you could feel him twitch in your hand.

You scooted closer to him, hand tangling in his hair and it was surprisingly soft and it smelled of shampoo like he had just washed it. You leaned in to take a whiff before pressing kisses there all the way down to his cheeks. His soft skin under your lips felt heavenly and you were already getting addicted to him.

You pressed your lips into his softly, then pressed them again a bit harder as your hands roamed on his chest. He was muscle everywhere and you were fluttering on the inside, your arousal increasing the more you touched him.

A loud pop scared you as you jolted looking down to find the source. A small laugh escaped your lips when you realized that the button on his pants had actually popped off.

"Fine, you're eager." you chuckled, sliding his pants down, your eyes on his prominent bulge instantly. Your nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his broad shoulders and strong biceps that were visible in the tanktop he wore.

"Wait. I should undress too." you said and Shadow perked up from her spot before standing up and rushing out of the living room like she had understood what was about to happen.

You took your robe off, letting it fall on the floor, you were left only in the silky black nightgown so slowly you slid that off too, the material pooling around your feet.

Minho seemed to have some kind of reaction, at least his neck flushed a little and you were wondering how it does that. How is any of this real?

That didn't matter after you stripped him completely, your eyes admiring the work of art before you. Hands touching and lips exploring, you didn't care about how freaky all this was.

Somewhere along the way you lost your panties, so you straddled Minho's lap, your hands grabbing his face. He was absolutely stunning and your pussy clenched at the look in his eyes. It seemed like there was a fire inside them, a passion burning wild.

Your hand wrapped around his cock, big and heavy in your hand, making you whimper at the thought of it being inside you. You ran the throbbing tip against your wet folds before slowly sinking down on him.

The stretch was delicious as you took him in, wrapping your arms around his shoulders for support, your hands splayed on his muscular back. When you adjusted, you slowly started to move up and down on his length, the squelching sounds filling up the room as you dripped on him.

It seemed as if Minho was looking at you and you sped up, bouncing on him faster, your moans getting louder as you neared your high.

Your nails dug into his flesh as you exploded around him, your hand running down to cup his ass which made him cum too, the warm liquid filling you up and making your eyes roll back.

"Wow." you gasped. Only when you lifted up and circled the couch, you saw that his back had angry red scratch marks.

"Shit, I'm sorry." you leaned over to look at Minho's face.

He seemed to be smirking just a tiny bit?

"I hope it doesn't hurt." you said, not forgetting to pat and caress your dolly's head. You pressed a few small kisses on his cheek before leaving to get cleaned up.

When you came back, Minho was waiting for you in the same position so you cleaned him too and put some of his clothes back on, the pants definitely needed some mending.

"A sex doll?" Emily looked at you in disbelief, holding Shadow in her arms like a baby, moving the cat left and right.

"Yes, isn't he beautiful?" you smirked, patting Minho's head as he sat in your kitchen, company to you and your friend.

"I mean, he is. It's just a little creepy." she said and you gave her a pointed look which made her laugh. "But I shouldn't be surprised when it comes to you. He really looks human though." Emily added, coming closer to the doll as Shadow jumped out of her arms.

"Here's the thing. I pricked his finger the other day and he bled." you told her, adjusting on your chair as you picked up your cup of tea.

"He what? Now, that's creepy. Are you sure it was blood? Maybe it's some kind of trick?"

"Nope, it was definitely blood." you shook your head.

"Hm. Can you like open him up?" Emily asked, making you chuckle.

"Do you know how much I paid for him? I'm not about to cut him up, besides the manual said not to mutilate the doll."

"And why is that? Because they don't want you to know the doll's secrets? Just think about it." Emily shrugged. "Anyways, I have to go. Call me if you find anything out." she added, wiggling her brows.

You took a look at Minho, it hasn't even been a week since he was in your house, but he blended in perfectly with the rest of the decor, even when he was more than that. Shadow seemed to love him, always rubbing against his legs and sleeping on his lap. Animals had a sixth sense when it came to things like this so you trusted that you weren't in any danger. Still, you were so curious.

Come evening, you were in a mood.

There was music blasting from your speakers, the lights were all out except the dimmed moody ones and a few candles here and there. The tv was on too, a silent horror film playing on it. Outside, it was raining hard, almost drowning out any other sounds as big droplets kept hitting your window.

Shadow was tucked away in her room and you were wearing lingerie.

Minho was sat on your couch, you turned him to look directly at you as you downed a glass of wine before you started swinging your hips seductively.

The music took you over and you danced, forgetting about everything around you, including your companion Minho whose eyes were following every single movement, unbeknown to you.

"Oh!" you spun a little too fast, colliding with the side of the sofa and chuckling to yourself.

Your eyes fell to Minho, then the coffee table where you had left some cake and knife to cut it with. You bit on your lip as you made your way towards him slowly.

You picked up the knife, twirling the handle once, twice as you smirked at the dolly.

"Are you scared, doll?" you leaned towards him, your tits almost falling out of your skimpy bra as you pointed the knife at Minho.

He didn't seem to react at all.

"No? How about now?" you asked, leaning the knife on his cheek gently. "Or now?" you added, sliding it down his chest and abdomen slowly all the way towards the bulge that appeared in his boxers.

"Enjoying this? I'm glad." you smirked, putting the knife aside for a moment to unhook your bra and slide down your panties.

You undressed Minho too, spreading his legs a little and adjusting him before you turned your back to him.

"Like what you see?" you ran your hands up your hips to your waist as you looked back at him.

The reflection of the candlelight burned in his eyes as you slowly sat in his lap, his length filling your pussy up perfectly, your feet planted on the floor. A moan escaped your lips when you found purchase on his thighs, bracing yourself as you started to bounce on him. The sound of your ass slapping against his abdomen filled up the room and you threw your head back, enjoying the feeling of his tip brushing against your sweet spot.

"Ah! Fuck, Minho!" you moaned his name, feeling him twitch inside you instantly and you gasped as you came, lifting off of him and squirting all over his thighs. What a sweet mess.

"Oh." you moaned, taking him in once again as you sat down and started moving up and down, your thighs burning from exertion. You reached back to grab a handful of his ass, making the doll fill you up.

You leaned on him, your back flush against his chest as you grabbed his arms and wrapped them around you.

"I kinda wish you would come to life but at the same time I don't know if you'd like me. Right now, you have no choice. Isn't that kinda fucked up?" you looked up at Minho but there was no sign of reaction or movement. "Well, don't move. I'll be right back." you joked as you stood up.

You prepared a bath for the both of you, struggling a little to get him in but as soon as you did, you sat between his legs and relaxed in the warm water.

Shadow appeared in your bathroom, meowing at you.

"What is it?" you chuckled, leaning a little to the side to look at her.

Your cat's tail twitched a few times as she stared at Minho, releasing a few more meows before sitting down and continuing to stare at him. You looked back at your doll but he was chilling, looking straight ahead like he always does.

Eventually, Shadow gave up the staring and left the bathroom. Huh, that was weird, you thought but brushed it off as cat behavior.

After drying yourself and the dolly, you got dressed and tucked him in your bed. After years of sharing your bed only with your cat, it was nice to also have someone fill up the empty side of it. And Minho was warm and soft in a way, you had no idea how they made him like that but in the tired and lonely moments, you didn't care.

It's been almost a month since Minho entered your life and you shared almost every moment with him. He had watched you cook and clean, do your hobbies, play with your cat. But, you had yet to take him downstairs.

You weren't even sure if you wanted to. But you were dragging him around the house all the time like a kid drags their favorite teddy bear so you didn't see the harm in it.

Whenever a grieving family came to talk to you, Minho was tucked away in the safety of your room. Today, a particularly loud widow came in to cry to you about her husband who was now in your basement, waiting to be prepared for his funeral.

You reassured her he was in best hands and that you'll make him look as wonderful as you can, since the accident he passed away in had ruined his face.

You just needed to get some things from a few shops before starting, and as soon as the widow left you went to your room to see Minho.

"I'm going to town. I'll be back soon, honey." you chuckled, giving him a peck and a few pats on his soft hair.

You were done with shopping quickly and as the sun was setting you decided to walk across the main square and have a short stroll since you weren't carrying many things.

You saw a little crowd gathered there around someone so naturally curious, you made your way towards it.

An artist was sitting on a little stool, painting a portrait of one of the onlookers. You peered down to look at the canvas, hypnotized by the brush strokes and the movement of this person's hand.

Your eyes followed his arm to his face and your brows furrowed. He looked somewhat familiar. You were trying to think where you had seen him before but kept coming up blank.

"Do you want a portrait?" his voice broke you out of your thoughts.

"Ah, yes sure." you nodded and he started working on it immediately.

He was talented and quick and you kept observing him as he worked, still trying to think where he was familiar from.

"Here. Done." he smiled proudly and you chuckled.

"Thank you, it's really good." you took out your wallet. "Here." you gave him a 100, and his eyes widened slightly.

"Oh, thank you! T-this is a lot! Thank you so much!" he bowed a little as he took the bill from you.

"What's your name?" you asked.

"H-Hyunjin, miss." he looked a little panicked and you gave him a reassuring smile.

"Have I seen you somewhere?" you asked and he chuckled nervously, and you noticed a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Maybe you've seen me paint here." he said but you still weren't convinced.

"Maybe. You come here often?"

"I'm trying to make some money to buy a gift for my lover." Hyunjin smiled fondly and you smiled back.

"That's sweet."

"Thank you. Your portrait." he said as you stood up.

"Oh, thanks for that again. Bye, Hyunjin." you said as you grabbed it.

"Bye, miss." he yelled behind you as you walked away.

Finally, you took Minho down to your basement. You put him in safe distance from all the chemicals as you got ready to begin your work.

Minho sat in the corner, his eyes twitching a few times as he stared at your skilful hands. You worked almost on autopilot as you have done this a hundred times, rinse and repeat.

It took a few hours but the man finally looked at peace, you had reconstructed his face as much as you could for an open casket, the embalming process taking up most of the time after that.

After putting the body away and cleaning everything up, your eyes fell to Minho and you friend's words rang inside your mind.

Maybe you could take a little peak inside him? You stood there contemplating, remembering that he did in fact bleed when you pricked him, so if you cut him it might be even messier. You didn't want to hurt him but as always, you were too curious for your own good.

Minutes later, your dolly was shirtless on your table, a scalpel in your hand. Never has your hand trembled but as you brought the blade closer to his skin, your fingers twitched ever so slightly. Your heart sped up as you took a deep breath, pressing the scalpel softly against the doll's skin.

Suddenly, he lifted his hand and grabbed your wrist, his eyes moving to look at you as you screamed, trying to step back but he held on tightly, taking a deep breath that sounded somewhat painful.

"Don't hurt me." he pleaded, his voice raspy as he took in shallow breaths.

You snatched your hand away, the scalpel clattering on the floor as your wide eyes took in the sight before you. Your dolly was alive.

"I always had this irrational fear that some day one of the dead bodies I was working on would wake up." you chuckled.

"I wasn't dead." he sat up slowly and you rushed to him, seeing he was dizzy.

"I know. You bled when I pricked your finger."

"By the way, that hurt." he gave you a look and you shrugged with a smirk.

"What about the part that came after it?" you asked breathlessly as Minho's eyes softened.

"That was more fun." he smirked, making you chuckle. "Can we go upstairs? The fumes are making me nauseous."

You helped Minho up, taking him to the kitchen where he drank four glasses of water quickly while you heated up dinner.

"So, you were aware of everything the entire time?" you asked and he nodded, his cheeks becoming rosy. "I figured as much. Something was fishy ever since you came here. I knew you were alive."

Shadow appeared in the kitchen, jumping up on Minho's lap immediately and he wrapped his arms around the cat, caressing her. She meowed and started purring as she pushed her head into his hand.

"She approved of you from day one."

"I'm glad she did."

"Here, eat and then we can talk." you said, as if this was the most normal thing ever.

"It's so nice to be able to move and be outside in the fresh air." Minho noted as the two of you decided to take a walk in the woods behind your house.

The woods were comforting always and even more beautiful now with all the autumn colors painting the leaves. It was a bit chilly but you dressed well, the fresh air was helping you clear your mind.

"I bet it is. So, what do you remember before being here with me?"

"I remember a lab. Tables like the ones in your basement, I remember I didn't look like this from the beginning. I also remember I could walk and move and talk before they put something inside us. We were plugged to something and suspended in water tanks. There was eight of us."

"Oh, I saw the others on the site! Do you remember them?"

"Yes, I do. We all had our cells before they put us in the tanks. Chan was made first. Then there was me, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, Seungmin and lastly Jeongin." Minho explained.

"Wait, Hyunjin?" you suddenly remembered the artist you ran into.

"Yes, he liked to paint."

"I saw him today!"

"You saw Hyunjin?" Minho's eyes widened. "Like this? Alive?"

"Yeah. Do you think the others are somewhere around here too?"

"Could be. I really miss them. We tried, y/n. We tried to fight the company but there were too many of them and we were kept in such a controlled enviroment. They kept injecting something with these big needles, it would make us sleepy."

"Do you remember anything before the lab?"

"As much as I dig around my mind, I only remember the lab."

"What do you mean, you didn't look like this the in the beginning?" you asked after a quiet moment of taking in everything Minho had told you.

"Well, I don't wanna gross you out with gory details." he said and you laughed.

"Honey, I'm a mortician."

"Right, you poke around dead people." he smiled teasingly.

"What a way to put it." you chuckled.

"Well. If you must know, they added skin later."

"Oh... Oh. So, I'm guessing maybe you're not human? Or at least, not entirely?" you said.

"I have no idea." Minho shrugged with a sigh.

Your hand brushed his as the leaves crunched under your feet.

You took hold of his hand, noticing his shy smile and rosy cheeks as your fingers entwined.

"We'll figure it out."

It's been about two weeks since Minho woke up and you had no idea your dolly would be so shy.

He avoided talking about what he was actually made for and never mentioned you using him for your pleasure multiple times. Minho enjoyed cooking for you and playing with your cat as much as he enjoyed watching you work and being the one to hold you during cold nights.

It was safe. It was comforting. You had found someone who was genuinely interested in what you do. Even when he was a little annoying, asking question after question like a curious child, his shiny eyes staring at you closely as he breathed in your personal space and kept asking stuff like 'What are you doing now?', 'What is that?', 'Why are you putting it there?'.

It was adorable as much as it was irritating, and you loved it.

Outside, it rained hard as you sat on your window bench, reading quietly while Minho sat on the sofa, cuddling with Shadow.

You gave him time to get used to everything, but you were feeling kind of impatient at the same time. Minho was observant, he learned all your little movements, the tone of your voice, what your sighs meant. He loved all the little details that made you you.

So, he stood up and made his way to you which got your attention, and you looked up from your book just in time as he stood in front of you.

"Yes?"

"Can I kiss you?" he asked and your eyes widened.

"Of course." you smiled then, your face heating up.

Minho sat down close to you, gently grabbing your book from your hands and putting it aside before he touched your face softly. He leaned in and you waited with bathed breath for his lips to collide with yours.

It wasn't what you expected, fireworks and passion, it was more gentle, more profound. He kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered in this world.

"I'm sorry I made you wait. It's just, I'm scared that somehow I will go back to how I was before. And I don't want that to be in that... prison anymore. Being able to see and hear it all but being unable to react, it was terrifying and I still have nightmares about it." Minho confessed as you ran your hands through his soft hair.

"That's not gonna happen, okay?"

"How are you so sure that it won't?" Minho asked.

"Because... I love you and I'm not gonna let anything happen to you." you said, Minho's lips trembled as he searched your eyes before a sweet smile spread on his lips.

"I love you too, my kitten." he smirked before leaning in, this time giving you a more passionate kiss.

It didn't take long for the kiss to escalate as Minho pushed his tongue into your mouth, tasting you. Your hands tangled in his hair as his roamed your body, exploring your curves and dips like he had always wanted to.

He kneeled between your legs, his knee pressed against your core and you whimpered into his mouth as he smirked against yours.

"My sweet kitten, I've always wanted to take care of you." he looked at you, eyes darkened with lust as you gripped onto his strong arms, your hips moving on their own as you rubbed your clothed pussy against his knee.

"M-Minho." you whined, throwing your head back and his lips attached to your neck and collarbone, traveling down between your breasts as he left hungry kisses everywhere. His hands gripped your waist before sliding down to grab your ass and lift you up.

You squealed as he turned your body towards the window; the view outside was breathtaking, all the leaves twirling in the wind, the rain dragging them down and washing them away just as the sky darkened.

"Here?" you gasped and he chuckled.

"Everywhere." he whispered in your ear before lifting your little nightgown and revealing your lacy panties.

"Very sweet." Minho grabbed handfuls of your ass and you moaned, nails scratching at the bench you were just sitting on. His fingers slid on your folds, your arousal soaking through the lace as he kept touching you, giving you a few spanks with his other hand.

You moaned his name, pushing back into him, your body craving for more; you were so touch starved that you lost your mind immediately, melting into Minho and giving him total control over you.

He wanted you as much as you wanted him so he slid your panties down just enough to have access to your wet pussy as he slid his pants and boxers down at the same time.

"I promise I'll take it slow later. I just need to have you right now." he breathed out as you felt the tip of his hard cock press and slide against your folds.

"Take me, Minho, please!" you pushed back again and he spanked you quickly, making you whimper.

"Stay still, kitten." he purred as he slowly pushed in and the stretch was perfect, your pussy taking him in easily until he filled you up completely.

"You feel perfect around me." he groaned as he started moving slowly, his hands splayed on your ass as you pressed your forehead into one of the decorative pillows on your window, little gasps and moans escaping your lips.

"Ah!" you moaned loudly when he hit your spot, biting down on the pillow as Minho's hand tangled in your hair, lifting your head up slowly.

"Let me hear you, kitten." he said, fucking into you harder, the sounds of skin slapping skin making your ears warm up in embarrassment. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the window, seeing the expression on Minho's face sent shivers down your spine, your pussy clenching around his cock.

You let go and started moaning loudly, and the louder you got the faster he fucked into you.

"Just like that." he whined and you gasped, cumming around his length, making him more slippery and wet as he held onto you.

It only took a few more erratic thrusts before Minho exploded inside you, his warm cum filling you up deliciously and making you cum once more at the feeling of it.

"Oh." he gasped as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tightly for a few moments. You finally turned around, grabbing his face and giving him a sloppy wet kiss.

"I love you." you smiled as he pulled you into a hug.

"I love you. I'm glad I came to you." he whispered.

"Me too."

The two of you were cuddled up with Shadow under a blanket, watching a horror movie per Minho's request when your doorbell rang.

"That must be Emily." you stood up quickly and Minho looked at you with a panicked look in his eyes.

"You sure she won't freak out?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, she's literally seen everything with me." you chuckled as you went to open the door. Minho sat still on the couch, cuddling Shadow to calm his fast beating heart.

"Emily, I'd like you to meet someone." you pulled your best friend into the living room and she looked at Minho confusedly for a moment.

"Didn't we meet already?" she chuckled and Minho's lips fell open.

"She's not gonna faint is she?" he asked, making the both of you laugh.

"Not that I know of." Emily said with a shrug. "Look Minho, when you're friends with y/n for years, nothing really surprises you anymore. Plus, she told me in advance. Everything that happened and what you remember." she added as you served some tea for her.

"Minho sometimes has nightmares about the company." you added.

"Did you remember any more details?" Emily asked after taking a sip of tea.

"Not really. Just bits and pieces, it's more like feelings. Fear, dread, isolation. I especially hated when they experimented on us, the tables. I don't know what they did to us cause I couldn't move and look down but it hurt. The water tanks seemed to alleviate the pain though." Minho explained.

"Okay, now that is creepy." Emily said and you nodded.

"Did you manage to find anything on the site?" you asked her and she shook her head.

"I tried hacking it. It has top security on it, it's out of my skill range." Emily sighed. "I wish I could be of more help."

"Hey, you being here is enough for me." you grabbed her hand as she smiled.

"Oh, do you maybe know where the company is?" Emily suddenly remembered and Minho shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to think of the location.

"Ugh. I can't remember no matter how much I try. I don't remember traveling from there to your house." he looked at you.

"It's okay. We can try again another day." you said, caressing his back to calm him down.

It was all so suspicious and you were too interested in finding out more about where you dear dolly came from.

You were enjoying an afternoon nap when a loud clatter jolted you out of your dreams.

"What are you doing, Min?" you rubbed your eyes as you walked into the kitchen.

"Oh. I'm making dinner for us. It's been exactly five months since I came here so I wanted to do something special." he said, his cheeks rosy.

"Aw, you are so sweet." you melted instantly, making him chuckle shyly.

When you sat down to eat the delicious meal he prepared, you got to thinking.

You've never been so happy or felt so seen. Living with Minho, sharing the day and night with him came easy to you. Everything seemed more lively since he came into your life, even death became an afterthought when you spent time with Minho.

"Thank you for the wonderful dinner." you smiled.

"Of course." he stood up and you followed quickly, almost knocking your chair down.

"Wait here a sec." you told him before running off to your room. If he had made an effort with the main course, you were going to make effort with the dessert.

Minho decided to tidy up as he waited for you, his heart beating hard in anticipation. While you were sleeping, he saw the lacy set you had put out in your closet earlier and he was so excited to see you in it... or take it off of you.

"Min, come here!" you yelled from the room once you were ready and Minho all but tripped over his feet, the carpet and Shadow who was lounging in her spot before he came to you, looking as cool as a cucumber. He leaned on the wall and smirked at you.

"What do you think?" you asked, giving him a little twirl. The lingerie you wore left nothing to imagination.

"I think you look stunning." he said, somewhat breathlessly as his face heated up.

"You gonna do something about it?" you taunted and he made his way to you, his eyes filling up with lust.

His hands landed on your waist as he pulled you in, his lips pressing against yours. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders as you pressed your body as close as you could to his and his hands slid down to grab your ass.

You moaned into his mouth as he started massaging it, then giving it a few loving spanks.

"Fuck, let me take care of you, my love." you pushed him towards the night stand and Minho's eyes widened as you got down on your knees.

"Oh." he let out a quiet sound as you slid his pants and boxers down, not wanting to waste any more time. His cock was already hard and ready for you to play with and you were just too eager.

Your fingers wrapped around the base of his length as you leaned in closer, giving a few kitten licks to his tip, collecting the drops of pre cum on your tongue.

Minho breathed in sharply, his hands grabbing at the night stand behind him. You smirked, swirling your tongue around the tip, occasionally dipping it into his slit and trying to tease him as much as you could.

"Kitten." Minho moaned quietly, his hand tangling in your hair as you started sucking on the tip gently.

You were sure you couldn't take all of him but you were even more sure you were going to try anyways, so you slid down, taking more of his length in and trying to get used to it.

"You look so beautiful right now." Minho smirked, gripping your hair and holding you against him tightly. You moaned around him, sending vibrations through his body as you slid down more.

You bobbed your head up and down, wetting his cock with your spit and gagging around him multiple times and Minho couldn't help his desire as he slowly started to fuck into your warm mouth.

"Ah, y/n!" he groaned, accidentally pushing harder and making you gag. You slid off of him and he looked at you with panic in his eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his palm gentle against your cheek.

"No, I'm fine." you said, biting on your lip. "Just very needy right now."

"For what?" he smirked and you whined.

"You."

"Get on the bed, kitten." he said and you stood up immediately, lying down on the bed.

Minho climbed in after you, kneeling between your legs as he pushed your panties aside.

"This what you need?" he smirked, sliding the tip of his cock against your wet folds.

"Mm, yes." you moaned, already arching your back at the slightest touch.

"Hmm, I'm not convinced." he smirked.

"Please!" you whined desperately, making Minho chuckle.

"Okay." he said but you saw the mischievous glint in his eyes and you knew he was going to tease you some more.

He pushed in just the tip, fucking you slowly with it.

"Ah, Min!" you whined as he kept smirking, giving you a minimal amount of stimulation.

Your eyes teared up in frustration as Minho kept fucking you only with the tip, your pussy clenching and begging for more.

"Please, please!" you cried.

"More?" he teased, pushing a bit more in and staying still.

"All of it."

"As you wish darling." he said before pushing all of his length in and fucking you slowly.

You moaned as you wrapped your arms and legs around him and Minho held you close as he kept rocking his hips into you.

You reached bliss together, wrapped up in each other, completely content.

"Wait." you giggled as Minho started getting up so he can get a cloth to clean you up.

"What?" he asked and you pulled him closer, patting his head gently.

"Oh." he giggled cutely before standing up and almost running off to the bathroom.

While you laid there waiting for him, your phone started ringing.

"Ugh." you groaned and rolled over to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Miss l/n?"

"Yes, this is she." you sat up, thinking it was someone calling for your funeral services.

"We are calling regarding our dolly collection. We understand you have purchased our dark doll, Minho." the cold voice on the other end said.

"Yes, I have."

"We regret to inform you that the collection will be pulled back from the public and we will be taking all the dolls back to our company due to a malfunction. You will get your refund of course. We will come pick the doll up tomorrow morning." they said right as Minho came in.

"Okay, thank you for calling." you said politely before finishing the call.

"Who was that?" Minho asked.

"It was your company, apparently they are taking all the dolls back to the lab due to a malfunction."

"What? Please, don't let them take me! I can't go back there!" Minho looked angry and scared instantly.

"Oh they can come here. But they won't find anything. I have a plan, my love." you smirked.

You were not about to let anyone take away your happiness.

The doorbell rang at 9am sharp and you took a deep breath before opening the door.

There were six men in black suits and emotionless faces standing there and looking at you.

"We've come to pick the doll up."

Suddenly, you hiccuped and started crying.

"He is gone! My dolly is gone! I woke up this morning and looked for him everywhere. But there is no trace of him. I-I put him in my bed like always but he disappeared!" you cried and the men exchanged a look.

"Mind if we take a look around?" one of them asked.

"Please, go ahead." you let them in and they started snooping around immediately. Shadow hissed at them, running away as soon as one of the men came anywhere near her.

They were definitely dangerous.

"W-what kind of malfunction happened to the dolls?" you asked, blowing your nose in a napkin.

"We aren't allowed to discuss that." they answered.

"What's downstairs?" one of them asked.

"My preparation room. This is a funeral home." you said and they gave you suspicious looks.

"Can we take a look there?"

"Of course." you nodded and opened the door.

Then men looked around as you followed them, still crying silently and hiccuping a few more times.

"Well, he is not here. Don't worry about it, miss. You will still get your refund and the doll will be found." they finally gave up after checking every nook and cranny, or so they thought.

"Okay, thank you for coming." you said as they left.

You waited for them to get into their van and drive away before you ran back downstairs.

"They left!" you quickly opened one of the caskets and Minho sat up, taking a deep breath in.

"Gosh, I almost suffocated. I could hear them walking around here, it was so scary." he said as you grabbed his face gently.

"But they didn't find you." you smiled.

"No, thanks to my genius lover." he smiled back at you as you leaned in to kiss him.

"What do we do now?" he asked when you parted.

"We wait to get the refund. And then we'll see what our next step will be."

"Are you sure they won't come looking for me here again?" Minho sighed.

"They can try. But I won't let them take you away from me. I promise."

Minho wrapped his arms around you tightly, putting all his trust into your hands.

You knew you were running a risk as long as you stayed here, but there were preparations needed to be done before you could get away.

And you wanted to make sure there was no trace left for the wrong people to find you.

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @eastjonowhere @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them @mariahxrrera @0omillo0

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nvrcmplt · 2 years ago

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𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕧𝕖 𝕘𝕠𝕥 𝕞𝕪 𝕓𝕠𝕕𝕪, 𝕗𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕙 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕓𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕜𝕪 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕧𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔼𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕙 𝕓𝕖𝕝𝕠𝕨 ℕ𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕒𝕪 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕟𝕠𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕘𝕠 𝔸 𝕥𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕖

#» | × | Hendrikson&Gaia || Worship Her - But Leave Her Wild & Free ||#» | × | Kerberos&Marlo || You Taste Like My New Obsession ||#» | × | Oluwayemisi&Saint || You Are My Two Am Thoughts Your Mouth Is My Confessional ||#» | × | Tyler&Nyarlathotep || In The Shadowy Solitude My Longing For Them Grew So Frantic That I Could Rest No More ||#» | × | Eli&Lucio || Shared Thoughts Of Past Lovers ||#BESCHUTZER & ATEM ╱ I Will Devour The World For You ❣#BRAN & RAUM ╱ I Met Him And He Met Me. Now Our Nightmare Begins ❣#HIPPOCAMP & AJ ╱ Your Heart Could Fill An Ocean ❣#KERBEROS & CÚ ╱ Mayhem Caused Why Are You Always So Mean To Me ❣#KYLE & WORMWOOD ╱ I Wasn’t Even Looking When I Found You My Favourite Art Piece ❣#LILU & RAUM ╱ Beautiful Creatures If Only For A Moment. ❣#MIOGI & KOUKEN ╱ In The Distance A Fox Cries Out Seeming As If It Were Searching For Me ❣#TZVULT & LYSANDRA ╱ Even Within War Did The Storms Bless The Chaos ❣#VINCENZO & HECTOR ╱ A Love That Is Not Easily Buried ❣#VINCENZO & SUSANO'O ╱ Sitting On A Rooftop At Two Am & Talking About Life ❣#WEISSAGER & NANAMI ╱ Spoken Words Like Moonlight You’re The Voice That I Like ❣#YOMI & DOFLAMINGO ╱ Like Art He Is Beautiful But Like Art He Is Also Complex ❣#ZATEROS & OZYMANDIAS ╱ The Viper In His Shadow ❣#TYLER & KRASIMIR ╱ Every Time He Knocks I Can’t Help But Let Him In ❣#TZVULT & OLIVER ╱ I Found My Lost Peace With You ❣

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anyarose011 · 6 months ago

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Et tu, Brute?

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius

Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.

Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)

Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II

I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.

I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.

Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)

Word Count: 16.1k

youtube

It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.

How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.

Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.

Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.

If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.

Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.

The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.

Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.

You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.

“What is your name, girl?”

You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.

He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”

You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”

“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”

“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”

“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”

“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.

A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”

And he kissed you.

You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.

It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.

You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…

Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.

All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.

You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.

“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”

You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”

Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”

You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.

“Can you read them?”

A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.

Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.

“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.

Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.

Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”

He laid his head in your lap without another word.

Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.

There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.

The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.

You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.

Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.

General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.

The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.

Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.

The first was at Senator Thraex's home.

“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”

You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”

He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.

One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.

When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.

Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized.

He said nothing; you tried again.

“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.

The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.

“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”

“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.

You nodded. “I speak five languages.”

“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”

Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”

“I did.”

“So why not say anything?”

“What am I to say to your pity?”

You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”

He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”

“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.

The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”

“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”

He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”

“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.

He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”

You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”

“But that is not your name.”

It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…

“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.

“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”

You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.

“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”

You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”

“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”

All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.

You could pretend you were royalty for a day.

Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.

You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.

Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.

“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”

The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.

The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.

A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.

“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”

“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”

Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”

The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.

“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.

You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.

Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.

“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”

The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.

He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”

“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”

Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”

You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”

Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.

You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.

In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.

He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”

“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.

Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”

Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.

“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”

He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”

…What?

“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”

“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.

Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”

“How?”

He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”

“Yes.”

“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”

They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.

“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.

He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”

“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”

“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”

You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”

“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”

“And how will that dethrone them?

He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”

You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”

“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”

“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”

Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”

You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”

“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”

“Then where shall-?”

“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”

Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”

He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“For what, child?”

You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”

Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”

With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.

You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.

Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.

There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.

In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.

Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.

When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.

The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.

You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.

Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.

He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.

Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.

“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”

Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”

As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.

“No, no mercy.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”

“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”

Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.

Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.

Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.

He had certainly thought through every little detail.

Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.

You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.

An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.

“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”

You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”

“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”

“What?”

“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”

Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.

When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.

It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.

Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).

You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.

How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.

Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.

You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”

She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…

But you felt safer.

Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.

“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.

You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”

“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”

“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”

She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”

You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”

“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”

Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?

“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”

She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”

“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”

“It’s possible, yes.”

“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”

“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”

Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.

“Lucius…”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”

“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”

“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”

“No.” She answered right away.

You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”

“-No. I…I love talking about him.”

You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”

“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”

You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”

“It’s hard to judge.”

Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”

Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.

“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”

Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.

There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.

“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”

She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”

Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”

You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”

“My child-.”

“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”

She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”

Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”

Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”

All you could do was believe her.

There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).

It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.

Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.

You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.

Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.

“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.

Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”

“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”

“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”

“Of course, lady Julia.”

Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.

“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”

“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”

He hummed. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”

“-Please.” Was all you said.

He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”

“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.

Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”

“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”

“I certainly am, why do you ask?”

“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”

Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”

“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”

“A sheltered girl?”

“Ashamedly so.”

“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”

You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”

“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”

Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”

“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”

You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”

“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”

Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”

He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”

You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.

You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.

“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”

Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”

He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”

“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”

You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.

That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.

“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.

You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”

“-Now, Julia!”

Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.

“I do not understand.”

You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”

The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.

“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”

He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”

It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”

“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”

As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).

You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”

“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.

Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress

But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.

You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.

It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.

“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”

He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”

“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”

He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”

You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.

“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.

“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.

He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.

“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"

An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.

He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.

Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.

It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?

As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.

Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.

You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.

Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.

You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.

The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.

“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”

Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.

“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.

“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.

Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”

Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.

One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.

“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”

“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”

“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.

You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.

Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.

“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”

How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.

You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.

Of course, that would be too peaceful.

You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”

“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”

You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.

“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.

Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.

Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”

“-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”

Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”

“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”

Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”

Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”

“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”

“No!”

All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”

His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”

“No-!”

“-Then which is it?!”

Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.

“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”

Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”

“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’

He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”

“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.

The emperor scoffed. “What?”

“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”

Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”

“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.

You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…

It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.

“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.

You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”

“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”

“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.

Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”

You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”

“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”

You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”

That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.

“What is it that you want?” You asked.

“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”

You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”

“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”

“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”

You blinked. “Hanno?”

“Correct.”

“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”

“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”

You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.

Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.

“I will go.”

You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.

Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.

“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.

Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”

Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”

That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”

“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”

“Why should I?”

Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.

“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”

The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”

You only nodded.

He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”

“What are you doing?” You hissed.

“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”

“I will give you anything you desire.”

Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”

You gawked as he walked away. “What have I ever done to you?”

“What?”

“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”

The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.

“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”

“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.

“What is your question, my empress?”

“Why did you shoot me?!”

“The arrow was not meant for you!”

You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.

“Then who?” You asked.

He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”

“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”

“-He murdered my wife.”

Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.

And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?

“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”

“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.

“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”

“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”

When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.

Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.

“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”

Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.

“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”

Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.

He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”

Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”

“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”

“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”

“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”

Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”

“I wish for you to show mercy.”

“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”

“I too am a slave and-.”

“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”

You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”

“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”

The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.

“A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”

Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”

You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”

Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”

You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”

He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.

“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.

“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”

The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.

She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.

“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.

A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”

He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”

“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”

He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”

Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.

“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”

You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”

Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”

The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”

You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”

The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.

You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.

Than, the roles would be reversed.

Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.

He yielded.

The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”

In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.

“The gods have rendered their judgement.”

His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.

He tossed his sword to the side.

You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.

“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”

Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”

From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.

“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”

The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.

“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”

Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.

“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.

The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.

It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.

With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.

You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.

The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”

“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”

You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.

The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.

“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.

Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”

“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”

“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”

“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”

“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”

Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”

“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.

“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”

Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.

“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”

This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.

“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.

“I am as well.” Was all he could say.

You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”

He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.

You spat. “What do you want?”

“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”

“How could you possibly?”

From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”

“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”

“Caracalla? He is senile.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”

You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”

“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”

It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.

You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”

He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”

An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.

There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.

“Caracalla?” You whispered.

He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.

“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”

“He did?”

“Certainly, one cannot forget.”

You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”

“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”

“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”

“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.

“He’s very persuasive.”

“What will they do to me?”

“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”

His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"

You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”

“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”

Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'

He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”

“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”

You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.

Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”

And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.

“I will need a third.” He settled.

You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”

“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”

Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”

“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…

Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.

No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.

“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”

You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.

“My love, my love, please help me!”

There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.

The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.

There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.

Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.

Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?

You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.

Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.

“You have done well.” He said softly.

You smiled. “Only because of you.”

Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.

“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”

The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.

Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”

He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”

Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”

You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.

Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”

Macrinus took one step forward.

“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”

All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.

Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.

“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”

Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.

“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”

“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.

The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.

You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.

“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”

They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.

You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”

Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.

“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”

Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.

“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”

“-Shall live.”

You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.

“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”

A few of the senators chuckled.

“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.

You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”

“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”

“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.

He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.

“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”

Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.

Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.

Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”

One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.

Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.

“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.

This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.

After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.

No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.

As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.

“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”

You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."

“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. ��How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."

The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.

Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.

You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”

He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”

“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”

“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”

Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”

“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”

“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."

“-Her father enslaved me.”

“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"

Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”

You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”

He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”

Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.

The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.

“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.

You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.

“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.

Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”

“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”

“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.

You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”

“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”

Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”

“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”

“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”

“Hanno is my son.”

You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?

“What?” You uttered.

“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to!”

She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”

“Anything.”

Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”

You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”

It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”

“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”

“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”

Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”

You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”

“I trust you.” You nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”

“I…I know.”

“Now go before I beg you to stay.”

You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.

“Leaving so soon?” He asked.

Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”

Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”

It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.

The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.

Perhaps the gods were on your side.

“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.

The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”

You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”

He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”

“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”

Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.

“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”

“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”

“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”

“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”

Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”

“More than anything.”

“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”

Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”

“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”

Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.

“There is no shame if you are unable to.”

“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”

Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."

You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."

"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."

A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.

“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.

You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”

“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”

Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”

As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”

“She died before she could hold me.”

“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”

Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.

“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”

“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”

You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…

But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.

If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.

“It’s a kind name.”

It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”

He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”

A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”

You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.

You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.

“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.

A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”

“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”

“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”

That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.

It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.

“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.

You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.

“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”

Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.

“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”

Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.

You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.

When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.

The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.

You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.

Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.

You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.

He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.

Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.

The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.

Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.

When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.

Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.

“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”

“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.

“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.

“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.

“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”

She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”

“Mother-!”

“-You will look after him, won’t you?”

You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”

“He shall.” Was all she said.

“You will live, just please stop talking.”

“I love you.”

“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.

“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.

Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.

You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.

The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.

You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.

There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.

When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.

Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.

“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”

He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”

You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.

“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”

“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”

“Okay.” Was all you managed.

And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.

Yet…once both slaves, you were now free.

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hisfavegirl · 1 month ago

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The Serpent’s Flame - Draco Malfoy x Reader.

Summary : Being in your sixth year at Hogwarts meant you were nearly at the top of the food chain, and with your bloodline—the legacy of Salazar Slytherin on your father’s side and the dark, mysterious Gaunt lineage from your mother—you carried a reputation that both intimidated and intrigued. Students whispered about you in the halls. Some feared you, thinking your bloodline gave you a dark edge. Others envied your beauty—long, silver-blonde waves that cascaded past your waist, your tiny frame accentuated by curves most girls only dreamed of. And your emerald green eyes? Hypnotic. Dangerous. Just like a Slytherin should be.

Warning : Smut, Reader is described of having Silver blonde hair and green eyes, Reader is the last bloodline of salazar slytherin after voldemort, Nudity, Semi Public Sexs (Bathroom), Rough Sexs, Fingering, Edging, P in V sexs, Unprotected Sexs.

Draco Malfoy Masterlist.

Wizarding World Masterlist.

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws and @arcielee

The soft echo of your heels against the ancient stone floors of Hogwarts followed you as you strolled alongside Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, the air crisp with that early-winter sharpness that filled the castle in November. Pansy had just delivered a biting remark about a Hufflepuff girl who nearly incinerated the entire left wing of the Potions dungeon, and you let out a low, velvety laugh that lingered in the corridor like perfume.

“Honestly, how do you almost blow up the class with a Calming Draught?” Pansy drawled dramatically.

“Talent,” you mused, your voice as sweet as honey, but threaded with the same venom all Slytherin girls were taught to perfect.

Daphne smirked. “Jealous, Pans? I think you just hate not being the most talked-about disaster in the school.”

You rolled your eyes, lips curved in amusement, fingers grazing your wand tucked discreetly in your thigh holster beneath your skirt. Today, you left your hair down—a rare, silken curtain of long, silver-blonde waves cascading down your back. It shimmered like moonlight with each step. Only Slytherin students ever saw it like this. But today, everyone would.

The towering doors of the Great Hall groaned open under the weight of centuries, and a hush fell over your group as you stepped inside. Your presence pulled heads as if drawn by invisible string—Hufflepuff girls pausing mid-bite, Ravenclaws stealing glances over books, even a few daring Gryffindor boys locking eyes before quickly looking away.

But none of them mattered.

Your gaze found him instantly.

Draco Malfoy.

He sat languidly at the Slytherin table beside Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, his fingers playing idly with the edge of his goblet, but his eyes—those piercing, storm-grey eyes—were already on you. The moment your gaze met his, everything else dulled. Sound, light, movement—it all bled into background.

He was smiling.

Not the cold, calculated smirk he gave to the rest of the world. No, this was different—private, intimate, soft only for you. Like the rare sun behind grey clouds in a storm-wrecked sky. His eyes devoured you slowly, undressing you in a way that made your skin burn beneath your uniform.

You walked toward him, slow and graceful, every sway of your hips deliberate. You were aware of the way his eyes darkened the closer you got. By the time you reached him, the tension crackled like electricity.

Draco stood up before you even reached your seat, pulling out the bench beside him. His hand brushed the small of your back as you slid in, lingering there longer than necessary, thumb tracing slow, subtle circles against your blouse. He leaned in close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You know what that hair does to me,” he murmured, voice low and sinfully smooth.

You turned to him, your full lips parted just slightly, heart beating like wings in your chest. “That’s why I wore it down today. For you.”

He inhaled, sharp and shallow, his hand now resting fully on your thigh beneath the table, hidden from everyone. The warmth of it spread like fire.

“You’re cruel,” he whispered, voice raw with need, “walking in like that. All sweet and untouched on the outside, but I know better.”

Your eyes glinted with mischief, lashes fluttering as you leaned in, your lips brushing his. Not kissing—almost.

“You like cruel,” you whispered. “You like knowing I’m yours and everyone else just wants.”

He groaned softly under his breath, thumb now pressing into your inner thigh. “I want you now.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, voice breathy. “Then come find me after dinner… if you can wait that long.”

His jaw clenched, his desire so tangible you could feel it hum through him. From across the table, Blaise and Theo exchanged knowing looks, smirks playing at their lips.

“I give him ten minutes,” Theo muttered.

“Five, if she keeps playing like that,” Blaise replied. But Draco didn’t even hear them. His entire world was you and he was burning.

The golden light of the enchanted ceiling bathed the Great Hall in a twilight glow, but none of it touched the storm brewing in Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

His hand was still on your thigh, fingers tracing patterns with a possessiveness that was becoming more desperate by the second. You were whispering something soft against his jaw, your voice silk-wrapped seduction, when a voice cut through the magic between you.

The sound of it—Harry Potter’s voice—was a blade through silk.

Your head turned, thick silver-blonde hair catching the light like starlight, cascading over your shoulder as you looked up. Harry stood a few feet away, awkward, tense, holding a folded parchment in his hand. His eyes flicked from your face to Draco’s hand beneath the table.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice unusually soft, and that’s when Draco’s body turned rigid beside you.

Like a predator sensing a threat.

You blinked, curiosity creasing your brow as you tilted your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What is it?”

Before Harry could answer, Draco voice cut him like a thunder.

“That’s enough, Potter,” he said coldly, his voice a low snarl of threat and warning. “You’ve got five seconds to turn around before I forget we’re in the Great Hall.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. He looked at you once more—something unreadable in his eyes—then turned and walked away, his shoulders tight, fists clenched at his sides.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body relax as you turned back to Draco.

“Was that necessary?” you murmured, more amused than annoyed.

Draco’s eyes stayed fixed on where Harry had walked off, his breath sharp, his jaw locked so tightly you thought it might crack.

“He said your name like he owned it,” he growled.

You shifted closer, the air between you thick, heavy with unspoken emotion and lust that simmered right beneath the surface. One of your hands slid up his thigh under the table, resting on the spot where his hand still gripped you.

“And do you?” you asked softly, tilting your face up to him, lips parted, eyes teasing.

That got his attention.

His gaze snapped to yours, dark and full of fire. “You know I do.”

You smiled, slow and sinful. “Then show me.”

And before he could say another word, you leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t a shy kiss. It wasn’t sweet or soft.

It was claiming.

Your lips molded to his, full and warm, your mouth opening slightly to invite him deeper. His hand slid up your thigh, squeezing possessively, while his other hand tangled in the back of your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss until the entire world dropped away.

He tasted like mint and heat, the kind that burned into you and left you gasping. Your body pressed into his beneath the table, your chest brushing his as his tongue slid against yours in slow, unhurried strokes that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

You kissed him like he was oxygen.

He kissed you like you were fire.

When you finally pulled back—lips swollen, breath caught—his eyes searched yours with something fierce, something raw.

“Mine,” he said, so quietly only you could hear it. “Don’t let him near you again.”

You smiled, brushing your lips over his jaw, down to his neck, lingering just long enough to make him shiver. “I won’t. He doesn’t get to touch what belongs to you.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like he was trying to center himself. When they opened again, they were full of promise—and something darker.

“You’re not going to class after dinner.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Oh? And where will I be?”

He leaned in, his voice brushing against your lips like a spell. “Bent over the sink in the Prefects’ bathroom with my hands on your hips, making sure you remember who you belong to.”

Your breath caught in your throat, pupils blown wide, heart pounding so loud you were sure the entire table could hear it.

“Then finish your dinner,” you whispered, voice trembling with anticipation, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

The door to the Prefects’ bathroom shut behind you with a resonant click, echoing against the marble and tile like a warning bell. Before the sound even faded, Draco’s wand was in hand, lips curled in a snarl of desire as he cast a nonverbal spell—locking the door and sealing it with silence.

The room was warm with steam, candlelight flickering against the white and gold decor, casting dancing shadows over the water that shimmered in the massive tub like liquid stars.

But Draco didn’t look at any of it.

He was already on you.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave—furious, hungry, a man lost in the storm of everything he’d held back all day. You gasped into the kiss, fingers flying into the front of his robes, clutching him as if you were trying to steady yourself on something that was already pulling you under.

“Fuck, I waited all day,” he growled against your lips, his hands gripping your waist with bruising heat.

You whimpered into his mouth as he walked you backward, and you knew exactly where he was taking you. One swift tug and your leg was lifted—his fingers digging into your thigh as he wrapped it around his waist, his hips grinding into yours through layers of fabric, teasing just enough to drive you mad.

“Draco,” you breathed, voice already wrecked, and the sound made him growl low in his throat like an animal barely restrained.

He kissed you harder.

There was no gentleness. No softness. Just raw, desperate need.

His tongue parted your lips again, claiming, deep, overwhelming. The kiss tasted like every ounce of possessiveness and frustration he’d bottled all day—watching Harry say your name, watching you smile at someone who wasn’t him.

He pressed you to the edge of the sink, lifting you up with ease, both hands gripping your thighs as he forced them wider around him. His palms slid to your ass, squeezing firmly, pulling you against him. The moan that left your lips was so helpless, so breathless, it made his jaw clench.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he rasped against your neck, dragging his lips down to taste your skin. “Walking in with your hair down… like you didn’t know exactly what that would do to me.”

You gasped as his teeth grazed your throat, your fingers twisting in his soft platinum hair. “I did,” you whispered, wicked and breathless. “I wanted you desperate.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, and what you saw in his gaze made your whole body ache.

“Then congratulations,” he said, voice dark and low, “because I am. I’ve never wanted anything like I want you.”

Your breath caught, lips trembling.

“Prove it.”

And just like that, he was on you again—kissing you with reckless intensity. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to kiss you harder. The other stayed firm on your hip, grounding you as he pressed forward between your thighs, grinding slow, hard, making your whole body tremble with every movement.

You were gasping into his mouth now, dizzy with it, with him, and the way his dominance poured into every kiss, every touch. He was everywhere—hands, mouth, body—owning you completely.

“I hate when anyone else says your name,” he muttered against your lips. “Hate when they look at you.”

“Then claim me,” you whispered, your voice low, ruined with want.

He growled, deep and primal, and for a second he just stared at you—chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes burning with a mix of love, obsession, and something far darker.

“I already have,” he said. “But I’ll do it again. And again. Until there’s no part of you that doesn’t know you belong to me.”

Your whole body pulsed with that promise. You didn’t need candles or silk sheets or whispered poetry. You needed him—here, now, and exactly like this.

And as he leaned in again, dragging your lips back to his with bruising, breathless need, you surrendered to every dark, delicious piece of him.

The mirrors fogged with every breath you took, the scent of heated skin and candle wax curling in the air like a spell. The cool marble sink pressed against the back of your thighs, your skirt bunched up carelessly around your waist. Draco stood between your legs like a storm in human form—his breath uneven, his lips swollen from kissing you senseless, and his gaze… ravenous.

His hand slipped under your skirt again, and this time he stilled.

His breath hitched.

You saw the shift in his eyes immediately—like a fuse had been lit.

“You’re not wearing panties,” he muttered, voice rough, low, and shaking with restraint.

Your lips parted, a whisper of a smirk forming on your kiss-bruised mouth. “Not since breakfast.”

His groan was guttural—frustrated, hungry, and sinful all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathed, like the word had been dragged from the deepest part of him.

You were about to tease him again, when he suddenly gripped your hips hard, and before you could gasp, two long fingers thrust into you—deep, hard, with no warning.

Your moan tore from your throat as your head fell back against the mirror behind you. His fingers didn’t hesitate. They curled inside you just right, pressing against that devastating spot he’d memorized like a spell, and your thighs instinctively squeezed around his wrist.

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he whispered against your throat, kissing just below your jaw, voice dark and possessive. “Walking around all day like that. Letting the whole damn castle wonder what you’ve got on under that little Slytherin skirt.”

You whimpered, biting your lip, fingers gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turned white.

“Do you even know what that does to me?” he growled, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder. “Knowing no one else knows how wet you are for me—but I do. I always do.”

You cried out, your body arching off the sink as he curled his fingers again, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his thumb brushing against your clit with maddening slowness. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted me desperate. Wanted me angry.”

His voice dropped lower, turning darker.

“Little tease. You’re so fucking filthy, aren’t you? Sitting in class, legs crossed like a good girl, while you drip onto the seat under you. No panties. No shame.”

“Draco,” you gasped, your voice wrecked, body trembling.

He leaned in, mouth right by your ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you moaned, your walls clenching around his fingers, every nerve set ablaze.

“Say you did it for me.”

Your lips parted, a breath catching on your tongue. “I didn’t wear them… because I wanted you to lose control.”

And Merlin, did he.

He cursed under his breath, his fingers thrusting even faster, harder, relentless. His body pressed against you, trapping you in his arms, overwhelming you with the smell of him—cologne, sweat, lust.

You couldn’t hold back the sounds now—not when he was unraveling you with every curl of his fingers, every word dripping filth into your ear.

“You’re mine,” he snarled softly. “Every inch of you. And you’ll never go without them again unless I tell you to. Understood?”

Your body arched, overwhelmed by the wave building inside you.

“Yes—yes, Draco—please—”

“Not yet,” he hissed, pulling his hand away suddenly, leaving you aching, gasping, trembling.

You whimpered from the loss, your body shaking in need.

But Draco’s eyes were molten, burning with possession, and his mouth pressed against yours in a kiss that promised you hadn’t even seen the worst of him yet.

“You want to be my filthy little thing?” he murmured against your lips. “Then beg.”

Your breath came in sharp gasps, skin flushed and damp, as you reached out with desperate fingers and took Draco’s hand—still wet from where it had just been inside you. You guided it back between your legs, aching for the pressure, the rhythm, him.

But before you could get it where you needed, he growled—a deep, territorial sound—and yanked his hand back with a firm grip that made your whole body jolt.

“No,” he said roughly, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. “That’s not how this works.”

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the sink as your thighs trembled, frustration and need burning hot through you.

“Draco, please,” you gasped, but he only raised an eyebrow, watching you with a slow, smug tilt of his head.

“Look at you,” he whispered, dragging the backs of his fingers down the inside of your thigh, never quite where you needed. “So needy… shaking for me already. And you really thought you could take control?”

His hand hovered there—close, so close—but never touching. You reached down with your own fingers this time, slipping between your slick folds and thrusting into yourself with a pace that tried to match what he had done before. Your moan echoed through the bathroom, high and aching.

But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t him.

Draco watched, gaze darkening, jaw clenched, as you tried to pleasure yourself in front of him—hips rolling, body straining, breath ragged. But there was no satisfaction in it. It only made the emptiness sharper. It made your body ache even more.

Your lip trembled. “It’s not the same,” you whispered.

His chuckle was low and wicked. “Of course it’s not,” he said, stepping closer, gripping your wrist and stopping your hand. “Because these—” he guided your fingers out and held your hand between you, slick and trembling— “aren’t mine.”

You whimpered, your knees threatening to give out.

“Say it,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “Say no one can make you feel the way I do.”

Your chest heaved, green eyes wide and glassy as you looked at him.

“No one,” you whispered. “No one, Draco. Please, I need—”

“You need what?” he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek, then your jaw. “Say it. Properly.”

“I need you,” you choked out. “I need your fingers. Your mouth. Your cock. All of it. I need you. Please, Draco, I can’t—”

That was all it took.

The sharp edge of his restraint cracked in half. His eyes blazed as he growled into your mouth, crashing his lips to yours in a brutal kiss. His hand slid between your legs again, and this time, there was no teasing. No slow build.

His fingers thrust back inside you with the same devastating rhythm as before, curling just right, dragging helpless sobs from your throat as your nails raked down his shoulders. The pleasure exploded in white-hot flashes, your body melting and tightening all at once under his dominance.

“Mine,” he growled again and again, breath ragged against your neck. “You don’t touch yourself unless I say. You don’t come unless it’s by me.”

Your fingers clutched at his robes, holding on for dear life as he pushed you to the edge, again and again, the tension between you snapping like a whip in the air.

And you would’ve fallen—shattered and ruined in the best possible way—but his lips brushed your ear as he slowed, pulling back just enough to make you cry out again.

“I’m not done teaching you what happens,” he whispered, “when you forget who owns every inch of you.”

Your moan cracked into a sob of pleasure, your body trembling as Draco’s fingers refused mercy. Each thrust was precise, cruel in how perfectly they curled, making your thighs shake and your breath hitch.

“Draco,” you gasped, your head falling back against the mirror. “I—can’t—I’m—”

But he didn’t slow. He didn’t let up.

He was watching you, eyes dark and locked on your face as though trying to burn every sound and expression into his memory. And then—just when you thought you were going to tip into bliss—he groaned low in his throat, the sound thick with want.

You blinked through your haze just in time to see his free hand move. He tugged at his belt with rough fingers, popped the button, and dragged the zipper down. The sound alone sent a fresh wave of need through you.

“Draco?” you whispered, breathless and trembling.

His eyes never left yours.

He withdrew his fingers from you slowly—cruelly slow—and your body cried out at the loss. A high, helpless sound escaped your lips, your hips shifting toward him in pure instinct.

But he only smirked, gripping his now-freed length in his hand, the tip flushed and aching.

“You think I’m going to let you come without me?” he rasped, voice thick with dominance and need. “After the way you teased me all day—after you begged me like that?”

He stepped in closer, the head of his cock brushing your slick folds. You whimpered, your fingers clutching at his arms, nails digging in.

“You’re mine,” he said again, and then—

He thrust into you in one sharp, punishing stroke.

Your cry echoed through the tiled room, body arching hard against the sink, back bowed from the sudden stretch and heat and overwhelming fullness. It was too much—and not enough.

He was buried deep, deeper than his fingers ever reached, and you felt every inch of him. The thick, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you, the way he fit so perfectly, like you’d been made for him.

Draco groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he held you in place. “So tight,” he breathed. “So fucking perfect around me.”

You couldn’t even form words—your hands flew up to his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he started to move. His pace was ruthless from the start, every thrust rocking you back into the mirror, each one followed by a hiss of pleasure from his lips.

The tension in the air was unbearable. The scent of sex, the heat of your bodies, the way you both breathed each other in like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

“You wanted this,” Draco snarled softly, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Walking around without your panties… so cocky… so filthy.”

“Draco—” you moaned, your voice wrecked.

“You thought you could drive me insane and not pay for it?” he growled, his thrusts slamming harder, faster. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, you won’t be able to think about anyone but me.”

Tears welled in your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming force of it all. The way he filled you, possessed you, ruined you so thoroughly that nothing existed outside of this moment.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he said between clenched teeth, his rhythm unrelenting.

“I’m yours,” you cried, sobbing against his shoulder. “I’m yours—I’ve always been—”

He kissed you hard, a messy, claiming kiss that was all tongue and teeth and desperation.

He pulled back just far enough to press his forehead against yours, his pace never faltering, his breath hot on your lips.

“You feel that?” he whispered, low and dangerous. “That’s me. Only me.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks, moaning into his mouth as your body started to break apart beneath his.

The bathroom was filled with the symphony of slick skin, ragged breathing, and your broken cries of his name. The sound of Draco’s hips meeting yours echoed off the stone walls, relentless and sharp, a perfect rhythm that made your entire body tremble with every slam of his hips.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, your thighs shaking around his waist, and your head lolled back helplessly as his cock kept hitting that perfect spot inside you—over and over again. Your eyes rolled, jaw slack, breath catching in short sobs of pleasure.

“Right there,” you gasped, voice high and broken. “Draco—oh, my god—there—”

He growled deep in his chest, watching the way your body responded—how your breasts bounced wildly with every brutal thrust, how your legs twitched around him. His eyes darkened with hunger, possession, adoration.

“You’re a fucking vision,” he rasped, one hand sliding to your waist, the other coming up to grope at your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper. “Look at you. You can’t even think, can you?”

You shook your head desperately, but no words would come. Just moans. Just his name tumbling over and over off your lips like it was the only thing left in your mind.

“Completely cockdrunk for me,” he growled with a twisted smirk, slamming into you harder, faster—each thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “You love this. Love when I take you like this. When I ruin you.”

Your eyes fluttered, your body arching like a bow, caught between the searing edge of too much and not enough. You tried to respond, to say yes, please, always, but all you could manage was a loud, wrecked cry of his name.

“Say it,” Draco demanded, panting hard against your neck. “Tell me who does this to you. Who you belong to.”

“You—Draco!” you sobbed, lost in the haze of it all. “Only you. Always you. Please—don’t stop—”

His hands gripped you harder, fingers sinking into your hips, dragging your body onto him even deeper. He was in complete control—every move calculated to push you further, to watch you fall apart.

“I could watch you fall apart like this every damn day,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick with dark affection. “So perfect. So desperate. So mine.”

Your vision blurred as the knot inside you tightened, twisting hotter and hotter with every brutal thrust, every filthy word from his lips, every stroke of his body against yours.

And he felt it—felt you spiraling, clenching tighter around him, dragging him closer to his own edge.

“Come for me,” he commanded, slowing just enough to grind deep, right against that spot again. “Show me how much you need me.”

When you shattered, it was silent for a second—like the whole world held its breath. And then you sobbed his name so loud it echoed, your entire body shaking as you convulsed around him.

Draco didn’t stop—he rode it out, watching your face, the way your lips trembled, the tears on your cheeks, your blissed-out, cockdrunk expression like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

You trembled in his arms, your body still quaking from the intensity of your climax, your breath short and gasping—but Draco didn’t stop.

Not even close.

He was still moving inside you with an unforgiving rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, cock dragging through your oversensitive walls like he was determined to leave his mark. The pleasure had tipped over into something almost unbearable, a wildfire dancing along every nerve ending—but still, you took it. Because it was him.

“Draco—” you whimpered, voice broken, hands scrambling for purchase against his back. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled into your ear, biting lightly at your lobe. “You will. You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

The hand on your waist gripped tighter, and the other slid up, fingers curling beneath your chin until he was forcing your head back, making you look into his eyes. They were wild, half-lidded, pupils blown wide with dark lust and something far deeper.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice low and rough. “The way you’re still clenching around me, sucking me back in like you don’t want to let go?”

You cried out as he angled his hips differently—deeper, harder, making your walls flutter helplessly again, dragging you toward a second peak far too soon.

“You love this,” he whispered. “Love how I don’t let you go. How I fuck you like you’re mine.”

“Draco—please—” your words dissolved into a whimper, your body betraying you, tightening around him again like it was begging for more.

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder for a moment as your body pulsed around him again. His control was fraying—he could feel it—but it only made him rougher, more desperate.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

And then he pulled back enough to look at you, his hand still firm on your jaw, holding you in place so you couldn’t look away.

“When we get back to our dorm,” he said darkly, his voice like gravel, “I’m going to bend you over our bed and do it all over again.”

You whimpered—loud, involuntary—and your body clenched around him so hard he nearly dropped to his knees.

He smirked. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to ruin you again. Have you screaming into our sheets.”

Your nails raked down his back as you nodded, nearly delirious from the overstimulation, from how deep he was inside you, from the possessive fire in his voice. “Yes—yes—please, Draco…”

“You’re gonna fall asleep with my come still dripping out of you,” he snarled, snapping his hips harder now, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the chamber like something sacred, something obscene.

“And when you wake up,” he panted, “I’ll still be inside you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from how intensely you felt him, how much he overwhelmed every part of you. You felt him getting close, his rhythm growing erratic, the edge in his voice raw now, ragged.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you sobbed. “You, Draco. I’m yours—always.”

And with one final, punishing thrust, he groaned your name like it burned him, burying himself to the hilt, his whole body trembling as he emptied inside you.

He didn’t move for a long moment—just held you against the sink, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, bodies still connected, still pulsing together like one. His hand slid down your cheek, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered. “And I’ll never stop wanting you.”

You leaned into him, eyes fluttering closed as your fingers found his hair, soft now, comforting despite the ache in your limbs.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered back.

He smiled—dark and soft all at once.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Draco’s arms were firm around you, his stride purposeful as he carried you through the dimly lit corridors of the Slytherin common room. Your head rested weakly against his chest, breath still shallow, limbs boneless from what he’d done to you in the prefects’ bathroom—twice.

The soft crackle of the fire flickered across emerald stone walls, casting shadows as the room buzzed with low conversation. But it all came to a halt the moment the door swung open and Draco stepped inside, your limp, well-fucked form in his arms.

Pansy’s eyes widened. Daphne covered her mouth. Blaise arched a brow and let out a low whistle.

Theodore groaned, tossing his quill on the table. “Again?”

Draco didn’t even slow. His smirk was slow, arrogant, smug in the way only he could be. “She’s exhausted,” he drawled without glancing at them. “Can’t even walk. Thought I’d carry what’s mine.”

Your face flushed against his chest, but you didn’t protest. You couldn’t. You were still trembling, your thighs sticky, your throat raw from moaning his name into stone and silk. Your fingers curled weakly into the collar of his robes as he carried you past your staring friends.

Blaise gave a low chuckle, muttering something about “needing soundproofing spells.”

Draco’s smirk only deepened as he approached the stairs. “Don’t wait up.”

The door to your shared dorm clicked shut behind you, sealing you away from the world. The moment it did, the air shifted. Still thick with the heat between you, with possession and passion that hadn’t yet burned out.

He set you down on the bed gently, the first sign of softness since he had taken you hours ago. But the glint in his storm-grey eyes told you he wasn’t done—not by a long shot.

You tried to sit up, but your muscles ached. Your body trembled with exhaustion, overstimulated and aching in the most delicious way.

Draco leaned over you, brushing your hair back from your face, his thumb gliding softly across your cheek. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Good.”

“Draco…” your voice was hoarse, breathless, pleading—but even now, even broken open like this, you were still looking at him like he hung the stars.

He kissed you slowly this time. No rush. Just a claiming, a reminder.

“Think anyone else would ever see you like this?” he whispered against your lips. “Laid out. Weak. Trembling just from me?”

You shook your head, and he smiled—sharp, wicked, proud.

“Didn’t think so.”

He trailed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his fingers slowly undoing the rest of your clothes. But this time wasn’t about urgency. It was about ownership. Worship.

“You were made for me,” he breathed, eyes scanning every inch of you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. “And I’ll spend every night reminding you.”

Your hand found his hair, fingers sinking into those soft, pale strands. “You already have,” you whispered.

Draco hovered above you, his forehead pressed against yours, and for a brief moment, his eyes weren’t clouded by lust—but something deeper. Fiercer.

“I’ll never let you go,” he said softly. “Never.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, tangled space, surrounded by soft sheets and flickering candlelight, he kissed you again—not to dominate, not to conquer—but to claim.

The moonlight spilled through the tall windows of your shared dorm, casting pale silver onto your skin like liquid stardust. The fire burned low in the hearth, its soft crackle the only sound besides your breathless moans and the rustle of the sheets as Draco moved over you like a shadow possessed.

His hands framed your waist, fingers possessive, reverent—like he was reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That you were real. His.

He hovered above you, his eyes hooded with need as they raked over your body. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Every inch of you is perfect. You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words were swallowed by a gasp as his lips wrapped around your nipple, hot and soft and overwhelming. Your back arched off the bed, a breathless moan escaping you as you instinctively threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging tightly.

Draco groaned low against your skin, the vibration sending tingles straight through your chest. He didn’t stop—he sucked harder, his tongue swirling deliberately, almost cruelly, around the sensitive bud. His other hand slid over the curve of your breast, fingers squeezing and massaging to match the rhythm of his mouth.

“Draco,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the twin sensations—his mouth, his hand, his heat pressing you down into the mattress.

He chuckled darkly against your skin, pulling off with a soft, wet pop. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin as he spoke. “You like when I touch you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded, dazed and breathless, your voice barely a whisper. “Yes… always.”

That answer made his eyes flare. He lowered his mouth again, trailing his tongue across your other breast, flicking teasingly before his lips closed around your nipple once more. Your moans turned desperate, thighs shifting beneath him, seeking friction, seeking more.

He grinned against your chest. “So eager,” he breathed. “I haven’t even started yet.”

His voice was like velvet and fire, and you whimpered as he gently bit down—just enough to make you shiver—before sucking again, deeper this time, more possessive.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “Every part of you.”

Your hands trembled in his hair, and when he finally pulled away, your chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He looked up at you, hair tousled from your grip, lips glistening, and that wicked gleam in his eyes.

He kissed your sternum, slow and lingering, then moved up to hover over you. His hand cupped your face gently, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip.

“You drive me mad, you know that?” he whispered. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You reached up, caressing his jaw, your voice soft and shaken. “Then show me.”

His smirk returned, full of promise and wicked heat.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, as Draco finally pushed inside you—one hard, deep thrust that stole the breath from your lungs. The stretch was immediate, the fullness intense, and your back arched off the bed with a cry that he swallowed in a kiss.

“Merlin,” he growled into your mouth, voice ragged, “you feel like you were made for me.”

His hips didn’t hesitate. His pace was brutal from the start—rhythmic, punishing, like he had no intention of going slow. The bed creaked under the force of his movements, protesting each thrust as he drove himself deeper into you, again and again, without mercy.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, anything, as the pressure inside you built quickly, dizzyingly. His cock hit that spot inside you with precision, every time, like he knew—and of course he did. He knew your body better than anyone ever could. He studied it like a sacred text and mastered it like a spell.

You cried out his name, over and over, your voice shaking with each slam of his hips, and he loved it—every sound, every tremble, every time you clenched tighter around him like you couldn’t help it.

“Louder,” Draco snarled against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Let them all hear how good I fuck you.”

You whimpered, half from his words, half from the way your body was unraveling beneath him. He gripped your hips tighter, pulling you into each thrust with force, his nails digging into your skin, marking you.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze—stormy grey, dark with hunger, fierce with something deeper. His expression twisted with pleasure as he watched your face, saw you lose yourself completely under him.

“You’re mine,” he said, like a vow. “No one else will ever have you like this. No one can.”

You nodded through the haze, your voice breaking. “Yours… always.”

The words made him snarl with satisfaction. He leaned down and kissed you fiercely, his pace never slowing, never faltering. He poured all of it into you—every ounce of control, of possession, of worship twisted with desire.

You didn’t know how long he kept going—minutes? Hours? Time didn’t exist in that room. There was only the sound of your gasps, his groans, the sharp slap of skin against skin, and the bed that shook beneath you.

When your body finally gave out—shaking, aching, overwhelmed—Draco still didn’t stop. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he buried his face in your neck.

“You take me so well,” he whispered. “You always do.”

And in that raw, breathless space between madness and devotion, you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.The room was thick with heat, the air heavy with every moan, every gasp, every echo of skin meeting skin. Your body trembled beneath Draco’s, completely spent, completely his—but he didn’t stop.

He hadn’t slowed since your release—if anything, his thrusts had grown more relentless. Your limbs had gone limp, boneless from pleasure, eyes glazed in the haze of overwhelming sensation. Yet Draco, with that unyielding fire in his eyes, wasn’t finished.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat when he suddenly shifted, his strong hands curling under your thighs. He lifted them with ease, placing your legs over his shoulders. The angle shifted everything—deeper, fuller, blinding.

You cried out, head rolling back against the pillow, hands clutching the sheets as his cock slammed into that spot inside you over and over again with ruthless precision.

“Oh god—Draco—” you choked out, voice wrecked from pleasure.

His pace didn’t falter. If anything, your reaction only spurred him on. He looked down at you, chest heaving, golden hair clinging to his temples with sweat. And then he saw it.

A low, guttural moan left his throat as his hand moved to your lower belly, fingers brushing the slight bulge with awe and wicked satisfaction.

“Look at that,” he growled, voice rough with arousal. “You’re so full of me… I can see myself inside you.”

You sobbed from the overwhelming pleasure, your body twitching with each brutal thrust. The pressure, the stretch, the weight of his words—it all tangled together until your senses blurred.

Draco leaned down, your thighs pushed tighter against your chest, his pace never letting up. His lips brushed your ear, voice low and possessive.

“This is how I want you,” he whispered, breath warm. “Laid out, ruined, trembling—so full of me you can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, barely able to nod, and he kissed your jaw with unexpected tenderness despite the roughness of his movements.

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice gentling for just a moment. “Let go, baby. I’ll hold you together.”

And with those words, your body shattered again, a wave of bliss crashing through you so hard it left you gasping for breath, clinging to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth.

Draco moaned loudly as you clenched around him, and he drove in deeper, grinding against that spot until your vision blurred. He was wild, wrecked, lost in the feel of you, in the way your body molded to his like it was made for him alone.

When he finally stilled inside you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck, he didn’t pull away. He stayed wrapped around you, as if grounding himself in your warmth, in your surrender.

His lips pressed softly against your cheek, then your collarbone.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmured.

And in your dazed, blissful silence—you believed him.

Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline

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em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

Note

hear me out- void x reader- reader is depresso, and finds comfort in being held by void, bc maybe void’s darkness feels like home

If I Believe You

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The Void gets called by you, and he gets caught up in an odd situation.

Warnings: Mentioning of Depression/Loneliness, I think this would be considered Hurt/Comfort

Author’s Note: I enjoy writing a soft version of The Void lol, or a Void that’s like shocked that someone actually wants him to be present 🤣. Thank you for the request anon! Very fun to write this one between the larger write up I’m working on :) Hopefully it meets what you’re lookin for

Word Count: 3,228

The Void came that night because you called him.

Not with words, not with spells, not with summoning circles etched in blood and candles, but with grief.

With silence so loud it cracked against the walls of your mind and your body. With the kind of stillness that spoke not of peace–but of surrender.

He didn’t mean to stay, nor did he even mean to appear. But your loneliness and sadness reached farther than any scream ever could, so he showed up–against his own will in a way–to feed off of it.

The shadows arrived first. Not crawling or creeping. Just appearing–thicker than absence, and heavier than night. They swallowed the corners of your bedroom, devoured the edges of the moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains. The walls didn’t move, but the room felt like it was tilting on its axis. It was subtle, like the center of gravity had shifted to something ancient and watching. Then suddenly, he was there.

A god-shaped wound in the fabric of reality. Vast, silent, and unknowable.

He was a figure made of vantablack shadow and negative space–so dark the eye refused to process him fully. His limbs were like smoke, and his body was without boundary. The only visible markers were his eyes–white, glowing, and unblinking–and the smile. Thin, and fixed, with a discomforting calmness.

He waited for you to scream, or for your breath to catch. For your legs to scramble beneath the sheets so you could cower away from him against your headboard, for your voice to break on his name–because like everyone in the tower…You knew it already.

You didn’t do any of that though. You didn’t even look at him right away. You just laid in your bed, on your side, curled in the same position you’d been in for hours–knees drawn up, one arm draped limply over your stomach, fingers slack. The blankets were tangled and halfway off the bed, bunched at your ankles like you had tried to kick them off earlier and didn’t attempt to fix them. One sock was missing. Your shirt was wrinkled and clinging in places, damp with sweat. Your hair was a mess–not the kind that came from sleep, but the kind that came from not caring to fix it.

Then there was your room. It wasn’t trashed or anything, but it looked quietly undone.

There were clothes half-folded on a chair in the corner, that had gone untouched for days. A glass of water on the nightstand beside your bed, that had a fine shimmer of dust that caught in the ambient light from the hallway beneath the door, and there were books that had fallen over, that hadn’t been picked up.

The air smelled faintly of mint and tangerines–coming from your air freshener wall plug of course, or an open candle.

The worst part of all though was that you knew he was there, and you didn’t react at all. You didn’t stiffen from the cold that he brought into the room, your breath didn’t catch or quicken from shock, there was just nothingness. Like you had no energy left to give, or like you had been waiting for him to come.

His white eyes narrowed slightly at you.

The Void had arrived expecting some sort of resistance. The subtle thrill of being feared at the very least. The delicious tension that came when a human stood on the edge of panic, unsure if the shadow at the foot of their bed was real or imagined.

But this wasn’t fear that you were showing, this was familiarity.

You didn’t look at him until he moved–just a fraction, a shift of mass, a slight tilt of the head, like a question unspoken. Your eyes lifted slowly, no shock, no wide-eyed terror. Just two dull orbs in the hollow of your face, rimmed red and dry. Not from crying, but from not crying, from wanting to and finding nothing left in the wells of your eyes.

Your lips parted.

”I was wondering if you’d come.” The Void stilled. His smile didn’t change–how could it? It was carved into the shape of him like the slash of a crescent moon in a sky without stars. But something beneath that eternal grin shifted, it was a twitch behind the silence, a hitch in the interaction. He had not come to be seen. But now your gaze was on him, steady and tired and so impossibly calm. Like you weren’t registering the terror you were supposed to be feeling in those moments. Like you had already made peace with the idea of him before he even appeared in your room.

“…You wanted me to?” His voice was low–lower than sound itself. It vibrated through the floorboards, through the air in your lungs…Like something was whispering from under the bed of the world. The corners of your lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“I didn’t know what I wanted…” You murmured, voice thin, “I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.” The Void was quiet, which was not like him. He was a presence, a force. Even in stillness he was usually oppressive, thick like smoke you couldn’t cough out. But now, the air around him had a strange pause to it. Like the very space around him didn’t know what to do with this moment.

“You didn’t call for help,” He said finally, “You haven’t asked to be saved.” Your eyes stayed on his, as if you were hypnotized.

”Even if I did…Nobody would come.” A silence bloomed between you, but it wasn’t awkward, nor expectant. It was just truthful. The Void hovered forward slowly.

His movement was so fluid it didn’t register as motion at first–he didn’t walk. He simply was closer now. At the edge of your bed, looking down at you with those white, glowing eyes that saw everything. That usually made people realize the horrors that were to come, but once again you only looked back at him, unblinking, frozen in your spot. No cowering, no screaming, no pleading.

”You don’t fear me,” He stated, more to himself than to you. You huffed softly–just a breath of air, but in the quiet of the room, it was a song.

”I think I’m past the point of being afraid,” You replied, “If anything…You’re kind of a relief.”

The Void knew what to do with fear, even with violence. He had tasted it in many forms: the fears that plagued children when they went to sleep, the whispered horror of the people who he had sent off to shame rooms, the cold-blooded terror in gods who realized he could unmake them with just a mere thought.

But to hear you say that he brought relief to you–comfort even–wasn’t right.

“I don’t think you understand,” He said, and his voice wasn’t sharp–but it was colder. Firmer. Like he was reminding you, and reminding himself of what he was, “I am not peace, and I am not hope.” You could feel a small chill curl up your spine, as your teeth chattered at the temperature dropping inside the room.

“May I remind you I turned New York into a mirror. Made every last person vanish into the hollows of their own shame. Remember? I swallowed them whole in rooms made of their failures?” You nodded slowly.

”I know.”

”I drove madness into the minds of people who begged for the images to stop.” He added.

”I know.” You whispered. That halted him again. His head tilted, ever so slightly. Not confused, not angry–just…Studying you. The way someone might tilt their head at an eclipse, unsure if they should be staring directly into it.

He expected fear to bloom now, at least. Maybe awe. Maybe a long-overdue tremble in your voice.

Instead, you gave him something worse.

Something heavier.

You shook your head slowly and said:

“Evidently, you don’t realize what I’ve been going through…If I’m taking comfort in you being around.” The shadows ceased their lazy, swaying bleed across the floorboards, and the hum of the world itself seemed to pause and take one breathless step back. His eyes narrowed–not to threaten, and not in malice, but in genuine concern. And you somehow saw it. For the first time in the conversation, you watched him hesitate.

”You shouldn’t say that,” He spoke quietly, not because he was offended, but because he was unsure what the words meant coming out of your mouth.

“Why not?”

”Because that means something is wrong…Deeply wrong.” He replied, moving even closer, hyper aware that he needed to be careful with you. Like the proximity itself might crack you if he approached wrong, and then he crouched right at the side of your bed, so he was eye to eye with you.

For the first time tonight, you could really see him. Not just as a shape in the dark, or the looming silhouette at the end of your bed–but up close, just a foot away from you. From here the edges of his body weren’t just smoke. They weren’t shapeless. They were alive with something.

The closer he came, the more the blackness rippling over him seemed to hum with a strange, shifting texture–like a starless night sky pulled into motion. Not glossy. Not shiny. But deep. Endless. And there, just behind the absolute black of his form, you saw the faint specks. Pinpricks of light, shifting as if in slow orbit. Galaxies. Entire worlds, whole star systems dying and rebirthing in the folds of his form, hidden in the ripples of shadow.

He was the universe, inverted.

And somehow, even like this, even faced with that terrifying, holy unknowability–you didn’t pull back. You didn’t flinch from the abyss swirling in front of you, from the quiet roar behind his form, from the weightless pressure that made your ears pop and your eyes blur the longer you stared into him.

Then you reached out, with slow purposeful intensity.

Your fingers trembled, but not from fear. Just from the fatigue that wrapped around your limbs like lead wire. The cold around him thickened as your hand breached the last inches between you, but you didn’t stop. Not even when frost bloomed faintly against your wrist like a warning.

His eyes followed your movement–those perfect, glowing voids of white that should have been watching prey.

But instead, they watched you gently.

And when your hand met his cheek–if it could be called that–it was like touching gravity itself.

The surface of him wasn’t skin. It wasn’t smoke. It was something else. Silken, but heavy. Cold, but not lifeless. And beneath your touch, it rippled–like black water beneath a still surface, moving with things too vast and old to name. A soft pulse, like solar winds shifting under your palm.

He didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe.

Because something in him broke open the moment you touched him like you knew him. Your thumb drifted across what might've been the edge of his jaw, letting out a shakily breath.

“You feel like the quiet between stars.” He stared at you, not because he was stunned by the poetic nature of your words–but because you meant it. Because you touched him not with worship, not with fear, but with a familiarity that said ‘I want you here, stay here with me.’ And then it happened.

The moment he saw you back.

Really saw.

Because your touch wasn’t just physical. It reached into him–through that strange tether that had pulled him to you in the first place, that awful ache in the cosmos that rang louder than a scream–and he followed it backward.

And what he found–

What he found made the galaxies in his form slow their drift.

He saw the inside of your silence.

He felt the rooms inside your mind–long, echoing hallways of disappointment, of guilt layered so deep it had calcified over your ribs. He felt the frayed cords of old friendships, stretched to the point of snapping and left to rot, still clutched in your hands like you were waiting for someone to notice. He saw the way you stood behind your teammates, always behind, always out of frame–because you didn’t think you deserved to be seen.

He saw the hunger in you.

Not for food. Not for power.

For stillness. For someone to simply be with you, without asking you to fix yourself first.

And he realized–

You had been holding yourself together with nothing but quiet for so long, you mistook his silence for kindness.

The Void felt something twist in his chest. Not pain. Not exactly.

But something like mourning.

For you. For how much of you had been slowly disappearing without anyone noticing.

Your palm was still pressed to his cheek, eyes soft, half-lidded with exhaustion. You were so close now, your breath fogged faintly in the cold between you, and yet you didn’t stop. You didn’t look away. You didn’t demand anything of him. You just let him be there.

“I’m tired,” You whispered. “And I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m not.”

He lowered his head. Not out of shame.

But something worse.

A slow acknowledgment of your truth. He could feel the fractures in you. The fractures that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his existence, the great devourer of worlds, The Void, realized something terrifying:

He didn’t want to take anything from you. Not your thoughts, not your fear, not your final breath.

Not this time.

Because for the first time in the eternity that was his existence, he understood. Not through logic, or through curiosity, but through the cold and shivering truth of what your touch had laid bare:

You were not calling him to end your world.

You had called him because no one else would come.

And now he was here.

The silence between you deepened, but it wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t dangerous. It was heavy—like blankets in winter, like the weight of someone finally sitting beside you after a long day of holding it all together. The air didn’t bite the same way it had before. It was still cold—he was still cold—but his presence no longer felt like an invading force.

It felt like a cloak.

A shield.

And then his voice–so impossibly low it didn’t vibrate in your ears, but in your chest–broke through the space between you.

“What do you want me to do?” Your eyes widened a bit, not because the question surprised you, but because of the way he asked it. Not like a being of power. Not like a god offering a favor. He asked it gently, with quiet uncertainty.

Like he didn’t know what you needed.

Your hand was still on his cheek. Your thumb had stopped moving. But neither of you broke the contact. You didn’t need to.

You looked at him–into those impossible white eyes ringed in nothing–and answered, barely above a breath:

“Can you just hold me?” He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t nod, or disappear. He simply looked at you for a long moment.

And then, softly–like dusk agreeing to fall–

“…Okay.” He whispered, slowly shifting in his spot. It wasn’t abrupt, but it also didn’t have the same uncanny fluidity that usually accompanied his movements. This time, there was hesitation. Like he was unsure of how to do this. Like he was afraid he might hurt you by accident–not with his strength, but with the sheer weight of what he was.

He rose to his full height beside your bed, unfolding upward like a stormcloud stretching into shape. Shadows curled off of him and slithered across the mattress, but they weren’t malicious. They moved like fabric. Like velvet.

You stayed still, keeping your eyes glued to him, watching as he–the unfathomable, starless wound in reality–climbed into your bed. He didn’t sink into it, because he didn’t truly have the weight for that, but the space beside you changed the moment he laid down. The air felt thinner, heavier. Like the pressure of the cosmos had narrowed its gaze to your bedroom walls and was watching itself breathe.

He faced you, his body still wrapped in that impossibly dark shimmer. And for a moment… he didn’t touch you.

He stayed just inches away. Close enough to feel the breath fog between you. Close enough to see the fatigue swimming in your eyes. But he didn’t reach–not until you curled slightly into yourself, just a little tighter, as if the night was too wide around your skin.

Then he moved his arm. The shape of it blurred at the edges, trailing starlight and hush, letting it hover over your hip for a moment. It lingered there before slowly lowering it onto you.

His arm wrapped around your body, bracketing you, shielding you. His cool presence seeped in where warmth would normally exist, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you exhaled, soft and shaky, as if your lungs had been waiting for this. For the permission to let go. His fingers curled gently along your side, and your body followed, shifting into him, until your cheek rested against his chest, where no heartbeat lived, and until your knees brushed against his thigh. He slipped his other arm beneath your neck, and curled it around you, making sure you were surrounded by him.

The shadows rose with him–pulling the twisted blankets up, and tucking them gently around your bodies with inhuman grace. It didn’t warm you, but it made you feel enmeshed with his body and the darkness.

It was awkward at first. Not because he was unfamiliar with contact. But because he’d never given it without intention to devour. To unravel.

But this was different, because it was you.

A small thing. A hurting thing. A precious thing. And suddenly, without warning, he found himself afraid–not of what you were. But of what he might become, if he stayed like this too long.

You murmured something then.

So quiet, it might’ve been a thought.

“…Thank you.”

And he–The Void–felt something like starlight fracture inside his ribless chest.

He didn’t answer.

But the hand at your back began to move. Slowly. Up and down. A soft, gliding motion, like waves lapping against the shore. Like gravity pulling at your spine, reminding you that you could let go now.

Your body went limp.

Not from defeat.

From safety.

Your breathing slowed. Deepening with every inhale and exhale.

Your hands clutched faintly at his chest–at the only thing in the world that wasn’t asking you to be strong.

He listened to the sound of you falling asleep in his arms.

And for the first time in the long history of his existence, he didn’t want morning to come.

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