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fushitoru · 3 months ago

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a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

��Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!”

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

#aashi writes #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru

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aomiiine · 4 months ago

Text

HE LOVES HIS OFFICER!

𐔌 . 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ୧ ──── PRAEDATOR! SYLUS + ENFORCER! FEM READER

W☆RNINGS. N!SFW/MDNI (18+) — cockhead pinching, hate fucking vibes, orgasm denial/orgasm delay, cock ring, handjob, cock slapping (once), feral sylus, tame(?) bdsm-ish vibes, restraints (chains obv), a bit predator/prey dynamic, slight praise kink (reader), might be ooc sylus but idc lol, switch m & f, overstim, hints of corruption (sylus -> you), quite heavy degradation (reader to him & him to reader. ie; slut, bitch, animal, etc.), that tongue scene lmaoaoa, kind of (not canon) improvised lore at the end, ‘kitten’ is used twice i think, all smut no plot, not proofread wordcount is 1.7k edited to 1.9k

TAGLIST. @tinycatharsis @jellysix @wonryllis @tsukkisukkii @wonuwuuuuu

author’s comment. thinking ab making a small event for valentines day w the lnds guys based on the new banner.. tell me what u think abt this one though! also, this is just me exploring these kinks so pls pardon me if they aren’t well written :’) Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated !! <3

“As if the frenzy enhancer wasn’t enough, you had to put a fucking cock-ring on me when I’m already this fucking hard, you slutty minx.”

Chains clanged and rattled from Sylus’s writhing, hands balling to fists in his attempt to yank the metal cuffs off him. It was in vain, of course, but you couldn’t blame him. You were tasked to interrogate him by your superior but here you were—absolutely torturing his big cock by denying every single orgasm.

It was almost sad honestly. The way his dick curved to his belly, abs flexing with every ragged breath he took. His tip leaked what seemed to be a steady stream of pre-cum staining his stomach, his arousal making a mess of the white nest on his pelvis, swollen shaft throbbing like a fucking heartbeat in anticipation on what your next move would be.

“The cock-ring was a necessary measure taken for you to speak. Since your mouth wont tell me the information I need, maybe your stupid cock will,” you scoffed at his glower, landing a slap onto his stiff cock, earning yourself a hiss. His teeth gritted and bared at you in obvious agitation from the endless heat running through his veins and the frenzy enhancer.

“Maybe if you stopped being a cruel bitch and let me cum already, I’d fucking speak.”

“Information first, reward later,” you replied swiftly, hand reaching out to wrap around his needy dick, stroking him half-heartedly, not even bothering to pay a sliver of attention to his weeping tip.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, thank you.”

Sylus groaned loudly, wrists tugging on the biting metal cuffs hanging over each side of his head. His breath quickened, guttural moans rumbling from his chest from the lazy strokes you gave him.

Sylus felt utterly humiliated that he was being so damn sensitive at the weak jerks of your soft palm around his slick cock, his hips rolling to fuck into your fist. His ego was bruised, but he wasn’t one to dwell on it. Instead, he’d like to move on and have you kiss fuck it better.

“Do you not know how to stroke a cock, kitten? Is my little enforcer a virgin?” Sylus’s voice was low and husky when he spoke, hands relaxing on the chain to lean down forward, his large and tall frame looming over your smaller one just before you could retaliate his remark.

The shadow sylus’s figure casted over yours was undeniably intimidating—especially so when his nearly crazed eyes gleamed at you in a predatory gaze. His head dipped closer to yours, stray strands of his white hair falling over his eyes as he searched for your irises.

It took every will in your body to not flinch, refusing to show him a single shred of weakness to exploit. Except, Sylus merely grinned at your bravado, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he was staring at prey.

“Scared of a little proximity, my dear enforcer?” The mockery in his voice grated at your nerves, your features contorting into a grimace on instinct.

“You animal,” you seethed, grasp on his cock tightening to a point bordering on pain. Your praedator gasped sharply, leaning away to throw his head back in relief when you began stroking him, fast.

Every deliberate flick of your wrist brought hot white pleasure to his strained body, eyes closing shut with nothing but deep, drawn out groans leaving his throat. The chains began rattling against, muscles flexing with effort when he felt himself nearing an explosive orgasm.

“Yes— oh fuck, yes, make me cum, you dirty bitch,” he grunted in a near whimper, hips rocking upward uncontrollably when your hand began focusing on his crown. Your index finger and thumb created a circle around the head to stimulate his glans continuously, pads of your fingers purposely rubbing over the sensitive frenulum.

“Calling me a bitch when you’re the begging to cum like a manwhore,” you tsked disapprovingly, quickening your strokes while your glared intense at his deep red cock, the cock-ring tight on his base to keep him rock hard.

You didn’t miss the way his slit continued to leak, his arousal betrayed by the way he kept producing natural lube for you to use. “At least I’m honest—agh—fuck! I wanna cum so bad, baby, please,” Sylus stammered, head hung low with droplets of sweat falling down his flushed skin.

You considered showing him mercy at his plea, truly. His cock was throbbing around your fingers, balls drawn up tight to his body with pent up cum—why couldn’t you just let the poor man cum his brains out already?

“I don’t know.. I’m not getting the information I want,” you uttered teasingly, not truly contemplating the thought. Even if you did, the answer would always fall on ‘no’.

You could see how Sylus was on the edge of cumming with how his legs quivered subtly, abdomen muscles flexing and relax with each stroke. His cock was steaming hot in your hand, warm with fresh cum flowing up to his shaft. Yet just moments before he was about to release, your ministrations ceased, two fingers stopping just below his glans to pinch his sensitive flesh, forcefully halting his orgasm.

“Motherfucker—I was just about to fucking cum all over your uniform, you—” he snarled, nostrils flaring with every intake of breath. His nose scrunched up briefly in pure infuriation, eyes closed as he leaned his head back, the corners of his lips twitching to a smile.

“When I get out these chain, kitten, I’ll get back at you so fucking good, you’ll be crippled for weeks,” he huffed in a scoff before punctuating his threat with a harsh tug on the metal cuffs restraining him to the metal bars of the cage, the chains clattering loudly. His throat was stretched and exposed for you to see, skin glistening with perspiration and Adam’s apple bobbing.

The sudden motion startled you, sending your heart beating faster than it already was. Your assigned praedator was unhinged, you knew that much from his files—but you didn’t expect him to be this unhinged.

Despite that, it sent your heart racing rather than falling into the pit of your stomach. You felt excited, fucking thrilled even. Your pupils dilated as if you just found your fix, like a cat setting its sights on its newest toy.

“Mmhm, sure,” you muttered with a faint yet noticeable tremble to your voice. It caught Sylus’s attention in an instant.

the sweat sheened praedator finally lifted his head, tilting to the side with intrigue glinting in those crimson irises. “Are you liking this, kitten?” He said with his now hoarse voice, smirk stretching more than it should. “‘S that why you decided to make this cage for me? Using this place as your personal sex dungeon? Yeah, I see it. The eyes of the depraved.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed with sadistic glee, no doubt pounding with satisfaction at the thought of corrupting his righteous enforcer and throbbing with an ongoing orgasm, cock still held in place by yours unwavering fingers.

It took you a moment to regain your composure, still reeling from the shot of adrenaline he gave you. Eventually, you caught yourself again, inhaling deeply before dropping your eyes to his cock between your digits, shaft still pumping with kept cum.

With a bite of your tongue, you released him of punishment, letting his cum spurt out onto his stomach in ropes.

”yesyesyesss— mmph, god fucking damn it!”

His balls pulsed with his length as thick, hot stuttering streams of semen dripped to the floor, your hand not hesitating to wrap around his girth, pulling his stiff dick towards you and letting his cum make white messes on your dark coloured uniform.

“There, I let you cum.” You spoke sounding just as winded as Sylus who was basking in the mind-numbing relief of emptying his balls to the fullest after accumulating it all in his cock for what felt like hours.

“You did.. Yes, you did, you good girl,” he slurred, no doubt basking in the afterglow shameless, hips thrusting shallowly into your hand for the slightest bit of friction.

A brow twitched when you heard him call you good girl all of the sudden. Your lashes batted at him, lips parted in surprise until your head dipped once more, averting your gaze.

The cock-ring at the base of his dick was slid off him, his body chasing your heat as you pulled away and tucked his cock back into his pants, zipping him back up. You allowed him slump bonelessly with his hands tied up above his head, leaving him panting for air.

He must’ve said it ‘cause he was drunk of the high, not because he meant it, was a mantra you repeated in your mind to convince yourself. Regardless, you couldn’t deny how it sent goosebumps up your nape, hair standing at attention, couldn’t deny how a single fleeting praise made your throat go dry and breathing quicken.

“I expect full cooperation tomorrow morning, Sylus.” you blurted, focus moving back to him before you backed away a few steps and stormed out his cage, locking it securely behind you.

You practically sped walked out the prison underground, heading straight to the elevator leading back up to your office.

Once you were in the metal box, you fished for a handkerchief in your pocket, frantically using it to wipe the stains of his seed on the front of your uniform.

With quivering hands, your rubbed it off you the best you could to fade the colour so you could excuse it a spill of chemicals or something to your colleagues—even if that wasn’t what really happened.

Your little rendzvous with a praedator—a SSS ranked dangerous praedator at that—risked more than your job. You yourself could be detained for being suspected of having intercourse with a praedator. You’d be an experiment, again, for researchers to exploit if sex could turn you into a praedator.

But unfortunately, deep down, you knew you’d come back to him again. After all, nothing intoxicated you more than dancing with that red eyed devil tied up at your mercy.

Finally reaching your office floor, you got off the elevator, walking in a bee line past your busy colleague, eyes on the ground to avoid contact with any of them. You didn’t know if you could handle speaking or explaining (lying) about your situation to anyone right now.

you pulled on the back of your chair, taking a seat and immediately holding your head in your hands, rethinking your life choices—the one where you decided to change your occupation from Hunter to Enforcer. Your hands slid down your face, eyes falling to the handkerchief, a reminder of your earlier affair.

Only then did the events dawn on you, your entire body processing the audacity and brazen display you showed Sylus. Now you crumbled in the solace of your safe space away from his predatory gaze.

A hand came up to your mouth, lips capturing a finger to nibble on when your thighs rubbed against one another, making you realise how fucking drenched your panties were. That damn praedator had you this wet in a rut without laying a finger on you—how pathetic of you.

One thing was for sure, you’d call in leave early to rub this compiled arousal off quick—it didn’t matter if you had to wet your sheets with cum, you needed this feeling gone, asap.

#sylus x reader #sylus #sylus x reader smut #sylus smut #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #Love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x reader smut #love and deep space #lnds x reader #lads smut #lads x reader

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sceletaflores · 1 month ago

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𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮�� 𝐊𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐧, 𝐎𝐧 𝐌𝐲 𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡…

￫ PAIR: Remmick x fem!reader

￫ WC: 1.5k

￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, religious (sacrilegious) themes and imagery, nat taking some liberties with the established vampire lore, semi-light gore (in a flashback), murder (also in a flashback), vampirism, vampire/human, monsterfucking, established relationship...kind of, biting, blood play, spit kink, pain kink, period sex, oral sex (fem!receiving), blood drinking, a very obsessive/possessive relationship, corruption, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

￫ MINI NAT'S NOTE: i've contemplated posting this for literally so long and i've ranted about my woke/horny inner turmoil already...but i just can't stop thinking about the sexy vampire man and i just love some southern gothic themes DOWN so i had to. remmick as a character is so complex and interesting to me that i knew it would be an experience to write him, and i was right like this google doc really kicked my ass for a bit. let's hope it's not dog water! also this is totes inspired by @spikedfearn! i absolutely loved and died for under the blood moon and i've been clawing for an excuse to write some depraved period sex of my own so now's the perfect time. hope you love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune!

a monster dressed in the skin of a man lurks outside your window...

There's a man outside your window.

You know he’s there even as you face away from the panes. The moonlight casts his shadow along the wall of your bedroom, broad shouldered and still as a tombstone. You don’t move, continuing to lay on your side as you trace the shape of him with your eyes. Cicadas and crickets sing in time with one another, a sweet song that sours at the edges as he stands among them.

The longer you lie still, the heavier the room becomes. The air thickens like soup on the stove, slow to bubble. The shadow raises its arm, all you can do is listen as the sound of nails scratching gently along glass fills the four walls.

He’s waiting.

He always waits.

You don’t need to invite him in, you haven’t since the first night.

He likes you to.

“Come in.”

When the pane creaks open behind you, slow and careful, you don’t flinch.

You breathe through your nose. The scent that rolls in with him isn’t human—copper and mineral, sweet like decay under sunbaked wood. It smells like the road, like blood, like the belly of something unholy. It smells like him.

“Remmick…”

Even now, as his boots touch your floorboards like thunder soaked in molasses, you don’t turn to face him. You’ve long since learned that looking at him too early gives him the satisfaction of watching your pupils dilate, your breath catch, your pulse flutter like a moth trapped in a mason jar.

His voice is a rasp, smoke behind your ear. “You been waitin’ on me, honey?”

Remmick steps into the shine of the moon, eyes glinting dark and red-rimmed in the light.

He’s sin stitched in skin. Wears the allure of his very being like a preacher coming to warn you off temptation, but you know better. You’ve tasted temptation, bathed in it body and soul. Let it crawl between your legs and drip from your lips.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s on you. Calloused hands, cold lips, teeth that drag across your neck but never pierce. There’s blood on his mouth already, you can feel the slickness of it as it stains your skin—it’s not yours, yet.

You watched him once. Stood by as he fed, watched impassively as the man beneath him writhed and choked on the blood flooding his torn throat, arms and legs scrambling in the dirt until the last traces of life finally faded from his eyes. He was left nothing but an empty husk, the color from his skin drained as the last few moments of horror were preserved on his face.

Remmick turned to look at you when it was done, blood drenched and nowhere near satiated. He fucked you for hours that night, right there on the dry dirt. Your face pressed into the earth as he took you from behind over and over again, cunt aching and abused around the ungodly stretch of his cock.

Your fingers shake as you curl them in the sheets, your body already aware of what’s coming. You’ve been craving it. Begging for it in the silence of empty, rotting pews.

Even as your mouth tried in vain to pray the memories away, your hips have been rolling against the mattress all night, slick with more than sweat, damp with more than fear. There’s a scent to it—ripe and hot, threaded through with iron. You’re bleeding. And he knows.

“I can smell you, baby.” You shudder as his lips brush your neck with every word, goosebumps pebbling over your skin as your cunt throbs shamefully between your thighs. Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, thick and hued in a dusty pink as blood melts into it.

Your body screams at you to reach out, to drag your tongue along the filthy mess and make it your own. Your lips part in a soft breath as Remmick smiles down at you wolfishly, sharp fangs catching the moonlight dangerously as it gleams through the open window.

“Sweet little wound. Givin’ it up for me already, angel?”

A broken sound blooms in your chest, caught in the lust and horror forming a knot in your throat. Your eyes flutter shut, soft breasts heaving with every shallow breath as big, frigid hands skate down the offered expanse of your body.

“Christ.”

A dark chuckle rings out over your head. “Trust me, he ain’t here, just me.”

Warmth burns at your cheeks, but the embarrassment has long been worked out of you after all this time.

Remmick likes it best like this. When you’re raw. Unclean. When there’s blood in your panties and God in your mouth.

He slides his hand beneath the thin cotton of your nightgown, and chuckles when he feels it—your cunt already bare, adorned with blood and slick, thick and messy, coating his fingers like oil paint. He brings it to his mouth and sucks them clean, the sound obscene, reverent.

And the way he moans at the taste—full-throated, low in his chest, hungry and pleased and damn near feral—makes your spine arch. You swear you can feel your blood rush towards his voice like it’s called.

Remmick glides down your body like a serpent curling around the branches of a tree, urging you to bite from the forbidden fruit just as he will.

He never asks permission. Just parts your thighs with the heel of his palms and settles his weight between them like he belongs there—like he was carved from your ribcage in a past life to fuck the God out of you.

You feel it when his hand grazes the inside of your thigh, hot and slick. The mess between your legs has him inhaling hard through his nose, a deep growl tearing its way from his chest. His tongue comes out to wet the dry skin of his lips. Your heart stutters as his breath fans cool over your sweltering heat.

The first lick is obscene. A broad drag of tongue from hole to clit that has Remmick groaning like he’s starving. You think, a bit hysterically, that he is. He always is.

Although, you don’t know what he’s hungrier for—your cunt, or the blood slicking it.

He fucks you open with his mouth like he’ll be judged for it. Hands branding bruises into the soft skin of your hips. Forked tongue licking you until your thighs quake on either side of his head, until your breath hiccups into desperate moans that sound more like confession.

Your shaking hands fist in his hair, back arching off the bed and into his mouth. “God–”

Sharp pinpricks of pain bloom white hot between your legs. Your eyes dart down just quick enough to watch the way his nails pierce your flesh. Tiny trails of blood running in weak streams in time with the helpless pulse of your cunt. Fresh against the drying evidence of his red stained hands stamping their prints over your skin.

Remmick pulls back, mouth soaked. Your blood streaks his chin, his cheeks, his nose. It stains his teeth and tongue. He grins, and it’s terrible. “What’d I tell you, girl? God ain’t coming.”

He spits on your cunt. Thick. Filthy. Blood and saliva and slick mixing on your skin like a sacrament.

Then his mouth is back on your clit, rough and clever. He kisses the sensitive bundle of nerves once before dipping his head, thick fingers spread your lips apart, wide enough to watch your hole convulse and shake for him. A deep, evil sound fills the room as his lips descend onto you once more.

You can feel the blood trickle out as he sucks, feel his tongue move in tandem with the sharp press of his fangs. He doesn’t bite yet. He’s teasing.

Tempting.

Worshipping.

You whimper. He groans. “Keep makin’ that sound,” he pants, voice hoarse. “That pretty little hurtin’ sound. Devil’s listenin’, baby."

You can't help but obey him, a symphony of pathetically sinful noises pouring from between your parted lips like hail mary’s. You writhe on the mattress, twisting the soft curls fisted in your hands tightly as your body trembles. Your rosary swings haplessly from the bedpost, deep red beads gleaming like an omen you’re blind to.

Remmick pulls back once again, panting as he rests his soiled face against your thigh to peer up at you like a lonewolf stalks a lamb grazing far too close to its den. “Say you missed me, darlin’.”

You did. You hate it. You do.

“Say it,” he snarls, dragging his teeth along the vulnerable skin, breaking it so shallowly it stings.

“I missed you.”

He bites.

You scream.

You come on his mouth with your thighs trembling and your eyes rolled back far enough to strain.

Remmick won't stop. Not until he's drunk his fill, until your thighs are sticky and raw and he can kiss you with your own blood on his lips.

Outside, the cicadas resume their song.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: extra special shoutout to my husband @ebodebo for advocating for the posting of this fic with a near violent enthusiasm, she's to blame for this. thank you so much for reading!

#— 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ♡#ᯓ★ 𝐧𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐤!#natalia can’t write anything under 1.000 words #don't be mean to be i'm nervous...#but this was fun to write #i love using my religious trauma as a tool...#love you!#sinners au #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick smut #sinners #remmick #sinners x reader #sinners x you #sinners movie #jack o'connell #sinners smut

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saintobio · 11 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑. (second part to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑.)

in the battle of hearts, he was the conqueror, and you, the conquered, for his love was a war you could never win. but if in this ruthless battlefield, only one can come out victorious, could you still turn things around and let the victor be you?

♱ pairings. sylus, fem!reader

♱ genre. angst, smut, boss/assistant, 18+

♱ tags. villain!reader, reader previously works for onychinus, reader is not l&ds!mc, sylus is a little ooc, main story spoilers, melodic weave spoilers, lots of timeskip, fast-paced, lore heavy, unrequited love, profanity, petnames (kitten, sweetie), explicit smut, cunnilingus (f!receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, espionage, reader smoking, reckless driving, violence, spitting, choking, jealousy, usage of guns, suicide (or attempts thereof), death, and a twist in the end i can’t reveal.

♱ notes. 10.4k words too lazy to edit T-T also, there’s a scene that will remind you of nwh :))) part 1 is already fine as is, so this one is just an extra.

— 1 YEAR AFTER.

“Got an invitation?”

Only barely did you lift your head up, just enough to meet the bouncer’s eyes as you handed over the invitation. “I’m a regular.”

“Lady, I don’t think so.” The man scrutinized you with itching suspicion, then turned on his flashlight to verify the authenticity of your invitation by looking at every corner of the paper. Was he trying to look for any flaw just to say it was fake? Jesus. For an entire minute, his eyes darted between you and the letter, as though debating whether or not to let you inside.

“Come on,” you said impatiently, tapping your feet on the ground, “I’m not someone you should keep waiting.”

He was ready with a rebuttal, still reluctant to let you in, until a familiar sight of purple hair peeked from behind the entrance. Your savior for the night—it was Rafayel.

“Let her in,” he said, ushering you inside and giving the bouncer a knowing look. “She’s with me.”

Fucking finally.

The neon red LED signage of The Nest flickered against the grimy walls, serving as the only bright light in the sketchy dark surroundings. The bar was a haven for those seeking refuge from the law and a place to trade secrets, as it was brimming with intel from a network of people. From high ranking officials, businessmen, and criminals—just offer your part of the bargain and you’d find a good trade in no time.

It wasn’t your first time there, but your negative impression of the place remained unchanged.

You strode through the crowd with Rafayel, and your eyes scanned the room with practiced ease. There were still familiar faces around, though most of the people had gone unrecognized as it had been awhile since you last came here.

“Wearing a hoodie in a place like this,” Rafayel spoke into your ear, his voice barely audible over the loud music. “You stick out like a sore thumb, you know?”

You merely shrugged, keeping your face hidden under the large black hoodie until Rafayel secured you inside a private balcony he had reserved for the night. Once inside, you quickly pulled the hoodie down and comfortably revealed your face.

“Just give me what I asked you so I can leave,” you commanded, your tone assertive.

Rafayel, however, only smirked as he sat on the couch across from you. “Be patient. We’re still missing one person.”

One person? “Who—” Your attention was caught by the figure of a lean, white-haired man entering the private balcony in a calm and quiet manner. A person so familiar to you that you couldn’t even keep eye contact with him. Xavier.

Xavier might be civil around you, but you knew that if the circumstances were different, he would have let Lumiere show up to assassinate you in one strike. It didn’t matter if you were colleagues before, he still always had his guard around you. Though, things had become more complicated for everyone. And friends who had become enemies, were now allies again.

Somehow.

“Well, isn’t this a delightful gathering? I have two wanted individuals in the N109 Zone here with me,” you quipped, pointing to Rafayel first. “You’ve got a bounty on your head,” then to Xavier, “You’ve got a bounty on your head, too. Damn, I’d be rich if I turned you both in.”

Xavier stayed leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “That makes three of us, then,” he replied in a stolid mien, nodding toward the wall behind you.

Your eyes adjusted from the dark before it finally landed on a large, tattered poster pinned to the wall near the bar. The bold letters at the top read the following:

MOST WANTED! Y/N L/N Alias: Scarlet Viper Reward: 500,000,000 Credits Crimes: Betrayal of Onychinus Espionage Intelligence Leaks Treason Status: Traitor Last Known Location: N109 Zone, Linkon City Beware: Y/N L/N is considered extremely dangerous and cunning. She is highly skilled in espionage and intelligence gathering, and is now a traitor to Onychinus. Approach with extreme caution. All bounty hunters and loyal Onychinus followers are authorized to apprehend her by any means necessary. Payment will be made upon successful capture or confirmation of her whereabouts. Contact: Report all sightings and information to the Onychinus base. Payment is guaranteed for verified leads.

The grainy image was unmistakable—it was your own face in that poster staring back at you. But instead of acting hurt or even alarmed, a laugh bubbled up from deep within you, growing louder and more unhinged as you took in the sight. Heads turned from outside the private room, curious and wary, as your laughter echoed through the balcony.

“Crazy bastard,” you muttered to yourself between fits of laughter. “Sylus really went all out this time, huh?”

Preferably Alive? You mused at the highlighted words on the poster. Did he want me alive so he’d be the one to kill me?

The absurdity of it all washed over you. Here you were, once Sylus’s most trusted confidante, now branded a traitor with a bounty on your head. Even Luke and Kieran wouldn’t spare you. In fact, they might even be the first ones to capture you had they received the slightest intel on your whereabouts. Ha ha ha! Your maniacal laughter was a cocktail of bitterness, amusement, and the thrill of the rebellion that had driven you to this point. The very people you treated like family, were now your enemies.

You composed yourself, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye as you glanced around. The patrons were still watching—Xavier with concern for your sanity, and Rafayel with amusement to your charade.

“Not what you expected from your ‘lover’?” mocked Rafayel, shifting into a more comfortable position.

But you were ready with a confident reply. “Oh, I expected just as much. It’s flattering, really, that he hasn’t found me despite all his connections.”

Xavier adopted a more serious tone when he added, “He hasn’t been seen anywhere himself. It’s been months since the raid happened, and the Onychinus faction is still leaderless.”

“Sylus isn’t that pathetic,” you replied, pulling a pack of cigarettes from your pocket. You lit one up with a flick of your lighter, and the flame briefly illuminated your face. “He’s just laying low. He’s got plenty of properties to hide in, but the H.A. will need to pay me extra if they want intel on his locations.”

Rafayel smirked. “Oh, come on now, we know you won’t give up his hideouts that easily. You still care about his safety after all. Right, Miss Scarlet?”

You displayed a defensive stance as referred to you by your alias. “I care about whether or not that hunter girl you’re all obsessed with stopped chasing after him,” you said, irritation now lacing your once-sarcastic tone. “A deal’s a deal. Keep her out of the N109 Zone and away from Sylus, and I’ll keep my hands off her. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to send a bullet or two to her head.”

“You—” “Don’t even try—”

Both boys sprang from their seats and yelled simultaneously, as if your vague threat against the apple of their eyes activated their mode of defensiveness. In all honesty, you admired how much they cared to protect that girl. That despite their rivalry, they were willing to do anything to keep her safe. You were the biggest threat to her life right now, but eliminating you wasn’t exactly an easy feat now that the H.A. had your back.

So, this was their compromise. A mutually beneficial arrangement. In simpler terms, they need to keep the girl away from Sylus. Giving intel about Onychinus and its boss was already your part of the bargain. Theirs was to ensure that the hunter girl had no means to contact Sylus or even enter N109 Zone whenever she wanted.

“Hand out her brooch,” you demanded, gesturing for Rafayel to hand out the very piece you were here for. “It’s about time I come home.”

Rafayel’s eyes widened in curiosity. “You’re really returning to the N109 Zone?”

Xavier’s face mirrored his concern, likely because you carried the largest bounty of all the wanted fugitives in the most dangerous No-Hunt Zone. But honestly, their unease puzzled you. If they wanted to keep the girl safe, having you out of Linkon City would be to their advantage. Besides, the brooch would give you unrestricted access to the N109 Zone—something you wanted to take from the hunter girl who generously received it from Sylus.

“Stop stalling and give it to me,” you insisted, your frustration growing by the second. “I’m sick of this place.”

Rafayel sighed and tossed the brooch to you. “You must be crazy.”

— 1 YEAR AGO.

“You’ve already taken everything from me, Sylus. Finish what you started.”

Sylus had the power to end you right then and there. If he truly intended to kill you to protect that woman, all he needed was to intensify the pressure of his evol around you. Yet, as he observed the shifting expressions on your face, Sylus chose to ease the bone-crushing pressure of the black-red mist that encircled your body.

You collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath like fish out of the sea. But Sylus looked down at you with a cold, unyielding gaze. “I’m just showing you mercy now,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “If you dare touch her, I’ll break every bone in your body for real next time. You’re just gonna be another dead body to me.”

With that final threat, Sylus kicked your gun away and vanished into the dead of night, leaving you alone and vulnerable in the dark alleyway. Even Mephisto, who often guarded your safety, was completely out of sight. Sylus must be happy knowing that his last words pierced through your soul—its pain gnawing at your heart and ripping every artery apart. How easily was it for him to tear you asunder despite giving you his mercy? The turmoil inside you was almost unbearable, and you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ultimately, you chose both.

Sitting on the gravel, you clenched your fists, tears mingling with the dirt on the concrete. Anger, spite, and hatred consumed you. All you wanted was revenge.

And so, a few weeks after that, you decided to pack your bags and run away from the N109 Zone. Away from the place where Sylus was the boss of everyone. Away from a place where his omnipresence would not reach or track you.

Your destination of choice was Linkon, not because you wanted to live in that city, but because it was once your home. Returning to the bustling metropolis after four years was driven by a single purpose, and it was to see a few key people who could help you achieve your revenge.

The bright and busy streets of Linkon City were still a stark contrast to the dark and gritty atmosphere of the N109 Zone. But because you had lived most of your years here than its more dangerous counterpart, it was easy for you to maneuver through the fast-moving crowd while navigating through the complicated subway stations that even Luke and Kieran would struggle with. That day, your mind was set on your first destination: Akso Hospital.

Dr. Zayne’s clinic was tucked away in a quiet corner of the hospital. While it took some finesse to secure an appointment under a false name, you managed it without raising suspicion. After all, four years in the N109 Zone had taught you how to camouflage into roles you never expected to play.

Obviously, he was surprised to see you entering his clinic as if he had seen a ghost. His usual stoic countenance was momentarily replaced by a state of discombobulation when you finally sat across from him in his sterile, white office. “Zayne,” you cut straight to the chase. “I need to know about the girl with the Aether Core.”

Four years ago, Zayne was the last person you talked to about the Aether Core before plunging into the dangers of the N109 Zone. He knew more about it than anyone else in Linkon. Therefore, he would also be the first person you sought out upon your return.

Dr. Zayne’s expression remained impassive, however. “I’m afraid patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing any details.”

You leaned forward, your voice low and urgent, as you pressed a hand against his desk. “I’m not here for pleasantries, Zayne. I need answers. How and where does she have it?”

You had to know. You really, badly ought to know. Because knowing where she had the Aether Core would acquaint you where exactly to target her when the opportunity arises.

But in spite of the desperation in your voice, Dr. Zayne regarded you with a cool, clinical detachment. “Whatever you’re planning, I would prefer that you don’t involve an innocent person in it. If you want answers, seek it somewhere else.”

Dammit! His actions and strange avoidance of the subject were all the hints you needed. Zayne liked that girl. And he would never be the person to put her in a dangerous position.

In that case, there was only one place left to turn, a place you had avoided for far too long. It even took you three days to gather the confidence you needed to even step foot into the familiar halls of The Hunter's Association’s most secretive department, the Hunter Intelligence Services or the HIS—the very place where undercover agents and intelligence officers resided. It was hidden beneath the city and only the high ranking hunters knew and had access to it, because being a spy certainly wasn’t for the weak heart.

It was time to confront your true past.

The entryway to the headquarters didn’t change. And to your surprise, pulling out your access card still granted you entrance to the quarters. Were they anticipating your return or did they simply miss the task of revoking your access card?

Descending further into the underground facility, however, you were met with a familiar sense of unease. The sterile, metal hallways seemed to close in around you as you approached Lauryn’s office. She was the head of the department, your true boss, and the person who tasked you into infiltrating the N109 Zone four years ago.

Lauryn was there as you entered, her sharp eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms at you. You were right. She did anticipate your arrival, because the advanced CCTV monitors around the city were displayed all over the room. “What brings you back to the fold?” she asked, stern and unwelcoming, “Are you going to beg on my knees for turning your back against the Hunter’s Association?”

Feisty as ever. Her austerity was harsher than you remembered, but then again, there was no room for shame after all the crimes you committed while supposedly being a spy in the N109 Zone.

“I need your help,” you admitted, shamelessly. “I have intel on Sylus and the Onychinus. Extremely valuable information that you need. In exchange, there’s something I want you to do.”

Lauryn’s expression was unreadable as she leaned back against the wall. “So, you’ve decided to turn on your beloved Sylus? What happened to your loyalty? Is it always this unstable?”

You took a deep breath, not allowing her words to get to you. “I just… need to protect my interests.”

“Interests?” The woman guffawed at your chosen words. “And do your interests also include betraying the H.A. because you fell in love with the enemy? Or did the enemy also betray you that’s why you’re crawling back here now?”

She hit the sore spot, but you masked your voice with defensive indifference. “If that’s how you define it, then so be it. I’m not asking to be recruited by the H.A. again, I know that. I broke the Hunter’s Code and I’m marked as a Tenebra now, but…” Letting out a heavy exhale, you looked into her eyes, “Lauryn, you know I have the most intel you’ll get about Sylus and Onychinus out of everyone. Not even Xavier as Lumiere would have this much intel as I do.”

How could she deny such an offer? You knew the temptation was heavy since you were speaking the truth; you worked for Sylus for four years. You have all the necessary intel they need to even get to him.

For a millisecond, you caught the corner of Lauryn’s lips twitching upwards with a glint of approval hiding in her eyes, but she was pretty good at concealing her emotions. “Very well. Share your intel, and I’ll see what I can do.”

The past year had been a blur of longing and subterfuge.

You supplied Lauryn with detailed intelligence on Onychinus’s illicit activities, including their smuggling routes, black market transactions, and the clandestine trade of armory and protocores with corrupt officials. You also exposed Sylus’s personal connections to the high ranking officials who were secretly doing business with him. This information immediately set off a series of events aimed at destabilizing Onychinus, providing sufficient evidence to provoke a significant response from the Hunter’s Association and law enforcement.

In return, you requested two things: 1) for the Hunter’s Association to offer you protection and support against Onychinus’s threats; and 2) for them to enforce restrictions and surveillance on the hunter girl, ensuring she remained completely isolated from Sylus and the N109 Zone.

It would have been better if they had chastised her. You had convinced Lauryn that a public whipping would be the perfect punishment, but the H.A. upheld principles far better than yours. After all, you had been stripped of your morality after living in a lawless environment under the influence of the mastermind himself. Being in the N109 Zone for too long dehumanized you. But for your peers in Linkon… they could never harm that hunter girl for some reason, and had been treating her like a valuable asset under everyone's protection—even Sylus’s.

You hated it. You hated her. And each time you caught a glimpse of her around Linkon, your hands were often itching to take out a gun and end her life.

But that was easier said than done. Besides, you decided to harness all of your anger towards Sylus himself because he was the one who had tossed you aside after she came to his life. He was the one responsible for the wounds in your heart that would never heal.

It had been a year. You wondered if he ever even thought about you, or did his anger completely consume him to the point where all he wanted to do was kill you?

“Of course,” you mumbled under your breath, scoffing as you remembered the bounty he had placed on you. He was definitely apoplectic at the fact that you ruined his plans, and that you took his precious hunter girl away from him. The thought of you betraying him and Onychinus probably made him ballistic.

But to think about it, who betrayed who first?

Everyone knew the difficulty of getting into the N109 Zone. Keeping yourself safe while inside the lawless city was also another struggle. Yet, for someone like you who belonged here better than in Linkon, you were already used to the ins and outs of its dangerous scene. And having the hunter girl’s brooch was your gateway to return to the city unsuspiciously.

Pushing through the throng of people, you made your way to a nondescript door at the back of the bar. Two burly guards stood in front, their expressions deadpan as they eyed the beaked mask you were wearing. You wore the Onychinus uniform, one that was similar to Luke and Kieran’s, in order to hide your identity. For now.

“Is it a man?”

“No, a woman! Look at her body behind the uniform.”

“You think we should let her in?”

“Idiot, she’s from Onychinus! You can’t deny her entrance.”

With a nod, you handed over a small token—your entry pass to the underground fight club that operated in the depths of an abandoned warehouse. “Fellas, I have a pass if you need it.”

The guards stepped aside, finally allowing you entry after you showed a token that was marked by the Onychinus insignia. And as you descended the dimly lit staircase, the roar of the crowd and the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh grew louder. The anticipation began to thrum in your veins.

You weren’t entirely sure why you were here, but you knew you needed information on Sylus. Anywhere. And what better way to hear about him than to visit a place where his presence often loomed large? Maybe you could even take out your frustrations in the ring tonight. With every punch and kick, you would remind yourself of the path you had chosen—a path leading to Sylus’s downfall, no matter the cost.

As you stepped into the arena, an irregular thumping in your heart began to destabilize you. You forced yourself to focus, squeezing between people loudly cheering for the current match, screaming their biases, and trash-talking the opponents. Clusters of people gathered around the ring and placed their bets on their favorite fighters. How nostalgic, you mused. You used to come here with Sylus on Friday nights. And turned the rest of those active nights into passionate ones.

Now’s not the time to reminisce. Your chest was starting to feel tighter, unsure if it was because of the crowd or the uncomfortable thought of being back in the N109 Zone. But the more time you spent inside the fight club, the more your heart felt like it was being squeezed. You had to make a move now before it was too late.

The fight club continued to throb with a visceral energy, and you stood in the shadows, the hood of your cloak still pulled low to hide the overwhelming pressure you were feeling inside your body. You managed to weave through the people, while your ears were attuned to the murmur of conversations in hopes of catching intel on Sylus.

That was, until a group of grizzled men to your left caught your attention, and their voices were rising above the din.

“I’ve got five hundred credits on the big guy,” one of them boasted, slapping a hefty stack of bills into the hand of a bookie.

“You’re gonna lose,” another jeered. “That scrawny kid’s faster. I bet he’ll surprise everyone.”

You lingered nearby, pretending to adjust your hoodie while listening intently to their conversation.

“Hey, did you hear about Sylus?” one man whispered, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

Your pulse quickened at the mention of his name, and you took a step closer, careful not to draw attention.

“Yeah. He hasn’t been seen in weeks, ain’t he? Word is, he’s gone underground. Something big must’ve gone down.”

“Big? That’s an understatement. They say someone ratted him out to the Hunter’s Association that’s why his base got raided. He’s also got a bounty on his head now, and not just any bounty—a serious one. Every hunter and merc in the zone's looking for him.”

“What about the hot chick he’s been seen with? You think she’s involved?”

“Dunno,” the first man whispered. “But if she’s smart, she’ll lay low. Sylus doesn’t take kindly to betrayal, and neither do his people.”

You bit your lip as the urge to ask questions was getting heavy. But you knew better. Drawing attention to yourself now could be disastrous. So, you had to think of how to navigate this situation first. The fight in the ring reached a fever pitch, and the crowd’s roar swelled. Perhaps joining today’s fight might not be a good idea after all, and instead, you should harness your remaining energy into preparing for the time you would have to face Onychinus again.

Sylus was in hiding, the hunter girl had been isolated, and you had made yourself a target.

It was for the best that you stormed out of the fight club, helmet on, speeding away on a motorcycle you had rented. Riding in the N109 zone was always a thrilling escape, and it now became your dangerous distraction from the turbulent thoughts that plagued your mind. Sylus. Sylus. Sylus. Where did he hide?

In your trail of thoughts, you revved the engine, and its roar echoed along the stretch of dark roads as you maneuvered your bike towards the highway.

There was no other vehicle around you.

Until a truck appeared.

Not just any truck—it was a supertruck, with its headlights blazing and tailing you like a predator.

The lights tried to blind you, but you took off, and the world around you instantly became a blur of speed and sound. You leaned into the bike, feeling the wind whip against your face as you cornered into the nearest exit. But no matter how fast you went, you couldn’t outrun such a large, fast-moving vehicle. You knew that if you didn’t accelerate into sixth gear or until you hit the rev limiter, you would be dead.

He’s fucking out for me!

Lost in thought, your eyes focused too much on looking back and forth between the road and the stealth mirrors before you got rear-ended by the truck. The impact was jarring, and it sent you flying off your bike and crashing onto the hard, cold ground. Upon impact alone, pain immediately exploded in your body. And the burning, stinging sensation was brought upon by the road rash you obtained after you skidded along the rough concrete road. It was intense pain—like a thousand searing needles piercing every inch of your skin. Your flesh felt as if it were being flayed by red-hot knives, each scrape and cut screaming with a fire that seemed unquenchable. The raw, exposed nerves throbbed violently, sending electric shocks of pain through your entire body, and making every heartbeat feel like a hammer blow.

Aghh! It was a relentless, burning torment, and the slightest movement amplified the suffering, every breath dragging razors through your shredded skin. But you refused to cry out, refusing to give the culprit the satisfaction. Was it Sylus?

As much as you wanted to lift your helmet and find the culprit, the shock from the crash was an all-consuming inferno of agony, the kind that made the world blur and darken at the edges, and eventually pulled you into a black abyss of unconsciousness.

The last thing you remembered was being carried in the arms of a man.

“Think she’s in a coma?”

Voices filtered through your ears, distant yet distinct. Familiar, mischievous voices that sent a shiver down your spine. You could barely open your eyes, your fingers twitching as you slowly regained consciousness.

“Maybe.” That was Luke’s voice. “Or maybe she’s just pretending. Wouldn’t put it past her after she spied on us for years.”

“Yeah, she’s good at that,” Kieran egged on. “Always scheming, always one step ahead. And she’s tougher than she looks! Surviving that crash?”

“But not invincible.”

Their exchange suddenly took a halt, replaced by a discomfiting silence that made you wish you could force your eyes open in a mere count to ten. You tried to move, to make a sound, to let them know you were not in a coma, that you could hear every word. But your body remained stubbornly still, as if pressed down by an unseen weight.

“You think boss-man will forgive her?” It was Kieran who asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Luke snorted. “Forgive? She’s a traitor. If she wakes up, she’s a dead woman walking.”

No! Upon realizing that this wasn’t a dream or a figment of your imagination, the beat of your heart began to accelerate, vibrating loud and aggressive against your chest. The sound of the twins’ footsteps eventually faded, leaving you alone in the oppressive silence of your half-conscious state. Fear and regret coiled within you, but there was also a flicker of determination.

That if you wake up—when you wake up—you would have to face Sylus. And you would have to find a way to survive.

Time lost its meaning as you floated between wakefulness and sleep. A minute, an hour, days must have gone by. Eventually, you could hear classical music being played in the background and became aware of a new presence in the room, then a weight on the edge of your bed. That familiar cardamom and leather scent. A hand soon brushed your forehead, cool and gentle. Sylus? You wanted to open your eyes, to see him, to speak, but your body refused to obey.

“You can’t hide from me forever,” his voice murmured. His breath was warm when you felt it on your ear. “Wake up, kitten. We have unfinished business.”

Darkness tugged at you again, pulling you under, but not before the fear took root. The weight on your chest suddenly lifted, as if an invisible force released its hold on you. Your eyes then snapped open and your lungs burned as you dragged in deep, desperate gulps of air.

“Where—” You struggled to sit up with your weak body trembling from days of enforced stillness. Every movement felt foreign, muscles protesting as you pushed yourself upright. The room spinned for a moment before your vision cleared, and you saw him.

“Awake?” Sylus stood at your side, his crimson eyes burning with fire as he looked down on you like a master to his subject.

“What… what did you do to me?” you manage to ask even though your voice was hoarse. “It was y-you in that truck!”

“Oh, honey. I don’t ride in cheap trucks. Besides, I saved you from that crash,” Sylus replied, almost nonchalantly. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice. And also a ‘long time no see’, don’t you think?”

If it wasn’t him on that truck, then… “It’s still a hitman you hired because of that bounty!”

Sylus didn’t change. His silky gray hair, his vivid carmine eyes, his pinkish thin lips. Whenever he smirked, it was still the handsome old him. “I won’t deny that, sweetie. But I had to kill the guy for doing a poor job. My instructions were to not get you badly injured, and only to scare you.”

“Liar,” you spat, “I bet you’d be happier if I was incapacitated.”

“Please. You’d serve no good to me if you’re dead or permanently disabled.” Sylus reached down to pull the duvet away from your body, and your supposed road rash and injuries were seemingly gone, replaced by newly-healed scars. “Your body needed time to recover, and I couldn’t afford to lose you. Not yet. So I had to put you in an induced state.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. How he did it, you had no idea, but with Sylus, anything was possible. Anything! After all, he had all the connections and the rarest protocores.

“Three days,” he continued, stepping closer, his gaze never leaving your face as he lifted your chin with his finger. “I kept you under for three days. Enough time for your wounds to heal. You recognize where you are?”

When he trailed off, you looked around the room and realized you weren’t in the Onychinus base nor his presidential suite. It was one of his many residences—the underground shelter.

“Why are we here?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound strong.

Sylus extended a hand once more, his fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained hard, unreadable. “Ask that to yourself, kitten,” he says quietly. “We’re here because an ungrateful stray cat decided to leak the location of my other residences.”

You swallowed hard when you felt him grab you by the neck, his tight grip restraining any air from entering your windpipe. “S-Sylus!”

His eyes had unruly flames beneath them. “You were a spy?”

As his grip loosened a little to let you speak, you still ended up choking from asphyxiation. “S-So what if I was?” You tried to push him off. “It only means I caught you lacking. You allowed me to infiltrate Onychinus without knowing my background.”

Sylus’s hand trailed gently over your cheek, his touch lingering longer than necessary. “I’d blame it on your cunning face,” he said, almost seductively. He then shifted to lower himself onto the bed, both knees on either side of you, pinning you down. His eyes locked onto yours with a dark, predatory gleam. “Any man is a willing fool to a pretty face and a sexy body.”

You swatted his hand in response, your back hitting the headboard as you scrambled for distance. “How many times have you recycled that line between me and that hunter girl with the Aether Core?”

At the mention of her, Sylus’s deep chuckle erupted and reverberated through the dark room. It was a chilling sound that was full of twisted amusement. “Ah, I almost forgot about the root of your betrayal,” he remarked with a mocking grin. “Jealousy.”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if I had killed her,” you spat, struggling to break free as Sylus slammed you back onto the bed. “Let me go—!” It was a fierce contest of strength, with you pinned beneath him, and him on top of you in an undeniable display of dominance. But you fought back. You resisted. And in an effort to offend, you ejected spit onto his cheek. “Let go!”

Sylus was caught off guard, but he stayed unfazed, wiping your spit from his cheek before gripping your neck again. “You really want to play this game, honey? I love how sick in the head you are.”

“You m-made me like this.” You choked in between words. “In the end, I still achieved my goal. Now you have no way to see or contact that girl.”

“Says who?” Sylus’s sarcastic tone made your heart sink. Is he still in touch with her?!

“What do you—”

“Don’t be dense, kitten.” Sylus soon grabbed you by the collar, handling you like a ragdoll as he threw you onto the floor with a resounding thud. Pain shot through your hip, but Sylus’s expression held no remorse. You knew he could do worse. “I have my own ways of ensuring she’s safe and protected. I can still see her whenever I want.”

That was when the tears started to fall uncontrollably. You couldn’t stop them—nor could you hold back the words that poured out. “Y-You! I ran away from the N109 Zone for a whole year. I disappeared from your life for a whole goddamn year, Sylus. Yet not once did you look for me, not once did you worry about me, not once did you make sure I was safe. But for her, you—”

“It’s only natural to protect someone important to you.” He crouched down to meet your eyes as if pouring salt to the wound. “I’d let the world burn for her, honey. You and her aren’t the same. She’s not someone who would betray me.”

“I betrayed you because of her!”

His laughter died down, but the amusement in his eyes only deepened. The cruel curve of his lips was the kind of smile that enjoyed seeing your agony. “It’s always been about her, hasn’t it? You see me with her, and you can’t stand it. It eats at you, makes you act out.”

You tried to move away, but he kept his foot firmly on your wrist, stepping on your hand was his constant reminder of your powerlessness. The distance between you was a stark symbol of how he saw you—a mere object of disdain.

“I’ve seen your struggle,” he continued, his voice soft but laced with wicked satisfaction. “The way you watched me with her, the way it gnaws at you. It’s almost poetic, really.”

In a moment of desperation, you snatched the nearest weapon from his nightstand while tears blurred your vision. It hurt. His words, his treatment, and the stark difference in how he treated her compared to you were too much. You should have ended this long ago before he had the chance to wreck you all over again.

And so, with a gun in your hand, you cocked and raised it.

But instead of pointing it towards Sylus, you surprised him by pointing it to yourself.

The gun’s nozzle was pressed against your temple, your finger inching toward the trigger.

“...All I wanted was your love,” you choked out with tears cascading down your face, flowing out like an endless waterfall, “I j-just wanted you to love me. I turned my back on the H.A. for you. I left all my friends and family for you.” Your breathing was still for a moment. “Now I don’t have anyone left.” Pausing, you locked eyes with his crimson ones. You didn’t want him to be the one to kill you, because the thought alone was fatal. “All I had was you. I loved you. I devoted all my body and soul into loving you, Sylus. Why c-can’t I have even a little bit in return?”

Even as his gaze softened, as a flicker of regret crossed his features, you already drove your finger to pull the trigger. The recoil immediately jolted through your wrist, but before the bullet could find its mark and penetrate your skull, Sylus’s hand shot out and expertly deflected your aim. So instead of blowing your brains out, the bullet ricocheted off the now-shattered window.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Sylus roared, his orotund voice an amalgam of anger and disbelief.

Tears blurred your vision, but you were still able to look at his bright red eyes as he cupped your cheeks. Your entire body shook hysterically for someone who had just almost ended her own life. This is what he wanted, right? You asked yourself over and over, but couldn’t find the energy to respond to his calls for your name.

“Y/N,” Sylus agitatedly tried to shake you, “Y/N! Enough. Let’s end this game.”

You stared at his face blankly as reality flickered and faded, like an old film reel skipping frames. “I was never playing one with you.”

Sylus was suddenly a different person in front of you. “I warned you many times before to never fall in love with me. It’s for the best, and it’s what will keep you safe,” he spoke in a low yet softened tone, “Why don’t you listen?”

The tension in the room was suffocating, and each second dragged into eternity. Sylus’s question remained unanswered until the loud burst of the door shattered the silence. You flinched, heart pounding, as you saw the very subject of your heartbreak.

The hunter girl stormed in, eyes wild in fear. “Sylus! Are you okay? I heard a gunshot—” she cried out, scanning the room frantically until her gaze landed on the two of you. She then froze, taking in the sight of you and Sylus on the floor, the gun lying ominously near your hand. Putting two-and-two together probably made her think that you tried to kill the man in front of you. “Sylus, step back!”

“Wait!”

Without hesitation, she aimed her gun squarely at you. But right before you could react, the gun was fired. And the shattering sound of another gunshot echoed in the room.

Time seemed to slow as you fell, the world spinning around you when you felt a sudden, searing pain on your head. Sylus’s eyes widened in shock, his hand reaching out just in time to catch you before your head hit the floor.

“No!” Sylus’s voice was raw, hysterical, filled with a pain you’d never heard from him before as he cradled your head gently—his face a mask of both horror and disbelief when your blood pooled on his arms. “Y/N, no! Fuck, what did you do?!”

You struggled to focus, your vision blurring as darkness encroached. Sylus’s eyes were strangely wet with tears, desperation etched into every line of his sharp features. The Sylus you knew wouldn’t cry over someone unimportant to him. So, why…?

You tried to speak, but the effort was monumental.

Who knew that your life would end at the hands of another woman?

Yet, it was the karma you deserved for your wrongdoings.

“I... love... you,” you whispered to Sylus, nonetheless. Each word was a struggle, and your breath hitched as you forced them out, but you had to let him know. For the last time.

You saw the pain in his eyes deepen, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of something close to peace. That was when Sylus’s grip tightened, his tears falling onto your face as he held you close. “Y/N, please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Don’t leave. I can’t let this happen!”

He must have noticed how your eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring off into the distance without really seeing anything. Pure numbness was you would best describe it. And as your life slipped away, you felt a strange sense of relief.

In the battle of hearts, he was the conqueror, and you, the conquered. His love was a war you couldn’t win, and your loss, a defeat you couldn’t bear. For in his eyes, you saw both your greatest triumph and your deepest fall, where the lines between the victor and the vanquished blurred into the shadows of a bittersweet end.

But at least, you had said what mattered most, and that in your final moments, you were held by the one person you loved. The rightful owner of your heart. The conqueror of your soul. It was him, Sylus Qin, and no one else.

— 1 YEAR AFTER.

“Two black coffees, three espressos, and a caramel macchiato, extra caramel!” A peculiar guy placed orders one after another, followed by his twin’s mischievous laughter.

You turned to face them, offering a polite smile even though you were worried deep inside if they were just pulling a prank. They were regulars, always coming in with their complicated orders and playful banter. Yet, something about them seemed oddly familiar, and they always gave you a nagging sensation you couldn’t quite place.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small café you were working at in the Bloomshore District. You were standing behind the counter while the rush of customers was relentless. You barely even had a moment to catch your breath today, and here came the twins creating yet another one of their complicated orders.

“Coming right up,” was your monotonous reply, your hands deftly moving to prepare their drinks. But as you worked, the twins exchanged amused glances, their eyes flicking over you with a mix of curiosity and disappointment.

“Actually, can I make a small change to that?” the other twin interjected with a grin.

You sighed inwardly but kept your smile. “Sure, what would you like?”

“Okay, so for the black coffee, can you add a splash of almond milk, two pumps of hazelnut syrup, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top?” one of the twins began. “For the espressos, I need one with a shot of vanilla, one with a shot of caramel, and the last one with a double shot of mint. And for the caramel macchiato, make sure it's extra caramel, but can you also add a dash of sea salt and a drizzle of dark chocolate on top?”

Gosh. They were menaces.

“Do you think you can remember our orders?” the other twin remarked, leaning on the counter. “Because you don’t seem to remember our names.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “We have lots of customers everyday. I’m not really good with names.”

When the bell above the door chimed, your attention was immediately drawn to the towering man with ash gray hair and bright crimson eyes. His presence was commanding even in the relaxed atmosphere of the café; he carried such a dominant aura that even the twins backed off from pestering you the moment he entered the coffee shop.

“Good evening, Mr. Skye,” you greeted, your tone warming at the sight of him. The man had become a regular fixture in your life. Every day, like clockwork, he came in for his coffee, and every day, he lingered just a bit longer, watching you with eyes that seemed to see more than you could comprehend.

He nodded, his eyes staying on you while he was pointing towards the twins. “Are they bothering you?”

You were under the impression that the twins worked for Mr. Skye, but the type of relationship they had with their boss was none of your business. That was why although the twins could get really annoying as customers, especially when they tend to change their orders a lot, you still didn’t want them to get in trouble over something as little as that.

“No, they’re fine,” you answered with a smile. “Are you going to get the usual today, Mr. Skye?”

“Yes, please.” The tall man studied your face with a focused gaze—it was as though he was trying to read your mind, trying to interpret the emotions on your face, as he looked at you intently. He always did this. Every single day he came in, even from afar, you had grown accustomed to his watchful gaze. Yet even with the awkwardness it brought, he also knew how to keep his distance. He always treated you with respect and was always the first person to come to your aid when things did get unruly in the cafe. Broken coffee machine, spilled coffee, entitled customers. Name it, and he was always present to help around.

It was strange. Really, really strange. And what’s even stranger was that, every time he looked at you, the tenderness in his eyes that often opposed the fiery red color of his irises. Perhaps, you really couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

As you wrote his name on the plastic cup, you heard him suddenly clear his throat. “Miss Y/N, forgive me. I couldn’t help but notice that scar,” he said with a poignant stare, gesturing towards your temple. “Quite a story behind that, I imagine?”

Your hand instinctively touched the faint scar, a puzzled look crossing your face. You had always been insecure about the scar on your temple, because not only was it unattractive, it was also extremely visible. Not even a laser treatment could help clear it out.

“Oh, uh… I’m not really sure how I got it,” you admitted, searching through your mind’s archive to no avail. “I was told it was while I was fighting off wanderers. I don’t remember much from that time because I’ve since retired from the Hunter’s Association.”

His eyes darkened for a moment, as if his heart dropped from a memory he had recalled, but he quickly masked his expression. “So, you’re a hunter?”

You shrugged. “Well, yeah. But it’s all in the past now.”

Mr. Skye stood there waiting for his order with an unreadable expression on his face. And you wondered why he looked heartbroken while lost in deep thought. Was he having a bad day? Going through a break-up? You weren’t nosey enough to ask. Eventually, his order was done and he took the cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

“Sometimes the past has a way of catching up to us.” His deep voice was smooth and soft when he spoke again. “But perhaps it’s best to focus on the present.”

You smiled, feeling a strange comfort in his words. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Would you like to… have dinner with me sometime? I’d love to get to know you better.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden invitation. A date?! You couldn’t remember the last time you were even in love. All you could recall was having a silly childhood crush on your neighbor, but then again, that was more than a decade ago. You knew nothing about dating at your age and it was ridiculous. But there was something about Mr. Skye, a familiarity you couldn’t ignore, and that rejecting his offer seemed wrong in your head.

Besides, you couldn’t deny how extremely handsome he was.

“Um, sure… Mr. Skye.”

“Perfect,” he said with a small smile, his gaze softening into one of genuine joy. “Tomorrow evening, then?”

Before you could agree on a schedule, the sudden flash of lightning illuminated the interior for a brief moment. Then, the subsequent crash of thunder made you jump, following the sound of rain pounding against the windows that filled the small space. Oh, boy.

“Ugh. How am I going to get home in this weather?” you muttered to yourself.

Mr. Skye, who had been quietly watching you from his spot, gave you an offer. “Need a ride?” he asked, his voice gentle but carrying a note of urgency. “It’s too dangerous to walk or wait for a cab in this storm.”

You hesitated for a moment. “I’d really appreciate that, Mr. Skye. But what about your,” you pointed towards the oblivious twins who were sitting on the corner, “minions?”

Your chosen term elicited a deep chuckle from the man. “Don’t mind them. They know their way back home.”

“But boss!”

“Boss, you said you’ll let me drive the sportscar tonight!”

“I’ll wait for you until your shift ends,” Mr. Skye ignored the duo and responded to you with an endearing smile. “No rush.”

It didn’t take long until you locked up the shop, but you did feel bad that Mr. Skye had to stay with you until ten in the evening when he could have already gone home. In fact, he had been acting strange. Acting too familiar with you. Did he already know you prior to your small interactions in the cafe for the past few weeks?

He held the door open for you as soon as you secured the shop, and together you ran through the torrential rain to his black sportscar. You were already aware that he was a wealthy man, and yet, you always wondered why he preferred a small, laid-back cafe in the Bloomshore Distrct rather than the lavish ones in Azure Square or even Universum. Was it to see you all along?

Jeez, you had so many unanswered questions in your head. Yet, you were also afraid to address the elephant in the room because you believed in the saying that ignorance is bliss. So in the end, the drive was quiet, the only sounds being the rhythm of the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Mr. Skye didn’t speak a word and nor did you.

Once you reached your apartment, he quickly rushed out of the car and headed to open your door. He even used his jacket as a makeshift umbrella, covering you from the heavy rainfall. It was almost funny, really, how his face screamed of danger but he was actually quite a gentleman.

In return, you had to invite him in out of courtesy. “Would you like to come in for a while? It’s still pouring out there.”

He accepted your offer with a nod, and followed you like a tail inside. “Do you usually invite other people, too?”

“Sometimes,” you casually answered while the both of you walked through the empty corridors. “Why?”

“You aren’t talking about male colleagues, right?” he asked, seemingly taking a deep breath.

That wasn’t any of his concern, obviously. But the drive to test his emotions was strong. “Sometimes,” you said, finally reaching your door and unlocking it with your fingerprint. “Welcome to my home.”

The warmth of your apartment was a stark contrast to the cold storm outside, and you felt a little conscious of your small living space knowing that he probably lived in a luxurious presidential suite. It didn’t help that he started looking around your place, as if studying the smallest details of every corner for a reason you couldn’t quite tell. You weren’t sure if he was simply silently judging the aesthetics of your home, but you were beginning to feel uncomfortable as you placed his coat on the rack, watching the way he stopped to look at your photo on the wall.

It was like he felt a pang of sorrow.

“You’ve really erased me completely, kitten,” he quietly whispered.

You turned to him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe that’s for the better,” he replied, but his expression betrayed him. It was clear that he was holding back a flood of emotions.

Your heart started to race, pounding at a rhythm that you had never experienced before. And just then, you could see how tears welled up in his eyes. Tears that he concealed by leaning in to capture your lips in a desperate kiss. His hands cupped your face, and you could feel the intensity of his suppressed feelings that seemed to transcend the confines of your apartment. The yearning. The longingness. Perhaps, it was even sprinkled with feelings of regret.

“Mr. Skye, wait—!” You pulled away with wide, bewildered eyes, shocked by the fervor of his kiss. No matter how attractive he was, he was still a stranger to you. But then, your breath came in shallow gasps as a sudden, sharp pain began to explode in your head. A throbbing pulse spread from your temples and radiated outwards. It was a stabbing sensation that seemed to slice through your skull, as if a thousand needles were jabbing into your brain. What’s happening?

Mr. Skye’s face appeared above you. “Does it hurt?” he asked softly, his voice laced with a mix of worry and something deeper. He was whispering something about a protocore in your head, but you could barely understand a word, not when the ache in your temple was overcoming you entirely.

You were unable to form words, clutching your head with both hands in hopes of stopping the ache for even a little. But the pain was overwhelming. Too overwhelming for you to handle, and it came to a point where tears of pain began streaming down your face.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

He gently guided you on the couch, his touch careful and soothing. “Just breathe,” he murmured, offering a comforting presence like buoy in an open sea. “It’s my fault, kitten. I shouldn’t have kissed you so suddenly.” The intensity of the moment had shifted because of how tender his touch was. “You’re safe here,” he gently whispered into your ear. “Let the pain pass. I’ll be here with you.”

As the pain began to subside, you could feel the storm in your head gradually receding. And in his presence, you felt a strange mix of comfort and unease.

Studies say that a kiss can help calm someone’s nerves. You weren’t sure where that research was based on, but it was your body who allowed itself to seek it from the man in front of you. While your mind was telling you no, your heart was urging you to grab his shirt and pull him, once again, to a passionate kiss.

The kiss deepened naturally, and you found yourself responding to his need as the pull between you became irresistible. You were like a magnet to him—the force of attraction getting stronger and stronger the closer you were. Where was it coming from? How come you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame?

And while you were engaged in a tight lip-locking moment, you both ended up walking towards your bedroom; stumbling towards the bed, hands exploring, hearts racing. Soon, you were lost in each other, and the world outside was forgotten.

With both your clothes discarded on the floor, and with your steamy exchange continuing throughout the night, you found yourself eventually straddling him, moving your body to meet him with a gentle thrust. Every sway of your hips made his member hit you at your sweet spot, instantly sending a wave of pleasure within your body.

“S-Sir—”

“Sylus,” he breathed into your ear, hands tracing your curve, “Call me Sylus, kitten.”

Sylus. Sylus. The name sounded familiar yet foreign at the same time, but you were too sensually intoxicated to think about the history behind his name. All you could selfishly focus on at the moment was reaching your high. You were losing your mind over the euphoric sensation of having an intercourse with such a man who, not only was attractive on the face, but also on the body.

Sylus was packed. His muscles were toned from a seemingly consistent active lifestyle and intense workout routines. It felt great when you ran your hands along his broad shoulders, down to his toned chest, and further down to his perfectly sculpted abs.

“Mmh—!” A moan escaped your lips when you felt his shaft going deeper inside. “That’s…”

‘Good?” he whispered to your lips, encasing yours with his before he trailed his soft kisses around your neck. Each kiss definitely left a purple mark on your skin with the way he was suckling and nibbling on the flesh.

God, he was huge, too. His member completely filled you, stretched you even, as his cocktip kissed your cervix in a single thrust. He was crazy good at knowing all your sensitive places, holding your hips down so he could start pounding you upwards. Your tits began to bounce wildly and you even had to hold onto the headboard for support, because he was starting to go deeper and faster inside you.

“Ngh!”

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed this,” he said in between shaky breaths before latching his mouth into your right tit. He devoured your breast like a meal, playing with the nipple with the precise movements of his tongue. It was so good. Crazy good. It made you wonder how he seemed hyper-aware of the things you liked in bed. But how would that be possible when this was your first time having sex with him?

Sylus decided to shift the control by flipping you over, and hoisting your hips so he could lower his head down to your lady part. Your eyes almost rolled back when he spread your labia apart so he could lick your inner folds and taste every corner of your slick-coated cavern.

“S-Sylus,” you whined as his tongue rapidly moved in and out of your entrance until drool oozed down on your cunt. His eyes fluttered as he pulled his face away, soon palming your wet vulva with slow strokes. “Mmh…”

He eyed you with a tender gaze. “You’re so beautiful to me.”

It was certainly odd that his compliment seemed to touch your heart deeper than intended—that if you weren’t doing sexual activities right now, your heart would have been fluttering from his sweetness, especially when he met your lips again with a soft, loving kiss.

This time, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t detach his lips from yours, even as he was penetrating you with his cock again. With a single thrust, you were mewling into his mouth. His girthy member gave you a heavenly stretch that seemed to awaken the lustful demon inside of you.

Even Sylus was cussing under his breath as he continued to slam his entire length in, soon increasing the speed of his penetration to a pace that made him reach his peak. At this point, the coil in your lower abdomen was beginning to intensify, and you were clamping around his cock as if your walls weren’t tight enough to make him release a series of guttural moans.

“Are you near?” With a quick suction on your left breast, his own moans left his lips along with the loud squelching noises that filled the room. “‘Cause I am.”

Coincidentally, you were just arching your back because of how near you were, too. With screams getting louder, gasps causing your mouths to part open, and two people connected into a single body—you disintegrated under him as your lower abdomen signaled your orgasm and your toes started curling. “Ngh—Haah! Aah!”

“Hold on for me, kitten.” Sylus pounded into you through your overstimulation, picking up the pace until spurts of seed were sent straight to your womb. His movements became sloppy and uneven, pulling out of you only to see his semen seeping out of your pussy.

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t fucking believe you just hooked up with a stranger.

But was he really one? Because your heart was telling you one thing, but your mind was telling you another. You didn’t know who to trust and listen to.

After your passionate session, the room was filled with the sound of your breaths mingling. Sylus, still holding you close, leaned in to plant a soft kiss on your cheek, whispering, “How’s it?”

Curiosity got the better of you, and you asked the very question that had been plaguing your mind, “Sylus, please be honest with me,” you paused, “Did you know me before?”

He was silent.

But you continued, “What was our relationship?”

Sylus looked like he was contemplating his answer, his gaze distant. His eyes seemed to have found your ceiling interesting as he thought deeply, drawing in a deep breath, and gently caressing your arm. If you didn’t know better, you swore you could see the sorrow and resignation in his eyes—the somberness he tried to hide with a smile.

“Let’s just say I’m a fool who was in love with you for years, but you never reciprocated my love.”

“How so?” you asked, turning to face him. You absorbed his words while the pain of his unrequited love intersected with your own confusion. His answer didn’t quite feel right, but if he was truly your lover, then you knew there was a level of trust you should be placing on him. “Why do I get the feeling that I was the one who experienced a one-sided love before?”

“No, you were loved. You were very loved. There was no one else,” he continued, lachrymose eyes staring back at you as he stroked your hair, “I was the one who wasn’t worthy of you… But I’d like to try and win your heart again this time. If you allow it.”

Sylus’s eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, the facade of the composed, enigmatic man you had come to know seemed to crack.

The vulnerability in his voice resonated with you, and you reached up to touch his face gently. “Sylus… I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for not recognizing you before. I just… I lost a chunk of my memories, and I don’t know if it’s been altered or what, but…” Realizing that you were rambling, you took a deep breath. “I’ll try to remember, okay?”

“Please don’t.” He shook his head, a rueful smile playing on his lips while thinking of the past that was rightfully erased. “And there’s no need for apologies, sweetie. There wasn’t anything you did wrong.”

As the rain continued its gentle patter against the window, you both settled into the quiet of the room until he pressed his lips onto yours once more.

Sylus’s touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. “You should know,” he said quietly and earnestly, “that this time, I’ll only have eyes for you.”

FINAL PART

#sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus angst #sylus smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads x you #l&ds x reader #l&ds x you #lds x reader #lds x you #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #love & deepsace x reader

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sobbingscripter · 3 months ago

Text

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 2216🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

“Really feel the pottery in your hands. Feel the clay as you shape it.”

The sound of the teacher is drowned out, your attention on Mark and literally, only Mark.

Your nipples are pebbled, charcoal pencil between your teeth as you watch the muscles of his forearms flex with each movement of his hands. His wet, messy hands that shape clay so sensually. God, your palms are already sweaty.

You’ve long abandoned your art project, your incomplete drawing remaining just that. Incomplete.

And you feel your belly dip inward when you watch his middle and ring finger push into the centre of where the hole of whatever pot he’s making. And you nearly moan when he shifts his position, his arm reaching into the pot to shape the inside.

You feel like a pervert. A creep. A weirdo.

Like if Mark didn’t know you, he’d move to walk on the side of the street furthest from you, because your thighs are pressing together with each gentle circle he makes to the outside of the pot, middle finger pressing into the malleable clay to form patterns.

And you cover your lips with your fingers, dragging them down your chin as you try to grab a hold of yourself.

Mark glances towards you, a snort falling from his lips before he motions to your mouth, and your brows knit. Before reaching into your pencil case, pulling out a compact mirror and you grimace.

Charcoal smeared like a fucking goatee.

You rifle through your bag, pulling out a small package of tissues before you wipe at your face, checking your reflection to make sure you’re getting all of it.

“Young lady,” the teacher’s voice breaks your concentration and she looks down at you, “less vanity, more drawing.” And she plucks the compact from your hand, before continuing to walk between the aisles of students.

Looking between their different projects and you feel the back of your neck burn with embarrassment as well as annoyance.

“Dirty old bitch.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“You weren’t there to stop me from making an ass of myself, you dildo.” You hiss, watching as William continues to clean away the barely perceptible streaks of charcoal from your chin.

“I told you to take welding.” He huffs. “Only way you can make an ass of yourself there is if you lose a finger.”

You glance towards your reflection in the bathroom mirror, only satisfied once you’ve reapplied your lip liner, as well as your gloss.

And William steps out of the bathroom first, before backtracking, turns to you. And he presses his palm against your mouth, smearing your lip combo across your face.

“Oh no. Guess we’ll have to stay here for a while longer. Shucks.” William sighs, dramatic and you seethe. “You asshole. What’s so—”

You poke your head out of the bathroom, your eyes widening.

“She’s literally never even acknowledged his existence unless he’s validating one of her stupid opinions!” You hiss. “The fuck does she want with him?”

Your hisses are whispered and William shrugs, wiping at your lips before reaching into your pocket, pulling out your lip combo.

“I don’t know but it’s probably just—”

“William, she’s touching his arm. Oh, God, the world is spinning and I’m smelling pennies.” You groan, leaning back against the cool frame of the door and your hand moves to clutch at your heart over your shirt.

“Someone took my bitch, Willy.” You whimper, bringing your fist up to your mouth, teeth digging into the flesh as you bite down on your knuckles.

“I’m gonna end up on Channel 5, I just know it.”

William watches Amber and Mark, seeing the way Mark smiles. All sweet and bubbly, watching the way Amber laughs and the hand on Mark’s shoulder gives a nice, lingering squeeze.

“No, no one’s taking your bitch. I promise. Look at me.” William reassures, before his hands move to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him.

“Look. At. Me.” He takes a breath. “That is your man. You’ve listened to Seance Dog lore for fucking hours. No one deserves to ride that… Awkward, socially anxious… Permanently stressed… nerdy pony more than you.”

“You’re really bad at— oh, Willy, she’s really close. Girl, I’m gonna crash out.”

And William huffs.

“Amber doesn’t have shit on you. So what if she’s pretty, and smart and she always smells like the Bahamas. Or actually like... More specifically a daiquiri I had when I was eight and my family went there for vacation. But listen to me."

William forces you to look deep into his eyes.

"She does not have shit on you."

And you glance back at Amber and Mark, your spirit crumbling like a cookie when you see the way she pats his chest, her hand lingering and sliding just a bit to ghost over his abs as she passes him. And you nearly throw up.

"William, is this what Beyoncé felt like?"

"Yes." William answers immediately. "But this is your Lemonade moment. Babe, look at me."

And William sighs, his tone almost sympathetic as he whispers to you, "We be all night."

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

"Don't be an asshole. Get me a job here." Mark whines, brows knitted into a furrowing frown as he watches you weave between customerw and aisles, continuing to restock various shelves of comic books and paraphernalia.

"No, you're like, one of the biggest customers. Every time you buy a comic book, that's a dollar added to my end of year bonus." You cross your arm over one another, ignoring Mark as he trails behind you, plopping down in the chair near the register and he continues to nurse his Slurpee.

"What are you even gonna use the money for? My mom buys your groceries." Mark huffs and you whistle.

"Wow. First of all. The money my parents send me goes into my college fund, and secondly, your mom forcefully buys my shit. And thirdly, I pay her back." You defend.

"How?"

"I do her hair, I mow your lawn, I wash her car in jean shorts and a backwards baseball cap, not to mention, when she works from home, I'm her assistant."

And Mark scoffs. "You just bring her snacks and take her calls."

"Because her own son doesn't even wanna feed his loving mother."

Mark can barely muster a response, his jaw going slack at your retort and it takes him a few moments to recuperate. "How dare y—"

"I dare easily."

Mark rolls his eyes, pink lips wrapping around his straw once again as he watches you interact with customers. You've got the sweetest smile, pointing out which comic franchise each aisle is dedicated to. And his eyes fall to where your palms are braced on the glass counter, limited edition comics displayed underneath and he watches the way your manicured nails tap at the glass absentmindedly.

You've got pretty hands.

Nice fingers, well kept and the softest palms, and you always know how to accessorize without looking tacky.

And he clears his throat.

"You got that limited edition Seance Dog yet?"

"Yeah, but can you afford it?"

And Mark scoffs. "How much?"

"110." You raise a brow in amusement when you watch Mark swallow heavy, his Adam's apple bobbing. Before he purses his lips. "And you can't hold it for me?" And you shake your head, lips tugged downwards into a mock sympathy expression.

"You know, I can buy it for you. But then I need a favour." You lean forward, elbows braced on the counter and Mark's pretty sure his ears stop working because all he can focus on, is how that pretty pendant dangles from your neck, right above your cleavage. You're giving him the minimal view down your shirt, and he's acting like a damn dog.

"Uh huh?" He squeaks out.

"Everytime I change my sheets, I want you to put the fitted sheet on my mattress." You cross your arms over your chest. "No matter where you are, what you're doing, who you're with."

"Deal!"

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌻🌼🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆

"You spent... A hundred and ten dollars... On a picture book?" Debbie deadpans, eyes narrowing at you from behind cucumber slices, her hand in yours as you continue to file at her nails. She rests back in the recliner, her legs stretched out, foam separaters between her toes as she allows herself to be pampered.

"It's a Seance Dog comic." You hum. "It's got like... Extra panels as to how he became like... Seance Dog. I don't know why, but Mark seems to like it."

And she lets out a breath.

"What even—" "He's an anthropomorphic dog. And he's kinda based on Doctor Strange. Like, costume wise."

"Who?"

"It's a Marvel character. He's like, a wizard."

"Then why's he called 'doctor'?"

"Because he's a doctor."

"Then why is he still a wizard?"

"Because he's a surgeon and a wizard."

"Do his parents know he's running around in a cape?"

"I think his parents are dead, Miss Debbie."

And she winces. "Died of shame?"

"No..." You snort. "They don't really... Go into much detail about that. Or they do, I don't know. I'm not very into Marvel."

And Debbie lets out a quiet sigh, toes flexing and she lifts one of the slices from her eyes, glancing towards where you're busy with her nails.

"Could we try an almond shape? A little bit longer." You note the way it's hard for her to meet your gaze and you gasp.

"Miss Deborah, you dirty dog." You snicker. "Gel build?"

And she nods her head. "The nude pink."

"Can I expect Mark sleep—"

"Without a doubt."

"God—" Mark pants. "Are you just randomly helping people put up water towers?"

"No." Nolan hums, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Mark steady the metallic storage item. "However, these people needed help and you were in the area."

"You were too."

"Who's the hero and who's the rookie?"

And Mark huffs, arms crossed over his chest before his phone buzzes in his suit and Mark fishes the device out of his pocket.

Number 1⭐: 'your mom's gonna get her 🐱 ate'.

He stares at the text, his expression faltering before he stares at Nolan, his lips pressing into a thin line that slowly morphs into a grimace. The longer he stares at his father, the more his expression crumples.

And the more his expression crumples, the wider Nolan grins, already having a mild idea of what the text read.

"You know, you ought to marry a girl like that." Nolan hums. "Smart, funny, likeable."

"She's a massive dick." Mark huffs, sliding his phone back into his pocket before he crosses his arms over his chest. Lips tugged into a disgruntled frown.

"That falls under 'funny', son." Nolan states.

"Well, that's too bad. I've already got a girl I like. Her name's Amber and—"

"Can Amber fight, Mark?"

The question is abrupt and Mark's brows knit in confusion.

"Huh? I— I don't— I'm not sure."

"Cause Amber's gonna need to." Nolan states. "At some point... in the near future."

"Why would Amber need to know how to fight?"

"Because, Mark, one day, she'll need to." And he coughs. "One day soon."

"Soon?!"

"Well... Soon by Viltrumite standards."

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆

Mark spends yet another night in your company, his shoulder against yours as you both stare up at your ceiling. Phones on charge, the lights shut off and the only other light being the slivers of moonlight that creep through your curtains.

"You know, you never told me your hero name." You state softly, your voice just as quiet as the raindrops that patter down onto the grass outside, pelting against your window and Mark hums quietly.

His hair's damp from his shower, his broad shoulders stretching yet another of your shirts although this time, it's an 'I Heart GILFS' T-shirt.

"Invincible."

There's a quiet silence between you and Mark glances towards you, only to see you already looking at him. Your expression is blank, unreadable and he can't fight the laughter that bubbles from his lips when you turn your back to him.

Pulling the covers up to your chin.

"Oh come on, it's not bad!" Mark giggles, a muscular arm wrapping around your waist and he pulls you towards him.

And the room gets quiet for a wholenew reason.

The warmth of his body is intense, the way his breath fans across your neck and the way his fingertips press into the softness of your belly.

And he dips his head, lips ghosting over your jaw as he cranes to meet your gaze.

He's grinning, dimples in his cheeks and shadows playing on his features.

"You're just jealous."

"Jealous of what, Vincible?"

"Jealous of my aweso— man, fuck you."

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @love3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

#sobbingscripter #our turn🌼#invincible fanfic #invincible mark grayson #mark grayson invincible #invincible comic #invincible #invincible x reader smut #invincible x you #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader smut #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson

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dakusan · 26 days ago

Text

W h e r e V a m p i r e ! S K Z L i k e s t o B i t e Y o u

Vampire!SKZ OT8 x Reader | eight fangs. eight fixations. and every filthy way they ruin you where it hurts the most

🔞synopsis: You thought you knew desire. You thought you understood sex. Then they bit you. This isn't love. This is hunger. Worship. Power. A kiss laced with venom. A cock buried in your cunt while your blood runs hot down their chin. Eight vampires. Eight bite locations. Eight ways to lose your mind and beg for more.

💌a/n: Welcome to fucking Wreck Me Wednesdays. This was supposed to be “mini.” Instead I wrote eight vampire sex case files with feeding traits, bite kinks, and full-blown NSFW lore. Somewhere between Chan’s heartbite and Han's “mine mine mine,” I lost the plot and my soul. Some are longer. Some are feral. Some are shorter. All of them ruined me and they shall ruin you too. Read responsibly. Stay hydrated. Stretch your legs. Cry in the bathtub. p.s. reblog = consent to be ruined by a vampire. p.p.s. Tell me who broke you. For science. p.p.p.s. pls enjoy the song :3. i will also get to the asks later today, haven't forgotten!

⚠️ warnings: NSFW / 18+ ONLY — minors will be fed to Minho. This series contains graphic vampire smut and feral content not suitable for the emotionally stable | Bloodplay + feeding during sex | Biting (everywhere) | Obsessive/possessive behavior | Power dynamics (soft dom to unhinged dom) | Crying, overstimulation, choking on moans | Praise kink, degradation kink, breeding kink | Fang kinks. Vein kinks. Chest kinks. Thigh kinks. | Oral (receiving + giving), rough sex, soft sex, bubble bath sex, rage sex

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𓆪 BANG CHAN // Abnormal Vampire Obsessed with control. Addicted to your pulse.

🩸PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Neck or heart — where the pulse is loudest. He wants to hear it skip.

💉FEEDING STYLE ‣ Controlled. Lethal. Intimate. ‣ Always timed with orgasm. May edge before bite. ‣ Often restraints you during feeding. Uses voice as a binding tool.

🫀EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Rapid heartbeat. ‣ Dissociation from overstimulation. ‣ Emotional dependency post-bite. ‣ High risk of imprinting.

⚠️PROGNOSIS ‣ Orgasmic blood-loss. ‣ Neck bites mid-thrust = blackout-level pleasure. ‣ Heart bites = ego death. Immediate sobbing. ‣ Lingering soreness + possession marks.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 001 𓆪

"Strip. Slowly."

You're standing in front of him—already trembling, already soaked. He hasn’t touched you. Not yet. Just sits back on the velvet chaise like he’s watching a performance he paid for in centuries. Legs spread. Shirt open. Mouth smiling, fangs peeking. Hands not on you.

Not yet.

You undress like you're unwrapping something forbidden. And his eyes don’t leave your chest. Not even once.

"There," he murmurs when your top hits the floor, voice like silk over blade. "It stutters when you know where I'm going to bite. Do you want it tonight?"

You nod, breathless.

"Words, darling."

"...yes. Please."

It doesn't take long, really it doesn't. Because one second you were putting on a show for him, stripping, peeling layer by later until you were naked and suddenly, you were now laid down on the bed with Chan knelt between your thighs, breathing against your cunt without touching.

With only one single kiss, not touching. Not yet.

"So warm here. You've been aching for me all night, haven't you? Dripping for me. Thinking about how it'll feel when I bite your chest and fuck you until your name melts off your tongue?"

You whimper, nod, hips twitching—but his hands grip your thighs down firm and leans forward, tongue finally moving—not inside you—no, he flicks along your folds. One stroke. One taste. Then stops.

"Mm. You're going to wait for me to bite. I'll have to make you cum with my mouth first."

He eats you out slowly. Sinfully. Like a king savouring dessert before the main course. Fingers spreading you, tongue teasing, lips sucking your clit just barely enough to make your stomach tense. Then he stops. Over and over. Until you're crying, hips grinding, begging.

"Please—Chan, please—fuck—just let me—"

"Let you what?" he says, smiling against your pussy. "Bleed? Break? Cum?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—all of it."

He hums against your cunt like you gave him a goddamn prayer.

"All of it, huh?" He drags his tongue up slowly, catching your clit just to hear the gasp he wrings from your throat. "Then keep those thighs open. Let me earn it."

And he does.

His mouth descends like a curse and a promise, this time not stopping. He licks like he’s reading scripture off your skin. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your moans. Two fingers press in, curling perfectly, while his tongue circles your clit with calculated cruelty. He’s not being sweet—he’s being precise. Every flick, every suck, every curl of his fingers is designed to make your legs tremble and your mind splinter.

“There it is,” he growls into you when your hips start bucking. “So fucking wet, baby. You gonna cum like this? Before I even bite?”

You try to answer. You really do. But it’s already happening. Your stomach tightens, thighs trembling, mouth open on a silent scream as your orgasm crashes down—hot, humiliating, perfect.

He doesn’t stop.

Licks through your orgasm, dragging it out. Groaning low, fingers still thrusting, until you’re gasping, writhing, overstimulated and dripping. Then—finally—he pulls back. Just enough to lift his head.

His mouth is wet. His chin shines with your slick. And his eyes—god, his eyes—are blown wide, black with hunger. “Now you’re ready,” he says, voice darker, lower. “Now you’ll taste right.”

He climbs up your body slowly, kneeing your thighs further apart as he goes. One hand cages your throat—not tight, just present—and the other cups your breast, thumb rubbing lazy circles around your nipple.

And then he leans in. Presses his lips right over your heart. The bite is sudden. Deep.

Your blood floods his mouth, and he moans—moans—like it’s better than sex, like it’s what he’s been starving for. His hips grind against yours as he drinks, hard cock pressing against your folds like a promise. You’re shaking beneath him—your orgasm still echoing, your body pulsing, blood pouring into his mouth like a gift only he deserves.

And then—just when you start to go dizzy—he pulls back. Fangs red. Lips stained. Chest heaving.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough, wrecked with restraint. “Because I’m not done.”

You nod—but barely. Your whole body is trembling, and your vision is hazy, floating from the orgasm and the blood loss and the fact that he bit your fucking heart like it was a fruit he’s waited centuries to taste.

And he’s still fully dressed. Shirt unbuttoned, dark slacks hugging his thighs, belt still on. You’re naked and wrecked and soaked, but he’s untouched. Pressed against you, blood-slick mouth and cock hard against your pussy—but untouched. “Look at me,” he whispers, dragging his fingers down your side, over the bite mark, over your trembling hips. “Look at me while I feed you something else.”

And then he leans back.

Slowly. Casually.

Undoing his belt with one hand, unzipping his pants like he's got all the time in the world. His eyes never leave yours as he slides them down just enough to free himself—his cock thick, flushed dark red, leaking at the tip, veins mapped like sin. You swear it twitches when he sees your thighs shake.

“So fucking pretty like this,” he murmurs, wrapping one hand around the base and giving himself a lazy pump. “Open. Dripping. Ruined. And all for me.”

He strokes himself slow, torturing, his fist sliding up over the head and back down, slicking it with precum while his other hand presses down on your lower belly, keeping you there.

“You feel that?” he asks, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “That’s mine now. This heat. This slick little cunt. Your blood’s still warm inside me and now I’m going to fuck it back into you.”

You sob. Actually sob. Because even just the way he slides against your folds—up and down, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance—it’s too much.

“Please, Chan,” you whisper, voice hoarse, “I want you inside—I want to feel it—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He lines himself up. Presses the head in just a little. Just enough to make you gasp. “You’ll take it. Every inch. Slow.”

And he means it.

He pushes in inch by devastating inch, watching your face the entire time—watching your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter, your back arch. You feel every ridge, every vein, the stretch of him parting you slowly like he’s carving space for himself where no one else belongs.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice breaking. “So fucking tight.” Another inch. Another. “God, you’re squeezing me like you missed me.”

You cry out. Not from pain. From pleasure. From the overwhelming fullness, from the feel of him dragging along your soaked, overstimulated walls.

He pauses halfway in. Just pauses—hips pressed flush, cock twitching inside you, breath hot against your cheek.

“You want more?” he asks, fangs still out. “Tell me. Tell me how bad you want me to fill you.”

“Please,” you gasp, tears spilling, voice trembling. “I need it—I need you inside—all of you—fuck, Chan, please.”

His hips snap forward. You scream. He bottoms out with one deep thrust, cock buried to the hilt, and the stretch burns so good.

“There,” he grits, grinding slow, deep, merciless. “That’s what I wanted. That fucking clench. That pretty little scream.” He stays buried in you for a moment—deep—just breathing, letting your walls flutter and your cunt adjust to the full stretch of him. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, trying to lock him in, but he just smirks.

And then he starts.

Slow. Precise. The first few thrusts feel like worship—or punishment—dragging out so achingly slow that your body clenches tighter, trying to chase what he won’t give you. His hips roll, grinding into you, the thick weight of him pressing against every oversensitive inch of your soaked, blood-drunk cunt.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he groans, head dropping to your throat as he sets a slow, grinding rhythm. “So fucking warm. So tight. You gonna cry for me again, sweetheart?”

You already are. You’re gasping, eyes glassy, body shaking as he rocks into you with that slow, devastating rhythm. One of his hands cradles your face, the other beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And then—he leans in. Mouth dragging across your skin. Kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips, your throat. Peppering kisses like you’re sacred. His fangs scrape lightly down your neck and you twitch underneath him.

“You like that?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “The fangs. The pressure. You want me to bite again, don’t you?”

Your breath stutters. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, thrusting deeper. “Not until you cum on my cock. Not until I’m so deep you forget how to speak.”

He picks up the pace now—still controlled, but faster. Harder. The sound of skin slapping, of your soaked cunt swallowing him in, fills the room along with your moans. Your nails drag down his back. Your hips rise to meet his.

“That’s it. Take it, baby. Take all of me. That greedy little pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—fuck, yes—made for you, only you—”

He kisses you. Hard. Bruising. Tongue sliding past your lips like he owns your mouth too. And when he pulls back, his eyes are pitch black, fangs still bared, lips red from your blood.

“Say it again.”

“Made for you,” you cry. “Yours. Only yours.”

“Good fucking girl.”

His pace snaps harder now—deep, perfect strokes—one hand gripping your thigh, the other pressed firm against your throat. His body curves over yours, keeping you pinned while he fucks you like he’s staking a claim inside your cunt.

Your legs tighten around him. Your belly coils. You feel your orgasm building—hot and sharp and dizzying.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, rutting harder now. “Gonna let me feel it? Let me feel that pretty little pussy milk me while I drink from your heart again?”

You sob. You nod. You beg.

“Please, please—bite me—fuck, Chan—please—”

And that’s all it takes. He thrusts deep, one last time, grinding hard against your cervix, and then bites—again—right over your heart.

You cum instantly. Your walls clench so hard around his cock it triggers his own orgasm—thick, hot, flooding you as he groans into your skin, drinking and thrusting and owning you. When he finally pulls back, he’s panting, licking the wound tenderly. Your body’s trembling—soaked, stuffed, claimed—and he just looks down at you like you’re a masterpiece.

Chan leans down, kissing your lips so softly now. "You're mine sweetheart. Bloody, body, soul."

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𓆪 LEE KNOW // Abnormal Vampire Sadist in silk. Devours screams. Fuck-first, feed-later type.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Inner thigh — where you're softest, where you beg hardest.

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Slow. Pain-laced. Erotic. ‣ Often feeds while fucking from behind. ‣ Fingerplay first—he has to feel you fall apart before the bite.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Shaking legs. Sore hips. Oversensitive clit. ‣ Mind-fracture from orgasm + blood loss combination. ‣ Known to cause dehydration, bruising, and uncontrollable sobbing. ‣ Marked behavioral changes: submission, clinginess, obsession.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Orgasm coincides with bite. Scream = trigger. ‣ Thigh bites may cause blackout + limp for 2–3 days. ‣ Post-bite euphoria. Known to whisper “again” while you’re still twitching. ‣ Irreversible addiction risk. Do not engage without safe word.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 002 𓆪

“You’re not gonna cum until I tell you to. Understand?”

His voice is silk-coated steel—low and lethal. You’re on your back, naked, legs spread wide on the silk sheets, with Lee Know fully clothed beside you. Not even undressing. Just watching. Eyes dragging over your soaked cunt like it’s something he owns. Like it exists to be ruined.

You nod, desperate.

“Use your words.” His eyes narrow, lips curling with warning. “If you want my fingers inside you, you’d better earn them.”

“Yes. I understand,” you breathe. “Please—Minho, I need it—”

He hums, finally moving. One hand strokes up your thigh, so gentle it makes you shiver. “So polite,” he murmurs. “And already dripping. All this for me?”

Two fingers press between your folds, parting you slowly. You moan. He doesn’t move fast—he just teases. Up and down, collecting slick. Spreading it messily across your clit before tapping it, sharp and precise.

You jerk. He laughs softly.

“No cumming, sweetheart,” he reminds you, before pushing a finger in.

You moan, clenching instantly. He’s slow at first, curling upward to find that spot, rubbing it deliberately. Then a second finger. Scissoring, stretching. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your clit, but never enough. Never fast.

And when you start to tighten around him, about to tip over—he pulls out.

You scream. He smiles.

“Again,” he says, and starts over. Fingers, curl, rub, drag—stop. Over. And over. By the fourth time, your body’s twitching. Your thighs shake. Your hands are fisting the sheets. “Minho—fuck, please—I’m going to lose it—”

“Good.” He leans over, mouth brushing your ear. “Then maybe you’ll behave.”

He grabs your hips, flips you over in one smooth motion—onto your knees, chest to the sheets. One hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing your spine into a perfect arch. The other? Slipping down to play with your pussy again.

“You’re so wet baby,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers back through your folds. “I’ve barely done anything.”

You sob into the sheets. Then you feel it—his tongue. On your inner thigh. Not your pussy. Not yet. Just slow, deliberate licks on the sensitive skin right near your pulse point.

You freeze.

“Oh, did you think I’d forgotten about the bite?” he purrs.

He kisses the skin first. Then bites. His fangs sink in with a sharp, hot pain that melts instantly into pure fucking ecstasy. Your vision goes white. Your arms give out. You cry out, body trembling as blood leaves you in slow, sensual pulses.

And the second his mouth pulls back—

He’s undoing his pants.

You hear the belt unbuckle. The zipper lower. Then feel it—his cock, thick and flushed, dragging through your soaked folds. “You want this?” he asks, voice darker now. “Want to be fucked while your thighs are still bleeding?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—please—”

He slides in.

No warning. No mercy. One smooth, brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you. His hips slam into your ass, cock buried to the hilt, and he groans—deep and guttural—like he just found heaven inside your cunt. “Fuck,” he pants, grabbing your hips with bruising force. “So tight. Still twitching from that bite?”

He doesn’t wait.

He starts moving. Deep, hard thrusts that punch cries from your throat. Your back arches, cheek pressed to the sheets as he fucks you in a perfect rhythm—every stroke hitting exactly where you need him.

And he does not stop.

“Cry for me,” he growls, slapping your ass. “Scream. Let them hear how good I fuck what’s mine.”

You scream. You cry. You babble his name like a prayer.

“That’s right,” he hisses, hips snapping faster. “Fucking perfect.”

You’re gone. Broken. Bleeding. Full. And when your orgasm is close, when you're just about to cum—he doesn’t stop you. “Let go,” he pants. “Give it to me. I want to feel this cunt strangle my cock.”

You do. You collapse, sobbing, shaking, cumming so hard your thighs go limp. But he doesn’t stop.

Minho groans through his teeth and keeps thrusting—fucking you through your orgasm like he’s chasing something deeper. His grip bruises your hips, cock dragging through your soaked, fluttering walls, harder now, rougher.

“You sound so pretty when you break,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I can feel it. Every pulse. Every squeeze. You're milking my cock like you want me to stay inside forever.”

You whimper, twitching under him, nerves fried, cunt still clenching in aftershocks. Your body is shaking—numb, overstimulated—but he fucks you through it, like you owe him every second.

“I’m close,” he growls, burying himself deep. “Gonna fill you up—fuck, just like this—”

A sharp snap of his hips, one final grind—and then he spills into you with a broken sound, teeth bared, fangs glinting. His cum is hot, thick, flooding your sore cunt as he presses as deep as he can, breathing hard against your spine.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

The second his cock slips free—wet and dripping with both of you—he’s flipping you over again. Your body’s limp, arms trembling, blood drying sticky on your thigh. You can barely focus. Barely breathe.

But you feel him. The press of his mouth. The heat of his breath.

“Still bleeding here,” he murmurs, fingers parting your thigh. “And you’re still so warm.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer before he bites again.

Same thigh. New wound.

You scream—not from pain, but from the crash of sensation. The moment his fangs sink in, your body floods with another unbearable wave. You’re twitching, crying, clenching around nothing—your cunt soaked, still dripping his cum—while he drinks, slow and deep.

Every pull of his mouth makes your stomach tighten. Your hands claw at the sheets. You’re delirious—gone—his mouth on your thigh, blood leaving in perfect rhythm with the mess between your legs.

He moans softly against your skin. Then he pulls back. Lips stained. Fangs gleaming. Blood running down your thigh like a love letter written in ruin.

He crawls over your body, eyes dark and hungry still. “I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, licking the blood from his lips. “But I’ll let you rest…”

One hand strokes your cheek, surprisingly soft.

“For now.”

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐑 𓆪 SEO CHANGBIN // Normal Vampire Made of muscle, menace, and moans..

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Below the ribs or just above the hipbone

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Possessive. Worshipful. ‣ He growls when he drinks, like it's carnal. ‣ Usually feeds during sex. Leaves deep bruises around the wound from how hard he grips.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Breathless moaning. ‣ Clawing, overstimulated orgasms. ‣ Emotional grounding. Heightened intimacy. ‣ High likelihood of imprinting if bitten more than once.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Feral rut-level fucking. ‣ Bruised hips, shaky legs, blood-drunk sobs. ‣ Bite leaves a phantom heat that spreads like wildfire. ‣ Will absolutely carry you to a bath after and tell you you did so well.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 003 𓆪

You were teasing him. You didn’t mean to—but you were.

The corset was tight. The skirt was short. Your lipstick matched the red of your bite mark from two nights ago. You were only supposed to drop off the file he needed but you knew what the outfit would do to him. What it always did.

And the moment he looked up from his desk and saw you?

All bets were off.

He’s already panting when he slams the door shut behind you. One heartbeat later, you're pinned to the wall—hard. His broad chest flush against your back, his breath already ragged and hot against your ear.

You hear the low, animalistic growl deep in his chest before you feel it—rumbling through you like a warning.

Or a promise.

Because you’re standing there in his office after midnight, wearing nothing but a black lace corset that cups your breasts high, a tiny pleated skirt that barely covers your ass, and delicate panties—thin, sheer, soaked. Stockings, too. Garter belt. Lip gloss still shimmering.

You knew what you were doing.

And so does he.

“Take that shit off,” he growls, voice already thick with bloodlust and need.

You turn—barely—and meet his eyes. They’re black. Fully fucking black.

And you’re soaked.

“Changbin—” you whisper, breath hitching, thighs pressing together. It’s not a protest. It’s a plea.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. One sharp tug and your corset jerks loose at the back—ripped. Another growl, and your panties are shredded in his hands, lace in tatters. The air hits your bare skin and you whimper.

“You fucking tease,” he snarls, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Walking in here dressed like this? Like a fucking offering?”

You squeak as he grabs you under the thighs and lifts—one arm. Just one arm and you're airborne, slammed back against the wall like you weigh nothing to him.

Because to him? You’re not fragile. You’re his.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, brutal, claiming. His tongue is deep before you can breathe. Fangs brush your lower lip and nick the skin just enough for blood to bloom, sweet and fresh, and he moans against your mouth.

“You wore this for me?” he growls between kisses. “Fucking knew it. Knew you were trying to get ruined.”

You nod frantically, breathless. “Please—need it—need you—”

Then he drops. To his knees. Fast. Like gravity yanked him straight down. He’s still fully dressed in black slacks, fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up. Muscles bulging, chest heaving, mouth already parted. And you? You’re bare now—corset loosened, panties gone, skirt hiked up around your waist, legs trembling over his shoulders.

Your back hits the cold wall. Your pussy is right at his eye level. And he looks up at you like he’s about to worship you.

Or destroy you.

“Fucking look at you,” he growls, dragging his thumbs up your inner thighs to spread you wider. “You're soaked. All this for me?”

You can’t speak. You nod. His smirk turns feral. “Good.”

He doesn't waist a second, Changbin devours you.

No teasing. No buildup. His tongue dives in like he’s starving—wide and wet, licking through your folds with a brutal, messy hunger that makes you cry out on impact.

“F-fuck—Changbin—”

He groans. Moans into your pussy like it’s his favorite meal, nose buried, chin soaked, lips dragging up your slit again and again until they’re flushed and swollen with your slick. His tongue curls up to your clit—flicks, circles, sucks. Sloppy and relentless.

Then?

He starts making out with it.

No joke. Full mouth. Open, hot, filthy kisses against your cunt—like he’s Frenching your pussy with every ounce of his desperate need. Tongue moving deep inside, then sliding up to wrap around your clit, sucking hard, then soft, then hard again. Over and over.

Your legs are shaking on his shoulders.

He drags one arm around your ass, pressing you closer to his mouth, while his free hand slides two thick fingers inside—curling, fucking, spreading your walls until you're gasping like you’re being split open.

He’s growling into your cunt, fingers pounding, tongue flicking your clit like he’s trying to drag the orgasm out of you with brute force.

“Come on,” he pants between slurps. “Give it to me. Cum on my tongue, baby—now—”

Your scream tears through the room. It breaks you. Your orgasm hits like a punch to the gut—raw, loud, endless. Your whole body locks. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your vision goes black for a second.

And he fucking loves it.

Keeps sucking through it. Fingers still thrusting. His mouth sealing over your clit again as if your climax is what he’s been waiting for all day.

Only when you’re gasping, limp, twitching—only then does he finally rise.

And fuck, he looks good.

Mouth soaked. Chin gleaming. Eyes still black. Fangs bared.

You barely have time to catch your breath before his hands are moving—fast. Belt undone with a sharp snap, pants shoved down, briefs yanked below his thighs. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. Harder than sin.

You don’t even get a chance. Because suddenly—he lifts you. Again. Effortlessly. Strong arms under your thighs, back slammed against the wall. And this time, he doesn’t wait.

He slams into you.

One thrust—brutal, perfect—and he’s fully inside. Stretching you open. Your head rolls back, mouth open in a soundless scream as your cunt grips him like a vice.

“Fuck—yes,” he snarls against your throat. “That’s it—tight little pussy—knew you could take it.”

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks you into the wall. Rough. Desperate. Fast and deep and relentless. The slap of skin on skin echoes, your moans ricochet off the walls, and his name is the only thing you remember how to say.

“Changbin—Changbin—oh fuck—”

He groans against your skin. “You’re mine.”

And then?

He bites. Hard.

Right into your neck—fangs sinking deep, blood spilling into his mouth like wine from a sacred chalice. You scream, thighs trembling, orgasm threatening again just from the pain, the pressure, the possessive violence of it.

But he’s not done.

He licks the bite. Bites again—your shoulder this time. Then your collarbone. Then your neck again.

Everywhere.

Like he needs you in his mouth, over and over, just to stay grounded. Like drinking you is the only thing keeping him sane. His cock is ruthless inside you—dragging through your soaked walls, pounding harder each time you clench around him.

Your head spins.

He’s drunk on you. Absolutely gone.

“Fucking addictive,” he snarls. “Gonna mark you everywhere. Fill you up. Drain you dry. Fuck—this pussy’s perfect—squeezing me like it wants to bleed.”

Your hands claw at his back. Your nails dig into his shoulders. He loves it. Groans from deep in his chest. Slams into you even harder.

“Take it,” he growls. “Fucking take it. All of it. Don’t you dare stop squeezing me—make me cum, baby.”

You do.

Your orgasm hits again, body seizing, cunt fluttering around his cock like it’s made to wring him dry—and he loses it.

With a guttural snarl, he slams in deep—hips grinding, cock twitching as he spills inside you in heavy, scorching pulses.

But he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—cock buried, teeth still scraping your neck, hands fisting in your hair and thigh like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He pants. Shudders. Then licks your wounds. Gently. Worshipfully.

“Mine,” he whispers, pressing kisses to every bite mark. “Fucking mine. And I’m never letting go.”

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍 𓆪 HWANG HYUNJIN // Abnormal Vampire Beauty made ruin. Moans like a prayer. Kisses like a curse.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Pulse points — wrists, neck, inner thighs

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Hypnotic. Addictive. Laced in poetry and pain. ‣ Always bites during orgasm. Sometimes mid-cry. ‣ Tongue traces first. Fangs follow like a kiss you asked for in a dream.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Euphoria-induced sobbing. Clutching, clawing, surrendering. ‣ Heart palpitations, glossy eyes, speech loss ‣ Often left with multiple bite marks in one session—each placed like a secret

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Known to say “You’re mine” while you’re still moaning. ‣ Multiple orgasms expected. Blood + sex high overlap. ‣ Post-bite daze may last hours. Often found still shaking in his arms. ‣ Extreme bond-forming. Danger of becoming his favorite. And never leaving.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 004 𓆪

You feel him before you see him.

That overwhelming stillness, the kind that drowns out thought. Your breath catches—and then there he is, walking in like a vision, black silk shirt half-buttoned, pale chest glistening, golden hair slightly damp like he’s just stepped out of a dream.

Hyunjin doesn't speak at first. He just walks toward you. Barefoot. Soft steps. Eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists.

And then?

“You wore my favorite,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the strap of your lace slip. “Ivory. Like fresh canvas.”

His lips ghost over your collarbone. Not a kiss. Not yet.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he whispers, “all night. What color you’ll bleed for me. What sound you’ll make when I make you fall apart.”

You tremble.

He lifts your chin gently, eyes gleaming obsidian. “Lie back, baby. Let me paint.”

You obey, shivering as you settle onto the bed—bare skin against cool silk, thighs pressed together from sheer need. He doesn’t make you wait long. Just climbs over you slowly, like you’re delicate, precious, sacred.

And then his mouth is on your wrist. Kissing. Worshipping.

“I’ll start here,” he breathes. “Where your pulse is softest.”

The bite is slow. Precise. A sharp flash of heat as his fangs pierce your skin, followed by dizzying pleasure—almost like he’s sipping your soul. He groans, low and ruined, as your blood coats his tongue.

“Mmm… divine,” he whispers against your wrist, pulling back only to let the droplets smear along his lips. “But I want more.”

His hands trail down. One over your breast, teasing your nipple, the other slipping between your thighs.

“You’re soaked,” he hums, licking the blood off his fingers. “Did you get this wet just from the bite?”

You nod. He smiles like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

Then—he spreads you.

Kisses down your body, trailing open-mouthed devotion from your chest to your stomach, thighs, then—

“Oh, fuck—Hyunjin—”

He groans as he reaches your cunt, breathing deep. “So pretty,” he murmurs, “and all mine.” Hyunjin leans in to press a kiss over your clit. Soft. Like the place between your legs is a cathedral and he's repenting with every breath.

His lips brush your folds. Once. Twice. Then his tongue flattens against your clit, slow and wide, dragging up until your hips twitch off the bed.

“Sweet,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed. “So fucking sweet—like nectar, like stars, like sin.”

You moan.

He moans louder.

Because Hyunjin isn’t just eating you out. He’s savoring. Every lick is long and deliberate, every press of his tongue a whispered poem. He swirls around your clit—soft at first, then pointed—then sucks it into his mouth with such aching, focused gentleness you cry out without warning.

“Hyunjin—”

He groans at the sound of his name. The vibration floods through your cunt.

“Say it again,” he whispers against you, then kisses your clit again like it’s your mouth. “Please. Sing for me.”

“Hyunjin—fuck—please—”

You can’t help it. You’re squirming, writhing, lost beneath him. Your thighs tremble around his head but he doesn’t let go. One arm wraps behind your waist, anchoring you to his mouth like he can’t stand the idea of you pulling away.

His tongue starts to move faster—up, down, circle, suck—messy, wet, worshipful.

Slurping sounds fill the air. His own moans grow desperate. He drags you closer, face buried deep, nose pressed against your clit, tongue flicking mercilessly now. Like he’s not kissing anymore—he’s feasting.

You sob.

You’re panting his name like a spell now. Your back arches. Your thighs clamp.

His fingers dig into your skin. His tongue curls up and in. Every noise you make feeds him. Fuels him. Until he’s drunk on it. High on it.

High on you.

When you cum, it’s violent. Like drowning in silk. You clench around nothing, but feel everything. Your body locks. Your mind breaks. Your mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

And Hyunjin just groans. Like your orgasm was inevitable. A masterpiece finished.

He licks you through it. Sucks gently on your clit like he’s coaxing the last bits of your soul out through your cunt. Then another kiss. And another. Until he finally slows, breath ragged, mouth glossy with you.

His eyes rise to meet yours. Black. Dilated. Reverent.

Your breathing’s still erratic. Limbs heavy. The aftershocks of your orgasm ripple through you in soft, involuntary flinches. And Hyunjin just watches. Licks his lips, eyes locked on the trembling between your thighs like it’s the final frame of a painting he’s not done signing.

Then? He shifts.

You barely register it until his mouth is on your inner thigh.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just—gentle. Open-mouthed kisses along the softest part of you. His fangs slide out.

You feel the sharp brush of them ghost over your skin. He drags them softly, so softly, up the inside of your thigh, until your hips twitch from the sheer anticipation.

Then—

The bite.

It’s deep. Precise. His fangs sink into the flesh of your inner thigh like they were made for this—like your body was crafted just for his teeth. The sting is immediate, yes, but it blooms so quickly into pleasure that your head falls back, lips parted in a choked gasp.

Hyunjin groans the moment your blood hits his tongue.

His hands grip your thighs tighter, anchoring you as he drinks. Slow at first. Then deeper. His throat works in soft, rhythmic swallows. You can hear it. The slick sound of him feeding.

And all the while—he moans.

Like he’s tasting divinity. You try to move. He growls. “Stay still.” he breathes against your wound.

He licks the blood as it trails, mouth sticky and stained. Then another kiss. Another bite. This time, just a little higher—closer to where he just worshipped you with his tongue.

You gasp. The pleasure-pain bursts behind your eyes.

“Hyunjin—please—”

He hums your name into your skin. Wipes his mouth on your thigh like a signature. Then finally climbs up your body, hovering above your face. Eyes on your perfect pillowy lips, but he doesn't kiss immediately. He just hovers. Lets you see the blood on his lips—your blood—before whispering: “You’re mine, now. I’ll paint you in bruises and bites."

Then he kisses you.

Tongue deep. Copper-sweet. Blood-warm and you melt. Melt like puddle in his arms. His arms, exactly where you belong.

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 𓆪 HAN JISUNG // Normal Vampire Chaos incarnate. Bites first, thinks later. Addicted to your blood and your moans—equally.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Side of the neck ‣ Also: your chest, your fingers, your thighs—he’s not picky. Just rabid.

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Chaotic, breathless, unrestrained. ‣ Often bites mid-fuck or right after you cum. ‣ Will feed and finger you at the same time, panting into your blood. ‣ Tastes you like he’s making out with your pulse.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Overstimulation. Dizziness. Bite-high. ‣ Orgasms feel drugged—like you're floating underwater. ‣ Can trigger full-body shivers, sobbing, giggles, and collapsing. ‣ Irregular heartbeat post-bite. Known to laugh while you cry.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Bite syncs with his orgasm. ‣ Feeds multiple times in one session—don’t expect to walk. ‣ Cums from your taste. Known to say “I need you again” before he’s even pulled out. ‣ Proceed with caution: addiction is mutual.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 005 𓆪

Han Jisung is already naked.

He wasn’t supposed to be. He was supposed to wait. But the second you walked into his apartment—short skirt, bare thighs, lipgloss still wet—he lost his fucking mind. Clothes gone. Fangs out. The kind of wide, dangerous grin that promised disaster and begged for it, too.

“You’re gonna ride me, yeah?” he pants, back hitting the bed with a thud. “Wanna see your tits bounce while I bite you.”

You swallow. Nod.

“No, no—c’mon,” he grins, already breathless. “Say it. Say you’re gonna ride me like you mean it.”

“I’m gonna ride you, Ji,” you whisper, crawling over him. “So fucking hard.”

“Fuck yes—” His head drops back, eyes fluttering. “My girl.”

You straddle him, feeling his cock hot and thick between your folds. He’s already leaking, already twitching beneath you. Your slick coats him in seconds. But he doesn’t thrust—no, he waits. Lets you drag your hips up and down until you’re both dizzy with it.

And then—you sink down.

“FUCK—” he cries, hands flying to your hips, gripping so tight you’ll bruise. “Shit—so warm—so tight—don’t move—fuck, baby, let me feel you like this—”

But you move anyway.

Start slow. Grinding your hips in circles, milking moans from his throat. He looks wrecked—sweaty, flushed, eyes half-lidded and glowing red. One hand sneaks up to grope your tits. The other stays on your hip, flexing with every grind.

When you start bouncing? He chokes.

“God—fuck—ride me—ride me, baby, please—”

You do.

Faster. Harder. Until your thighs burn and your pussy tightens with each drop. His mouth is everywhere—licking your collarbone, mouthing at your nipples, biting into your neck without warning.

He drinks. Moans into the wound. Licks the blood like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

You scream.

Not from pain—from pleasure so sharp it cuts. He pulls back, blood smeared on his lips, gasping like you just fucked the soul out of him. “You taste like heaven,” he whispers. “Fuck—I’m gonna cum—baby, cum with me, ride me until we break—”

You do. Together.

A shared orgasm that hits like a freight train. Your cunt tightens around him in rhythmic spasms, and he holds you through it—groaning, babbling praise, licking blood from your skin while he cums so hard his whole body shudders beneath you.

But he’s not done.

Because your chest is rising and falling—vulnerable, flushed—and he leans up, presses one last kiss between your tits.

Then bites again.

And again.

Your body’s still trembling. Muscles twitching. Slick and cum sliding down your thighs where he’s still buried deep inside you, twitching with aftershocks.

But Jisung?

He’s laughing.

Low. Breathless. A little too unhinged to be safe.

“You’re still warm,” he pants, lapping at your collarbone like it’s glazed in sugar. “Still fucking clenching around me. You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You try to answer. You really do. But your brain has melted. Your mouth just opens—gasping—and that’s when he bites again.

Right above your heart.

You scream. Loud and broken. His fangs sink into skin like it’s the only place he belongs—like he can claim you from the inside out. He drinks like you’re water and he’s been parched for centuries. Moans like your blood makes him high. His cock twitches inside you, still half-hard and swelling again.

“Fuck—” he breathes, pulling back, his lips coated crimson. “You’re sweeter here. I knew you would be.”

Then he tilts his head. Looks down.

Sees it.

His cum.

Dripping out of your pussy like melted candlewax. A creamy mess of lust and love and loss of control. “Oh my fucking god,” he groans, manic. “I made you drip like this?”

A pause, a sharp inhale.

“Addicted,” he whispers. “Completely fucking addicted. You don’t even know—baby, I need—”

He bites again. Your shoulder this time. Then the other side of your neck. Then the curve of your breast.

He kisses each one after, messy and frantic, tongue smearing blood and spit across your skin like a mad artist painting his masterpiece.

And then?

He flips you. Again.

Pins you down now, hands on either side of your head, his mouth dragging over your body like he can’t choose where to ruin you next. I want to fuck you again,” he confesses, breath shaking. “Want to stay inside forever. Want to drink until I forget my name.”

“You already did,” you whisper, hoarse.

He grins. Wide. Bloody.

“Good.”

And then he bites again. This time? Your mouth.

Kisses you so hard his fangs nick your lip. Blood trickles in. He licks it up like a shot of liquor, hands gripping your thighs, your ass, your tits—anywhere he can touch.

"I love you. Mine, mine, mine forever."

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 𓆪 LEE FELIX // Abnormal Vampire Soft on the surface, deadly underneath. Sleeps in silk, fucks like a fever dream.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Over the heart or the curve of your breast

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Gentle at first. Almost shy. Kisses before teeth. ‣ Feeds while holding you close—rocking, murmuring sweet things into your skin. ‣ But when hunger takes over? He gets lost. Mouth drunk. Eyes glazed. Almost feral.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Full-body shivers. Skin hypersensitive. ‣ Overstimulation from prolonged oral + emotional collapse after the bite. ‣ Heightened affection post-bite—clinginess, sobbing, echo-pleasure. ‣ Bite mark often becomes an erogenous zone.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Dreamwalkers induce trance-like states in partners. Bite can cause mild hallucinations. ‣ Reader may experience floating sensation + blackout orgasms. ‣ Blood-sharing with Felix forms rapid bond. Extremely addictive. ‣ Warning: prolonged exposure may result in crying during aftercare. And begging for more.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 006 𓆪

The penthouse is quiet when you return.

Shoes off. Dress unzipped. Champagne still singing in your veins from the gala. Felix walks in behind you, shrugging off his velvet blazer, golden curls loose around his temples, skin glowing under soft amber lighting.

He looks too good—black silk shirt open at the chest, fangs glinting behind his smile, eyes already darker than they should be. Not hunger. Something else.

Devotion.

"You were perfect tonight," he murmurs, fingers ghosting your waist as he draws you toward the bathroom. “But I didn’t like sharing you.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “You weren’t exactly subtle either,” you whisper, recalling the way his hand had stayed glued to your lower back all evening, lips to your ear at every chance, voice dipped low with possessive undertones. Like you were his prize.

His worship.

His next meal.

Felix chuckles. “No. I wasn’t.”

The tub fills behind you—steaming, lavender-scented, full of white foam and rose petals. His idea, of course. He always did prefer indulgence after restraint.

He helps you in like you’re made of porcelain. Your skin sinks into the warmth with a sigh. Felix climbs in after, settling behind you, legs spread so you’re seated snugly between them. Your back hits his bare chest, and already, you can feel it.

The thrum beneath his skin. The restraint snapping thread by thread.

“You wore that dress to kill me,” he murmurs, mouth against your neck. “Slit up to your hip. No bra. Lace so sheer I could see the curve of your nipples under every chandelier.”

You smile. “And?”

“And now I’m going to take my time with you.”

His hands cup your breasts from behind. Thumbs flicking your nipples. Bubbles cling to his wrists, his forearms. His lips drag up your neck. Soft. Featherlight.

Then sharp.

A kiss first—then a bite.

Fangs sink in, clean and deep, right beneath your jaw. You gasp, head falling back against his shoulder as the pain melts into pleasure. He drinks slow—just a few sips, just enough to make you squirm—and licks the wound clean with a reverent groan.

“So sweet tonight,” he whispers. “You taste like champagne and sin.”

You whimper.

His hands trail lower. One slips down between your thighs, parting you under the water, fingers pressing into your cunt with aching care. The other? Gliding over your thigh, then gripping it, spreading you wider for him.

He doesn’t tease.

Two fingers sink in—slick, hot, stretching you open as the water laps around you. His thumb finds your clit, circles slow and steady. The angle is perfect. Deep. Focused.

"You always take me so well,” he breathes into your skin. “Even when you’re trembling.”

You are. Shaking, helpless, your body already wrung too tight. The bite. The warmth. The way he touches you like he’s composing a symphony.

And then—he pulls you closer.

“Ride me,” he whispers. “Like you did the last time I fed on your heart.”

You whimper. Turn in his arms, straddling him with the water sloshing over the edge. His cock is already hard, flushed, pressed against your stomach as you rise onto your knees.

He watches you. Eyes half-lidded. Blood-drunk.

When you sink down on him—slow, stretching around his thick length—you both moan. Your nails dig into his shoulders. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to reality.

“Fuck—baby—you feel like velvet,” he chokes out. “So wet. So fucking warm—”

You start to move.

The rhythm is gentle at first. Slippery skin, heavy breaths, the sound of water shifting with every roll of your hips. Felix bites your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower, tongue lapping blood before it cools, fangs sinking in again like he’s trying to mark every inch.

You're bleeding. You're riding. You're both coming undone.

“Look at you,” he groans. “Dripping for me. Bleeding for me. My perfect little canvas.”

Your orgasm builds like a tide—slow, inevitable. His cock hits all the right places, his hands guiding you faster, his mouth sealing over your throat for one final bite as he moans into your skin.

“Cum for me,” he pants. “Feed me while you fall apart.”

Your whole body tenses—like a wave crashing against fragile glass.

And then it shatters.

You break apart on him with a choked cry, thighs trembling, nails clawing down his back. Your orgasm ripples out in hot, helpless pulses, cunt fluttering around him, blood still seeping slowly from your bitten throat as you collapse forward into his arms.

Felix growls.

The sound vibrates through his chest, deep and guttural—feral with need. His mouth seals tighter around your neck, and he drinks as you shake through your climax. Every pull of his lips sends fresh aftershocks rolling through you. You're twitching, overstimulated, undone.

“That's it,” he whispers, lips stained, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “That’s my angel. Give me everything.”

He swallows every drop like he needs it to survive. Like your pleasure is the only thing that can keep him sane.

When he finally releases your throat, his tongue traces the wound—gentle now, reverent, like he’s kissing the holiest part of you. Blood paints his chin. His cock still buried inside you, twitching, heavy, throbbing.

Then—he lifts his head.

You see it in his face. The complete loss of control. His pupils blown wide, lips red, hair clinging to his temples in damp, golden waves. His hands clutch your waist again—and he thrusts up once, hard, a broken moan escaping his throat.

“Oh—fuck—” he gasps. “I’m gonna—”

You’re still pulsing around him. Still warm, wet, perfect.

He buries himself deeper, spilling into you with a low, desperate groan. His mouth finds yours mid-release, kissing you like he’s tasting eternity. Tongue slick with blood and love. You’re breathless, trembling, still locked together in the cooling water—and only then does he speak again. Softly. Against your lips.

“You’re divine.”

You smile weakly, forehead to his. “So are you.”

Felix brushes a petal from your shoulder. One last kiss to your jaw. One last whispered truth, low and sacred:

“I’d bleed for you too.”

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𓆪 KIM SEUNGMIN // Normal Vampire The gentleman with a scalpel smile. Clinical precision. Calculated hunger.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Inner arm — intimate, exposed, and close to your heart. ‣ Sometimes the chest or side of your ribs

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Calm. Measured. Strategic. ‣ He plans his bites—timed, placed, controlled. ‣ Often feeds during emotional peaks—after soft sobs, laughter, confessions, or sex. ‣ Gentle on the surface, but watch closely: there’s a dangerous edge underneath.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Heart rate spike followed by unusual stillness. ‣ Floating sensation. Hallucination-like euphoria. ‣ Skin hypersensitivity for hours after. ‣ Develops strong dependency on his praise and attention.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Low-risk externally—but internally, you’ll never forget the way he says your name. ‣ Prolonged feeding can induce dreamlike sedation or emotional bonding states. ‣ Known to leave almost invisible marks—but you feel them for days. ‣ Vulnerability spike: tendency to confess secrets or cry in his arms after.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 007 𓆪

You hadn’t spoken in over an hour.

Not since the fight.

Not since he said, “Maybe if you didn’t run every time we got too close, I wouldn’t have to wonder if you actually want this.”

You’d slammed the door to the bedroom. Now you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his shirts, staring at the wall like it’s going to offer answers. It doesn’t.

The air is tight. Tense. Like everything’s been coiled too long.

Then—you hear his footsteps.

And suddenly, he’s there.

Seungmin doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shout. He just walks over, grabs your jaw with cold fingers, and tilts your head up.

“You want to be left alone?” he asks quietly. “Or do you want me to make you feel something again?”

Your breath stutters. That look in his eyes—sharp, calculating, barely restrained—isn’t the usual teasing calm.

This is something else.

You whisper, “Make me.”

And just like that—he snaps.

You’re pushed back against the bed. His body cages yours, knees on either side of your hips, hands pinning your wrists above your head. You gasp, arching—but he doesn’t give you time to speak.

“I hate fighting with you,” he growls, voice low and lethal. “You know that?”

You nod, breathless.

“But you push me. You always push. And then you run, and I let you. But not tonight.”

His lips crash to yours—angry, desperate, hungry. You kiss back just as hard, teeth clashing, tongues twisting. Seungmin bites your lip—draws blood. Licks it up like you’re wine and he’s parched. “Take it off,” he demands, tugging at the shirt. You pull it over your head, baring yourself to him completely and his eyes darken.

His eyes scan your body like he owns it. Like he's earned it. Then—he lets go.

Just releases your wrists and leans back, chest heaving. You blink, confused, but he only settles onto the mattress, dark hair mussed. One arm folded behind his head. The other gestures lazily down his own body.

“Take your panties off.”

You hesitate.

He raises a brow. “Now.”

You obey.

Silently, you slide the soft lace down your thighs, aware of how his gaze never leaves your center. You think—maybe—he wants you to straddle his face. Let him taste the slick that’s already gathering between your legs.

But Seungmin has other plans.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Back to me.”

You do, breath catching.

“On your knees. Over my chest.”

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re not riding his mouth. He’s placing you above him, facing the length of his body, and when you obey—when your hands brace on the bed and your knees sink beside his ribs—he shifts both of you down.

So now he’s under you. And your soaked pussy is right above his mouth. But his cock? Hard. Heavy. Inches from your face.

“Open your mouth, baby,” he growls. “And keep it open while I ruin you.”

You barely have time to whimper before his hands are gripping your hips, dragging your pussy down to his mouth. His tongue licks one long stripe through your folds before his fangs sink into the plush of your thigh with no warning, no restraint.

You cry out.

But then—you moan.

Because his mouth is everywhere. Kissing. Biting. Tongue fucking you while blood still runs hot against his lips. He’s feeding and pleasuring, starving and devout all at once.

And you?

You finally do what he told you.

Shaky hands pulling down his grey sweatpants and his briefs, his cock springing out, hard, leaking, throbbing.

You lean forward. Wrap one hand around the base of his cock. The other balances on his thigh. And then—you sink your mouth over him, slow at first, tongue pressing to the underside of the thick, pulsing length that jerks the moment you moan around it.

He groans.

Deep in his throat. A growl of praise.

“Just like that,” he breathes against your cunt. “Take it all, baby. Feed me while I fuck your throat.”

You do.

Mouth stuffed full of his cock, your hips rocking over his face as he feasts between your thighs like you’re the cure to every craving. His tongue works in circles—then flicks. His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you wider, holding you still when your thighs start shaking.

You’re dripping. Gagging. Gasping for air.

And Seungmin? He never lets up. Every time your mouth slides down over his length, he rewards you with another harsh suck, another bite to your thigh, another moan against your clit that sends you reeling.

Until you’re both right there.

Teetering. Desperate. Drenched in sweat, saliva, and blood.

Then—his cock throbs. Your walls flutter. Your body clenches around nothing as the orgasm explodes from your spine, rolling over you like a wave of fire.

Your juices soak his mouth. He drinks. Groaning. Devouring. Never stopping.

Your body trembles through the high and just as you release his cock from your mouth, gasping, your hand wraps around his base again, stroking him once, twice before he finally cums. All over your chest. Your mouth which you made sure to keep open. Your tongue.

Seungmin is panting, eyes dark, lips red, blood dripping from his mouth like wine and he licks your inner thigh again. "Feel better now?" he asks hoarsely.

You collapse sideways onto the mattress, dizzy and dazed. "Fuck you," you whisper.

He smirks.

"You already did. But unless you want more, I'm happy to oblige~"

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒 𓆪 YANG JEONGIN // Normal (Evolving Abnormal) Vampire The sweet boy with the sharpest bite. Addicted to affection. Dangerous when starved.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Shoulder blade, inner thigh & lower back

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Emotional. Impulsive. Clingy. ‣ Bites happen mid-kiss, mid-moan, mid-breakdown. ‣ Never feeds clean—always leaves marks. ‣ Mouthy. Sloppy. Overwhelmed. Often doesn’t stop until you pull him off.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Heavy euphoria followed by crashing neediness. ‣ Breathing becomes erratic. Limbs tremble. ‣ Intense emotional projection—feels what you feel, tenfold. ‣ Causes your body to crave touch long after the bite ends.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Unpredictable: safest when loved, most lethal when rejected. ‣ High risk for overfeeding during sex due to overstimulation. ‣ Known to whimper while drinking. ‣ Will worship you for hours afterward like he’s trying to say sorry with every kiss.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 008 𓆪

You’re still wearing it.

That lingerie set—the one in soft wine-red lace, delicate enough to tear, pretty enough to drive him feral. It’s sheer over your chest, satin at the waist, and trimmed in ribbon. You’d worn it as a surprise. You didn’t expect him to unravel like this.

Jeongin stares at you from the mattress, already shirtless, eyes darkened and jaw clenched. He looks dazed. Hungry. Like he’s been trying not to lose control all night and now he’s at his limit.

“I’m not taking it off,” he says hoarsely, reaching for you. “It’s too perfect. Too hot. Just—ride me like that.”

Your breath catches.

You crawl into his lap slowly, knees bracketing his hips, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His hands grip your thighs, sliding up the sheer lace with reverence and a tremble. Then his mouth is on you—kissing down your neck, biting gently at first, tongue soothing the sting. But that’s not what he really wants.

“I need it,” he whispers. “Please. Let me bite.”

You nod.

He doesn’t hesitate. Sinks his fangs into the swell of your breast just above the lace, groaning low as your blood hits his tongue. You moan at the feeling of the heat rush that floods your body. Your hips grind down on instinct. He grips you tighter, hips twitching beneath yours.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling back with blood smeared at the corner of his lips. “You taste so good.”

You rock against him again. He’s hard already, pressing against your center through thin layers. Your pace quickens as you straddle him, grinding down in search of friction, your moans growing louder with every pass.

And then—he thrusts up once, twice, desperately, through his boxers, trying to meet you. It’s messy. Uncontrolled.

“Take me out,” he pants. “I—I need—please—”

You reach between you, freeing him from his briefs. His cock is flushed, heavy, leaking against your hand. He bucks into your touch, then holds your hips steady while you pull your panties aside and lower yourself onto him—inch by inch, lace still clinging to your skin.

His head drops back against the pillow with a moan so wrecked it doesn’t sound human. “You feel… fuck… you feel unreal.”

You start to move.

Slow at first—steady rolls of your hips, his hands roaming every inch of you he can reach. His fangs flash again as he watches you bounce, lace framing your curves, blood still drying on your chest.

“I can’t—can’t hold back,” he grits out. “Need to bite again—need to feel you everywhere.”

You nod, too lost in pleasure to form words.

This time, he bites your shoulder. Then your neck. Then your breast again through the fabric, enough to tear the lace slightly. Each time, his tongue follows, soothing the sting with a worshipful lick before he moans against your skin.

You’re shaking. Close. So close.

“Jeongin—”

“I know, baby," he growls—but this time, there’s a rasp in his throat. A dark edge. A thirst not just for you—but for what’s inside you. What feeds him.

Then—he snaps.

Jeongin bucks up into you with renewed force, rough and desperate, the rhythm turning messy and fast. One hand clutches your hip, guiding your motion, the other lands sharp against your ass—slap.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Take it. Ride it. Don’t you dare stop.”

You try to answer, but your voice breaks. He’s deep, hard, relentless. The blood loss, the overstimulation, the lace chafing just so—it’s too much, and still not enough.

Then he sinks his fangs into you again.

Lower this time—just above your heart. A claim. A feeding. His moan is filthy against your skin as he drinks, hips slamming up with each pull from your vein. His lips seal to the bite like it’s sacred, tongue swiping the spill before it stains.

You feel yourself tipping, unraveling—body jerking, walls fluttering around him. He groans, hands digging into your ass, holding you in place as his thrusts become erratic.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants, blood-slicked lips against your breast. “I could drink you dry. Fill you up. Fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop.”

You don’t. Your body moves on instinct—legs trembling, hands clutching at his chest, your moans dissolving into shattered gasps as you ride him harder, faster, deeper.

He fucks up into you like he’s chasing something primal—like he’s on the edge of breaking, of shifting into something unholy. His grip on your hips bruises. His jaw is clenched tight. He’s staring at you like you’re divinity draped in lingerie and blood.

“Fucking—cum,” he snaps, voice cracking. “Let me feel you.”

And then—you do.

It hits like a flood, your whole body locking around him, head thrown back as the orgasm rips through you. You cry out, shaking, grinding down on him as your walls clench and flutter and milk him mercilessly.

Jeongin loses it.

He growls—a sound feral, needy—and slaps your ass again, rougher this time, then grabs your waist and slams up into you with sharp, punishing thrusts. No rhythm now. Just desperation. His cock drags along every swollen, overstimulated nerve inside you as he chases his own climax, jaw clenched, breath ragged.

“Fucking—tight—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Another slap. Another thrust. His fangs flash again like he’s tempted to bite one last time, but instead he buries his face in your chest, breathing you in like you’re oxygen. His fingers sink into your thighs, holding you down as he spills into you with a deep, guttural groan.

His entire body jerks.

Once. Twice.

Then stillness.

His grip softens—only a little. His face stays pressed against your skin, your blood still drying against his lips. His cock twitches inside you, aftershocks making your thighs tremble from where you’re still seated on him.

He finally breathes. Hoarse. Like he’d forgotten how.

“…mine,” he whispers. Like a prayer. Like a vow.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #vampire!skz series #wreck me wednesday

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