#parenting is not for the weak of heart ^_^

[elikajinnie]

priest vampire sunghoon plsplspls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Leaving? Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anticipation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This wasn’t the same church anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please rise for Father Park.”

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

And then you saw him.

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

He was beautiful.

But not in a way that felt safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He spoke of sin.

Of temptation.

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

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

But then—he looked at you.

And everything stopped.

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

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

But you did notice when he spoke again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polite.

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

Tall. Still. Unmoving.

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

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

He wasn’t watching the others anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hoped—prayed—he hadn’t noticed.

But he had.

Of course he had.

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

And he savored it.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, without a word, he turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ravens.

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

Dozens of them, gathered like sentinels.

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

You turned away.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

You didn’t go to the next sermons.

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

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

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

The truth, though—you wanted to go.

God, did you want to go.

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

For Father Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things that had everything to do with him.

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

Was he thinking of you?

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

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

So, you stayed away.

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

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

But temptation was hungry. Temptation was patient.

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

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

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

And you weren’t built to resist it.

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

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

It was fatal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question was never if.

It was when.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And reach he did...

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

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

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

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

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

And when you opened the door—you stopped breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

It was intentional.

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

Concerned.

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

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

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

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

My dear.

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

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

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

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

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

The restraint.

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

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

What would happen if he stopped?

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

But you wondered… what if he did waver?

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

Would he beg?

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

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

So he inhaled.

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

And God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t answer right away.

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

Then, finally, he spoke—soft, measured.

“You seem… restless.”

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

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

He didn’t press. Of course he didn’t.

Father Park never needed to press.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hadn’t fed in awhile.

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

An alias. A role. A cage.

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

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

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

And a miracle had come.

A miracle with crimson eyes and hunger in its mouth.

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

And just like that, Father Park was born.

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

But then you appeared.

He hadn’t expected you.

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

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

And worse—you didn’t even know it.

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

He couldn’t leave. Not now.

Not until he had a taste of you.

Just one taste.

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

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

He needed the whole meal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were his undoing. His Armageddon.

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

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

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

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

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

But it was wrong.

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

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

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

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

And he would starve before he tasted anyone else.

You didn’t know why.

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

But the next sermon, you went.

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

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

This time, you dressed differently. Carefully.

White. Soft. Lacey.

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

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

And then he entered.

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

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

Until he saw you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But inside?

He was scorching.

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

Worse than all of it.

You were worse.

Because this burn was deep. Slow. Consuming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His control tightened like a vice.

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

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

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

But God, how close he was to unraveling.

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

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

Not just lust. Not just hunger.

Obsession.

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

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

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

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

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

You weren’t just a passing temptation.

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

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

And God have mercy on you if it did.

Because he wouldn’t.

When the sermon ended, Sunghoon didn’t linger.

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

He left.

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

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

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

You hadn’t missed it.

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

You felt it.

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

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

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

That only made you more certain.

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

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

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

You weren’t going to give up.

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

So fine.

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

Push harder. Closer. Deeper.

Until the mask cracked for good.

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

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

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

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

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

Because all he could think about was you.

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

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

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

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

He was unraveling.

And he couldn’t hold on much longer.

Not when his control only worsened with time.

Because now—you came to every sermon.

Without fail.

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

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

And God, the scent of you.

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

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

And there he came undone.

Every. Single. Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

That he was alone. That he was listening.

The thought made your heart flutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers twitched where they lay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers brushed higher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew exactly what you were doing.

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

And even then, barely.

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

He could hear your heartbeat.

Louder now. Faster. Racing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you leaned back. Then you spread your legs.

And then—

You whined.

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

Something snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he kissed you.

No—he devoured you.

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

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

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

Your mouth, your breath, your will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then come and taste…”

You barely got the words out before he pounced.

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

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

And then—he bit.

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

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

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

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

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

You realized the truth:

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

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

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

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

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

And Sunghoon hadn’t had enough. Not nearly.

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

Possession.

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

Marking you.

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

And you let him. You wanted him to.

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

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

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

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

And to him, it was.

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

And you were.

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

He growled—an animal sound vibrating against your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leaned in and kissed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he was on you.

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

Then lower. To your collarbone. To your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth parted in awe.

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

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

“…No,” he murmured. “Not there.”

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

Down.

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

Understanding bloomed like heat in your gut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunghoon didn’t rush. No, he savored.

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

And then his mouth was on you.

It wasn’t gentle.

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

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

Like he was feasting. Because he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You loved him. God, you loved him.

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

And maybe, maybe… you liked to tease him.

A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t enter a house without an invitation.

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

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

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

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

Because the moment you whispered “Come in,” he’d pounce. You’d end up ruined, spread and marked and soaked in the kind of pleasure that only something eternal could give. There was no waiting, no warming up. You barely had time to blink before your back hit the mattress, your clothes were halfway gone, and your wrists were pinned above your head by hands colder than ice and stronger than steel.

His mouth would find your throat first—always. Like a ritual. He’d kiss the places he’d bitten before, tongue tracing the scars he’d left like ownership, like a collector admiring his finest piece.

And then?

He’d ruin you.

You’d end up sprawled, legs trembling from being held apart too long, thighs marked up in crimson and violet from his claws, his lips. Your body ached—in the best, filthiest ways. You’d be soaked, not just in sweat, but in drool, blood, and his obsession. The sheets damp beneath you. Your voice hoarse from the screaming he always pulled out of you.

Because Sunghoon didn’t just take. He overwhelmed. He made you feel like nothing existed outside of him—nothing could.

“Still feel like teasing, little lamb?” he’d whisper, fangs dragging across your collarbone as you writhed beneath him.

You’d try to answer—but your voice would be wrecked, your mind hazy, your lips swollen, breath catching in short, desperate gasps. Your hands would still be buried in his hair, sticky with sweat, and your thighs would tremble from the aftershocks of how he broke you.

And yet—he was never done.

Because the part you loved most? The part that made your core throb and your heart race, no matter how many times he did it?

Was when he got you down on your knees.

When he’d pull you gently—almost lovingly—from the wreckage of the bed, guiding you to the floor like you were porcelain and his. And you’d go, obedient and dazed, letting your knees hit the ground as you looked up at him.

That look he gave you.

Sunghoon would stare down at you like a king before his throne, chest heaving, pale skin streaked in your blood, lips parted, fangs still glinting wet in the low light. His ruined shirt would hang half off his body, exposing the way his abdomen flexed with restraint and need. His eyes—red and blown with hunger would lock onto yours as you sat there, breathless, bruised, waiting.

And God, the power in it.

Because no matter how strong he was, how ancient or monstrous—he looked at you like you were the one who held power. Like you were the altar now. Like he wanted to fall to his knees, too. (Sometimes he would.)

He’d trace a claw along your jaw, tilting your head back just a little more, and say in that low, velvet voice, “Look at you. Perfect. On your knees for me, just like you should be.”

And you’d smile—slow and wicked—because the teasing always came back around. Because the moment you looked up at him with parted lips and that gleam in your eye, you knew he was about to lose control again. Sunghoon was the devil—not in name, but in nature.

And you... You were his corrupted angel.

You sat perched on his lap, back arched sweetly, fingers curled into the fabric of his ruined shirt, head tilted like you still wore some semblance of grace. From a distance, you looked almost pure—like a painting brought to life, divine and glowing under the flicker of candlelight.

But purity had long left you. Your eyes told the truth. So did your hips.

Because your lower body was moving—slow, deliberate, rolling against him in a rhythm you both knew too well. Every grind made him groan low in his throat, hands gripping your hips, guiding you, matching you, until your movements became one long, drawn-out act of sin.

There was nothing innocent left in you.

Not after the blood. Not after the nights of screaming his name beneath holy arches. Not after the way you let him bite, let him break, let him own.

Whatever innocence you had once carried, whatever glow had lived in your chest, had long since been stripped, blackened, burned out like soot. A ghost of holiness now cloaked in the ashes of delightful depravity.

And he loved you for it.

“Look at you,” he rasped, mouth brushing your shoulder, his voice rough from worship and want. “You used to be so pure… Now you ride me like you belong to the dark.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body moved—grinding deeper, slower, tighter said enough.

You did belong to the dark. You belonged to him. And in his lap, corrupted and worshiped, you found heaven again, carved from hell.

The best part of this new life—this life soaked in crimson and devotion—wasn’t just the power, or the ruin, or even the sin.

It was him. After feeding.

When Sunghoon returned from the hunt, he was a different creature entirely. Not the composed, cold priest with honeyed words. Not the teasing, obsessive lover who knelt between your thighs and murmured prayers into your skin.

No—this version of him was feral.

His front would be soaked—chest and jaw smeared in blood, dirt clinging to the folds of his coat, hair wild, eyes glowing brighter than any flame. His movements were sharp, precise, a predator fresh from the kill, buzzing with adrenaline, with dominance, with the high of power surging through immortal veins.

And that was when he didn’t take any of your teasing. Not a single smug look. Not a lifted brow or sarcastic hum. Not even the hint of your bratty tongue.

Because the moment you opened your mouth with anything other than submission, he’d be on you—fast, like a strike of lightning, slamming you into the nearest surface with a growl in your ear and his claws already tearing at your clothes.

He wouldn’t ask—he’d take.

And you loved it.

You loved the way your body responded—how it knew when he came through the door like that. You loved the force, the hunger, the way he’d drag his bloodied hands along your skin, leaving marks that stained just as deep as his fangs.

“You wanna tease me now, little lamb?” he’d snarl into your throat, voice ragged as he rutted against you like he’d die without it. “Go on. Say something smart. See what happens.”

But you wouldn’t. Not then.

Not when his hand was around your throat, when your legs were thrown over his shoulders, when your voice was already breaking from moans and whimpers. When the only words you could manage were his name, over and over, as he ruined you with reckless, starved precision.

That was your favorite version of him. Not holy. Not gentle.

Just yours. Bloody. Breathless. And starving for you.

So screw you. You loved yourself a ruined vampire.

Blood on his chest, sin in his eyes, your name always on his tongue—sometimes in reverence, sometimes in warning, always with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You loved the way he shattered control when it came to you. How centuries of restraint, of silence, of cold detachment melted into madness the second your fingers tangled in his hair or your voice dipped just enough to tempt him.

You loved how he kissed like he was still starving, how he touched you like he feared you’d disappear, how he whispered filth into your skin like a prayer—your name his only gospel.

And you didn’t care that he wasn’t human. Didn’t care that he’d killed. That he burned in the sun. That he fed on the blood of the unfortunate.

Because he knelt for you. Because he would burn the world for you.

What more could you really want?

You had a vampire who worshiped your body, ruined your soul, fed from your love like it was his last salvation. You had a monster who touched you like you were the only thing left that mattered in an eternity of rot and ruin.

So yeah.

Screw purity. Screw salvation.

You’d take your blood-drenched, snarling, fanged lover over any mortal fantasy.

Because you didn’t need heaven. You had him. And he was hell in the best way possible.

a/n: this was supposed to be short and only suggestive, but screw it..

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[justevelynnnn]

Y’know I love you, right?

Pairing: Sinister!Mark x Fem!reader

Summary: Mark doesn’t understand why you’re taking so long to warm up to him. He didn’t kidnap you, he saved you. And on top of that, he loves you so what’s the issue?

Warnings: Typical Sinister Mark stuff, reader is female, cannibalism, Mark being a sociopath, reader gets Stockholm syndrome, profanity, violence, mark being degrading, mention of a su1c1de attempt

A/N: Finally hopped on the Sinister!Mark train. Love hate relationship with this guy!

He didn’t understand why you were so startled by the gift he was giving you. Like….? Don’t you people have an expression about giving out hearts? Valentine’s Day was literally all about it, right? So when he opened the gift box—that he wasted all his stupid time wrapping by the way— and you screamed bloody murder, what was that even about?

Why were you so loud and so annoying?

So what he got you a real heart? He loves you! Can’t your selfish ass see that? Out of everyone, every hot model or super banging only fans chick he saw, he chose you. Lumpy, weak and weird.

Ever since he found you, weirdly hiding in an alleyway by the way, you just never stopped screaming and crying. Why were you yelling for help when you were already in his arms? He was helping you. And, he also only killed that man who was trying to pull you back down from the ground because he put his hands on you. You were his now so all of these men, and these slimy, worthless boys, needed to back the fuck off! Like now.

This Mark knew what he wanted. Chaos, free comics and women. He was tired of being nice, that got him nowhere before. So, you need to understand why he was so mad yiu didn’t like the gift.

He was nice enough to find you a place to stay, a random already decorated apartment so you and him didn’t have to waste time “decorating” it.

He was nice enough to get you food, so what it had blood on it just fucking eat it, okay?

And, he was nice enough to get you a heart. It was a fucking symbol of love for crying out loud!

What’s this? You want to go back “home?”

Well, this is weird because you already are home. You moved, remember? This is your new home, keep up!

He tried telling you this but then you just started punching him and throwing stuff. He’s never been so confused. Were you drunk or something? High maybe? How come you didn’t share any of it with him? It’s exhausting killing innocent people, sometimes when he comes home he just wants a nice, home cooked meal like his stupid mom used to make and a blunt. Is that too much to ask for?

If you were hiding blunts from him you were so gonna pay!

And how come you didn’t cook anyway? Why did you just cry on the couch, and, also, why did you try jumping out the window the other day? This is a pretty high floor and you stupid body would get really broken if you actually hit the ground. Lucky for your stupid ass he saved you right before you hit it. Youre really dumb you know that?

Oh, you were trying to kill yourself. Hm. Okay…. Well why on earth would you want to do that?

He’s been nothing but kind to you, and, yet, here you were again being so ungrateful. He saved your life and all you could do was say you “hate” him. Which, was obviously a lie.

Did you want a new apartment maybe? Or a mansion? He would ask.

No, you can’t go back to your place and your parents/family/whatever are gone. He got rid of them ages ago. They were actually just as weird as you, yelling about bringing you back and how he’s such a “monster”. How is he a monster when he’s so kind? He’s a simple boy. It wasnt his fault people were so mean and he had to put them in their place.

Oh, the innocent people? Most of them were just on his way honestly. So, not his fault. The others just were really bad at listening. He said to be his slave not run away and curse at him! It’s not his fault they were so fragile either. A simple punishment had them dying on the spot and how was he supposed to know he was dealing with meat bags and not quality property?

Angstrom was so fucking screwed for letting this be his option for an empire.

That’s why when he saw you, he was happy, okay? You were the perfect wife. Those sluts he fucked a week ago? They were just entertainment. To get his dick wet. Plus, he killed them because he fucked them “too hard” and also that’s not his fault, alright? Why did you even cry when he told you that? Are you really crying over people you didn’t even know, god you were so sensitive. They literally died happy, moaning on his dick. :)

And, could you please stop screaming when he ate? Sometime, your food just sucked. An arm was way better. Lots of nutrients and stuff. Tasty. You should try it sometimes.

He hates complaining about anyone, but if you wanted to make this work you just had to stop this nonsense.

He was so relieved when you did finally stopped crying a month later. That nonchalant, tear dried expression was beautiful on you. Perfect grounds for him to make you happy now! He didn’t think it’s work before because you probably couldn’t hear him over the crying. (You were so so loud).

He getting was close to ripping out your voice box there!

You should stop wearing those sweats and wear some tighter stuff now that you feel better, too. Don’t you know he can hardly see your ass in those baggy pants?

Things were so much better now. You finally stopped hitting him and let him touch your boobs! They were so soft. And you finally let him kiss you too! You tasted so much better than those whores. You tears even made your lips taste better.

You were just so perfect now don’t you know that? You stopped the yelling and crying and just sat there like how a good housewife should. Quiet, obedient. Beautiful.

Oh, turn that tv off.

Stop watching the news. All Cecil and the cia is doing is trying to scare you. No one is going to “find him” and he’s not missing he’s right here where he belongs. How could they say they were hunting for him when he’s trying to start a nice family here? Like a good man should! He treats you so so well too. Cecil is just evil.

No one is ever going to find you or him so don’t worry your pretty, little head. Okay?

[multifandom-rec-station]

The monster's gone (and your brother's here)

the monster's gone (and your brother's here) (2153 words) by Caicie Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Batfamily Members & Damian Wayne

Summary: Damian knows he is weak. He can no longer deny that fact, not when he finds himself dependent on Drake to be able to sleep. He just never wanted Drake to know as well.

Additional Tags: Good Sibling Tim Drake, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Nightmares, Sibling Bonding, Platonic Cuddling, Brotherly Love, Damian Wayne-centric, Childhood Trauma, Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Comfort No Hurt, Found Family, Protective Siblings

[albatmobile]

parent teacher conferences and other places to meet a pornstar pt. 4

[1] [2] [3] [4] || ao3

𓅪 Rated: E | 9.5k includes: cam girl AU, teacher AU, masturbation, public sex, fingering, voyeurism, come sharing, come swallowing, creampie, oral, praise, degradation, confessions, public sex

𓅪 cam girl fem!reader x jason todd, cam girl fem!reader x roy harper, cam girl fem!reader x jason todd x roy harper

The next morning, Jason leaves for a mission.

It’s still early when he stirs. The light strains to spark through the overbearing night sky as you slip out of bed to sleepily follow after him. You’d most definitely write off everything as some crazy-ass wet dream had you not been met with the sight of a naked Jason in the kitchen.

He’s starting on the coffee when you finally catch up to him, read: stumble as soon as you see him. You know it has to be your sleep-riddled mind that led you here, seeing as you have no idea what to say to the man now that you’re face-to-face again for the first time since… well, everything.

“Sleep well?” he asks over his shoulder as he pours the water into the machine. His early morning voice alone is enough to drop your panties, you know, if you’d been wearing any in the first place.

You gulp, instantly hoping he hasn’t heard it, but the knowing gleam in his emerald eyes says it all. “Yeah. You?”

He nods before turning back to the coffee. “Really good,” he adds after a beat of silence. Once again, you can’t help but beat yourself up for following after him. Where the lines are in this relationship, you have no idea. What this means to Jason, you have even less of an idea. It leaves you in a very awkward, very vulnerable position. Whatever the position may be, you can’t deny your feelings for Jason anymore, especially not after last night. That being said, where do the three of you stand? Without an answer, you linger in a silence you can only pray is comfortable when Jason finally speaks again. “Want to help me make breakfast?” he says your name gently, looking down at you with soft eyes only the morning could render on such a strong, chiseled face.

You nod. “Of course.” 

An hour later of cooking side-by-side, the two of you wake Roy up with a bounty of cinnamon rolls and some typical breakfast accoutrements.

Roy groggily takes the two of you in as he tiredly wipes away the sleep from his eyes. “Damn, babe. Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around?” he teases with a dopey smile on his chapped lips that leaves your heart pounding. Regardless of his obvious effect on you, you merely roll your eyes as you force a cinnamon roll into his smirking mouth, hoping he won’t call out your flushed cheeks. 

“They’re good?” Jason asks, slightly startling you when he speaks. He merely rolls his eyes at Roy stuffing his face to the point that the icing not only gets on his freckled cheeks but even gets in the fiery tangles of his cowlicked hair. “Here,” Jason says, giving no warning as he clasps Roy’s chin before slowly guiding it up to his own to lewdly clean the mess with his tongue. “You had something on your face,” is all he ends up saying before backing away with a roll. You think Jason’s going to eat it until he offers it to you, wordlessly demanding you open your mouth solely through his dark, commanding eyes that leave you absolutely weak. You have no choice but to open wide for him as he delicately offers you the pastry, never breaking eye contact with you as he does. “Good girl,” he praises, voice just as deep as it was earlier. You swear you come by the time he’s pulling away to lick at his fingers. A quick glance Roy’s way proves he’s just as stupefied by Jason’s actions as you are.

With this, Roy clears his throat, “Thanks for the, uh, breakfast.” It’s only now that you notice the tent growing in Roy’s boxers.

“Couldn’t have done it without her.” Though Jason sounds completely nonchalant, he’s looking anywhere in the room but at you or Roy as if embarrassed. For what, though, you have no idea. You’d be blind not to notice the red that spatters across his pale cheeks.

Through the big bite he gave you, you respond, “Lies.” After you swallow, you elaborate, “What? Everyone in here knows that you’re the best cook.” At this, Jason laughs lightly. Roy, however, appears as if he’s busy trying to piece together last night and what’s happening right in front of him at the same time. 

“Well, I’m about to head out,” Jason says after a beat of silence, as if sensing the unsaids left in the room. Though it seems like he wants to say so many things, what he ends up going with is: “Text me.”

As soon as he’s gone, you rejoin Roy in the bed. Your nails trail up and down his strong, pale arms as you lie on your side, facing the redhead. Instead of pondering Jason’s odd words, you focus on the man in front of you. 

“Did you sleep well?” you ask, snorting when he nearly chokes on a big bite he takes. Before he can protest, you steal the plate away from him, forcing him to breathe for a second before going back in for another. It reminds you very much of the kids in your class, and you can’t help but be amused by the entire thing.

“Fuck yeah, princess,” he says through pauses as he sucks the icing off his fingers. “With you here, how could I not?” Without hesitation, you lean in and help him, taking two fingers at a time as you clean him up. 

“Sorry for banging your roommate twice,” you say slyly, slowly testing how Roy will respond. When he blushes, you continue to tease, seeing just how far you can take it, “Well, a few times.”

“Princess,” Roy trails off with what you hope is an appreciative groan.

Before you can take it any further, however, the front door bursts open. At first, you think it’s Jason coming back to grab something he forgot until you hear a very familiar screech. Like father, like daughter.

Lian’s return means there’s no room for further conversation on the topic.

She runs inside the bedroom, screaming your name in excitement as she wraps herself around you in the strongest hug you’ve ever experienced in your life. “Are you playing with me and dad today?”

How could you say “no” to her cute face?

This is how you find yourself in the company of the Harper’s for the day. What starts off at Waffle House leads you to the playground before ending up at a boba tea shop. 

“Who knew you could be so domestic?” you tease, though your heart thrums warmly at the sight in front of you. 

 He blushes. “I could easily say the same of you.”

Though you don’t bring up the relationship due to Lian, you can’t help but let the questions you’re dying to know the answers to consume your mind in the meantime. Regardless, you enjoy the rest of the outing and are just as worn out as a sugar-crashed Lian by the time you’re being dropped back off at your place.

“Thanks for today,” you trail off awkwardly as Roy helps you out of the car. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he says. Roy opens his mouth as if to say something else, but ultimately closes it. Instead, he tells Lian to be good while he walks you up to the door. Without another word, he gets out to open your door and help you out of his car like a gentleman. He appears nervous, though you have no idea why. Once again, as you come face-to-face, he opens his mouth, only to close it. Roy looks around as if to gain some ounce of courage before settling back on you. “You know, I never did end up taking you on that date I promised,” he starts, running a self-conscious hand through his orange locks as he does so.

“I do seem to recall that, yes,” you tease with an easy laugh. After all, how could you forget getting stood up in the rain and, well, all the crazy shit that went down afterward? 

He smiles lightly. “Tonight. You and me. What do you say?”

“Time and place, Harper.” You step toward him, lips nearly brushing against his as you do. “Try not to stand me up this time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he breathes, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitancy. When he finds none, he leans in and places a chaste kiss upon your rosy cheeks. “6 PM. I’ll pick you up right here.”

“6 PM,” you repeat as you take a step backward towards your apartment building. “Now go take Lian home before she misses her nap time,” you tease. With all the sugar and caffeine she had today, you know the crash is coming at any moment. Roy obviously realizes this too as he quickly makes his way back over to the car. 

“Will do!” he exclaims in excitement, nearly busting his ass on the curb as he does so. He plays it off well enough, but, come on, this is Roy we’re talking about here. Nothing about this man is smooth. “6 PM,” he repeats again as he watches you slip through the doors.

➸💋➸

Later that night, you’re getting ready for your date when you hear it. It’s a sound you’ve only heard once before, which intrigues you to open your laptop. On your cam page, you have a new request for a private session from Roy’s account. You smirk down at his username before, ultimately, clicking accept. 

avid_reader accepted private session 

The telltale flashing red blinks across the screen as you begin to stream just for him. Though you can’t see him, he’s sure as fuck able to see you in the lingerie you’d been trying to save as a surprise for later.

“Never thought I’d ever get you in another private session,” you say as you carefully tease your tights over your legs. Roy’s yet to say anything, and part of you thinks the request could’ve been a mistake until he finally sends a chat. You finish pulling your sheer black thigh-highs up to where your crotchless thong is before moving closer to the screen to read it. When you do, you bend over slightly, making sure your cleavage is on full display for him. 

inmyarsenal: couldn’t help myself

You smirk at that. 

You’re about to respond when he sends another chat.

inmyarsenal: can’t lie i’m nervous for out date3. i reall y wanmake up dor what happened baby inmyarsenal: *want to make up for

He’s never been one to care about his spelling mistakes before, so you know he’s nervous. 

You laugh, “Alright, but I’m paying with the money from this.” Before he can type out a response, you continue with a coquettish flair, “After all, I’m not some cheap whore, Mr. Harper.”

inmyarsenal: not what looks liek from here princess

“Fuck you,” you snort but continue to show off what he’s going to get later. With the camera adjusted, you move to the edge of your bed, where your navy dress is splayed out on the mattress. From here, you slowly spread your legs apart, revealing the crotchless part of your crotchless thong for Roy’s viewing. 

inmyarsenal: after all the teasing you put me through today i’M not gonna last, princess

“You want to see how fast I can get myself off?” you ask, though you already know his answer.

inmyarsenal: fuck yes

Without further encouragement, you lift one foot to the bed, leaving the other on the ground so Roy can get a good view of how wet you already are. You don’t need any type of dildo or vibrator to get off when you know Roy’s sitting on the other side of the screen, eagerly pumping away to the sight of your swollen pussy alone. 

Your moans come easily as your finger works against your clit, teasing for only a moment before you quicken the pace. Your back arches, forcing your eyes to sink nearly closed as you come across the perfect rhythm. “Fuck,” you curse. “I wish I could see you. I bet you’re being such a good boy, leaking so much precome for me. Aren’t you?”

inmyarsenal: yes ma’am inmyarsenal: i’m drooling rn . so sexy gorgeous baby. m so close

Normally, you’d snort at his pathetic, horny messages but not tonight. No, tonight, his desperation leaks into your own, leaving you a panting mess as you put on the most reckless performance for the man you’re falling for.

“How bad do you want to see me come?” you taunt, eyes narrowed seductively as you eye down the lens of your camera. 

inmyarsenal: baby plz

“‘M fucking close,” you breathe as you slide one finger inside yourself, quickly followed by a second. As much as you usually love taking your time with getting off, tonight’s an obvious exception. Somehow, knowing who Roy is only makes it all the more thrilling as you expose your leaking cunt to the camera. The thought of Roy alone, desperately jerking off, only pushes you closer to the edge.

inmyarsenal: come for me. I want that sweet pussy juice all over those panties for me

You sigh in ecstasy, releasing all your pent-up worries from the other night and your nervousness for tonight into your orgasm. You come, legs shaking before ultimately closing as you ride it out, nearly forgetting Roy on the other side of the call as you do. When you come back down from your high, you instantly notice that your come has gotten all over your thong and thigh highs.

“Fuck,” you curse as you stare down at the mess left behind. “I guess I’m going to have to go without these.” You waste no time in slipping off your come-covered panties and stockings, electing to go commando as you put on your romantic, bohemian-style mock-corset dress (X). “You coming or what?” you ask flippantly over your shoulder, referring to him showing up, though the double-entendre isn’t lost on Roy. In fact, the redhead still seems completely dumbfounded at the casual way you’re going without panties. When he finally seems to sense your attention, you’re quickly met with another chat.

inmyarsenal: way ahead of you babe ;p

30 minutes later, Roy shows up at your door and leads you to his shitty Mustang, where he holds the door open for you.

“You know, most people fuck after the date, not before,” you tease as you slip into Roy’s coupe.

“To be fair,” Roy smirks as he slides behind the wheel, “I’d be down for both, princess.” Though you roll your eyes in response, you can’t deny the obvious blush that’s settled across your already rosy cheeks.

To cover up your embarrassment, you swiftly slip your come-covered panties into his pockets, lowering your voice into a whisper as you do so. “I didn’t come empty-handed.”

“Oh shit.” His light green eyes widen once he realizes what the wet fabric is. It’d be hard not to notice, well, how hard Roy is by this action alone, leaving you to giggle. “Just ignore that,” Roy says as he clears his throat, forcing his eyes to the road as he finally pulls off into the street. A stark crimson smacks across his freckled cheeks, leaving you to laugh.

Regardless of the show you put on before Roy picked you up, the date ends up being completely chaste. The two of you end up visiting the local art museum before moving to the large lawn outside for a picnic. The spot he picked under a huge magnolia tree is perfect as the two of you lounge together on the fluffy blanket he packed. Your shoulders keep bumping into each other, leaving him to create a game out of it. Who needs footsy when you could have Roy’s bony-ass shoulder digging into yours?

“I still can’t believe you set this all up,” you admit as he pours you a glass of wine. “Never pictured you as the romantic type, Harper.”

He laughs, “Yeah, well, I had to make up for the shitshow I created last time somehow.” With a clink of your glasses, the second half of the night commences beautifully. “I’m, uh- I’m really sorry that we don’t hang out more, you know,” he runs a sheepish hand through his red locks, “alone.”

He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know he’s talking about Lian. You shut down his worries easily. “Roy, when I first met you, the only reason I kept talking to you was because of Lian,” you jest. 

“Okay, ouch.” With this, Roy places a hand over his heart in faux-offence, though his cheeky smirk says it all. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Kinda my job, now, isn’t it?” you banter back easily.

You expect him to make a move, you expect him to drag you back to his place to finish off what you started online, but he merely takes your hand and places a gentle kiss on it as he drops you off mere hours later. You, however, refuse to let the best date of your life end without one measly kiss. Before he can walk back to his car, you use your still-linked hands to draw him back to you.

“You can’t leave just like that,” you murmur as your lips gently brush against each other. The gentle heat of his lips taunts you to close the small distance, but you just barely manage to restrain yourself.

He ducks his head in embarrassment before looking back up at you, green eyes filled with lust. “Tell me what you need,” he says your name.

“Kiss me, Roy.”

Without further encouragement, Roy’s fiery orange hair swoops down as he closes the remaining distance between your bodies. His pale hand threads through your hair as he steadies the back of your head, all while deepening the kiss. When it ends, it’s nowhere near enough, though you can’t help but commend Roy for his restraint.

“Good night, princess.”

You blush, finally forcing yourself to move away from Roy and toward your apartment. 

“Good night, Roy.”

➸💋➸

Soon, the two of you start hanging out more. Like, a lot more. Nearly every weekend ends in a date, while the rest of the week is filled with little meetups that only leave your heart longing for more. It’s during this time that you really start to fall in love with Roy. 

After seeing that it truly isn’t just a ploy to get in your pants, you’re finally able to open up more of yourself to him. Eventually, Roy asks you out. Though everything’s going smoothly between the two of you, there’s still one thing that you find yourself hung up on…

“So, will you?” he asks.

You find yourself startled by his words, effectively dropping you back into the moment.

“Roy,” you start, then trail off. How exactly do you admit that, yes, you want to date him, but you also want to date his best friend at the same time? If you told Roy everything, would it ruin whatever chance you have with him? Part of you can’t deny the possibility of the redhead up and walking away, disregarding you as a selfish whore, though you know the critical part is only in your head. The walking away part? Totally real. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“You’re not a secret pornstar, are you?” he jests. Regardless of his cheekiness, you can’t bring yourself to smile back. It’s a gesture he notices instantly and furrows his red brows together in response. “Is everything alright?” From here, his adorable babbling begins. “I don’t want you to feel pressured! This could totally just remain as casual bangin’ sex, doll; I’m totally down for that. I-.”

“No, it’s not that at all,” you quickly reassure him. Your hands wring together uncomfortably as you think of the best way to approach the topic, if at all. After all, one in the hand is better than two in the bush, right? Are you really willing to wreck any possibility with Roy for a minuscule chance of a shot with both him and Jason? It all seems easy, right? Obviously, you’ve all fucked. Like, fully exchanged fluids and everything at this point. One thing you can’t forget is how jealous Roy seemed to get when he found out Jason had seen your stream. “Roy, I really like you and I really want to say ‘yes,’ but there’s something I need to be honest about.” At this, he enthusiastically nods. Normally, you’d laugh and call him a nerd for it, but you’re way too fucking nervous right now. “I’ve really fallen for you over the past few months. I love Lian, and I can absolutely see myself being with you long-term. It’s just that-.” 

“What, baby?” Roy seems concerned now, and that’s the last thing you want. Fuck. You’re already screwing this up.

You sigh, ceasing your fiddling to face his light green eyes and freckled skin head-on. “You see, the whole time I was falling for you, I was also falling for someone else.” With the words finally out of your mouth, you’d think you could finally breathe, but no. You’re still flailing for oxygen as you await his response.

Right off the bat, Roy seems to be taking it in stride, if not acting entirely too cool for what you’ve admitted. 

“Yeah, ‘course, no worries,” Roy runs a self-conscious hand through his fiery locks as he looks anywhere but at you. “No, yeah, I just had to shoot my shot, but I’ll totally back off. Don’t you worry, I totally understand, and I’m totally fine,” he finishes, sounding anything but. “So,” he trails off awkwardly, finally meeting your eyes again, “who’s the lucky guy?”

“It’s Jason,” you admit. As soon as the words are out of your mouth, you’re content to overanalyze everything about his reaction. Silently, your eyes search each other’s in silence as the two of you wordlessly try to figure out where you stand. Instead of anger or sadness, Roy merely seems stupefied. It’s almost as if he’s reconsidering his premature defeat. 

“Jason?” he asks innocently enough, though you see the familiar fire reigniting behind his verdant eyes. 

You nod hesitantly, searching his eyes for any further hint of his answer. “Yeah.” At this, he taps his fingers absentmindedly against the arm of the couch you’re both seated upon. The very same couch that you and Jason, well… “I don’t want to mess up any possibility of a relationship between the two of us, especially after how close we’ve become, but I also know that it wouldn’t be right for me to hide this from you if you are wanting to take it a step forward.” He nods and purses his lips briefly before unpursing them. The tapping finally stops. Now that you’re here, you may as well lay it all on the line. “I know you were really upset about Jason seeing my stream and-.”

“Woah!” Roy exclaims, finally meeting your gaze again. “If anything, it was just the shock of everything happening in that moment,” Roy admits. “If anything,” he starts again, voice deepening as he does, “Jason and I are completely equal after our last stream.”

You can’t help but find yourself completely shocked by the turn of events. Was Roy… actually okay with everything?!

“For real?” you ask in shock. 

Now, Roy seems amused by your reaction, if not entirely endeared. “I’ll be honest, princess. When it comes to Jason, I don’t mind sharing.”

“So,” you trail off uncomfortably once more, “you’re not upset with me?”

“Not at all, princess.” Roy smiles lightly. “I don’t think I could ever be mad at you.”

You can hardly believe what you’re hearing. 

No, really, you don’t believe it. It’s way too fucking good to be true. “Just to be clear,” you say, “we’re both talking about a relationship between the two of us and Jason. Right?”

“Well, we should probably ask him first,” Roy snorts easily. “Bit hard to be in a threesome when there’s only two people consenting, you know? But, yeah,” he runs his hand through his hair again, though this time, he seems entirely at ease as he responds, “I think that can be arranged.”

➸💋➸

True to his word, Roy arranges a meetup with Jason. What you fail to realize is, what Roy’s actually done, is set up a date.

You show up feeling completely overdressed and, worse, underprepared for what’s about to go down. 

What you assumed would be a casual conversation over dinner ends up being a date everyone but you knows about. This is why, when you and Roy pick Jason up, you’re entirely stunned by his greeting.

Jason emerges from what you assume to be his truck, leaving you to falter in your footsteps as you approach. As far as you knew, Roy was going to pick you up and take you back to his place to have a chat over food. Now? Well, you’re left completely flailing in front of the two men you admire the most.

“Hey,” you greet Jason unsurely. He’s dressed in a worn band tee with black sweats, complete with his usual Doc Martens.

“Surprised to see me?” You shrug half-heartedly through your obvious blush.  “You look really beautiful,” Jason says as he takes your hand. 

You duck your head, electing to stare anywhere but into his dark, deep green eyes. Jason, however, won’t allow it. With one motion, he gently guides your chin upward, drawing your lips to his in a smooth, teasing kiss that leaves your knees wobbly. “We should probably head out,” he says, voice in a deep rumble. “Roy’s going to be a whiney fuck if we don’t get there in time.”

“Get where?” you ask as you allow him to lead you over to his red truck with a gentle hand guiding you on your waist. Before Jason can open the truck door for you, however, Roy steals his thunder by opening it from the inside.

“Hey, princess,” Roy greets you with a dopey, freckled smile. That fucking nickname gets you every time. You could definitely get used to hearing it more often. “Damn,” the redhead moans as he takes you in, “you look hot as fuck in that dress.”

“Jesus,” Jason snorts, shaking his head as he helps you inside the truck. “That’s really what does it for you?” Jason teases with a mischievous glint in his emerald eyes. Meanwhile, Roy, who’s wearing a white v-neck with jeans and Tims, simultaneously helps you from the inside. The truck is an older model, meaning there’s only one row of seats, leaving you to sit quaintly in the middle of these two sexy men: Roy in the passenger seat and Jason behind the wheel.

“Hey!” Roy exclaims before promptly smacking Jason. Well, attempts to. Jason easily dodges it and retaliates with a smack of his own, only in his case, it actually lands. “I resent that,” Roy finishes with an adorable pout that no 30-year-old man should be capable of pulling off.   You elect to ignore their tiff in favor of giving Roy shit for something else entirely. “Didn’t bother to give me the casual memo,” you say, shooting him a pointed glare that he waves off with a gorgeous laugh. 

Roy teases you easily as he blatantly eyes your scandalous silk, low-cut halter dress (X) up and down from where he sits beside you, “Have to keep you on your toes now, don’t I?”

Jason pulls off soon after, revealing the location of the date mere minutes later as the three of you pull into a large, empty parking lot in front of a large, white screen. The sun struggles to stay above the horizon line as it bleeds into the darkness of night around you, leaving cool summer air in its wake. Cicadas chirp their croaky song while fireflies blink their yellow lights across the darkening expanse of the evening.

“Drive-in?” you ask cheekily, eyebrow raised dubiously as you question Roy, the only person capable of such a cheesy, yet thoughtful date. “Feeling reminiscent of your childhood years in the 1950s, Mr. Har-.” Your insult swiftly loses speed as you realize your mistake, albeit too late. “Sorry,” you say in a rush. You really don’t want to make things weird, especially when the situation between the three of you is still uncharted territory. The last thing you want to do is make Jason feel left out when the whole purpose of this date was to, you know, do the opposite.

Roy, whose finger had already been poised to retort that he was still in his 30s, slowly lowers it as a devilish smirk takes over his freckled cheeks. “Don’t hold out on me now, princess,” he teases easily, grunting when Jason smacks the back of his head from behind Roy’s headrest. Seeming to pick up on your predicament, Roy takes no prisoners as he seemingly seeks to embarrass everyone in the truck. “Jay here doesn’t mind. Do you, Jay?” 

Jason merely meets Roy’s boyish grin with a roll of his eyes before stepping out of the truck. You shoot Roy a worried glance, but it quickly shifts as Jason comes around the front of the car to chivalrously help Roy down, then you. 

“I think the whole point of a drive-in movie is to stay inside the car,” you say. Regardless, you follow behind the two men before promptly being lifted into the bed of the truck. Upon standing up straight, you realize with glee that you’re finally taller than both of them, though you soon also realize from their rampant red cheeks that, now, they both have a prime shot of your thong. Your glee only heightens at the realization, and you waste no time in using the angle to your advantage as you flash them your pussy. 

Roy needs no help as he swiftly hauls himself over the ledge, immediately dropping to his knees as soon as he’s inside the bed. “You were supposed to wait until it got darker, slut.” Roy’s voice is unlike anything you’ve heard before. Deep, commanding, and utterly erotic. 

You don’t resist when Roy pulls you down into his lap, but pull away only to give Jason a hand inside. Jason nonchalantly hops into the bed of the truck, turning around to offer you and Roy a bundle of blankets he’d stowed away as he eyes both of you with what you can only hope is barely concealed lust. From here, you find yourself reclined against Roy’s firm chest, who’s propped up by the abundance of pillows Jason’s brought along, and in between the two men that you want to dominate you.

You can’t help but wonder just how much of the movie you’ll actually be watching.

As it turns out, the three of you watch the first ten minutes of Psycho in silence before you can’t hold it in any longer. You’re horny as fuck and want both of them to take you right here in this parking lot but only after you have the talk you set out here to have… 

Though the conversation seems simple enough, the words become jumbled in your head as you try to work out a way to not only get everyone on the same page, regardless of what it ends up being, but also a way to ensure that no one’s feelings get hurt in the process. You’ve been so stuck in your head that you’re embarrassed to realize that both men have seemingly been staring at you the entire time you’ve been internally agonizing over your approach. A warm heat spreads across your cheeks as you realize you’ve not only been caught, but that it’s finally time to navigate the complex relationship between the three of you.

You half expect Roy to be a shit and turn it all into a joke, but suddenly, the redhead seems just as nervous as you. Jason, on the other hand, much to your confusion, seems to already know what’s about to happen. You can’t tell if it’s relieving or even more nerve-wracking that he somehow appears expectant. You highly doubt Roy told him ahead of time. In fact, after you think further on it, his eager, yet concealed reaction leads you to believe that if you hadn’t brought it up yourself, somehow, soon he would’ve brought it up himself. 

Regardless of whether your speculation is correct or not, you deeply inhale before biting the bullet.

On the screen, the movie flickers in black and white as Marion Crane steps into the shower right as you clear your throat. The summer night ripples with a cacophony of screams from the screen, accompanied by the contrasting soothing lull of crickets and cicadas, while the sweet summer air fills your lungs with a calmness you definitely don’t feel at the moment. With the movie sound warbling dramatically over the radio, you find yourself on the precipice of the unknown. Regardless of its daunting nature, you take the leap.

“Roy and I are dating, you know,” you say, eyes fixated on the black and white horror in front of you, though you hardly know what’s going on. No, your attention is completely fixated on the men in the truck with you. 

“Oh?” Jason replies, sounding what you hope is his version of coy, though his face reveals nothing as he remains fixated on the screen. You really can’t be sure of his reaction when your adrenaline is spiking in antici-. “Congrats, then,” he says nonchalantly after a beat.

You want to huff, no, you’re nearly sure you do. His lack of reaction leaves you completely and utterly stumped. Have you read everything wrong? Are you making a huge fucking mistake? God, it feels like the confrontation with Roy all fucking over again.

For the first time tonight, Roy doesn’t leave you hanging.

“Stop being such a shit, Jason,” Roy groans, his hand exhasperatedly wiping down his freckled face to cover his embarassment as he approaches the topic head-on. “You know exactly what this is about.”

“Do I?” he retorts easily, continuing to be the shit Roy claims him to be. “Here I was, mistakenly thinking we were here to watch a movie.” With this, Jason’s buff arms move to rest behind his head, flexing as he slowly and calculatedly leans back into their scarred hold as if testing your reaction to the movement. Obviously, whatever he sees on your face must give him all the encouragement he needs to continue because the man, honest to god, smirks. “Care to enlighten me, Harper?” With this, Jason quirks a brow, still facing forward as he does so.

You gulp.

Beneath you, Roy squirms. You can’t tell if it’s from irritation or… Scratch that. It’s definitely the latter, as you suddenly feel the redhead’s member under your ass perk up and harden at the sight.

Before you can even realize you’ve opened your mouth, you abruptly blurt out, “We want you.” Finally, Jason turns his attention from the screen over to where you sit anxiously in Roy’s lap. Though he doesn’t say a word, you know you have him captivated. It’s all the encouragement you need to continue. “It feels right with you, Jason. With all three of us.”

“Oh.”

-pation.

Before you can doubt your confession or his lack of response, Jason promptly leans over and gently rests his forehead against yours, as if asking for permission. The pleased groan that stirs from the redhead beneath you is all you need to slowly meet his lips at a pace that lets you savor his every luscious movement. Before you can get too lost in the kiss, however, his mouth abruptly leaves yours, causing you to inadvertently whine at the lost contact. Your whine doesn’t last for long, though, especially not after you see Jason’s new target: Roy.

This time, the pleased groan comes from you as you eagerly take in the sight of Jason’s lips forcefully meeting Roy’s chapped ones. It’s the complete opposite of what he’d just done with you. Instead of slow and deliberate, the two men’s pace is harsh, messy even, as Jason and Roy clash against each other’s lips in a passionate battle for dominance neither one ever yields.

Oh.

From here, it devolves into a mess of tongues, limbs, and wanton need. The entire lot is practically empty, considering it’s an R-rated movie on a random Tuesday night, meaning nothing is holding you back from ravishing your newfound boyfriends right here in the open. The thrilling feeling can’t help but remind you of the first time all three of you got together. Back before you knew anything about either man, let alone their secret identities, and long before you could ever imagine finding yourself in a situation such as this one.

The three of you complete each other.

Their intense kiss rages on and even deepens to the point that you’re nearly knocked off of Roy’s lap. To make up for the aggressiveness, they both apologize by taking turns gently kissing you, then back to each other as their curious, eager hands begin to wander. From here, your mind is completely enraptured by these two men, so much so that you hardly notice them shedding their shirts, then their pants. You don’t hesitate to help them take off your dress, leaving you in just a thong and them stripped down to their boxers. 

Once all the clothes are out of the way, the real fun begins.

Your nipples harden in the cooling air of the evening, immediately drawing the attention of both men. You barely manage a moan as they descend upon you hungrily, licking and nipping across your jawline. Soon, they traverse down to your neck where they each take their turn sucking hickies into your supple skin, then eventually, their teasing mouths move in unison down to your soft clevage.

“So sexy, baby,” Roy practically growls as he mouths at your chest. Suddenly, his orange hair bounces as he looks up and over at Jason, who’s busy leaving his own marks across your chest and collarbone. “What do you want to do to her, Jay?” Roy asks cheekily.

Surprisingly, Jason seems caught off guard. It’s as if he were fully content to ravish you in silence, something the cheeky grin upon Roy’s freckled cheeks seems to know all too well. Roy’s teasing Jason over you and you can’t help but fucking love it. You quickly decide to follow along with Roy’s teasing by amping up your responses to Jason’s rugged touch, leaving him even more flustered than before. Jason, however, recovers quickly enough.

He clears his throat gently as his emerald eyes meet yours. “I want you to sit back and let us take care of you.” This time, you’re the flustered ones as your wide eyes blink owlishly back at Jason, who seems more sure of himself with each passing second.

“Damn, Jay,” Roy groans appreciatively at his words and you watch as the tent in his boxers jumps in response. From here, their hands race to the top of your panties, as if challenging each other to see who gets to touch your pussy first. Without hesitation, you spread your legs, offering more room for Jason and Roy to work with as they each try to outdo each other. If they want to take care of you, who are you to deny them?

Their fingers work against each other at first, then in unison as they map out the wet expanse of your pussy. Your moans start off as soft gasps, then needy whimpers. Once Roy move to eat your pussy and Jason doubles down with his thick, calloused fingers, your moans are just as loud as they are on your streams, no matter how hard you attempt to stifle them. 

“Please,” you beg, desperately bucking your lips against Roy’s wicked tongue, all while driving Jason’s coarse fingers deeper inside of you. “Fuck!” That’s all the encouragement Jason needs to draw your breasts into his supple mouth to suck at your sensitive nipples. After a few minutes of this overwhelming pleasure, you draw in a shaky breath, hips sputtering against Roy’s familiar tongue and Jason’s perfect finger thrusts as you come all over your men.

Your mess of moans is soon cut off as Roy’s expert mouth suddenly halts. You make to question the redhead, only to find his mouth preoccupied elsewhere. Even Jason seems surprised to find Roy slinking towards the tent in his boxers on his hands and knees, though Jason doesn’t complain one bit when Roy’s cheeky tongue finally makes contact with his hardened member. 

Jason’s hands only falter on you breifly, and you feel his pleased exhale as Roy’s mouth makes first contact with his clothed cock. The sound alone sends your stomach into a flurry of white-hot pleasure. You greedily watch as Roy takes on more of Jason’s length through his boxers, Roy’s verdant eyes never once leaving Jason’s preoccupied form. Though Jason isn’t positioned in a way that he can properly maintain eye contact with the redhead, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t find a way to do so. Jason’s half-lidded eyes flicker from your dripping pussy to Roy’s sex-laden eyes like clockwork until, eventually, Roy gets frustrated and yanks down Jason’s boxers, leaving the three of you to laugh at the accidental ferocity of the action.

“Fuck’s wrong with you?” Jason teases lightly, though his voice is all too syrupy and his eyes too infatuated for you to believe that he’s anywhere close to annoyed. Jason adjusts himself, gently removing his thick fingers from your aching, post-orgasm, cunt as he moves to give Roy better access to his leaking cock.

You watch Roy’s chapped lips close around Jason’s veiny cock, green eyes locked on eachother as the redhead takes him deeper and deeper into his throat. You groan alongside Jason as a particular move from Roy leaves Jason’s narrowed eyes twitching. You can’t restrain yourself any longer.

Your fingers trail teasingly down your stomach before gently tracing across all the sensitive spots where Jason and Roy had just ravished, as you watch the two men devour each other. Eventually, Roy’s hand slithers down to his boxers to greedily rub at the visible wet spot tenting against the front of his boxers. You rub your sensitive clit a few more times before moving to settle under Roy. The redhead needs no further encouragement to remove the last barrier between your supple lips and his red, aching cock. With the new position, you begin to suck Roy off all while he continues to eagerly work at Jason’s erection. Meanwhile, Jason uses your new position to draw your head up to his swollen member, gently smacking his heavy cock against your blushing cheeks as Roy’s cock slides erotically in and out of your hollowed mouth. 

“You’re so sexy,” Jason practically growls as he stares down at you with unbridled lust. Without warning, he confidently fondles your exposed nipples as he breathes, “I need you. I want to cover your body in our come.”

In response, Roy groans, hips sputtering in their intense rhythm against your willing mouth. “You want to wear our come, baby?”

Now it’s your turn to make an embarrassment of yourself. You let out a strangled moan at the same time Roy fully thrusts into your throat, leaving your eyes to roll back into your head in absolute pleasure. “Not until you both fuck me,” you sputter, wanting it to sound more controlled, but your desperation only makes the men moan even louder.

With both of their attention and excited hands trailing along and inside every inch of your body, you feel like an absolute whore. Compltely used and spent, you can’t help but want fucking more, something they readily give you.

Jason needs no further encouragement as he gently nudges Roy to move so he can do just what you’ve asked. His commanding form advances on you, calloused hands trailing from your sensitive inner thighs all the way down to your ankles, where he gently, but firmly, grasps them. At this, Jason spreads your legs apart, emerald eyes eaergly watching as your cunt is presented and exposed in the night air for anyone to see. 

Normally, you’d scoff at missionary. Tired and true, sure. Boring? Also true. Jason’s version of missionary, however? Anything but boring. 

With your legs salaciously spread in the air, Jason takes you with slow, deliberate thrusts, his eyes never once leaving yours as he teases the exact spot you want him to hit. You hear Roy’s slick hand more so than you see him, as the redhead eagerly watches the live show from off to the side. 

“Jason!” you breathily exclaim as he pounds into your g-spot, leaving you reeling. Your body writhes against the blankets in the bed of the truck as you let him devour your body with his expertise.

“You like that?” he asks, voice dark with want.

Obviously wanting to be included again, Roy pathetically shuffles over on his knees, his red cock bobbing as he captures Jason’s focused lips with his desperate ones. His freckled hands never once stop tugging at his red-tipped member as he situates himself so he can jack off over your stomach and exposed tits. When Roy pulls away from Jason’s slickened mouth, the redhead bites at his lip as he stares down at the lewd scene taking place in front of him.

“Shit,” he groans in appreciation. Roy’s adorable freckles move and morph with each expression of lust that crosses his open face, and you desperately drink it all in. 

You’re lost in Jason’s motions, thrusting your hips back against his in perfect succession as your impending orgasm grows closer and closer. Before you can get too close, however, Jason ends up pulling out. You make to complain, only to have your mouth instantly snap shut as his cock, covered in your slick slowly, but demandingly presses against the seam of Roy’s lips. Jason’s hand gently pets the back of Roy’s fiery head before securing his grip in his hair as he shoves Roy’s head down on his dick before asking, “How does her pussy taste?” Roy doesn’t stand a chance. Hell, neither do you. The redhead whimpers out the loudest, most pathetic moan you’ve ever heard from him. From here, Roy wastes no time in doubling down his effort before taking Jason’s cock in his throat like a pornstar. 

If Roy’s pussy-eating skills are any indicator of how long Jason will last, you know it won’t be much longer before Jason’s just as much of a mess as Roy left you. 

You watch as Roy’s tongue lazily trails down Jason’s underside vein, all the way up and down his thick shaft from the base to the tip as he slows down Jason’s demanding pace. You bite at the corner of your lip as Jason’s half-lidded eyes lock onto yours with a small groan of pleasure. His hips sputter desperately into the wet heat of Roy’s eager mouth. You’ve never seen such a serene look on Jason’s face before. Regardless of his obvious enjoyment, it’s as if Jason’s guard is completely down with Roy on his knees, taking care of him. You know you should probably feel jealous that they’ve obviously done this before, because Roy seems to know exactly how Jason wants it; however, you merely start taking notes. 

You’re completely enthralled by the erotic sight in front of you, so you’re nearly startled when Jason suddenly erupts with a deep grunt as he releases into Roy’s open, smirking mouth with a near inaudible sigh. Jason greedily stares down at Roy’s lewd display, mouth wide and full for Jason’s pleasure. Seemingly ready to get on with his own erection, Roy closes his lips and makes to swallow when Jason’s commanding voice erupts, “Don’t.”

Roy’s fiery brows furrow briefly before seeming to understand. You, on the other hand, are completely clueless as Roy smirks and suddenly settles down beside you, mouth still full of Jason’s come. You make to question him until the redhead draws your lips against his come-slicked ones before swapping the come into your mouth. You sigh breathily as you take all of Jason’s load into your mouth. Your tongue flicks against Roy’s cheeky one as you make sure you steal every last drop he has to offer.

“Swallow, princess,” Roy commands, voice darkened with want. His verdant eyes have darkened as his pupils expand at the mere sight of you. You follow his command easily, greedily even. Jason’s emerald eyes flash with desire as you exageratedly swallow his large load, slyly licking at the mess it’s left behind on your lips as you maintain eye contact with him. It only lasts so long before Roy’s eagerly flipping you over to take you doggy style. “You’re such a good girl for us, aren’t you, baby?”

Before you can respond, Jason uses the new position to slink underneath you to 69 all while Roy’s dick continues to deliciously pound into you. “Mph!” you exclaim in response as Jason’s twitching, flacid cock slides against your pliant, wet lips. You try to remember some of the moves Roy used on him, but right now you’re entirely brain-dead as your holes are deliciously filled with their cocks at once.

“So good,” Jason answers for you before flicking his tongue deliciously against your sensitive clit. “Aren’t you?”

In lieu of a response, you double down on his cock, pulling out all of your best tricks as if it were a race to see who can come undone first. The audible, lewd slurps that erupt from your mouth only spur you to up the ante. You finally quicken the pace, something Jason notes with an appreciative moan that turns into an all-out growl as you begin deepthroating him.  

Jason switches between devouring your pussy and sucking at Roy’s twitching cock as it slides in and out of your tight heat. You feel Jason’s member steadily hardening once again against your heated cheek, leaving you to smirk at just how affected Jason is by you and Roy. Knowing this, you decide to up the ante.

“Roy, please,” you practically whimper. “Give me your fucking cock.” At this, he hastens the pace, hips thrusting recklessly as he gives you exactly what you want. “Deeper,” you pant, hips pathetically grinding back against his fiery pubic hair as you attempt to get the perfect angle. “Fuck me, please, please- ROY!”  you cry out as he finally gives you exactly what you want. “Yes!” you exclaim, spit drooling out from the corner of your mouth as he fucks you senesless. You whimper and cry into each fast-paced thrust, feeling another orgasm drawing near as he does. 

Jason slides out from underneath you to kneel and face you as you lose yourself in Roy’s expert pounding. He grabs a bundle of your hair, forcing your sex-dazed eyes to blearily meet his as he praises you through each thrust of Roy’s hips. “Just like that,” he praises. Jason’s darkened emerald eyes never once leave yours as he continues. “Milk him with that tight little pussy,” he drawls out your name in the sexiest way you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck!” Roy spouts shakily, his hips spasming slightly in an attempt to stave off his orgasm for as long as he can. 

You know if Jason continues any longer, you’ll come before Roy can, so you shut him up by drawing Jason in for a sloppy, erotic kiss that leaves you breathless as Roy continues to claim you from behind. When you pull away from Jason’s lips, saliva still connects the two of you together as you address Roy. “Come in me,” you pant against Jason’s wet lips. “I want your come,” you continue desperately, eyebrows furrowed in ecstasy as you do. “I want your fucking come in me, Roy,” you beg again, this time there’s no denying the demand evident behind your voice. “All of it.”

“You want me to come inside, princess?” Roy asks lucidly, while his hips begin to falter as his orgasm draws near. “You’re such a fucking slut. You know that?” He groans. “All for me and Jay,” he continues to babble sexual nonsense to himself. “This is our pussy.” Now, you can’t help but moan. You feel his sweaty hair draping across your upper back and shoulder as he rests his head against you, all while desperately pumping his come into you with reckless abandon and a warbled cry. 

When Roy finally slumps over and falls onto the pillows beside you, you laugh lightly at his post-sex glow in the dimmed light from the screen. By now, the sun’s completely slipped below the hills, leaving only moonlight in its wake. 

Following Roy’s lead, you slump into the pile of blankets and pillows below to catch your breath. You think the three of you are done, and you’d be totally content with it, too, if it were the case, but Jason obviously has other ideas. The muscular man slips between your shaking thighs, allowing Roy’s come to lewdly slip from your pulsating cunt as he does so. Intrigued, Roy lazily props himself up on his elbows to watch what happens next. 

You whimper as the tip of Jason’s tongue firmly teases up and down your slit, flicking briefly at the thick puddle Roy’s left behind before full on slurping it up into his mouth. You watch, mouth open in shock, as Jason then makes his way over to Roy, who readily accepts Jason’s sticky kiss. From here, they swap the come between their mouths, making a show out of it just for you. What kind of asshole would you be to not show some appreciation? Without hesitating, your fingers slip down to desperately rub at your clit, already feeling on the cusp another intense orgasm. 

Without wasting another breath, Jason shoves his cock back in you, once again hitting your g-spot until you’re seeing stars, and, no, not the ones in the sky above your tangled bodies. You can no longer fight the steady, cool heat pooling in your lower stomach. With no other choice, you shake, gasping as you release on Jason’s abused, veiny cock. All the while, Roy lies beside you, flicking at your sensitive nipples and kissing you as he coaxes you through the overwhelming orgasm, encouraging your release as you once again spasm against the two muscular men. After a few more uncoordinated, yet powerful thrusts into your tight pussy, Jason releases his hot come into you, too.

You’re entirely full of their sticky want as they pull away from you, panting as they do. You, however, aren’t done just quite yet. With both of their dazed attention on you, you make a show of pushing their combined come out of your cunt. Regardless of your sensitivity post-orgasm, you welcome their gentle tongues as they manage to draw another smaller one out of you.

“Well, that was fucking insane,” Roy jokes through a worn-out smirk as the three of you fall into the pile of pillows you’d long abandoned in favor of, well, other things…

“I could definitely get used to it,” Jason concurs, still panting slightly.

“Really?” you ask, eyes filled with hope. “Do you mean it?”

Jason looks away bashfully, but you won’t let him shy away any further. u gently guide his face back to yours, eyes searching his all while his search yours. “Of course I do,” Jason finally admits with a sigh. “I really like both of you.”

“Just so we’re all clear, we’re all dating now, right?” Roy asks for clarification, you know, the whole point of this date.

You look at Jason, who looks between the two of you. Jason’s flushed cheeks brighten as he clears his throat to respond, “Yeah. We are.”

Gone are the worries of jealousy and selfishness as you allow them to continue christening your newfound relationship as the rest of the movie plays on. 

➸💋➸

Though you haven’t streamed in the three months since you all went official, Jason and Roy unanimously decide that this won’t do. To remedy the lack of streams, they help give you all the content you could ever need. 

After a long day of content making, you and Jason wake up to breakfast in bed, courtesy of the Harpers.  

The rest of the day is spent with Lian, doing whatever she pleases, which being a seven-year-old, means you all end up doing a lot. From the science museum, to the library, to the park, the day passes by in a blur of sweet kisses, excitement, and, of course, lots of laughter. If you’d told yourself a year ago where you’d be now, you’d never believe it. Though it took risks, you wouldn’t change where you are now for anything in the world. With two men who love you and a little girl who looks up to you, you feel like you can conquer anything with them by your side.

From your top subscriber and a familiar stranger in the library to your boyfriends, you can’t imagine a better ending.

A/N: thank you for your patience!! i hope you enjoyed :p

[end] || ao3 || pinned || ways to support

[moon-kid39]

Saja Boys Backstories Part 2: How They Met Gwi Ma

A/n: The second part of their backstories for you guys. I’m debating on watching the movie again (as if I haven’t already watched it six times now) just cause lol. It’s been really fun studying these boys and growing my Saja Boys multiverse lol

Disclaimer!: Mentions of poison, death, panic attacks/panicking, execution (Abby). As always, let me know if I missed anything!

Romance:

The poison he ingested was a slow one, and multiple doses were needed, so he didn’t know. Until he could feel the changes, and knew his time would come soon as there wasn’t a cure. One day, he wanted to go visit the woman he had really fallen for, whose heart he broke. But he was so weak he couldn’t get out of bed at that point. He tried to send a letter and multiple things that could help her family live comfortably, even going as far as to ask her sister to take it. As spiteful as she was, she never did, and the parents didn’t accept anything either. Then, news came that his true love passed away from and illness because they couldn’t afford a doctor. He was overwhelmed with guilt, thinking that he should’ve given the things to her himself rather than try to rely on others, partnered with the hatred he felt towards her family, and that’s when Gwi Ma pounced. Taking advantage of his sick state and promising to make her family pay for not accepting his gifts if Romance became a demon.

Mystery:

The water he had been given was from a merchant passing through town, and it was one of the lowest points Mystery had been at in his entire life. He was looking for a job, but no one hired him due to his low education and unwillingness to speak. The merchant did though, and gave him a cleaning job. He met a guy there and they became best friends, to the point where Mystery was comfortable enough to say a few words here and there. One day they were goofing off, enjoying their lunch break and acting as if their brooms were swords. They got too close to the merchandise and knocked over the most expensive vase in the merchants possession, which was supposed to go to one of the wealthiest families in the town. Mystery took all the blame, and he was fired and kicked to the streets of an unfamiliar town. The merchant came back a few days later to give him the water, under the guise of feeling bad, when in reality it was orders from the family who lost their vase and their money. His life for an almost priceless vase. He found out about the plan after he was infected thanks to his friend (too little too late), and was filled with rage and hatred. Gwi Ma started to whisper in his ear, and made the promise of revenge against the merchant and the family.

Baby:

Gwi Ma had actually been preying on him since adolescence; with Baby always being blamed for the trouble his sisters would cause simply because he was a boy and was held to a higher standard than they were (despite them having seniority). Baby would always hear little whispers in his ear, telling him to get back at them, but he loved his sisters too much. Even if they were always in trouble, they never left him out, making sure to modify their plans if they needed to, and he always had fun. Baby was actually a big scaredy cat, and as he got older, his sisters would take him on more and more scary adventures, and ignored his pleas to be left out for once. After he got lost that day in the woods, he was forced to survive on his own. It ends up being harder than people said it was, and he was in a constant state of stress of whether he would make it to the next day or not. After a couple of weeks a party of explorers found him and brought him back, to which he was reunited with his family. That stress didn’t go away, and instead grew into hatred towards his sisters. He had made a deal with Gwi Ma the first night he was lost in his state of panic, wanting to make sure he never felt as hopeless and as scared as he did ever again. His first night home is when he finally turns into a demon fully.

Abby:

After being caught trying to elope, Abby was placed into holding away from everyone he knew. He was treated poorly and wasn’t allowed to eat much; he just passed the time by working out. He would ask to speak with his lovers father, hoping to be diplomatic and talk things out, but every request would be denied. Within the first week or so, Gwi Ma was in his head, but he ignored him, truly believing he could get out of this and marry his love. When one week turned to three, and three weeks into two months, he started to give up hope, and gave into Gwi Ma. Of course, by the time he was to be executed, his appearance had changed. The father talked to him to ask if he had any last request before he died, and Abby just asked that none of his family, friends, or his lover was there. His wish wasn’t granted, as they had front row seats, and were the only people in the crowd. At first he was regretting making the deal with Gwi Ma, but seeing that his execution was being used as a humiliation ritual for his loved ones, he told himself he made the right choice, and promised that the first soul he stole would be the man who caused all this.

[imagoddamnonionmason]

Lupita "Lupe" Hidalgo

Images by @/blackmoon-edits, @/m-rod-unofficial, @/icons-rare.

Basic Information

Other Name(s): Lu

Citizenship: Mexican

Language(s): Spanish, English, Russian (minimal)

Place of Birth: Las Almas, Mexico

Date of Birth: 23/01/1990

Occupation: Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales (formerly), Shadow Company

Status: Alive

Physical Appearance

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Mahogany brown

Skin: Olive, warm undertones

Tattoo(s): none yet

Scar(s): lower left of her stomach, a stab wound received from a cartel member from when she was a teen, a slash across her left forearm received from the same attack.

Face Claim: Michelle Rodriguez

Description: Lupita is a strong woman with a good muscular build but is relatively small in stature; she stands at a height of 5ft 4in. Her face is a roundish shape with soft features, despite the harsh looks she usually wears. She normally wears her hair in two braids when working, but when casual, she prefers it down; it is just past shoulder length and has a slight wave to it naturally.

Lupita will often be seen wearing her uniform, consisting of black tactical gear and combats. When casual, she prefers baggy trousers or shorts with trainers and a shirt. She will sometimes wear baby band t-shirts or tank tops. She rarely likes to dress up formally, but when she does, she will wear a nice dress, but nothing extravagant, she'll feel out of place.

She does wear one necklace, a cross, and two rings on her right hand; one large wedding band that belonged to her father, which she has on her middle finger, and one with a small sapphire in the centre of a gold band. This belonged to her sister.

Personality

Like(s): chocolate, the smell of a firing range, showers, strawberries, cute animals, rock music, ACDC, action films, fast cars, her motorbike

Dislike(s): liars, cartel-related anything, her mother, people who act like they know everything, being spoken down to, losing, snow, knitwear

Strength(s): very knowledgeable about the cartel and Las Almas, efficient leader, good sense of right and wrong

Weakness(es): can struggle to work in a team with people she doesn't respect, hardheaded, a little too blunt at times

Relationships

Parent(s): Fernanda Hidalgo (mother, status unknown), Emiliano Hidalgo (father, deceased)

Sibling(s): Lola Hidalgo (sister, deceased)

Spouse(s): N/A

Child(ren): none yet

Biography

Lupita refused to talk about her past, if you try to delve into it, she will level you with the hardest stare known to man before tutting and moving away from you. She can count on one hand who knows her story, even then, they don't know everything.

She holds her father and her sister's memory very close to her heart, they were very dear to her in her adolescence and their memory serves to act as a sort of guidance for her. When alone, she will often speak to them and she has a picture of them kept on her at all times. It is folded and kept somewhere safe, somewhere she won't lose it when on the battlefield.

Lupita, alongside her younger sister Lola, were born and raised in Las Almas by mainly their father, who was retired from the police force early due to an injury received whilst on duty; it affected his everyday life, so decided to dedicate his time to his children as best that he could. Meanwhile, their mother, Fernanda, remained in the police force, where she and Emiliano met when they were younger.

One day, when Lupita was a young teen and her sister barely past 10, her father collected them both and urged them to hide somewhere safe, that they would play a game. Lupita wasn't stupid, she knew something was wrong, but did as her father had asked.

Unfortunately, masked men entered their home that day, attacking their father and taking his life after he refused to tell them where Fernanda was. Whilst they searched the rest of the house, Lupita and her sister were found and also attacked. In the midst of this attack, Lupita was stabbed and slashed while trying to protect her sister, but ultimately failed to protect her. Lupita held on to consciousness long enough to call for help and she later awoke in the hospital with her wounds treated, but lacking two very important people in her life. At their funeral, her mother was not much comfort, turning to alcoholism to cope with the grief and became rather neglectful of Lupita. It was around that time that Lupita vowed she would destroy the cartel and find out the reason why her father and sister deserved to die in their eyes that day.

Lupita started a career in the Mexican Army, eventually becoming involved with the Cuerpo de Fuerzas Especiales, where she learnt skills with weaponry and combat. She proved herself to be a driven soldier, stoic, with a silent undertone of anger that no one could ever seem to put their finger on why it was there.

She was exceptionally callous when it came to dealings with the cartel, having no remorse for their losses; it is said that she seemed to take joy in hunting them down.

Eventually, Lupita became consumed by her resentment of the cartel, to the point where her callousness nearly cost her team their lives, and she was reprimanded for such risky behaviour. While suspended, Lupita began to question who she had become, why she was doing what she was doing, and how she could find the humanity her father would have wanted her to have.

She made the decision that hunting the cartel that murdered her family was something that would force her into an early grave, something her family would not have wanted for her. Leaving the Special Forces behind, Lupita decided to go travelling, offering her services elsewhere and for more protective instances.

It was whilst on a job that she came across a lucrative opportunity, something she decided to take; Shadow Company.

She worked alongside them ever since then, working up and becoming one of Graves' most trusted; she never thought that it would bring her right back to Las Almas one day.

Divider Credit: me.

[leggerefiore]

I would imagine Pitaya and Ananas might be initially be very proud and excited to show this kids off especially if they did something impressive to brag to Longan about because the two aren't above that but I cannot help but worry neither would see it coming until it was too late Longan meeting them/crossing their paths and making a snide remark about their mortal parent and both of them being very attached to that parent and one extremely impulsive and the other very defensive they'd immediately lash out at Longan "DONT TALK ABOUT MY PARENT LIKE THAT" and the disrespect would make Longan glare and their dragon parents immediately grab their kids or shield them both of them maybe seeing for the first time their Extremely proud draconic parents that have shown power the kids thought was unstoppable nearly cower or be afraid (it's not like they wouldn't have warned their kids Longan was on a whole different level but both may have due to their pride and excitement/arrogance either lowballed Longan or hyped themselves up they could stand toe to toe with them only when the circumstances arose they acted on instinct and that instinct was fear)

“Sssee, Longan! Thisss child isss a fierce warrior!” Pitaya was smug about how their beloved daughter was capable of handling herself in any combat situation. And, she was already such a talented flyer. The Ivory Dragon had graciously declared their plans postponed as they cared for their own child, but… Naturally, the other dragons still wished to entirely dissuade them. The general idea now was to play on Longan's seeming interest in hybrids. While they clearly were not necessarily proud of their hybrid daughter, it was clear they still held enough affection to halt their plans to focus on raising her.

The Ivory Dragon was silent as the hybrid hatchling showed off some mildly impressive combat manoeuvres. Not enough to genuinely impress them, however. Her temperament was far too much like Pitaya's own.

Ananas meanwhile, proudly showed off their son. The hybrid lacked any doubt in himself as he showed his powerful manipulation of the earth – rivalling the Golden Dragon's own. Longan observed with an unmoving expression until the display ended. A breath left the dragon.

“… And what is impressive about these hybrids? They lack the tenacity of true dragons and are stuck within those mortal forms. Pitiful,” Longan remarked. The girl – Fig Opuntia if the dragon truly cared to remember – tensed up and glared at them. Her hand went to her sword. Foolish. “... All this because you two chose weak ones as mates,” a hypocrisy went over the dragon's head. No, rather, the situation their own mate was in had to be a curse. One Longan would take full responsibility in reversing.

It was surprisingly the boy who attempted to attack first, shocking everyone. Earth flew at the Ivory Dragon. It was easily destroyed by a gesture. This sparked the girl to raise up that blade of hers and attempt to pierce the dragon. Their eyes came in to glare, sending the hybrids flying back. Quickly, their parents rushed to intervene. Pitaya stood protectively over their daughter, wings spread out and eyes glowing in rage. Their fangs were entirely bared.

“Pineapple!” Ananas's voice had rung out as they made earth rise to guard the boy as they flew over in a panic. Their initial terror faded into rage. They stood over their son with an upset expression.

Fig Opuntia could only glance at her parent as they stood with such am aggressive expression. There had not been a time before in her life where she could recall such an expression ever being shown. The image of Pitaya – one of a strong, powerful dragon who was the heat of the Dragon's Valley, was shifted. This dragon who stood before them clearly intimidated them. She felt foolish for attacking the dragon, but having their other parent insulted… Her heart hurt at the thought. Weak… They were not weak! They were powerful enough to impress Pitaya to become their mate. Still, she understood she needed to let the Red Dragon handle this.

Pineapple meanwhile was utterly shocked by the genuine terror that had been on his parent's face. Not once in his life had he ever seen Ananas falter, but seeing it here… The boy felt so stupid for attempting to attack that dragon. But… Hearing their parent being insulted… Their pride in their heritage of coming from such a genuine love… Pineapple could not help but attack to defend their honour. Clearly, however, that had not been the right move. Ananas was genuinely terrified of this Longan.

This stalemate remained until a voice called for Longan. The dragon's attention did not waver from the others, but they spoke, “Guarana. What is it?” Another dragon hybrid, clearly resembling the Ivory Dragon stood behind them.

Ananas stood more offended from the judgement while Pitaya called them a hypocrite.

[chaosherald]

Davrin Week Day 4: Fatherhood/Childhood

Thank you @datvcompanionweeks for the event!

(Also, A Word With Friends hosted by @davrinsleftpectoral and started by @hedwigoprah. Thank you @blackwall-my-tiny-husband and @seaglassmelody for the tags!

Susurration: Definition (noun): The indistinct sound of people whispering/whispering, murmuring, or rustling)

Assan looked at him, his head canted, his inquisitive chirp quieter than usual, clearly unconvinced about the wisdom of following Davrin's command.

Davrin understood. They had been working on stealth all week, practicing prowling low and slow while approaching prey that was frustratingly alert. Nine attempts so far had ended in discovery and, to Assan's growing frustration, a denial of the gingerwort truffles their mark was carrying. 

Davrin placed his hands on the sides of Assan's head. His Mother used to do that, when she wanted to make sure she had Davrin's attention. He made sure to keep his voice calm and warm, like his Father used to do. “You've got this, Assan. I believe in you. You just need to trust yourself. Trust your training. And if it doesn't work, well, we try again.”

Assan shifted, looking towards his prey and back at Davrin, still not quite convinced.

Davrin stood, taking a step back and crossing his arms. His Mother's way for focus, his Father's way for support. But for kicking some hesitant griffon butt into taking action? That needed Uncle Eldrin. “Alright,” he said, stern. No nonsense. “No more excuses. You failed last time? Use your brain and figure out a better way. That truffle is yours, but only if you get over there and take it. Now go!”

Assan huffed, then turned and slunk into the tall grass, eyes locked on his target. 

Davrin looked over the scene again. The target was across the clearing, sitting on a log, shoulder to shoulder with Rook, deep in conversation. That was about as distracted as the prey got. The susurration of the stream they had used to fill up their water skins also provided a constant background noise to break up any sounds Assan made as he slowly worked his way through the vegetation. Conditions were perfect. He was setting Assan up for success, he just hoped the griffon would be able to capitalize on it. Creators knew Assan was starting to get dejected from the repeated failures. Another miss would break his heart and Davrin wasn’t sure he would be able to handle it. 

Briefly, Davrin wondered if this was how his parents, how Uncle Eldrin felt anytime they sent him off to test himself. The struggle between wanting your child to succeed and wanting to protect them from the possibility of failure. The weight of it all was humbling.

Crouching down, Davrin followed Assan’s progress. It was slow and steady and he was doing a great job keeping his head low and his wings tucked close to his sides. Curiously, the griffon’s track shifted not towards the target directly, but to the target’s side where Rook sat. It took Davrin only a moment to puzzle out what he was doing. Clever. Feather brain might have found his better way. Davrin held his breath in anticipation as Assan paused, tensed, and sprang from cover.

In a flurry of feathers, Assan tackled Rook into Lucanis, knocking both of them off the log. The whole stealth thing was marred a bit by the triumphant squawks Assan made as he took advantage of the tangle on the ground to grab the pouch of truffles Lucanis had been carrying around.

Davrin jogged over, grinning. “That's the way, Assan! Look at you!”

Rook, sprawled on top of Lucanis, laughed and turned her head to look at the griffon. “I don’t remember signing up to help with this whole stealth training thing.”

Lucanis smirked, seemingly unconcerned with being pinned on the ground.  He reached a hand over to pat Assan’s side. “No, don’t discourage him. That was very good, Assan. We’ll make an assassin out of you yet.”

Davrin shook his head, looking at Assan who had gotten the treats out of their pouch and was making short work of them. “Yeah, not going to happen. But being able to sneak up on an assassin? That is some fine work, Assan. I'm proud of you.”

Assan, done with his truffles, looked up at Davrin, beak open and tail swishing back and forth. Griffons don’t grin, but the expression on his face translated perfectly.

Seeing him succeed was magical. Davrin could only hope he had given his parents and his Uncle moments like this too.

[emacrow]

Jazz always wanted a little brother.

Her best friend's mommy having a baby brother in her tummy, but right now they were at gotham, mom was meeting with some important people while she stay safe in the car with dad sleeping in the front passenger seat.

When she asked her mom and dad for a baby brother earlier that same week, mom had to explained that her tummy was broken after she had her because she was a very special miracle baby because they tried so hard to have her.

Jazz understood but at the same time, she wanted- no she need a baby brother, maybe one with dad's hair and mom's eyes, or maybe one with hair like hair and dad's eyes.

And she was determined, as she snuck out of the fentomobile car, sneaking inside beside the scary ninjas guards that were temporarily distracted.

She was very good at sneaking around thanks to mom training her to stay quiet and hide better then a ghost.

There was pools of ectoplasmic but much dirtier and less cleaner then the stuff mom and dad work with. Container and chambers full of them.

She saw doctor walking out of one room and snuck in before the the door close on her. There was another ectoplasmic container that had babies in them..

One sleeping upside down and the other upside up. The one of the bottom was sleeping but the older has his eyes open, revealing pretty blue eyes like dad's eyes.

She chewed on her bottom lip a bit and weigh her short limited choices as nodding.

She close her eyes, focusing as she quickly started to float a bit wobbly, sticking her small hands onto the glass ectoplasmic ball using her secret powers that she had learned without mom and dad noticing.

Her invisible hand grabbed the baby slowly, making it invisible as she pulled it out of the ectoplasmic ball.

The baby was very small and light then a feather while covered in wet ectoplasm goop.. the baby cough a bit, dripping ectoplasm out his mouth, squirming a bit as he was about to make a fuzz but quiet down as she held him close into her warm fuzzy jacket.

She snuck back out of the room and quickly out of the place all the way back into fentonmobile..

Covering the baby with her Einstein bear designed blanket, cleaning the baby up like she would with her baby dolls, and she open the empty toy baby bottle and open her mini almond milk jug, then pour the milk in and close it, after remembering to cut a little open hole on the tip of the hard plastic nibble part.

Scooting over to the baby, and carefully picking him up and helding him close onto her lap like she seen the mommy do on TV as she press the toy baby bottle again the baby's mouth.

It would be 1 hour later before mom came back looking excited then 2 hours later after they left gotham before a soft baby wail woke her dad from the backseat of the fenton car where jazz was.

Jazz was pink in the face as she was trying to hide the baby but she couldn't stop him from crying.

It would 20 minutes of jazz lying straight to her parents's faces on where she found the baby, and it would forever be her only best lie she ever told that convinced them to adopt the baby boy that was now named danny..

Meanwhile back at league of Assassin headquarters. The head scientist has noticed that the first unborn twin baby has been removed early then schedule, probably due to natural condition of death since the first one has a much weaker pulse compared to the second unborn baby which Talia had name Damian later.

The leading scientist check off the existence of the supposed first born who went without a name on the data base...

Unknownly to both parties, Jazz was very happy to have a little brother of her own now, even if his eyes flashes green a bit from time to time.

Ao3 story made here <-

[fabuladorah]

Need me more reluctant adoptive mothers media, like "fuck i went do groceries and came back with four little gremlims and NO BREAD" or then "yeah i was tryna save the world and then this thing followed me home and now they're my kid:)"

[hishook]

yesterday, my child got out of bed after her nap without making a sound. but my husband suddenly goes "is she awake" and when i checked the monitor i couldn't see because the night vision wouldn't kick in and just as i was squinting i heard the happiest "hi mama!!!" from behind us and i have never jumped higher out of my desk chair and i've played plenty of horror games.

[imagoddamnonionmason]

Esmeralda "Falcon" Sanchez

Images by @/melodamage on X, @/penduluns, @/dreamsofrvens on X.

Basic Information

Other name(s): Esme, Falcon

Citizenship: Mexican American

Language(s): Spanish (Mexican), English

Place of Birth: Los Angeles

Date of Birth: 5th May 1997

Occupation: Pilot

Status: Alive

Physical Appearance

Eyes: Green

Hair: Black

Skin: olive, medium, warm undertone

Tattoo(s): none

Scar(s): Multiple faded small scars from different injuries. One deep scar on upper right thigh from shrapnel injury.

Face Claim:  Lydia Graham

Description: Esme stands at around 5ft5inches tall with an athletic build; she keeps on top of her strength training and general fitness but has well toned muscles. She is not overly muscular, but you can tell she works out. Her hair is short-ish in length, coming to stop just above her shoulders and straight, parted from the left side.

She is often found wearing a pilot's flight suit, undone with the arms tied around her waist. Underneath that, she wears tank tops or small t-shirts. With that, she will often wear combat boots with the laces wrapped around her ankles before she ties them at the front. When she is needed for her flying, she will undo the suit and become fully kitted out with everything she needs to pilot, with a pistol strapped to her leg in case she finds herself down.

Personality

Like(s): her rage room, mechanical things, taking apart the bike engine she has inside her rage room (not to be touched by anyone but her), birds of prey, bird watching, food, flying

Dislike(s): being grounded for too long, people who assert control over her without earning it, disrespectful people, the Federation, rain, colder weather, people who mumble too much, boats, the ocean, people not valuing her place and skillsets

Strength(s): exceptional flier, hawk-like eyes that can spot things from a fair good distance, strong-willed, good survival instincts, compassionate

Weakness(es): can be impatient, single-minded at times, tunnel vision, stuck in the past at times

Relationships

Parent(s):  Elena “El” Sanchez, Christopher “Chris” Sanchez

Sibling(s): Liam Mateo Sanchez (goes by Mateo)

Spouse(s): Keegan P. Russ (eventually)

Children: none yet

Affiliation(s): J.J (@deeptrashwitch) Beth (@stargazing-sapphire2) (more can be added, just ask me!)

Biography

Born to a Mexican-born mother and American-born USAF father, Esme was a child of the military and moved around a lot with her family. She was extremely close with her father, despite him not spending a lot of time at home, as she appreciated his time with more passion the less of it they had. She made every second count, as did her father. By comparison, her brother was not as close, and even resented him for not putting the family first. The two were also extremely close with their mother and loved her dearly, enjoying her cooking, her made up games, the creativity she brought to the home. She was a mother without compare, in their eyes, no one ever reaching the pedestal that they had put her on. And Elena adored her children.

When Esme was much older, she came to a decision that she would like to follow in her father's footsteps and become a pilot, however, she didn't want to fly jets or planes. Esme has set her heart on helicopters.

By the time she was 18, Esme had applied to join the US Army and completed the Warrant Officer Flight Program over an 18 month period. Her parents couldn't be prouder, but there was little affection or support from her brother, though he did not make this obvious. In 2017, the battles that would follow the Federation's first attack were some of Esme's first. A few years after that, whilst on leave, she visited her mother and brother in Mexico, just before the Federation attacked and claimed Mexico a part of its dictatorship. It was during this time that Esme had to hide her true occupation, while working to keep her family safe; she intended on escaping Mexico with them, heading towards the border to America where she knew fellow troops were holding the line. However, it was on this journey that they were captured by Federation soldiers, questioned and threatened. Esme refused to talk, unwilling to give in to their demands. It was at this moment that one soldier killed their mother in front of them. Her brother caved, begging them to take them in and that they would fight for the Federation. He gave his sister the grace to keep her secret safe, not revealing that she was with the US Army, or else that would mean her death, too. It was at this point that Esme and her brother were taken in by the Federation and became soldiers; Esme's talents as a pilot were clocked and she unwillingly, silently spent years biding her time for the right moment to escape. Meanwhile, her brother worked his way up through the ranks, gave in to their propaganda, and came to love the Federation. While stationed at a remote POW base, one that her brother was the overseer for, Esme found her opportunity to escape. A rebel attack gave her the opening and Esme stole one of the helicopters with the intent on flying to the nearest US-associated base.

She knew the risk that came with flying an enemy bird into US territory, but it was calculated and one she was willing to take; of course, with the lack of luck that Esme seemed to have, her bird was shot down. In its crash landing, Esme survived, but was injured, a jagged piece of shrapnel stuck in her thigh as well as a broken wrist, other grazes and scratches. She tried to patch herself up as best she could and waited, knowing that her former affiliate would send someone to check out why a singular enemy chopper was flying so haphazardly in enemy territory.

This was her first run in with the Ghosts, Beth (@stargazing-sapphire2's oc) was the one locate her and after a brief conversation, she had gained herself long enough to plead her case to Elias. Of course, there were records of her, records that stated she was AWOL. Given that snippet of truth to her story, Elias allowed her the benefit of the doubt. Not to mention, Esme had good insight a fraction of their enemy, and all information was helpful. It took a while for Esme to find her place, but she was glad to be back with the people she was supposed to have been fighting for from the beginning. She remains loyal to them, fiercely, but experiences a lot of grief over the loss of her brother, who still maintains oversight on many POW camps.

Divider Credit: me.

[dreamlight-violet]

It feels like you're allowed to like literally any Disney villain but Hans. Like... if you enjoy Hans or relate to him in some way, you're a bad person. Very sad, especially since Disney intentionally or unintentionally encourages this by giving Hans no merch and making him a punching bag on his rare appearances.

The Frozen musical is the only thing that takes him seriously as a character. I'd die to hear Santino Fontana sing Hans' songs from the musical.

Meanwhile Agnarr and Iduna, who were terrible parents for a decade resulting in Elsa's anxiety and self-esteem issues, and Anna's attachment issues, are given a full romeo+juliet backstory and all their negative traits and actions handwaved away as being Runeard's fault. Frozen 2 is an Agduna apologism tour featuring a Hate on Hans parade and some cute mascots.

[wolfwarrior142]

"...reject history as a narrative of strength, and instead have faith that it can be a narrative of love."

Another great example of why I love this show so, so much. The life lessons and morals on it can be just amazing, especially ones like these. The whole part in s2 that encompasses the flashbacks and Callum reading the letter from his dad is just beautiful with what it teaches, and how it shows how different the characters are. Definitely one of my favorite parts of s2. And the section where Harrow says that love is not a weakness like most people think it is; it is actually strength. And remembering the love in things rather than the strength is important. I love that. I love that so much.

[crt8ball]

hey watching blood in the bayou!

IVE CRIED TWICE SO FAR

/// spoilers obviously mid ep 3

first time with rand talking to donna while she bunkering down and him telling her hes gonna do something good for once

and again when richard said "please when you come back, be our roland"

im never gonna survive mayn I CANT DO THIS I SWEAR TO GAWD

[dreamrcven]

the line "if i need your body; i'll fucking take it" along with listening to songs about revenge is really feeding into my whole craving for a villain AU for masuyo where she goes after data to kill him and use his body to revive miles