A trip to the grocery store turns into a nightmare when an attack leaves you praying for a quick end. That prayer arrives in the form of something monstrous: a demon who intervenes with brutal, effortless violence. Finding your savior wounded in the aftermath, you bring him into your home. As you wash the blood away in soapy water and stitch his skin, the fear dissolves into an unexpected intimacy. You soon learn that while his nature is dark, being favored by a demon is the most divine thing you've ever felt.
ᦏ9k words, reader is said to have brown skin, plot before smut, vivid detailing of murder and dismemberment, violence, attempted sa, light horror erotica, tention, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), dirty talk (I KNOW HE HAS A FILTHY MOUTH), choking, spanking, riding -> doggy, namecalling/petnames (e.g., sugar, baby, sweetness, and little bird), sensory play, sweet ending, etc᪔
ᦏ18+ 𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝑫𝒐 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕᪔
The 1930s Mississippi Delta had a soul-crushing climate. The air hung heavy, a stagnant soup of humidity and rotting cypress swamps that smelled of damp earth and the iron-rich musk of the river. By the time you stepped off the general store’s creaking porch, the sun had long since bled out below the flat horizon, leaving the sky a ink-stained purple that swallowed the cotton fields whole.
You had driven the rusted-out Ford nearly twenty miles from your patch of dirt—navigating past sagging sharecropper shacks and endless, skeletal rows of white bolls—just to secure salt pork and peach preserves for your brother and his kin.
The gravel in the lot crunched like bone under your heels. Behind you, the store’s lone, grime-streaked window cast a sickly yellow glow that struggled to reach the edge of the lot, leaving you to contend with the encroaching dark. You clutched the brown paper bags to your chest, the paper crinkling under your grip, feeling like they were the only fragile shield you had against the vast emptiness of the Delta.
Then came the sound.
Boots.
Four of them.
The yellow light caught the sweat on their pale, unsightly faces, making them look like cruel carvings rather than men. They weren't just walking; they were closing in, a pack of hounds finding a scent. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you watched them approach.
"Late for a girl like you to be out, ain't it?" the one in the lead drawled. He stepped into your personal space, smelling of cheap moonshine and stale tobacco.
"Gettin' groceries for my family," you said. You forced your voice to stay steady, even though your knees were slightly trembling.
"Family," another one hissed. He stepped behind you, and you felt the cold, sharp draft of his presence. "Bet you got a lot of 'family' tucked away."
The leader reached out, his hand a dead weight on your shoulder. "Maybe you oughta share some of that sweetness with us. A girl like you... you oughta know how to treat a man right."
Another man chuckle. "I don't know boss. Her kind ain't good for much." He followed it with a word—a cruel, ugly slur.
The heat in your belly—a sudden, sharp flare of anger—overrode the cold terror in your veins for a split second. You looked him dead in the eye, your vision blurring with tears of rage. "I’d never do a damn thing with a racist cracker like you," you spat, the words coming out like venom. "You don't know how to please a woman. You're only good for stealin' and carryin' the evil you was born with."
The leader’s face contorted, turning a mottled red. "I’m gonna teach you a lesson the Delta won't ever forget."
They lunged.
The paper bags hit the gravel with a sharp clack, jars of preserves shattering with a wet, heavy sound. They dragged you away from the safety of the light, pulling you into the pitch-black maw behind your car. The mud was cool and slick against your skin as they shoved you down, the grit of the gravel digging into your palms. You screamed and fought, your nails clawing at the dirt, until—crack.
The slap made your head whip to the side, white spots exploding behind your eyes. The taste of blood bloomed in your mouth immediately. You closed your eyes, a silent, desperate prayer for a quick end dancing on your tongue.
The tall one loomed over you, the metallic clink-clink of his belt being unlooped from his trousers sounding like a death knell in the silence of the swamp. You scrambled back on your elbows, your nails clawing into the mud, but another man pinned your wrists to the ground, his weight crushing your chest.
Then, the world shifted.
It wasn't a human sound that changed things. It started with a pressure—an unnatural chill swept through the humid air, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The man over you froze, his hand still on his buckle.
Suddenly, a blur of movement—something darker than the night itself—hit the man standing guard at the rear of the car. There was no struggle. Just a wet, terrifying crunch, followed by a sound that didn't belong in a human throat.
A scream ripped through the air—"AHHGLUR!"—not a shout for help, but a high-pitched, gargling shriek of pure, unadulterated terror. On the other side of the Ford, you heard the sound of heavy metal being crumpled like tissue paper, and then the petrifying sound of something being systematically dismantled.
Rrip. Rrip. Snap.
The three men standing over you scrambled back, their bravado evaporating into the thick air like mist. They stared into the dark behind the car, their faces turning as white as ghosts (if at all possible). The leader pulled a small revolver from his waistband, his hand shaking so violently the barrel rattled against his knuckles with a click-click-click.
"Go see what that is," the leader hissed at one of the men.
The man looked hesitant, his eyes wide and bulging with fear, but he stumbled toward the back of the car, his boots dragging in the gravel. Silence for two long heartbeats. Then, a sharp yell that was cut off by a wet crunch—the sound of a ripe melon being dropped from a great height, or a dry branch snapping while wrapped in raw meat.
A thick, dark liquid began to pool from under the car, snaking through the gravel like an oil slick. It was too dark to be water. It was viscous, steaming slightly in the cool night air, the copper smell of it overwhelming the swamp rot. Then, a heavy thud—the sound of a body being dropped like a sack of grain, followed by the wet sliding sound of intestines hitting the mud.
You scrambled to find your footing, desperate to run, but the leader’s hand clamped onto your hair, yanking you back with a force that nearly tore your scalp. "S-stay put!" he barked, his voice cracking with a fear he couldn't hide.
"You stupid son of a bitch! We need to run!" you croaked, your voice trembling.
From the shadows behind the car, a figure emerged.
He was tall, lean, and drenched in a dark, glistening crimson that coated his white shirt until it clung to his frame like a second skin, mapped out in horrific detail. He stepped into the faint spill of yellow light. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace. Too smooth, too silent. His skin was a pale tan, almost translucent in the moonlight, and his hands... his fingers were tipped and dripping with fresh, steaming blood.
"W-what the hell are you?" the leader screamed, cocking the pistol.Bang. The shot echoed off the store walls like a cannon blast. You saw the bullet hit Bo’s upper arm, tearing through the fabric and the flesh beneath. Bo let out a low groan—not of pain, but of irritation, like a man being stung by a common bee.
Before the leader could even think of cocking the hammer again, Bo was gone. He didn't run; he blurred. One second he was feet away, and the next, he was a solid shadow standing directly behind the leader. A large, blood-slicked hand reached around, catching the leader’s throat. There was a brief, desperate struggle, the leader's feet kicking uselessly in the air, and then the sound of windpipes collapsing—a dry, crushed whistle—as Bo squeezed until the man’s head lolled at a sharp, unnatural angle.
The fourth man turned to run, his boots slipping and sliding in the mud. He didn't get three steps. Bo reached out, his hand moving like a whip. There was a flash of something sharp, a wet shluck sound, and then the man’s head was simply... gone.
It didn't just fall; it was taken off with such surgical, violent force that the headless body kept running for a split second, blood geysering from the neck, before collapsing into a heap of spasming nerves.
The shock had your eyes wide, your body trembling so hard you could hear your teeth chattering against each other. The rumors you’d heard about the juke—the whispered stories about the "man" who haunted the outskirts, the one who didn't fear the lynch mobs because he was the one who hunted the hunters—they were all true.
Every terrifying word.
The gravel crunched. You looked up, paralyzed with a different kind of fear, as he walked back toward you. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at your broken groceries and the blood smeared on your lip. He reached out a hand—the one not covered in the men's blood—and offered it to you.
"They're gone, little bird," he said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, carrying a soft, melodic lilt that felt entirely out of place amidst the carnage and the smell of death behind him. "It's not safe. You should get home."
His eyes, dark and ancient, trailed over your body with a slow, heavy pressure that felt like it was peeling back your skin. He lifted his other hand, the fingers still slick and dripping with the life of the men he’d just dismantled, and slowly licked a smear of blood from his knuckles. He did it with a focused, animalistic intensity, his tongue rasping against his skin. You stared, paralyzed by a nauseating mixture of terror and intrigue, as the faint yellow light from the store caught the unmistakable glint of his fangs. Long, needle-sharp, and so real.
You noted then, through the haze of your panic, that he was Chinese. His features were sharp and elegant, carved with a precision that seemed out of place beneath the splattered gore. But your eyes quickly dropped to his arm. A steady stream of dark blood was pulsing from the bullet hole in his tricep, dripping onto the gravel with a heavy, rhythmic drip-drip-drip that sounded like a ticking clock in the silence of the night.
"You're hurt," you whispered, your voice a ghost of itself, thin and reed-like. "You’re bleedin' bad."
Bo looked down at his arm as if he’d forgotten it was even attached to his body. He watched the blood flow for a moment, his expression unreadable, almost bored.
"I don't feel it," he said flatly.
You didn't believe him.
You couldn't.
The wound was deep, the flesh jagged and torn where the lead had bitten through, and even in the dark, the sheer volume of blood he was losing was enough to kill a normal man three times over. But as he looked back at you, the darkness in his eyes seemed to expand, swallowing what little light was left in the world. You stood there, your knees knocking together so hard it was audible, looking at that dark hole in his arm. The blood wasn't slowing; it was a pulsing, red leak.
“You need to let me bandage that,” you said, your voice finally finding a shred of its footing, though your hands were still shaking. “Before you bleed out right here in the mud.”
Bo looked at the wound, then back at you, his face a mask of elegant stone. “I’ll be alright. It’ll stop.”
“Until the sun is up?” you countered. The words slipped out before you could stop them, fueled by the folk stories and the sheer wrongness of the man standing before you.
Bo stilled. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips—one that showed just a hint of the ivory points behind his teeth. It wasn't a friendly look; it was the look of a predator realizing his prey had been paying closer attention than he thought. “And what do you know about the sun, girl?”
You swallowed hard, your heart thudding against your ribs like a trapped, dying moth. “I hear things. R-rumors from a few towns over... about what happened at that juke joint. They said dead people came through and left nothin’ but death. No, they didn't say people. They said haints... demons.”
Bo’s brown eyes searched yours, heavy and unblinking. The silence between you was taut as a wire about to snap. “Still gonna patch up a haint?” he murmured, his voice a low, melodic rasp that made the hair on your arms stand up. “Or do you not like my kind?”
You took a shaky breath, looking past him at the carnage—the splats of bloodied blonde hair on the gravel, the detached limbs, the torn skin of the men who would have done far worse to you if he hadn’t intervened. The horror of what he was balanced by the horror of what those men were.
“I’ll help you,” you whispered, the fear thick in your throat. “As long as you don't hurt me. You gotta promise.”
You held out your pinky, a childish gesture that felt absurd in the face of such violence. Bo looked at your small, trembling finger for a long moment. Then, he reached out. His skin was unnaturally cool, sending a jolt through your system. He didn't just hook his finger into yours; he brought your hand to his mouth and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss to the knuckle of your pinky.
Your breath hitched.
“Make the promise official,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Kiss the promise.”
You hesitated, then pressed your own lips to the spot he’d just kissed. As you pulled your hand away, you felt the tacky, drying blood from his face stick to your skin for a split second before parting with a faint, wet sound. The bond felt heavy. Visceral. Like you’d just signed a contract in salt and iron.
ᦏ᪔
The ride back to your place was an unsettling stretch of silence. The Ford’s engine groaned as it cut through the darkness, the headlights barely carving a path through the hanging moss that looked like drowned hair. Bo sat in the passenger seat, his frame dwarfing the interior, making the car feel like a coffin. He didn't move, didn't talk, just stared out into the blackness of the cotton fields. The scent of him—ancient earth, cold metal, and the sharp, copper sting of fresh blood—filled the cab until you felt lightheaded and dizzy.
When you pulled up to your small, weathered house, you hurried out, your heels clicking on the packed dirt as you fled the confines of the car. You unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, clicking on the warm, orange kitchen light. When you turned back, Bo was still standing on the porch, his silhouette tall and imposing against the night, his eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. He was just... waiting.
Is he slow? you wondered, a flicker of irritation cutting through your mounting dread. “Well? Come on in,” you said, waving him forward.
A faint, knowing smirk tugged at his mouth—a look that mocked your limited knowledge of the rules he lived by. But as soon as the invitation left your lips, he crossed the threshold.
The house felt smaller the moment he entered. He took up so much space, his broad shoulders and tall, fit frame making the ceiling feel dangerously low. You weren't a short woman, but standing near him, you felt fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain held next to a sledgehammer.
Bo stood in the center of your kitchen, his nostrils flaring.
He was smelling you. Beneath the scent of fear and the iron of the blood on your dress, he caught the deep, intoxicating aroma of your skin—sweetness mixed with a light earthiness. Your blood was still running hot from the adrenaline, pulsing visibly in the hollow of your throat, and to him, you sounded like a drum in the absolute silence of the house.
“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to the sturdy wooden chair at the table.
He obeyed, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. You turned away, moving toward the cupboard to gather what you needed—the jug of corn liquor for disinfectant, a needle, heavy thread, and clean strips of linen. As you moved, Bo’s eyes never left you. He tracked the line of your back, the curve of your hips, and the way your hands shook as you reached for the supplies. He watched the way your rich, brown skin glowed under the dim bulb. To him, you were a feast he was trying very hard not to devour.
You walked back to him, the supplies clutched to your chest. Up close, his handsomeness was frightening. His features were sharp, carved with a precision that was almost too perfect. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, slicked back but messy from the fight. You took a moment to give him a once-over, your eyes lingering on the way his white shirt was torn open, revealing the muscle of his chest, and the still-bleeding hole in his arm.
He was a monster. A haint. A dead man. But as he looked up at you, his gaze heavy and expectant, your stomach did a slow, treacherous roll.
“Hold still,” you whispered, unscrewing the cap on the liquor. “This is gonna bite.”
Bo’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr that vibrated in your own chest. “I told you, little bird... I don't feel a thing.”
You rolled your eyes, huffing a breath through your nose to hide the way your heart was racing. The corn liquor hit the open wound with an audible hiss, the sharp, medicinal sting of it rising in a cloud that made your own eyes water.
"Mhm, keep talkin’ that big talk," you muttered, dabbing the blood away with a rag that was quickly turning a sodden crimson. "Don't feel a thing. Like you ain't made of the same meat and bone as everybody else."
Bo didn’t flinch.
He didn’t even blink.
His skin was slick under the low warmth of the kitchen light, his muscles corded like iron cables. You glanced up at his face and found him just... watching you. Not with the frantic gaze of a man who’d just been shot, but with a deep, unsettling stillness that made your skin hum with a strange, forbidden electricity.
"What they call you?" you asked, trying to fill the heavy silence.
"Bo Chow," he said. His voice was so smooth; it seemed to settle into the very floorboards beneath your feet.
"Bo Chow," you repeated, humming the name under your breath. You kept cleaning the ragged edges of the hole in his arm, noting with a start that his skin didn't feel cold like a corpse's anymore; it felt like a low-burning stove, radiating a heat that began to seep into your own fingers. You couldn't believe you were sitting here—in the same place you’d fried green tomatoes just yesterday—patching up a haint.
But he looked so... beautiful. In a way that felt like a trap. The blood smeared across his high cheekbones didn't make him look hideous; it made him look like something out of a dream you shouldn't be having.
Is he the type that likes the pain? you wondered, your mind wandering down a lewd, forbidden path as you looked at the raw power of his frame. He looks kind of cute all bloody like that. You caught yourself and shook your head lightly, your face heating up. Lord, girl, stop it. Imagine if this man could read your thoughts. LALALALALAH.
You reached for the needle and the heavy black thread, your fingers trembling just enough to make the metal glint. When you looked back down at his face, his eyes caught yours. They looked strange—not just dark, but shimmery, like the surface of the river under a full moon, shifting with a light that didn't come from your kitchen lamp.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Your eyes," you whispered, leaning in a fraction closer despite the internal alarms screaming in your head. "They look... weird."
Bo’s mouth quirked into a ghost of a smirk. "That’s because I’m Chinese, little bird."
Your eyes widened at the dry wit, a small, startled laugh escaping your throat. "I know that. I mean they’re—um... shimmery. Like there’s a fire in ‘em."
Bo just hummed, a deep sound in his chest. Your gaze dropped from his eyes to his body—the broadness of his chest, the way his shirt clung—and for a second, a thought so filthy it made your ears hot flashed through your mind. You didn't say a word, just bit your lip and threaded the needle with a sharp, decisive tug.
"If that alcohol didn't hurt," you warned, leaning over him so your breath fanned across the hard line of his shoulder, "this definitely will. Bullet’s out, but I gotta close the door behind it."
You pushed the needle through the torn skin.
Suddenly, a large, cool hand clamped onto your inner thigh.
You froze, the needle halfway through his skin, your breath hitching in your throat. His grip was firm, his palm heavy and certain against the soft skin just above your knee. You could feel the heat radiating from his fingers now, the weight of him anchored to you.
"It hurts," he rasped, though his face remained a mask of tranquility. "Hurry up."
You nodded dumbly as wetness began pooling between your legs. His hands were massive, the veins standing out like mountain ridges. He squeezed your thigh—just a little, just enough to make your pulse jump—as you pulled the thread taut.
He inhaled deeply, a long, dragging breath that made his chest expand. You thought it was the pain, but Bo’s eyes were half-closed, his nostrils flaring. He wasn't bracing for the needle; he was drinking you in. You smelled like the rain coming off the Delta, like the sweet, dusty scent of dried herbs in the rafters, and the intoxicating, metallic spice of your own racing blood. To him, you were a feast.
You stitched as fast as you could, your fingers flying, trying not to focus on the way his hand was subtly, almost imperceptibly sliding an inch higher on your thigh with every stitch. The fear was still there, sharp and cold, but it was being smothered by a want you couldn't name.
"Okay," you gasped, your voice sounding higher, more breathless than you intended. "Okay. Done." You tied the knot and nipped the thread with your teeth, your face inches from his, the scent of him overwhelming your senses.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Y-you're welcome," you stammered, the words tripping over the frantic rhythm of your heart.
Bo didn't let go. Instead, he reached out with his other hand, large and cooling, and hooked it behind the back of your other thigh. He slid his fingers under the hem of your torn dress and pulled you forward, dragging you between his knees.
He was still sitting, his head level with your chest, looking up at you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping the very marrow from your bones. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the back of your leg—calloused, rough, and stained with the dark, drying iron of the men he’d slaughtered. It sent a shiver up your spine that had nothing to do with the room's humidity and everything to do with the predatory heat radiating from him.
"You're a kind woman," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate register that made your body ache.
"You too," you replied, your brain fumbling for any shred of logic to hold onto. Then the absurdity of the statement hit you. "I mean... obviously you ain't a woman."
Your eyes trailed down, unbidden. You followed the line of his flat, hard stomach to the unmistakable bulge straining against the dark fabric of his trousers. It was thick, prominent, and pulsed with a life that seemed at odds with the "dead man" stories. Your heart nearly stopped, a cold spike of fear warring with a shameful heat.
"Oh! Lord—I—I’m sorry," you blurted out, your face hot with embarrassment as you jerked your eyes back up to the ceiling, focusing on a spiderweb in the corner just to keep from looking at the monster’s hunger.
Bo didn't look offended. He let out an amused, dark laugh—a sound that was rich, deep, and surprisingly warm, like honey poured over gravel. He let go of your thighs, his fingers lingering for a fraction of a second too long, and stood up in one fluid motion.
The transition was so fast it seemed to skip a frame of reality, making the kitchen floorboards groan and creak under the sudden shift of his weight. He loomed over you, his frame completely blotting out the yellow light of the kitchen lamp, casting a long, predatory shadow that swallowed you whole.
"It’s okay," he murmured, that mischievous, knowing smirk returning. It was a look that made your stomach turn—a perfidious mix of horror and a raw, magnetic attraction you couldn't suppress. "I've seen women look at me before. But never one who could sew me up without fainting."
You cleared your throat, clutching the blood-stained rag so hard your knuckles hurt. "Well, I ain't most women. And you ain't most men."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not. Now, show me where I can wash this filth off. I can taste the dirt in my pores."
You nodded, your legs feeling like jelly. You led him out of the kitchen, your back feeling exposed and vulnerable with him walking behind you. The floorboards groaned under Bo’s weight as you led him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway. The air in your small house felt different now—charged, like the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm breaks the heat. His silent, looming presence seemed to swallow the flickering light of the wall-mounted oil lamps.
You stopped at the door to the washroom, a cramped space with a slanted ceiling and the heavy scent of lye soap. "In here," you said, pointing to the galvanized tub in the center of the floor.
You didn't turn around to face him.
You couldn't.
"I’ll—I’ll get the water hot for the tub," you murmured to the wall. "I reckon I got some of my brother’s old work shirts and trousers in the chest. You can wear 'em while I wash yours."
A dark thought flickered in the back of your mind—that a man like him probably didn't need to borrow clothes; he likely just took what he wanted from the bodies he left behind. But you shook it away, choosing to believe in the quiet, euphonious lilt of his voice instead of the carnage you’d seen in the gravel. You wanted him to be a decent man, even if you knew deep down he was something else entirely.
ᦏ᪔
In the small, cramped washroom, you hauled the heavy kettle you’d left on the stove, pouring the steaming water into the metal tub. The steam rose in heavy, humid plumes, turning the small bathroom into a hothouse that smelled of woodsmoke and the iron tang of the well water. You felt the dampness immediately; the fine coils of your hair began to tighten and frizz against your neck, the edges of your kitchen-wrap softening into a halo of wild texture in the heat.
Bo stood in the doorway, a solid weight against the flickering light. He began to strip with a slow, crude lack of shame. The ruined white shirt made a wet, sticky sound as he peeled it away—a sound that sat heavy in your stomach.
Your eyes betrayed you, trailing over the map of his back. He was a landscape of fit, scarred muscle, shoulders broad enough to block out the world, tapering down to a waist that looked lean and lethal. The jagged lines of old wars—some silver, some deep and puckered—were smeared now with the fresh, drying blood of the men he’d just finished. It looked like war paint against his skin, dark and drying in the air.
His nostrils flared. He drew a breath so deep his ribs expanded like an animal scenting the wind. His gaze fixed on the back of your neck with a focused hunger. The steam was acting as a messenger, carrying your scent directly to him—the sun-dried cotton of your dress, the earthy sweetness of your skin, and the sharp, copper sting of the blood where the gravel had torn your knees.
"Wash me," he commanded.
The words weren't a request. They were a low, alluring rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into the soles of your bare feet.
You gripped the washcloth until your fingers ached, the water dripping hot and stinging against your knuckles. You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you to run out the back door and never look back. The air in the room was too thin, too hot.
"You got two hands, Bo," you said, trying to summon the ghost of your courage. "I already did the hard part with the needle and thread. I ain't your maid."
"It’s the least you can do," he countered. He took a step into the room, the space shrinking instantly. His eyes locked onto yours, hooded and unblinking. "I took a bullet in my dominant arm for you, sweetheart. Hard to scrub when you're stitched up tight."
You tried to find your spine, forcing a huff of indignation even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "You’re a monster. I reckon you got enough of that super-human devilry in you to handle a bar of soap without my help."
The smirk vanished instantly. His face dropped, a glum expression crossed his features, making the room feel even smaller and colder despite the steam. He looked at you with a startling vulnerability that felt more dangerous than his anger. It was the look of a thing that had forgotten it could be perceived as anything other than a threat to be put down.
"Is that all you see?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave into a bleak, hollow place. "A monster?"
A pang of guilt pricked at your chest. You looked at him—really looked, past the blood and the horror. You followed the line of his jaw, the tired curve of his eyes, and the way the blood was matted into his dark hair like a crown of thorns.
He looked exhausted.
He looked lonely.
"I didn't say that's all," you whispered, the words coming out softer and more regretful than you intended. "But you are what you are, Bo."
To break the smothering weight of the silence, you reached for the jar of dried lavender and bath salts on the shelf. You threw a handful into the steaming tub, the floral scent blooming instantly in a desperate attempt to mask the smell of the road and the kill.
"This should take the edge off the pain," you murmured, your hands shaking as you stirred the water. "Help you sleep."
Bo didn't look away from you. His hands moved to the buttons of his trousers. The metallic clink of the fly being undone sent a jolt of white-hot heat straight to your thighs, a pulse that matched the frantic, ragged beat of your heart. You watched, paralyzed, as his stomach muscles raised, the dark hair disappearing into the waistband as he pushed the heavy denim down his hips.
"I—um—I’m going to get the clean clothes," you blurted out, the panic finally winning. Your pulse was a wild, trapped thing in your throat, and you felt like you were about to drown in the steam. "I’ll leave 'em right outside the door so you can get in the water. And If you really can't do it yourself, I'll help. Promise."
You scrambled out of the room, your face burning and your skin damp with the ghost of his heat. You instantly regretted the last part of your statement. Why had you even offered? Maybe it was the lingering sting of guilt from your earlier words, a clumsy and impulsive attempt to balance the scales. Maybe it was the heavy silence that followed, making you desperate to fill the air. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you.
Those brown eyes held a pull you couldn’t quite name, an unspoken gravity that made you want to do things for him, to be the person who fixed whatever was broken. You didn't have to look back to know his eyes were on your spine, trailing the path of your retreat like a hunter watching a deer vanish into the brush. You stood in the hallway, shivering in the sudden draft, while the scent of lavender and iron lingered in your lungs like a curse.
ᦏ᪔
The kitchen was quiet, save for the rhythmic, wet shuck-shuck of the wooden scrub board. You stood hunched over the bucket, your knuckles raw and stinging from the harsh lye soap. You watched, mesmerized and appalled, as the water turned a deep plum color—the blood of the men Bo had slaughtered bleeding out of the white fabric of his shirt.
Your mind was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with images you couldn't unsee. Every time you blinked, you heard it again: the metallic clink-clink of that man’s belt, the weight of him pinning you down, the taste of Mississippi dirt and your own copper blood in your mouth. And then... the shift.
The sound of Bo’s arrival hadn't been human. It was the sound of a butcher shop at midnight—the wet, splintering crunch of bone, the melon-dropping thud of a head hitting the gravel, and that gargling, truncated scream. You had witnessed four murders. You had seen a man’s head taken off with the casual ease of someone plucking a cotton boll.
I’m patchin' up a demon, you thought, your rhythm slowing until the scrub board went silent. I’m washin' his sins off his clothes like he’s my own kin. A cold shiver raced down your spine, clashing with the sweltering heat of the stove.
Had you made a terrible mistake?
You had invited a thing into your home that didn't eat, didn't breathe right, and carried the stench of the grave beneath a veil of lavender. You were a lone woman in a sharecropper shack with a monster. If he decided he was still hungry, there wasn't a lock in the Delta that could keep him out.
But then, you remembered the way he’d gripped your thigh—not with the bruising, entitlement of the men in the lot, but with a anchoring certainty. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world of ghosts. The fear was there, sharp as a razor, but it was being crowded out by a thick, honey-slow heat. You knew that look in his shimmery eyes. He wanted to ruin you, yes—but he wanted to be the only thing that ever touched you again.
And God help you, you were ready to let him.
The water in the bucket was too foul to continue. You needed to change it and get the rinsing rack you’d left in the washroom. You wiped your damp, soapy hands on your apron, the fabric rough against your sensitized skin, and walked down the hall.
You knocked softly, your heart beginning that familiar, erratic dance against your ribs. "Bo?"
"Come in," his voice drifted through the wood.
You pushed the door open. The steam hit you first, a thick, comforting fog that smelled of the lavender and salt you’d thrown in. But underneath the flowers was the unmistakable scent of him—rain, cold earth, and a hint of ozone. Bo was submerged in the galvanized tub, his long legs folded uncomfortably against the metal.
His wet hair was pushed back, revealing the stark, haunting beauty of his face. His tan skin glistened with water and oil, the blood finally gone, leaving him looking like a polished jade statue.
"I just came for the scrubbing rack," you whispered. You tried to keep your eyes on the wall, but they drifted, fixed on the way the water beaded on his collarbones and the muscles of his chest. "For your clothes."
Bo didn't move. He just watched you, his eyes shimmery and dark, tracking the rise and fall of your chest. "The clothes can wait, little bird. 'Member what I said?"
"Oh... yeah," you breathed.
You walked toward him, the floorboards creaking. There was a mesmerizing charm in his gaze that felt like an illusion of safety.
As you reached the edge of the tub, Bo’s hand shot out—the uninjured one—and caught your wrist. His skin was cool, a shocking contrast to the steaming water, and his grip was a firm cuff. He guided you down until your knees hit the damp floorboards with a soft thud.
"You made a promise," he murmured, pressing the hot washcloth into your hand. "Be thorough. I don't want a speck of dirt or blood left on me."
He leaned back, exposing the wet planes of his stomach and the strong column of his throat. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking and predatory. "Don't let your shyness keep you from seeing where you need to clean," he warned, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I want to feel every bit of that kindness you claimed to have."
You took a shaky breath, your fingers trembling as you pressed the cloth to his shoulder. You began to scrub, tracing the lines of his muscles. Bo watched you with an intense focus. He could smell the way your pulse had spiked, the scent of your arousal blooming like a night-flower in the cramped room.
He reached out, his large hand tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. "Look at me while you do it," he commanded softly. "I want to see you realize what you're touchin'."
The steam had become a lavender-scented disinhibitor. As you moved the cloth lower, your knuckles brushed against the solid weight of him, submerged in the soapy water. You felt the thick, hard length of his dick stir beneath the surface, pulsing against your hand.
Bo let out a long, shuddering sigh. He didn't pull away. He just watched you, his shimmery eyes blown wide. Your lips were parted with a mix of curiosity and a hunger you couldn't hide anymore. You were gentle, your soapy hands sliding over his slick skin, but the more you cleaned, the harder he became.
Bo’s hand clamped onto your waist. Before you could gasp, he hauled you over the rim. The water surged over the sides, splashing onto the floorboards with a heavy thud, as you landed in the tub with him. It was cramped; the metal bit into your hip, and your dress was instantly a heavy, sodden weight clinging to your skin.
Bo’s grip was absolute. He held your waist with one hand, his fingers digging into your flesh, while his other arm draped casually over the edge, his veiny hand twitching.
You leaned in, your lips trembling as you pressed a tentative kiss to his.
Bo didn't do tentative. He moaned into your mouth, his hand pulling you flush against his chest. He took over the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a desperate hunger that tasted of ancient promises. You felt his dick pressing between your thighs. You ground down, the wet fabric of your dress providing a friction that made your toes curl into the metal.
His hand slid beneath the wet hem of your dress, his fingers ghosting over your thighs until they hooked into the waistband of your panties. With one effortless tug, he ripped the fabric. The sound of the tearing cotton was a sharp snap of finality. He flung the ruined scrap into the corner.
He pulled back just enough to nip your bottom lip. When you looked down, your heart nearly stopped. His fangs were fully descended—ragged, ivory daggers that looked like fresh bone. They were jagged, lethal, and capable of tearing the life from you in a single heartbeat.
You felt a spike of pure fear, and Bo felt it too. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "Relax, little bird. I've got you. Don't let the teeth scare you... I'll only bite if you ask me too."
He licked a slow, hot path across your lip before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned, your head falling back as you grinded onto his dick. It was perfectly positioned, stimulating you until you were seeing sparks.
"Put it in for me," he rasped.
He began to kiss a trail down your neck, the points of his fangs dragging across your skin, leaving thin, white lines that stung and burned. You reached down, your fingers fumbling through the soapy water until you found him. He was big—thick and pulsing with a life that didn't belong to a dead man. You lined him up, your breath catching, and slowly, you started to sink down.
The stretch was deep, a forceful opening that made your vision swim. You felt every ridge, every inch of him as he filled you.
"Mghn, fuck..." you breathed, your nails carving small crescents into his skin.
"All the way," Bo commanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Take it all, sweetness. Every bit of it."
You pushed through the resistance until you bottomed out. He hit a wall with a blunt pressure that made your stomach ache with the sheer fullness. You sat there for a moment, impaled and trembling, while the water lapped at your waists and the steam curled around your heads.
"There," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup your face. "Now you know exactly what a monster feels like inside you." Bo’s damp hand stayed clamped on your face, his thumb dragging roughly across your lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the slick, red inner flesh of your mouth.
He watched the way you trembled, your breath coming in shallow, broken hitches as your body tried—and failed—to accommodate the sheer, unyielding stretch of him.
He shifted his hips, a slow, teasing roll that forced you to feel every ridge and pulsing vein of him. You let out a high, thin whimper, your hands flying to his chest to push him away, to find some air, but his weight was like the Mississippi mud—heavy, ancient, and impossible to move.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, condescending purr that vibrated through your joined heat.
"All that fire in the gravel lot, spittin’ venom at those crackers... and here you are now, shakin’ like a leaf just ‘cause a real man’s fillin’ you up. You’re a pathetic little thing, ain’t you? All mouth and no room for the consequences. You think you’re brave ‘cause you sew up a wound? You’re just a fragile woman who doesn't know how to leave things be."
The mean edge in his voice made your stomach flip, a toxic cocktail of shame and heat. "Shut—uhn... shut up," you gasped, your head rolling back as he thrust upward—a sharp, blunt jab that hit your g-spot with the force of a hammer, making your vision streak with white light.
"Make me," he challenged, his eyes shimmering with a wicked, gold-flecked shimmer that made your blood run hotter.
He didn't give you a chance to answer. He reached for the straps of your dress. He didn't bother being gentle; he ripped the fabric down, the wet slap of the ruined dress hitting the floorboards echoed loud in the cramped room. Your bra followed, snapped and flung aside until you were bare, your skin glistening with sweat and lavender-water in the flickering light.
Bo’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue rough and scorching as he swirled it around your nipple. He sucked deep, his fangs grazing the sensitive peak just enough to draw a pinprick of blood—a jolt of pain-pleasure that traveled straight to your clit.
He thrust again, slow and agonizing, his hips grinding into your soft thighs with a crude force. You reached out, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as you found a dulcet rhythm. You began to bounce, the water in the tub sloshing violently over the rim with every downward stroke, soaking the floor.
Bo threw his head back, a low, guttural moan tearing from his throat. He let you ride him, but his hands weren't gentle. They moved to your chest, his palms engulfing your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh with a bruising strength that made you gasp. His thumbs found your nipples, pinching and twisting until you cried out.
"That's it," he rasped, his fingers digging into your hip bones to anchor you as you hammered yourself down. "Ride it, baby. Show me how much you want it. You like the way I feel, don't you? Like I’m stretchin’ you out so far you’ll never close right again? You’re lucky I found you, or those men would’ve torn you apart... but I’m the one actually doin' it, ain't I?"
He sped up his own hips, his thrusts turning quick and short, hitting you with a force that made the galvanized tub rattle against the floorboards. You felt his fangs scrape against your shoulder as he leaned in to bite at your skin, not breaking it yet, just marking you with the weight of his hunger.
"You're so wet," he groaned against your ear, his breath smelling of lavender and the copper of his own blood. "Drippin' all into the water. Shit... I'm gonna make sure you can't walk for a week without—ahh—feelin' me between your legs, remindin' you who you let in."
You nodded, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice nothing but a broken, humid whisper. "Y-you feel so good, Bo... Lord, you feel so good."
Bo let out a sound that was half-growl, half-purr, his chest vibrating against yours. He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tasted of salt and the iron-sweetness of his. His tongue sweeping deep as he thrust upward, meeting your downward motion halfway. The wet slap of your bodies meeting echoed off the damp wooden walls.
"Mhmm, I bet I do," he mumbled against your lips, his drawl thick and heavy with condescension. "Better than anythin’ you ever imagined in that quiet little life of yours, ain’t it? You spend your days haulin’ water a-and pickin’ okra, never dreamin’ a demon from the dark would come and stretch you out like this, sweet girl."
You tilted your head, your tongue flicking out to lick across the sharp, jagged ivory of his teeth. The danger of it—the knowledge that he could snap your neck in a second—made your blood sing. "You're a mean one, Bo Chow," you breathed, your eyes fluttering. "But you can be as mean as you w-want, as long as you keep fucking me."
His eyes flashed, a shimmery darkness. Without a word, he gripped your waist and stood up. The water cascaded off his body, splashing onto the floorboards in a heavy torrent. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs dangling for a split second before he flipped you over the cold, narrow edge of the galvanized tub. Your stomach hit the metal, your hands scrambling for purchase on the damp floor as you were forced into a deep arch. Bo was behind you instantly, his shadow swallowing you whole.
He didn't wait. He grabbed your hips—his fingers digging deep—and drove back home in one violent thrust that bottomed out with a wet squelch.
"Ahhn—!" You cried out, your fingers clawing at the wood.
He was fucking you like you owed him a debt you could never pay, his movements fast and relentless. It was rough, the friction of the wet skin and the deep, forceful stretch of him making your vision streak with color. He was marking you from the inside out, claiming every inch of your internal space.
"Look back at me," he ordered, as he reached back and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to your ass. One that made your skin tingle and your pussy clench tight around him. "Look at what I'm doin' to you. See how you take it."
You twisted your neck, looking over your shoulder with blown-out eyes. You watched as his shaft disappeared into you and reappeared, glistening with your combined slickness. You watched your own flesh stretch and yield, your hole squeezing him with every pulse.
Bo let out a long, ragged moan. "Oh my... look at that. Look at how you're grabbin' me. You're s-so greedy for it. Just a hungry little hole for the haint." He leaned down, his chest pressing into your back, and whispered something dark and filthy in Cantonese—the sounds sharp and ancient against your ear. Then, his voice dropped back into that Delta rasp. "I bet if I sink these teeth into that pretty neck of yours, you'd squeeze me so tight I’d never get out. I could drink you dry while I fill you up.
He kept pounding into you, his pace turning frantic, his breath hitching. The overstimulation was too much; you reached back, your hand pressing into his lower stomach, trying to find some leverage against the assault.
"Bo, w-wait... slow down," you sobbed, your eyes teary, your lips pouting in a desperate plea. "Please, it's too much..."
He paused, but he didn't pull out. He looked down at your face—the tears, the flushed skin, the absolute wreck he’d made of you—and a slow, possessive smirk crossed his lips. He reached out and folded one of your arms behind your back, pinning it there with his large hand, and began to fuck you slow and deep.
It was worse this way. Every inch of him was felt, every ridge of his dick dragging against your sensitive walls. You watched as your own cream began to coat his skin, dripping down his thighs and into the pink-tinted water on the floor. Bo reached around with his free hand, spreading your cheeks wide, his thumb tracing the seam of your ass with a strange gentleness.
"You're a mess," he murmured, watching the way you took him. "A beautiful, wet mess. I’m gonna eat this pretty pussy later, once I’m done usin’ it. I’m gonna taste every bit of what I put inside you. You’re gonna miss me for days."
Your hand drifted down to your clit, your fingers finding the swollen, sensitive nub and rubbing in frantic circles. The slow, deep thrusts were driving you to the edge of a cliff.
"Can you take it faster, baby?" Bo rasped, his hand leaving your back to wrap firmly around the base of your neck. "You want me to finish in you? You want the monster to fill you up?"
"Yes," you gasped, your head falling forward. "Yes, Bo! Please! Just do it!"
He gripped your neck, anchoring you as he began to pound into you with everything he had. The sounds were wet and violent, the tub rattling against the floor as he reached for his own peak. You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that crashed over you just as he delivered one last deep thrust that pinned you against the metal.
You screamed into the empty washroom, your body convulsing as you came in wave after wave of paralyzing pleasure. A second later, Bo let out a low moan, his body locking up as he erupted inside you. You felt the scorching heat of him, the thick, pulsing ropes of his release filling you to the absolute brim, making you feel like you were overflowing.
He stayed there for a long time, his forehead resting against your back, both of you panting in the cooling steam. When he finally pulled out, the sound was wet and heavy. You stayed slumped over the tub, your legs shaking, watching as his thick, white cum began to leak out of you, dripping slowly onto the dark, damp floorboards of your home.
Bo stood over you, his eyes still shining, his thumb reaching out to catch a stray drop of his seed from your thigh before bringing it to his lips, tasting you one last time.
ᦏ᪔
The scent of lye soap and fresh floor wax had mostly chased away the copper sting of blood and the heavy musk of the night before. Your small house looked right again—quilts snapped straight, the hearth swept clean, and the kitchen table scrubbed down for the arrival of your brother, his wife, and their little ones. But despite the domestic order, the air still felt charged, humming with the ghost of the intimacy that had unfolded in the washroom.
Bo sat at your small kitchen table, draped in a set of your brother’s old work clothes. The denim was faded and the shirt was tight across his broad, scarred shoulders, but he wore them with a strange, effortless dignity. He looked like any other man from the Delta, save for the stillness in his posture and the way his eyes seemed to swallow the afternoon light.
You leaned against the counter, smoothing your apron, feeling the dull ache between your thighs—a constant, thrumming reminder of exactly what he was.
"Everything’s ready," you said, your voice a little raspy. "I reckon you can stay on and rest a bit longer, but you got to be gone before the crickets start their real loud chirpin'. My brother and his kin... they can’t find you here. Especially not lookin’ like you do."
Bo didn't answer right away. He stood up, his frame making the kitchen feel small again, and crossed the room with that fluid, silent stride. He stepped behind you, wrapping his large, cool arms around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, his chin resting in the crook of your neck. You felt his breath, cold and smelling faintly of the lavender salts, against your skin.
"I’ll be gone before the first headlight hits the gravel, little bird," he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your throat. He didn't bite, but the threat—the promise—of his fangs was always there. "When can I see you again?"
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes. "Whenever you want, Bo. I'm sure you know the way."
He let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through your spine. He squeezed your waist once, firmly, before letting go. "Thank you again. For the thread. For not callin' the law or the lynch mobs." His eyes drifted to the window, looking out toward the cypress trees. "I’ll pay you back for the trouble. Name your price."
You didn't hesitate. You knew the value of your silence and your safety in this world. You named a price—a bold amount of silver that would keep your family fed and the taxes paid for a long, long time.
Bo let out a short, dry bark of a laugh, his shimmery eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re a greedy woman," he said, but there was a deep, underlying respect in his tone. He reached out, his thumb dragging across your cheek. "I like that. I used to own a store myself, back before the world got so dark. I know the cost of doin' business. You'll have your silver."
ᦏ᪔
The house was full of the sounds of family later that night—the high-pitched giggles of your nieces, the heavy thud of your brother’s boots, and the soft chatter of his wife as they settled into the guest rooms. You played your part, serving food and enjoying family time, but your mind was stuck in the quiet shadows of the washroom.
When you finally crawled into your own bed, the sheets felt cold and lonely. You fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted by the weight of the secrets you were carrying.
In the dead of the night, the air in your room shifted. There was no sound, just a subtle change in pressure.
Bo appeared at your bedside like a shadow detached from the wall. He stood over you for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, and pressed a lingering, feather-light kiss to your forehead.
He reached out, his long fingers snagging a small scarf you’d left on the nightstand—one you’d used to tie back your hair. He brought it to his nose, inhaling the scent of you that clung to the fabric: the peach-sweetness, the earth, and the lingering spice of the night before. He tucked it into his pocket, a piece of you to take back into the dark.
When you woke the next morning, the room was empty and the sun was beginning to bleed over the horizon. You sat up, shivering slightly, and noticed a small piece of paper weighted down by a small sack on your vanity.
You picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and slanted.
The Delta is a dangerous place, dear. Keep your doors locked and your fire high. I'll be back for the rest of what I owe you.— B.C.
You clutched the silver coin in your hand, feeling its cold weight, and looked out at the swamp. Bo Chow was gone, but you knew that he was still watching.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ; Headcaons on how I think San would be if he was a stoner.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ; Stoner!San x Fem!Reader.
☆ — 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 312. ☆ — 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : Smut. ☆ — 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Marijuana intox, swearing, drug selling, lap sitting, makeouts, dry humping, whimpering, love bites, cumming in pants, and submissive!san.
♡ — 𝐕𝐢𝐩 𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ; @kissmatz @eggielix @miisanthropology @mywonuverse send a ask to be added or removed!
Stoner!san who always has something on him, whether it’s a blunt or a pen. He will get high anytime, and anywhere.
Stoner!san who glares at you whenever you take too long to pass it back to him, he gets mad and tells you “you’re fuckin up the rotation, man. It’s puff, puff, pass. Everyone knows that.”
Stoner!san who tries to act like he doesn’t have to cough, just to walk away for five minutes to ‘get a drink’ but he never comes back with one, and you can hear him almost hacking up a lung in the kitchen.
Stoner!san who greens out really easily, passing out for almost an entire day afterwards as well.
Stoner!san who was supposed to help his friend sell off weed, just to end up smoking everything he was given.
Stoner!san who stares at you mid session and doesn’t say anything, but he does giggle a lot.
— “I got new shit.” “How new?” “Like just bought it type of new.”
Stoner!san who likes when you sit in his lap, letting his hand rest on your ribs just to end up trying to cop a feel.
Stoner!san who’s favorite this is making out with you when he’s high, claiming that it just feels better. Meaning it gets him horny easier than it would be if he was sober.
Stoner!san who guides your hips to grind against his bulge, burying his face into your neck so you can hear his little whimpers.
Stoner!san who gets so needy that he’ll accidentally leave bite marks along your neck and collar bone.
Stoner!san who cums in his pants before you even actually get to do anything, claiming it was the weed’s fault.
Stoner!san who continues to buck his hips up against you, telling you to use him however you please to.
you can't tell me that mingi doesn’t look like he gives spine-demolishing backshots. have you seen how he moves his fucking hips during say my name? have you seen him dance to rocky?? have you seen him act like a whore while doing san’s part in cyberpunk??? have you seen this man be a whore on stage???? he's the type to purposefully overstim you with his fingers and mouth, just so you squirm and writhe when he finally slides into thick cock into your warm hole. real mean with it too; “aww look at you, trying to run away.” while he grabs your hips and pulls you back into him. wants you crying, screaming, and creaming on his dick. bonus points if you squirt on him. but be warned; doing so will only make him fuck you harder. if you start squirting, expect to do it at least three more times. mingi is always hungry and you’re his favourite meal 🎀
i love to headcanon that bucky barnes takes his time when prepping you. he loves foreplay, so fucking much that he could spend hours on his knees just pleasuring you
and that’s not to say that he didn’t want you
no.
he yearned for you when he’s on his knees, his tongue in your cantor his fingers knuckle deep. having you cum over and over and over again on everything but his cock
and he loved watching your body react to him
he could wait forever if it meant he was able to pull orgasm after orgasm from you — those beautiful moans slipping from your lips and going right to his cock always strained in his boxers
sometimes…he even forgets about getting off.
him laid out on his stomach with your thighs comfortably around his head. he’s been at it for hours and it’s soothing for the both of you, messily running your hands gently through his hair while whining and moaning here and there
the gentle gazes from him between your thighs as he eats you out slowly, methodically.
fuck. he even falls asleep at one point. you do too. just to wake back up with his fingers pumping slowly inside of you, sleepy moans from each of you
Synopsis: tiger hybrid Wooyoung has been looking for someone to carry his cubs for a long time. his bunny college classmate y/n seems like the perfect fit. he'll have you no matter what it takes-whether you agree or not.
tw: predator/prey dynamics, alpha tiger hybrid wy, bunny hybrid reader, dubcon, dacryphilia, knotting, semi-public sex, come inflation, breeding, mating bites. If you don’t like, don’t read or comment because you’ll be blocked, thank ya!
Wooyoung has seen you around multiple times, a pretty little bunny with your big wide eyes and cute floppy ears that you’d use to cover them whenever you’d get startled. Wooyoung’s never believed in perfect mates, but from the first time he laid eyes on you, he just knew you were meant for him—made to be his, to take his bite and carry his mark, to carry his cubs. He just had to have you, and he wouldn’t stop at anything to get you.
You were way too precious and innocent of a bunny for a predator as mischievous as him. Wooyoung could clearly see from the very beginning that you kept as far away from predators as possible. Your closest friends were all prey; he’s seen you walking around with them at your side multiple times. You were constantly together, and Wooyoung had yet to catch you on your own. That is, until now.
Granted, he didn’t think the first time he’d ever get to corner you would be in a public restroom during one of his free periods, but he’s always been an opportunist—and he was definitely going to take advantage of this situation. It’s very common for prey not to associate themselves with any predators, especially prey as fragile and easily startled as bunnies. Wooyoung knew you would never come anywhere near him willingly, especially not on your own, but that doesn’t stop him from creeping up behind you when he sees you dash for the bathrooms.
It’s easy for him to sneak in quietly after you, tiptoeing as he walks in front of every stall, noticing that only one of them is taken, which makes him smile. It’s just him and you, perfect.
With a pleased little hum, he leans against one of the sinks, crossing his arms over his chest, and waits. Taking a whiff of the air around, he sniffs past the smell of chlorine and focuses on the faint scent that makes his mouth water: warm milk and honey. The sweetest bunny. Wooyoung wonders if you taste as sweet as you smell. He’ll get to find out soon enough.
The toilet flushes, and Wooyoung’s toes wriggle in his shoes from impatience. He can’t wait to finally sink his claws and teeth into your skin, to touch those fluffy ears and grip them tight between his fingers. He hums a low tune as he waits, and the previous sound of movement from behind the door instantly quiets down. That’s good. Wooyoung wants you to hear him, to know he’s here, waiting for you to come out and fall right into his arms. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.
When the door finally cracks open, you tentatively peek your head out, big bunny eyes taking in your surroundings. As soon as they land on Wooyoung, they are completely overtaken by fright, and you let out a shaky gasp, loudly shutting the door once more. It’s not as if Wooyoung hadn’t expected that, but the reaction still makes him chuckle.
The tiger knows how light on his feet he can be, even your big bunny ears would most likely not be able to pick out the sound of his tiptoeing as he maneuvers his way to your bathroom stall. As carefully as possible, he presses his ear against the door. The sound of your rapid breathing makes him smile. You must be so scared—poor little bunny, cornered by the big bad tiger, with no chance to escape. Wooyoung’s gums ache with the need to dig his fangs right into your skin.
He doesn’t say a word, staying as quiet as a mouse for a long five minutes until you have calmed down enough. Wooyoung is known for his patience; he could sit right here and wait all day if he had to. Of course, he’d prefer it if you would come out sooner and he could quell the urge to be rammed balls deep inside you as fast as possible, but he’s still going to wait as long as he must. He can offer you that much.
When the lock on the door finally comes off again, Wooyoung’s ears perk up. His muscles tense, and he takes a long whiff of the air around. Acrid milk, no longer as sweet as it first was. You must be frightened out of your mind.
As soon as the door creaks open and the only part peeking out are your eyes, Wooyoung’s lips curl into a grin. The sight of the tiger so close makes you almost scream. Wooyoung’s arm shoots forward to stop the door from slamming shut again.
“Hi, bunny.”
His body slides swiftly inside the stall, door locking behind him. Your eyes are wide, so wide you fear they might pop out of their sockets. Your ears flop down and stick to your cheeks, a sight Wooyoung finds way more endearing than he should. He licks his lips hungrily as he stares you down.
Your shrill scream of terror is quickly silenced when Wooyoung slaps a hand over your mouth. The skin on skin contact makes your eyes instantly fill with tears that stream down your face. Wooyoung tuts and hushes you with uncanny gentleness.
“There, there,” he whispers, grabbing a hold of your waist before you can try to move away in the limited space there is left. “Oh, no, don’t cry.” He tuts in faux concern, peeling his hand off of your mouth just so he can pet over your ears—something you don’t find comfort in in the slightest.
You’re shaking like a leaf in Wooyoung’s arms, too scared to try to fight back or move away—just as he intended for it to be. You’re even more perfect than Wooyoung imagined.
You bring your hands up to tug your ears over your eyes, small hiccups falling from your mouth as you cry, wishing this was just a bad dream you could wake up from. The sight makes Wooyoung coo out loud.
“So cute,” he squishes your cheeks, and another gasp of fright leaves your mouth. You tug your ears even harder over your eyes. Wooyoung is concerned for a brief moment about them hurting.
“Can you look at me, bun?” When you do nothing but cry harder, Wooyoung begins to get a little frustrated. “Come on, just a peek.” His voice is still gentle, but the grip on your waist is getting stronger. “Look at alpha.”
Wooyoung is not one to proclaim his status out loud, mostly just lets his actions speak for themselves, but the word instantly has you dropping your hands from your ears, letting them flop uselessly. Wooyoung is pretty sure you’re not even breathing as you peer from behind your fluffy ears at him. Of course, the title would have anyone cowering before him. You’re just a small bunny, you’re in no place to try to defy a tiger, that’s an alpha at that.
Your teeth rattle inside your mouth as you finally meet Wooyoung’s eyes.
“There you go,” he smiles mischievously, smoothing a hand over your forehead to pull your ears back, which he admittedly tugs on a little harder than he should. Your gasp is a worthy reward. “Good bun.”
You swallow hard and try to stop your hiccups enough to be able to speak. “I–I have t–to go.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, stuttering over each syllable. Wooyoung frowns, taking a step forward, which makes you take one back. The tiger’s hands are still on your hips, his eyes sharp on your face. “Go? Already?”
You nod rapidly and exhale a loud breath when your back hits the wall, with no place left to move. You look around helplessly, knowing there’s no way for you to escape, but still hoping.
“Can’t let you go just yet,” Wooyoung says. “I need you to do something for me first.”Your bottom lip wobbles. “C–can’t.” Your head shakes from side to side desperately.
Wooyoung sighs dreamily. You’re so precious. “Yes, you can,” he speaks sweetly. “It’s so easy, will only take a little while if you’re good and do as I say.”
Wooyoung would take his time if he could—fuck you slowly until your cries and begs were no longer ones of fright, but of want. Knot you over and over until you were so full of his seed it would be impossible for it not to catch. Bend you in each and every way until your little body aches in places it has never ached before. Wooyoung’s eyes glow a bright gold with all the thoughts swimming through his head. The sight makes your breathing come to a stop.
The alpha licks over his lips. “I need you…” he trails a finger down your cheek, softly grabbing onto one of your ears and petting it lightly. “To carry something for me.”
You seem completely taken aback, your fear melting into confusion. “C–carry?”
Wooyoung beams, “Yes, carry! Think you can do that?”
Your nose twitches as you bring a sweater paw up to rub over it. Wooyoung could eat you right up. “M’ a strong bunny…” The whisper is so quiet, it’s almost as if you say it to yourself to spur yourself on.
Wooyoung laughs, head thrown back, his teeth on full display. The sight of sharp incisors makes you cower back even more against the wall. “Good, Very good.” Wooyoung is still lightly chuckling when he focuses his attention back on you. “Then it’s settled.”
Suddenly, his features turn stoic. The lightheartedness is gone, and the small amount of relief you had felt disappears as well. The hands at your waist become harsh, fingertips pushing into your skin until he’s gotten a good enough grip to turn you around, manhandling you until your front is pressed to the wall.
You cry out loud, “B–but,” your breathing is so fast, you might just send yourself into overdrive. Wooyoung’s nose pushes against your neck, breathing in your scent. his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Y–you said—”
“I said?” Wooyoung rumbles, chest vibrating against your back.
You shriek and feel your eyes fill with fresh tears when the alpha’s fingers grab ahold of your skirt, swiftly tugging it down your hips and down your legs in one swift move. Your bunny tail trembles in fear, legs instantly squeezing together when you feel the cold air of the bathroom hit your bare skin.
“N–No!” You whimper quickly, shaking your head, your ears flopping along with your movements.“No?” Wooyoung questions, not hesitating once before grinding his crotch right against your backside, his dick pressing between your ass cheeks. “But you agreed.”
You’re so scared, so confused. You thought maybe you would have to carry the tiger’s backpack or his books. You don’t know how him having his dick pressed right against your ass has anything to do with “carrying.” The alpha’s hand trails over your stomach, the skin feeling soft against his palm. Wooyoung presses closer, taking huge lungfulls of your scent, which makes his dick throb even harder inside his jeans.
“Your body is so perfect, bunny,” You cry out weakly when you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone. “You have to carry them for me.”You’re more confused than you’ve ever been in your entire life. Your cheek presses against the cold wall in front of you, a frown etched between your brows. “C–carry?”
“My cubs.” Wooyoung says. “Gonna carry my cubs so well for me, aren’t you? Give me a healthy litter?” Realization finally dawns on you. He wants you too….
“No!” You try to protest, but you still don’t dare move. You’re too scared to. Wooyoung’s breath is hot against your neck, teeth barely scratching the surface of your skin. He could take a bite straight out of you if he wanted to. Tear you to shreds. You wouldn’t even get to blink once before you’d be dead. You sob uncontrollably.
“No, alpha, p–please—”
Wooyoung moans, delighted to hear his title being called from your sweet lips. He tugs his cock out of his pants, hard and wet in the cold air of the bathroom stall, smacking lightly right over your shivering tail. “Yeah, there you go.” He groans, pulling your underwear down. “You can cry, sweet bunny.” He doesn’t hesitate to part your ass cheeks, pulling the skin taut, until both of your holes are winking at him. “Cry for your alpha.”
You gasp feeling utterly embarrassed as your body presses further against the wall as Wooyoung exams you. You bite back a whimper at the feeling. But the response is obvious in the way your pussy starts to drip. Wooyoung smiles when he touches it, only for his fingers to come back sticky.
“Look at you, so perfect.” The first intrusion of his finger makes you squeak, your ears instantly slapping back over your eyes. The feeling is so unexpected and sudden. Wooyoung wastes no time in opening you up. Three fingers sink inside of you until the last knuckle in mere seconds.
“Can’t, s–stop!” you sob, as your pussy grips around his fingers tight holding them hostage. They’re twisting and turning inside of you so good, touching places you could never reach, you feel your mouth go slack as Wooyoung's fingers continue with their onslaught.
“Yes, you can.” Wooyoung says, almost as if he’s chastising you for doubting yourself. You can do this. You can carry his cubs. You’re gonna do so well, the alpha is sure of it. “Oh—” With one solid thrust against your bundle of nerves, you come undone pussy squeezing around his fingers inside of you so tight, he swears under his breath. It’s so sudden it has you screaming, which makes Wooyoung slap a hand right over your mouth.
Any other day, he would’ve loved nothing more than to have you scream for him. But right now, you’re not exactly in the most ideal setting. He steadily massages his finger against that special spot inside of you, as you come down from your high. Wooyoung is going to mate you right here and now.
As soon as his fingers pull out of you, he sucks them into his own mouth, savoring the sweetness over his tongue. If he could, he’d eat you out for hours. He’d suckle against your clit until you’re crying from overstimulation, fuck you with his tongue until you’re silly from it. He marks that on his bucket list for later. The blunt head of his cock feels wide against your entrance. Too wide to even go in. You’re still shaking from the unexpected orgasm, babbling nonsense when you feel Wooyoung trying to push his way inside.
“N–no, wha–” you sniffle weakly, your knees feeling numb. “Alpha…” Wooyoung inhales sharply. One moment he’s pressing against the entrance of your pussy, the next he’s buried balls deep inside your tight little hole. The shriek you release is muffled by Wooyoung’s palm that presses over your mouth in anticipation. Your walls spasm around the sudden intrusion, trying their hardest to accommodate it.
You cry, loud and whiny, your tears falling on the back of Wooyoung’s hand as the alpha groans in your ear, a snarl getting caught in the back of his throat. You feel so warm, so wet, so impossibly tight. Wooyoung might be popping a knot a lot faster than he originally intended.
“Fuck yeah, there you go…” he exhales into a moan, slowly grinding his hips until his cock is nestled deep inside your cunt, filling you up to the hilt. “Taking your alpha so well.” You feel dizzy, your eyes swimming inside their sockets, gargling incoherent sounds as Wooyoung pulls almost all the way out, only to slam back in and push you harshly against the wall. You feel like you’re going to come again with the way Wooyoung is fucking you. You wouldn’t mind bearing his cubs if he keeps fucking you just like this.
Wooyoung takes his hand off your mouth just so he can tug on your bunny’s ears, he’s harsh in the way he pulls them until your head is leaning on his shoulder, you crying from the feeling. “You’re my good bunny, aren’t you?” He accompanies his words with a harsh thrust, followed by a steady rhythm that has you leaking like a faucet around his cock.
“Can you say it? Say I’m Woo’s bunny, hm?” Your muddled brain doesn’t even realize this is the first time you’re hearing the alpha’s name. All you know and feel right now is the pounding right against your sweet spot that has you seeing bright white. “W–woo. I’m–” you sniffle, drool slowly seeping past your lips. “Woo’s b–bunny!”
You cry in fright and tug at your own ears in search of comfort when the tiger’s fangs dig into your skin, breaking the surface. You bite on your own ear, nibbling on it to try and calm yourself down, the endorphins releasing inside your body making you lose your footing. If there weren’t strong arms wrapped around your waist, you would be a crumbled mess onto the ground.
The slap of Wooyoung’s balls is harsh against your pussy. You whine weakly when you feel him getting even larger inside of you, if that’s even possible. You gasp and your ear falls from your mouth when you feel something swell inside of you. “Gotta sit still.” Wooyoung exhales harshly, pulling back to lick over the punctures he’s made on your neck. “Sit still so it’ll take, yeah?” It takes you a good few seconds to realize what the tiger means.
Sit still so that you’re guaranteed to fall pregnant with the alpha’s cubs. You’re too delirious to think about the implications that come along with that. All you can do right now is whine weakly and thump your foot as Wooyoung drives continuously into you, threatening to push the swollen base of his cock right inside of your cervix.
"M' a good bun." You sob, sniffling over and over. "Gonna…babies. C–carry babies." You think about them: cute little cubs and possibly baby bunnies. It's everything you've ever wanted. You never thought it would happen so fast; you're entirely not prepared for it, barely in your second year of university, but the choice has already been made for you. You'll carry Wooyoung's cubs like the good little bunny you are, the good little bunny you were always meant to be.
"Fucking—" Wooyoung curses, a loud growl resonating against the walls as he drives his cock up to the hilt, nudging into your cervix, knot plopping in mercilessly. Tears and snot run down your face as you feel Wooyoung's come make home inside of you; your tummy swells from the copious amounts of it. You're so warm, so unbearably full, you cramp up from it, foot thumping uselessly. Nothing but Wooyoung's low moans and your incessant babbling echoes around the otherwise silent bathroom. Both of your breathing is loud, harsh, and labored.
Wooyoung suckles on the mark he's left on your neck. As he palms down over your swollen stomach, Wooyoung's chest vibrates with a content rumble. He can feel it, he knows it'll take. He's gonna have you pregnant and showing by next month's come. Wooyoung will have healthy and beautiful cubs by the end of the year, and along with it, a cute and obedient bunny as his mate.
Yunho and Mingi had been dating for quite a long time. It seemed they started loving each other back in middle school, confessed in high school, and began dating. They even enrolled in the same university. Literally everyone knew about their relationship by the time they started college. Everyone knew. And you did too. So what the hell were you doing, falling in love with your best friends?
Your interaction with them started gradually: you’d exchange a few words during shared lectures because you sat next to each other, then sometimes meet during breaks, sometimes in parks, and later at parties. Slowly but surely, you became their best friend. As friends, you really liked them. They were like two puppies who loved to cuddle. You loved cuddling too. The perfect trio, right? You knew about their relationship and fully supported it—they were so sweet together! You even felt a little jealous watching them sometimes; after all, you still hadn’t been in a relationship, despite being fairly popular on campus. Unfortunately, no one really caught your interest. Or so you thought.
You didn’t realize right away when you started developing feelings for them, but a turning point came at one of the parties.
Everyone was drunk as usual, music was playing, people were talking or laughing loudly. You were sitting on a couch chatting with your girlfriends when your gaze landed on Yunho and Mingi in the opposite corner of the living room. They were kissing. You were used to it by then. Hard not to be, when those two seemed to devour each other. But that night, something tugged at your chest. You never figured out what it was.
That strange feeling never left you whenever you saw your best friends. It didn’t matter if they were together or apart. Your heart clenched every time you saw them, and it felt like your insides were twisting into knots. All these emotions weighed on you. What the hell was happening? You were so desperate that you locked yourself in your apartment for a few days to sort yourself out. Your friends texted you almost every hour with messages like: "How are you?", "Did you eat?", "Is everything okay?", "Should we come over and suffer together??" and so on. Each message made you tremble, your heart pounding wildly. You finally understood what was happening. You had fallen in love.
This realization was accompanied by laughter and tears. Damn it, you’d fallen in love not only with your best friends, but with two guys who were dating each other! Just perfect. You cried all through the first day, calmed down (with great difficulty) on the second, and by the third, you’d accepted it. What else could you do? Go and scream about your hopeless love to them? No way. You weren’t ready to humiliate yourself and lose their friendship and trust.
And so began your "survival." You thought it would be easy, but things didn’t go very well.
Every time you saw them, you felt jealous. You were jealous that they only kissed each other, and not you. Jealous because they didn’t look at you the way they looked at each other. And that jealousy burned your heart. Why the hell were you even jealous?! You told yourself you had no right, but the burning envy never left you. However, you found a way to cope with it—alcohol.
You became a regular at parties, whether alone or with Yunho and Mingi. Alcohol clouded your mind enough that for a moment, you could forget about Yunho’s puppy-dog eyes and Mingi’s sweet lips. But the relief alcohol brought faded as quickly as the hangover headaches arrived.
So you started sleeping with almost anyone who even slightly resembled your best friends. Honestly, it made you feel a little loved by them, even if it wasn’t real. Sometimes you had one partner, sometimes two. And every time, you pictured Yunho or Mingi. Or both at once. Of course, out of pride and shame, you never uttered their names—otherwise, you’d have burst into tears at the first sound.
You also started distancing yourself a little from your friends, and they noticed. You began avoiding eye contact, skipping meetups, sometimes even ignoring them. They tried to talk to you, but you’d brush it off every time, blaming your studies. The only problem was, you were never particularly passionate about studying.
Lying to those close to you wasn’t pleasant, but you didn’t have much of a choice. What would they think if they knew the truth? You didn’t even want to imagine. It was much easier not to tell the truth, at least in your opinion.
｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆
You wake up with a terrible headache. A hangover is definitely not how you like to start your mornings.
Last night, you decided to drink—something you hadn’t done in a while—and clearly overdid it. You reach out to find your phone but come up empty.
Sighing, you slowly sit up in bed and, not spotting your phone, get up. Your vision immediately darkens, forcing you to sit back down, rubbing your temples.
Damn, you should’ve just spent the evening miserably sober.
Once the pain subsides, you drag yourself to the kitchen. Several empty bottles on the table testify to where you got drunk.
At the edge of the table, you spot your phone and snatch it up. It’s already 1:24 PM—thank goodness it’s the weekend—but what catches your attention isn’t the time.
34 missed calls from YuYu.
27 missed calls from GiGi.
54 unread messages in the group chat.
What the fuck happened?
You stare at the notifications, but you can’t remember anything from last night. Unlocking your phone, you see that your group chat with Yunho and Mingi is open.
And then you see what you wish you hadn’t. You sent them a damn confession message. Holy shit.
You immediately lock your phone. How humiliating.
Before you can sink further into shame, loud knocking echoes from the front door. Then another. And another.
You start toward the door, but the voice from the other side freezes you in place.
"If you don’t open this door right now, I’ll break it down."
Yunho’s voice, quiet but clear, rings in your ears.
Another voice follows.
"Y/N, please open the door."
Mingi’s pleading, gentle voice also carries through the door.
A shiver runs down your spine.
Fuck, what are you going to do now?
Hehe, and here's a new AU! I dreamed about it day and night, but in my head it looked much better... Still, I'm somewhat satisfied with the result!
And by the way, it's another "in love with best friends" trope!!! Seems like someone has a hyperfixation on this cliché... (let's not point fingers)(▀ Ĺ̯▀ )
Who would you like the next AU to be about? Woosan or Jongang? Or maybe just one member??? Or... do you want a continuation of something?!(⊙_⊙)
ღ Ruin Me | smut, dom!Hongjoong - 1k
Desc.: You have never had sex with anyone except your boyfriend Hongjoong, who just can’t resist teasing your innocent self.
ღ "Someone should punish you for that." | smut, hard dom!Hongjoong - 0.9k
Other:
ღ Intimate and loving sex with Hongjoong
ღ Thoughts on mean dom!Hongjoong
ღ Seonghwa ღ
Full fics:
ღ 6:14pm | smut, dom!Seonghwa - 0.8k
Desc.: in which your boyfriend Seonghwa overstimulates you as he can’t stop eating you out
ღ 8:34pm | smut, mommy!Seonghwa - 1.1k
Desc.: in which Seonghwa uses his (and your) fingers to make you feel good
ღ Perfect Boys | smut, sub!Seonghwa, sub!Yeosang - 4.3k
ღ "Swallow." | smut, sub!Seonghwa - 0.8k
Other:
ღ The "not wearing underwear under a skirt/dress" trope but on sub!Seonghwa
ღ Thoughts on sub!Seonghwa
ღ Yunho ღ
Full fics:
ღ 8:05pm | smut, dom!Yunho - 1.8k
Desc.: After being horny for your boyfriend Yunho all day, he finally arrives home and you don’t make a secret out of how much you craved having him with you.
ღ 8:57pm | smut, sub!Yunho - 0.7k
Desc.: Lately you come home stressed everyday, and when your boyfriend offers to let you use him in order to destress, there’s no way you could say no to that.
ღ "I can't get enough of you." | smut, sub!Yunho - 1k
ღ Tight | smut, soft dom!Yunho - 0.7k
Desc.: You just really want to be full of your boyfriend’s pretty fingers…
Other:
ღ Bondage with dom!Yunho
ღ Drunk sex with Yunho
ღ Dry humping with Yunho
ღ Stress fucking with Yunho
ღ Thoughts about Yunho and his big hands
ღ Yunho with a bratty s/o
ღ Yeosang ღ
Full fics:
ღ Longing | soft smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining - 2.8k
Desc.: You and your friend Yeosang have been secretly in love with each other for months, and somehow you never found a chance to talk about it. Eventually he came to the conclusion that you must be in love with another one of your friends, and so the jealousy threatens to consume him every time you’re together.
ღ Perfect Boys | smut, sub!Seonghwa, sub!Yeosang - 4.3k
ღ Puppy | smut, sub!Yeosang - 2.1k
Desc.: in which you find that playing with your pup is the most fun when he’s at the verge of desperation.
Other:
ღ Mirror sex with Yeosang
ღ San ღ
Full fics:
ღ Drowsy | soft smut, switch!San - 2.5k
Desc.: Your boyfriend San is about to doze off next to you late at night, when you try to wake him up and gradually your sleepy cuddle session turns into something more than just that.
ღ Kitten | smut, dom!San - 1.8k
Desc.: Your master playing with you and subsequently riling you up turns into him teaching you a lesson.
ღ sextape, breeding | smut - 0.6k (req)
ღ "Oh, is that how you like it?" | smut, soft dom!San & soft dom!Wooyoung - 1.8k
ღ “Which do you prefer, fingers or mouth?” | smut, sub!San - 2.1k (req)
Other:
ღ Bondage with San
ღ Inexperienced San eating you out and getting pussy drunk
ღ Thoughts on mean dom!San
ღ You edging San
ღ Mingi ღ
Full fics:
ღ "Say my name." | smut, dom!Mingi - 1k
Other:
ღ Drunk sex with Mingi
ღ Mingi with a size kink
ღ Wooyoung ღ
Full fics:
ღ Drive you crazy | smut, sub!Wooyoung - 1.6k
ღ "Oh, is that how you like it?" | smut, soft dom!San & soft dom!Wooyoung - 1.8k
ღ "Open your mouth for me." | smut, sub!Wooyoung - 1k
ღ praise, morning sex | soft smut - 0.6k (req)
ღ “Shh. there’s people in the other room.” + “We have to make this quick.” | smut, dom!Wooyoung - 1.1k (req)
ღ Stargazing | hurt/comfort, fluff - 1.6k
Desc.: A sleepless night turns out to be the perfect time to do some stargazing with your boyfriend, and to realize once again why he’s so precious to you.
Other:
ღ Wooyoung with a breeding kink
ღ Jongho ღ
Series:
ღ Aspects of Desire | established relationship, college AU, fluff, some humor, slice of life, smut, dom!Jongho - 28k, ongoing
Desc.: When one day you reveal something to your boyfriend that you’ve been hiding, but unable to stop thinking about, the two of you decide to take your relationship - and especially your sex life - into a new direction. You begin to establish a dynamic that you both soon want to explore more of, diving into the depths of both your own and your partner’s unknown desires.
Full fics:
ღ 3:38pm | smut, mean dom!Jongho - 1.8k
Desc.: In which your roommate and friend with benefits walks in on you getting yourself off on top of his bed with the help of a hairbrush, and he’s anything but impressed.
ღ Break You Down | smut, sub!Jongho - 6.9k
Desc.: It’s the second time Choi Jongho seeks you out to help him take his mind off everything else going on in his life, and it’s also the second time you happily assist him with that.
ღ Build You Up | smut, sub!Jongho - 23k; sequel to Break You Down
Desc.: It hasn’t been long since you and Jongho have started seeing each other, when it begins to look like your originally purely sexual relationship is turning into something much broader. After you initially make it very clear that you aren’t ready for a new relationship after a painful breakup, you can’t help but wonder if Jongho would be the one who can finally help you heal, and at the same time you too are set on helping him with his own troubles, getting him to let go of control around you more and more easily.
ღ Feverish | smut, soft dom!Jongho - 1.9k
Desc.: You’ve been sick for days and also horny, and even though you know just as well as your boyfriend does that it’d be better to rest and to keep any indecent activities for when you’re feeling better, you also both know how hard it is for him to say no to a request from you.
ღ Patience | smut, hard dom!Jongho - 1.3k
ღ "Please, mark me." | smut, dom!Jongho - 0.8k
Other:
ღ Jongho brat taming you
ღ Group ღ
Asking them to teach you how to fuck | smut, reaction
Making out with Ateez | fluff, very suggestive
Morning Sex with Ateez | soft smut
MTL to be into choking (giving & receiving) | smut
MTL to be into dry humping | smut
MTL to enjoy being with a bratty s/o | smut
MTL to have an s/o who's quiet in bed | smut
MTL to have a sex playlist to fuck you to | smut
MTL to like exchanging videos of you/him getting off | smut
MTL to prefer giving or receiving head | smut
MTL to prefer having a virgin s/o vs an experienced s/o | smut
Their s/o experiences verbal shutdowns | comfort, reaction
When they're jealous | smut
When you get tired during sex | smut, some fluff, reaction
When you tell them you're horny in public | smut, reaction
Author's note: As promised, here is the much, much longer fic inspired by Seonghwa’s Skin MV. I did this to myself. I watched that MV on repeat until it crawled under my skin and refused to leave, and this story is the result. It is slower and darker, meant to be felt rather than rushed through. Writing it was equal parts indulgence and torture, something I let fester until it became sharp enough to share. If it lingers, if it unsettles you, if it hurts a little, then it worked. Let it sink in. Let it stay with you. Let it burn the way it burned me. I do welcome feedback or any thoughts! Enjoy~ Bye-um~
Short A/N: I am thinking of starting taglists. So do let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist for future works. Taglist will be included before cutoff.
Description: You were never meant to cross his path. Wearing the face of a dead lover, sealed magic buried beneath your skin, you become the living wound Seonghwa never allowed to heal. What begins as hatred turns into fixation. What begins as pursuit becomes possession. As an ancient naga lord collides with a witch of old blood, fear gives way to power, power gives way to desire, and desire becomes something far more dangerous. This is not a love story born gently. It is forged through obsession, violence, training, claiming, and the slow, brutal realization that you are not a ghost of the past but something new and unstoppable. A story about power, grief, survival, and choosing each other in the ruins left behind.
Warnings: Smut (18+), explicit sexual content, monster romance, naga creature, witchcraft and supernatural elements, enemies to lovers, predator/prey dynamics, possessive and obsessive behavior, power imbalance, manipulation and coercion, physical restraint (hands, throat gripping), biting and marking, dominance and submission themes, degradation and praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected penetrative sex (please practice safe sex IRL), explicit oral sex (receiving), rough sex, breeding implications, claiming and ownership themes, emotional trauma, grief and loss, violence and gore, murder, blood, injury, supernatural combat, dubious consent, emotional manipulation, fixation, intense attachment, eventual mutual devotion.
Word Count: 15.6K
Read Before Proceeding: This content is for mature audiences only. It contains explicit sexual material and detailed depictions of sexual acts. Reader discretion is strongly advised. MDNI — Minors Do Not Interact. As always, take care of yourselves, read responsibly, and know exactly what you’re walking into before you do.
For Requests: Whisper What You Need
Masterlist for my page: Lies Lost In Silence
Taglist: @miassblogggggg @haven-cove @joongthusiast
The jungle did not forgive. It did not forget. It simply consumed.
Seonghwa moved through the dense, suffocating greenery with a silence that belonged to nothing human. His human legs carried him over the gnarled roots of ancient banyan trees, but beneath the skin of the man he pretended to be, the serpent coiled.
He could feel the ghost of his true form, the heavy, muscular length of his tail, the sensation of scales sliding over damp earth, the heat that built in his belly and radiated through his blood. It had been centuries since he had last shed the disguise completely, centuries since he had allowed himself the luxury of being the monster nature intended.
He wore human skin like an ill-fitting coat. It was necessary. The modern world crept closer every year, encroaching on the wild places with the insistent buzz of electricity and the stench of exhaust. He had his limits. He tolerated the city only when the hunger grew too sharp or the need for certain things drove him out of the deep forest.
But he did not belong there. He belonged in the shadows, in the places where the light struggled to penetrate the canopy and the air was thick with the scent of decay and growth.
His mind was a stagnant pool of old grievances. He did not think of the future. He did not dream of peace. He existed in a perpetual state of waiting, though he no longer knew what he waited for. His family, those ancient, pompous lords of the deep, were likely dead or had retreated into the cracks of the earth.
He had severed ties with them long ago, in a spray of blood that had soaked the temple floors. They had taken everything from him. They had stripped him of his title, his honor, and his heart.
Centuries ago, he had been something different. He had been a Lord, revered and feared, his image carved into stone by mortals who trembled at the mere mention of his name. He had believed in balance then. He had believed in the rigid structures of their society, the caste systems that kept the pure-blooded nagas at the pinnacle of power and the lowborns in the mud where they belonged. Until she had shattered that worldview.
She had been nothing. A lowborn naga with dull, unremarkable scales and a spirit that burned brighter than the sun. She was not supposed to look at him. She was not supposed to speak to him. She was supposed to serve, to bow her head and vanish into the background.
But she had looked at him. She had smiled at him as if he were a man, not a god. She had touched him with hands that were rough from work but gentle with affection. He had fallen for her with a terrifying intensity, a descent into madness that he welcomed with open arms. He had defied his father, his mother, his ancestors. He had shattered tradition and dragged her to the heights of power beside him, declaring her his mate regardless of the laws that forbade it.
His family had seen it as a corruption. They had whispered that she had bewitched him, that she was a parasite feeding on his strength. They had feared the dilution of their bloodline, the taint of inferior genetics. They had not warned him. They had not threatened him. They had simply acted.
One evening, while he was away attending to the matters of the territory, they had executed her. It had been a cold, calculated thing. No passion, no anger. Just a removal of an obstacle.
He had returned to find her body cooling on the stone floor of their chambers. She had been bleeding out, her life slipping away through a cruel gash in her side. He had gathered her into his arms, his roar shaking the foundations of the temple.
She had looked up at him, her eyes fading, and she had not cursed their murderers. She had not screamed for vengeance. She had only touched his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, and told him to live.
That mercy had destroyed him.
He had slaughtered them. He had hunted down every member of the council that had ordered her death, every guard that had stood by, every sibling that had nodded in agreement. He had torn them apart with his bare hands, reveling in the heat of their blood and the crunch of bone. He had renounced his name, his title, and his home. He had retreated into the wilds, letting the beast take over. He became a legend, a horror story told to keep young nagas in line. He ceased to be Seonghwa the Lord and became Seonghwa the Forsaken.
He pushed through a thicket of ferns, the humid air clinging to his skin like a second layer. He was close to the city now. He could smell it, the metallic tang of pollution and the sharp bite of chemical cleaners. He hated it. But his pantry was empty, and he needed supplies. It was a tedious necessity, a reminder of the mortal form he maintained.
He stepped onto the asphalt of a side road, adjusting his clothes. He wore a long, dark coat that covered most of his body, shielding him from the prying eyes of the world. His face was a mask of indifference, his eyes dark and unreadable. He walked with a predatory grace, his movements fluid and silent. People instinctively moved out of his way, sensing the danger that radiated from him without understanding why.
He turned a corner and froze.
The world narrowed down to a single point. Across the street, standing near a flower stall, was a ghost. It was impossible. It was a trick of the light, a hallucination born of centuries of grief. But as he stared, the figure turned, and he saw the face.
It was her.
The eyes were the same, shaped like almonds and dark with a depth that seemed to swallow the light. The mouth was identical, the upper lip slightly fuller, the corners curving up naturally. Even the way she stood, the slight tilt of her head, the way the hair fell over her shoulder, it was all exactly as he remembered. He felt the breath leave his lungs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Then came the rage. It rose up like bile, burning and acidic. This was not her. She was dead. She had died in his arms. This thing, this abomination, was a mockery. It was an insult. Someone had crafted this face, this body, to torment him. It was a cruel joke, a weapon designed to pierce the armor he had built around his heart.
He watched you buy a bouquet of wildflowers, your laughter light and unburdened. You had no idea you were being watched by a monster. You had no idea that your very existence was an act of war.
Seonghwa turned on his heel and vanished into the shadows, but the image of your face was burned into his mind. He would not ignore this. He would find out who you were and why you wore that face. And then he would destroy you.
You felt the eyes on you before you saw him. It was a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the hairs on your arms standing up. You looked around, scanning the crowded street, but you saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual mix of commuters, tourists, and shoppers. You shook your head, trying to dismiss the feeling as paranoia, but it lingered.
You had always felt different. As if you were waiting for something you could not name. You had dreams that were not dreams, flashes of a life that was not yours. A man with eyes like obsidian, the smell of rain and wet earth, the feeling of cold scales against your skin. You woke up crying sometimes, overwhelmed by a grief that had no source.
Your grandmother, the matriarch of your family, had always told you that you were special. She had said you came from a long line of powerful women, women who could shape the world with their will.
But she had also warned you to hide. She had sealed your magic when you were a child, placing a dampening spell on your core that suppressed your power and kept you safe. The world was not kind to witches. It hunted them, feared them, tried to destroy them.
You lived a quiet life, working in a small bookstore and spending your evenings in your tiny apartment. You liked the quiet. It gave you space to breathe, to think. But lately, the quiet had felt oppressive. The seal on your magic was weakening.
You could feel it, a hum of energy under your skin, a restless twitch in your fingers. Objects moved when you were angry. Lights flickered when you were sad. The world was responding to you, and you did not know how to control it.
That evening, as you walked home, the feeling of being watched intensified. You quickened your pace, your heart pounding in your chest. You turned down a narrow alley, a shortcut you usually avoided, but you wanted to get off the main street.
You made it halfway down the alley before you realized you were not alone. The shadows seemed to thicken, coalescing into a tall, dark figure at the other end. You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The figure stepped forward, and the streetlight caught his features.
He was breathtakingly beautiful, in a terrifying way. His face was sharp and angular, his cheekbones high enough to cut. His eyes were black, void of any warmth, and they bored into yours with an intensity that made you want to look away. But you could not. You were rooted to the spot.
"You wear her face," he said. His voice was low, a smooth rumble that vibrated in your chest.
"I do not know what you are talking about," you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.
He moved closer, invading your personal space. He towered over you, his presence suffocating. He reached out, his fingers cold as they brushed your cheek. You flinched, expecting pain, but his touch was oddly gentle, a terrifying contrast to the hatred in his eyes.
"Liar," he hissed. "Do not think you can deceive me, witch. I know every line, every angle. I buried that face centuries ago."
Your mind raced. Witch. He knew. How could he know? You had never told anyone about your heritage, not even your closest friends. The seal your grandmother placed was supposed to make you undetectable to your own kind.
"Who are you?" you asked, your voice gaining a shred of defiance.
He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "I am your nightmare, little witch. I am the consequence of your arrogance. But do not worry. I will find out who sent you. And when I do, I will peel the skin from your bones until you tell me how you did it."
He gripped your chin, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. His eyes were swirling with ancient power, the pupils elongating into vertical slits. You felt your magic react, a spark of recognition igniting in your chest. It was not fear you felt, but a strange pull, a magnetic draw that terrified you more than his threats.
"Stay away from me," you warned, though it sounded weak to your own ears.
"Or what?" he mocked. "You will curse me? I have already been cursed by the best. Your parlor tricks mean nothing to me."
He released you, shoving you back against the brick wall. He vanished into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared, leaving you gasping for air, your heart hammering against your ribs. You touched your cheek where his fingers had been, the cold sensation lingering like a bruise.
The encounter did not scare you away as it should have. Instead, it lit a fire under you. You went home and tore through your grandmother's grimoires, searching for anything that explained the man with the serpent eyes.
You found nothing about him specifically, but you found mentions of the Naga Lords, ancient beings of immense power who ruled the jungles long before humans built their cities. They were said to be extinct, driven into hiding by their own wars.
But he was real. He was out there, and he had marked you as his enemy.
The days that followed were a blur of paranoia and strange occurrences. You felt eyes on you constantly, a ghostly presence that hovered at the edge of your vision. You would catch a glimpse of a long coat turning a corner, or feel a draft of cold air in a closed room. He was stalking you. He was hunting you.
He did not try to kill you, though. That was the most confusing part. He simply watched. He would appear at random times, always in the shadows, always watching you with that intense, predatory gaze. Sometimes he would speak to you, his words dripping with venom. He called you an abomination, a copy, a hollow shell. He told you that you were not real, that you were just a puppet crafted by magic.
"You are an insult," he spat one evening as you walked through the park. He had stepped out from behind a large oak tree, blocking your path. "Walking around with her face, pretending to be alive. It is sickening."
"I am not pretending," you said, clutching your bag tighter. "I am just me."
"You are nothing," he said, stepping closer. "You are a collection of spells stitched together to look like a memory. You have no soul. If I cut you open, I would not find blood. I would find ink and ash."
His words hurt, though you refused to let him see it. You did not understand why he hated you so much, why he was so obsessed with proving you were fake. You had never met him before. You had never hurt him.
"Why do you care?" you asked, your frustration boiling over. "If you think I am so fake, why not just ignore me? Why not just kill me and get it over with?"
He stopped. For a moment, the mask of indifference slipped, and you saw a raw, agonizing pain beneath. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a colder, harder glare.
"Because I loved her," he said, his voice quiet but deadly. "And seeing you wear her face like a cheap mask is a betrayal I cannot ignore. You do not deserve to live. You do not deserve to breathe the same air she once did."
He reached out, grabbing your wrist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin. He pulled you closer, until you were pressed against his hard chest. You could smell him now, a scent of rain and wet earth, musk and something metallic, like old blood.
"I should break you," he whispered against your ear. "I should shatter every bone in your body and scatter the pieces to the wind. But I need to know. I need to know who made you. I need to know why they sent you to torment me."
He released you, pushing you away. You stumbled back, rubbing your wrist. You looked at him, really looked at him, and you saw the torment in his posture. He was not just a monster. He was a grieving man who had lost everything.
You did not run away. You stood your ground.
"I did not ask for this," you said. "I did not ask to look like someone you lost. I am just trying to live my life. If you want to blame someone, blame the universe. But stop taking it out on me."
He stared at you, his eyes narrowing. For a second, you thought he might strike you. Instead, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.
The dynamic shifted after that. He stopped threatening you with immediate death, but his presence became more constant. He would sit in your apartment while you slept, a silent guardian in the corner. He would follow you to work, lurking in the alleyways, watching you through the windows. He was obsessed, his fixation on you bordering on madness.
He was testing you. He was pushing you, trying to see if you would break. He wanted you to show your true colors, to reveal the witch he knew you were hiding. And eventually, you did.
It happened a few weeks later. You were walking home late from a shift at the bookstore. A group of men, drunk and loud, cornered you in an alley. They shoved you against the wall, their hands grabbing at your clothes, their breath hot and sour on your face.
Fear spiked in your chest, sharp and terrifying. You fought back, kicking and scratching, but there were too many of them. One of them pulled a knife, pressing it to your throat.
"Don't scream," he slurred. "Just be a good girl and let us have some fun."
The seal on your magic cracked. The power surged up inside you, responding to the threat. You did not know how to control it, you just let it out. A blast of energy erupted from your body, throwing the men back against the brick walls. They hit the ground hard, groaning in pain. The knife clattered to the pavement.
You stood there, panting, your hands trembling. You looked at the men, unconscious and bleeding, and felt a surge of horror. You had done that. You had hurt them.
The shadows at the end of the alley shifted. Seonghwa stepped into the dim light, his face impassive. He looked at the men on the ground, then at you. He did not look surprised. He looked satisfied.
"So, the witch reveals herself," he said, his voice smooth. "I knew it. I knew you were not human."
"It was an accident," you stammered, backing away. "I did not mean to."
"Intent means nothing to power," he said. "You are dangerous. Just as I suspected."
He walked towards you, his movements slow and deliberate. You backed up until your back hit the wall. He stopped inches from you, trapping you with his body. He reached out, taking a strand of your hair between his fingers.
"I will say this for the one who made you," he murmured. "They did not skimp on the details. You even bleed like her."
"I am not her," you said, tears stinging your eyes. "Why can you not see that?"
"Because I do not want to," he replied simply. "I want you to be her. I want to tear you apart and find her inside. I want to make you pay for not being her."
He leaned in, his lips hovering over yours. You could feel his breath, cool and minty, on your skin. You wanted to push him away, but you were paralyzed, trapped by his gaze and the strange pull that hummed between you.
"But I cannot," he whispered. "Because as much as I hate you, I cannot stop looking at you. I cannot stop wanting you."
He kissed you then. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a punishment, a branding. His lips crushed yours, his teeth grazing your skin. You gasped, opening your mouth to him, and he took full advantage, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours. He tasted of darkness and desire, a heady mix that made your head spin.
You kissed him back, fueled by anger and a need you did not understand. You dug your nails into his shoulders, pulling him closer. He groaned low in his throat, his hands gripping your waist, lifting you up against the wall. You wrapped your legs around his hips, grinding against him, desperate for friction.
The kiss went on and on, a battle of wills and tongues. You felt his magic brush against yours, a cold, slithering sensation that made your skin tingle. It recognized him. Your power had been dormant for so long, but it knew him. It knew what he was. It recognized an apex predator, a creature of ancient lineage that matched the buried history of your own blood.
He broke the kiss abruptly, breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were still fractured, his expression conflicted. He looked at you as if he wanted to kill you and worship you in the same breath.
"You taste the same," he whispered, the words sounding like a confession torn from his throat. "Even your taste is a lie."
"It is not a lie," you insisted, your voice shaking with the aftermath of the kiss. "It is just me. Seonghwa."
He flinched when you said his name. He pulled back, letting you slide down the wall until your feet touched the ground. He stepped away, putting distance between you, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"Do not say that name," he warned. "You have no right to speak it. You do not know what it means. You do not know the weight of it."
"Then tell me," you challenged. You were tired of the riddles, tired of being treated like a doll that had sprung to life. "If you hate me so much, if you think I am some magical construct, then explain it to me. Explain why you are obsessed with me. Explain why you kissed me."
He stared at you, his chest heaving. The silence stretched, heavy and thick with the unspoken history between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually answer. He looked at you with an intensity that stripped you bare, as if he was looking for a crack in the façade, a seam in the magic that held you together.
"Because I am weak," he finally said, the admission laced with self-loathing. "Because I am a fool who thought he could bury the past. Seeing you is like digging up a corpse and dressing it in new clothes. It is revolting. And yet I cannot look away."
He turned his back on you. "Go home, witch. Before I do something we both regret."
You watched him walk away, disappearing into the night like smoke. You stood alone in the alley, your body still humming from his touch, your lips bruised from his kiss. You touched your mouth, tracing the shape he had left behind. You did not understand him. You did not understand this pull that dragged you towards him despite his cruelty.
But you knew one thing. You were not going to run. He wanted a monster? He wanted a weapon? You would show him exactly what happened when you pushed a witch too far.
The following weeks were a twisted dance of avoidance and pursuit. He was everywhere and nowhere. He watched you from the edges of your vision, a dark shadow that never fully materialized. You felt his gaze like a physical weight, a constant reminder of his presence. He did not touch you again. He did not kiss you again. He simply watched.
His magic began to bleed into your life. The air in your apartment grew colder, the shadows lengthening even at midday. Houseplants began to wither and die, only to be replaced by strange, creeping vines that bloomed with poisonous flowers. You found snake skins shed on your pillow, translucent and dry. They were warnings. They were threats.
You reacted by trying to strengthen your own defenses. You dug deeper into your grandmother's books, learning simple wards and protection spells. You salted your windowsills and burned sage until your apartment smelled like a temple. But it was useless. His power was ancient, rooted in the earth itself. It ignored your petty attempts at barricades.
He was escalating. He was trying to force a reaction out of you. He wanted to see the witch he knew you were hiding. He was poking at a wound, waiting for it to fester.
You finally snapped one evening. You came home to find him sitting on your sofa, his long legs stretched out, looking perfectly at home. He was holding a photograph of your grandmother, turning it over in his hands with a look of bored curiosity.
"Get out," you said, your voice low with suppressed rage.
He looked up, his eyes dark and amused. "Make me."
You felt the snap in your mind. The seal your grandmother had placed on you shattered completely. The power rushed through your veins like a tidal wave, crashing against the shores of your consciousness. You did not try to stop it. You welcomed it. You raised your hand, and the air in the room began to vibrate.
"Leave," you commanded.
The word was spoken with a force that rattled the windows. A blast of pure, raw magic erupted from your palm, slamming into him. He was thrown off the sofa, crashing into the wall. Books flew off the shelves, pictures leaped from the walls. The entire building shook.
He recovered quickly, landing in a crouch. His eyes were wide, glowing with a predatory light. He looked at you with a newfound respect, and a hunger that terrified you.
"There she is," he purred. "The witch beneath the skin. I knew you were in there."
He launched himself at you, moving faster than a human should. You threw up a shield, a shimmering barrier of purple light. He crashed against it, his hands clawing at the energy. You held him back, gritting your teeth with the effort. He was strong, incredibly strong. But you were stronger than you realized.
Your magic was a part of you, an extension of your will. You felt the flow of it, the ebb and surge of the energy around you. You pushed him back, throwing him across the room again. He landed on his feet, snarling.
"Stop this," you gasped, sweat beading on your forehead. "I do not want to fight you."
"Then submit," he growled. "Admit what you are. Admit that you are a fraud."
"I am not a fraud!" you screamed. "I am real. I am alive. And I am done letting you treat me like a ghost."
You pushed forward, projecting your will outward. The room filled with a blinding light, a burst of magical energy that blew the windows out. Glass shattered, raining down onto the street below. Seonghwa shielded his eyes, stumbling back.
When the light faded, you were standing in the center of the room, your hair floating around you like a halo. You felt different. Lighter. The seal was gone. You were fully awake for the first time in your life.
Seonghwa stared at you. He looked at you with an expression that was a mix of wonder and horror. He took a step towards you, then stopped.
"What are you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"I am me," you said. "And I am done playing your games."
He left that night. He did not say another word. He just vanished, leaving you standing in the wreckage of your living room. You sank to the floor, exhausted, your body trembling with the aftershocks of the power surge.
You thought he would leave you alone after that. You thought he would realize you were not the weak, fragile copy he wanted you to be. But you were wrong. His absence only lasted a few days.
He came back, but the dynamic had changed. He no longer looked at you with simple hatred. He looked at you with a calculated interest. He began to teach you, in his own twisted way. He would test your limits, pushing you to use your magic in new ways. He would bring you objects and demand you move them, or break them, or change them. He criticized your form, your control, your intent.
"Pathetic," he would say when you failed to lift a heavy stone. "You have the power of a storm behind your eyes, yet you cannot move a pebble. Wasted."
"Show me," you would snap back. "If you are so superior, show me how it is done."
He would scoff, but sometimes he would demonstrate. He would move things without touching them, his power a subtle, invisible force that bent the world to his will. It was terrifying and mesmerizing. You watched him, learning the flow of his energy, the way he commanded the elements.
It was a strange, brutal courtship. He insulted you, belittled you, and challenged you at every turn. And you rose to meet him. You stopped trying to earn his approval. You stopped trying to be the memory he was mourning. You embraced your own power, your own strength. You began to see the cracks in his armor, the vulnerabilities he tried so hard to hide.
You saw the loneliness in him. It was a deep, abiding emptiness that echoed your own. He was a creature who had lost his mate, his home, and his purpose. He was surviving, but he was not living. He was trapped in the past, reliving his trauma over and over again.
You started to pity him. It was a dangerous emotion to feel towards a monster, but you could not help it. He was pathetic in his obsession. He was hurting himself more than he was hurting you.
You began to push back. You challenged his worldview. You argued with him about fate and choice. You refused to let him define you.
"I am not her," you told him one evening as you sat on the roof of your apartment building. He was standing by the edge, looking out at the city lights. "I never will be. You need to let her go."
He turned to you, his eyes cold. "I will never let her go. She was everything. She was the only good thing in a world of rot and filth. You are just a reminder of what I lost."
"Then I am a reminder you cannot ignore," you countered, standing your ground. "If I am such an insult, why do you stay? Why teach me? Why kiss me?"
He did not answer. He turned away from you, his jaw clenched tight. But you saw the way his hands gripped the railing, the white knuckles betraying his turmoil.
"I stay," he finally said, his voice low and rough, "because I need to understand how you exist. I need to find the flaw in the spell. I will unravel you, thread by thread, until I find the source."
You shook your head, a sad smile touching your lips. "You keep telling yourself that, Seonghwa. But we both know it is a lie. You stay because you are lonely. You stay because you are drawn to me just as much as I am drawn to you."
He spun around, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Do not flatter yourself, witch. I am drawn to the memory, not the reality. If I could erase you without losing her face, I would do it in a heartbeat."
"Then do it," you said, spreading your arms wide. "Kill me. End it. Erase the insult."
He strode towards you, his movement sudden and violent. He stopped inches from you, his hand wrapping around your throat. He squeezed, just hard enough to restrict your breathing, to make you gasp. He glared into your eyes, searching for fear, for submission.
You did not look away. You looked up at him, your eyes challenging him, your magic pulsing under your skin, ready to defend yourself. You were not afraid of death. You were afraid of this limbo, this half-life where you were neither loved nor hated, just tolerated as a ghost.
His grip loosened. He stared at you, his expression crumbling. He looked torn, his emotions warring across his face. He wanted to hurt you, but he could not. He wanted to break you, but he was the one breaking.
"Go," he whispered, releasing you. "Leave my sight before I change my mind."
You did not hesitate. You left him there on the roof, alone with his demons. But as you walked away, you felt the shift. He was losing the battle against his own nature. The hatred was a wall he had built to protect himself, but the wall was cracking.
You decided then that you would stop waiting for him to accept you. You would stop trying to prove you were real. You would simply be. And if he could not handle that, it was his loss.
You began to distance yourself. You stopped looking for him in the crowds. You stopped waiting for him to appear in your apartment. You focused on your magic, letting it grow wild and free. You practiced your spells, honed your craft, and embraced the witch blood that ran through your veins.
Serpents began to seek you out. Not just the small garden snakes, but the larger, more dangerous varieties. Pythons and cobras would slither out of the shadows to bask in your presence. They did not fear you. They recognized you as a queen of their kind, a creature of ancient power. They bowed to you, their forked tongues tasting the air around you.
Seonghwa saw this. He watched from the shadows as you walked through the park, a large python draped over your shoulders like a shawl. He saw the way the creatures responded to you, the way they accepted your dominance. It was a slap in the face to his worldview. You were not just a copy. You were something else. Something perhaps even more dangerous than the mate he had lost.
His hatred began to curdle into something else. Obsession. Need. He could not stay away. He found himself drawn to your side, watching you with a hunger that gnawed at his insides. He hated himself for it. He felt like he was betraying her memory by wanting you.
He cornered you in a secluded part of the park one evening. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the grass. You were sitting on a bench, a book in your hands, ignoring the world around you.
"You have gathered an entourage," he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
You looked up, surprised to see him. He looked wilder than usual, his hair messy, his clothes disheveled. He looked like he had not slept in days.
"They like me," you said simply, closing your book.
"They are mindless beasts," he snapped. "Just like you."
"If they are mindless, why do they listen to me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe they sense something you refuse to."
"I sense plenty," he growled, stepping closer. "I sense a fraud. I sense a danger that should be eliminated."
"Then eliminate it," you said, standing up to face him. "Or shut up. I am tired of your threats, Seonghwa. If you are going to kill me, do it. If not, leave me alone."
He stared at you, his chest heaving. He looked at your mouth, your eyes, the curve of your neck. He wanted to bite you, to mark you, to claim you in the most primal way possible. He wanted to erase the line between past and present and just take.
"I cannot kill you," he admitted, the words sounding like they were being ripped from his throat. "Believe me, I have tried. I have imagined it a thousand times. But I cannot."
"Why?" you asked, though you were not sure you wanted to hear the answer.
"Because you are the only thing in this wretched world that makes me feel something," he said, his voice cracking. "Even if it is hate. Even if it is pain. It is better than the numbness."
You reached out, your hand brushing against his cheek. He flinched but did not pull away. His skin was cold, his pulse sluggish.
"I do not want you to hate me, Seonghwa," you said softly. "I want you to see me. Not as a ghost, but as a woman. A witch who can stand beside you."
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. For a moment, he looked vulnerable, almost human. Then he jerked back, his expression hardening.
"Do not think this changes anything," he warned. "I still despise what you are. I still despise that you exist. But I am done fighting the inevitable."
"The inevitable?" you repeated.
"The fact that you are mine," he said, his voice dropping to a possessive growl. "Whether you like it or not. Whether I like it or not. You belong to me. You wear her face, so you will bear her burden. You will suffer for her sins."
"I will not be your surrogate," you said, your voice firm. "I will not be your stand-in for a dead woman."
"You do not have a choice," he said, stepping closer. "You are a witch of the old blood. You have power, but you have no protection. The world will tear you apart if you are not careful. You need me. You need my strength."
"I have my own strength," you argued.
"Not enough," he countered. "You are young. Your magic is wild. You cannot control it. You need a master. You need someone to tame you."
"I am not a dog to be tamed," you snapped.
"No," he said, a dark smile curving his lips. "You are a serpent. And you need a handler."
He grabbed your wrist, pulling you towards him. You struggled, but he was too strong. He captured your other wrist, holding them behind your back with one hand. He used his free hand to grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
"Listen to me," he hissed. "I have survived for centuries by crushing my enemies and taking what I want. I will not let a little witch with a god complex stand in my way. You are mine. I will mark you. I will claim you. And I will make sure you never forget who you belong to."
You glared at him, your magic flaring. You could feel the heat building in your palms, ready to blast him away. But then you saw the desperation in his eyes. It was buried deep under layers of arrogance and cruelty, but it was there. He was terrified of losing you, just as he had lost her. He was trying to possess you to keep you safe.
You let your magic die down. You relaxed your stance, allowing him to hold you. He seemed surprised by your submission, but he did not let go.
"Claim me then," you whispered. "But know this. If you touch me, you are touching me. Not her. If you kiss me, you are kissing me. Not her. If you ever confuse us again, I will burn you alive."
He stared at you, his eyes searching yours. He saw the truth in your words. He saw the steel in your spine. He realized then that you were not the soft, gentle mate he had lost. You were something sharper, harder. You were a survivor, just like him.
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I know exactly who you are. You are a nightmare. You are a plague. You are the most beautiful thing I have seen in centuries."
He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a taking. He bit your lower lip, drawing blood, tasting the copper tang on his tongue. You groaned, arching against him, your hands straining against his grip. He deepened the kiss, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming every inch of you. His hold on your wrists was bruising, pinning you against his unyielding frame. There was no escape, and for a terrifying moment, you realized you did not want one. The chemistry between you was a volatile chemical reaction, waiting for a spark.
He pulled away abruptly, leaving you breathless and dazed. He looked at your mouth, swollen and wet from his kiss, and a dark satisfaction settled in his eyes.
"You taste of power," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "And fear. It is intoxicating."
"I am not afraid of you," you lied, your heart hammering against his chest.
"You should be," he countered. "I am going to ruin you for anyone else. No human male will ever be able to satisfy you after I am done."
He released your wrists, stepping back. He adjusted his coat, composing himself, though the predatory glint in his eyes remained.
"Come," he commanded, turning his back on you. "We are leaving."
"Where?" you asked, rubbing your sore wrists.
"Somewhere safe," he replied. "Somewhere I can teach you how to use that magic without bringing the ceiling down on our heads."
You hesitated. Going with him meant stepping into his world, leaving behind the fragile safety of your human life. But what safety? You were unsealed, untrained, and a target for every supernatural creature that sensed your power. He was dangerous, yes. But he was also the only one who could protect you.
"Fine," you said, falling into step beside him. "But if you try to turn me into a sacrifice or some sort of ritual offering, I will turn you inside out."
He chuckled, a dark, rich sound. "I have no doubt you would try. Come."
He led you out of the park and towards the edge of the city, where the streetlights grew sparse and the buildings gave way to dense, tangled forest. The air grew cooler, the sounds of traffic fading into the hum of crickets and the rustle of leaves. You walked in silence, the tension between you stretching tight like a bowstring.
He stopped at the base of a massive, ancient tree. The roots were thick and gnarled, twisting into the earth like grasping fingers. He placed his hand on the bark, murmuring words in a language you did not recognize. The ground beneath your feet shifted, the roots parting to reveal a hidden staircase spiraling down into the dark.
"After you," he said, gesturing with a smirk.
You looked at the gaping maw of the earth with trepidation. "Where does this go?"
"My home," he replied. "Or what is left of it."
You took a deep breath and began the descent. The stairs were carved from stone, slick with moss and dampness. The air was heavy with the scent of wet earth and old magic. You could feel the weight of the centuries pressing down on you, the ghosts of the past lingering in the shadows.
Seonghwa followed close behind, his presence a warm weight at your back. You reached the bottom and found yourself in a large, circular chamber. The walls were lined with shelves filled with ancient artifacts, bones, and jars of unknown substances. In the center of the room was a large, circular pit filled with coals that glowed with a low, steady heat.
He moved past you, shedding his coat and tossing it onto a stone bench. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle. He looked different here. Less restrained. More wild.
"This is where the real work begins," he said, turning to face you. "No more parlor tricks. No more accidental explosions. You will learn control."
You stood your ground, crossing your arms over your chest. "And what makes you think you can teach me? You are a naga, not a witch."
"I am older than your magic," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I have watched civilizations rise and fall. I have seen sorcerers who could level mountains with a thought. I know power. And I know how to break it."
"I am not something to be broken," you shot back.
"Everything breaks," he countered. "If you apply the right pressure. But that is not why we are here. We are here to see if you are worth the trouble."
He walked over to a table and picked up a small, sharp blade. He held it up, the metal catching the light from the coals.
"Give me your hand," he commanded.
You hesitated. This was a test. You knew it. If you refused, you were admitting weakness. If you obeyed, you were submitting to his authority. You stepped forward and held out your hand.
He took it, his grip firm but not painful. He turned your hand over, exposing your palm. With a quick, precise motion, he sliced the blade across the skin. You gasped at the sharp sting, blood welling up in the cut.
"Heal it," he ordered.
"I do not know how," you stammered.
"Then learn," he said. "Focus your will. Visualize the skin knitting back together. Command your body to obey."
You stared at your palm, the blood dripping onto the stone floor. You tried to do as he said, focusing your mind on the wound. You felt your magic respond, a tingle of energy rushing to your hand. The blood slowed, the skin beginning to itch and pull together.
"Good," he murmured, watching the process intently. "Now close it completely."
You pushed harder, gritting your teeth. The magic surged, the wound sealing shut until only a faint white line remained. You looked up at him, breathless.
"Acceptable," he said, dropping your hand. "But slow. In a battle, you would be dead before you finished the thought."
"I did it," you argued. "That is progress."
"It is barely a crawl," he sneered. "We have a long way to go."
He turned away from you, pacing the length of the chamber. "Your bloodline is ancient. That much is obvious. The resonance in your magic is unlike anything I have felt in a mortal. It rivals the old families. But you are raw. Unrefined. You are a diamond stuck in the rough, covered in mud and ignorance."
He stopped pacing and looked at you, his eyes narrowing. "Who sealed you? It must have taken immense power to hide a talent like yours. Who was your grandmother really?"
"My grandmother was a healer," you said, feeling a defensive need to protect her memory. "She protected me. She said the world was not ready for me."
"She was right," he agreed. "The world would have devoured you. But she is gone now. And you are exposed."
"She taught me what she could," you said, your voice rising. "She died to keep me safe."
"And now she is dead," he said coldly. "And you are alone. Unless you accept my help."
"I do have a choice," you insisted.
"Do you?" he challenged. "You think you can survive the coming storm on your own? The seal is broken. Every creature of the night can sense you. They are already hunting you. I can smell their stink on you from the city. They are circling, waiting for a mistake."
You shivered. You had felt it too. The sensation of being watched, the prickle of eyes in the dark. You had thought it was just him, but maybe there were others.
"What do I do?" you asked, the fight draining out of you.
"You train," he said. "You learn to fight. You learn to kill. You stop being a victim and start being a predator."
He walked over to the pit of coals and held his hands over the heat. "Magic is not just about waving your hands and making things happen. It is about exchange. About balance. To create, you must destroy. To heal, you must understand pain. To protect, you must be willing to shed blood."
He looked at you over his shoulder. "Are you willing to do that? Are you willing to get your hands dirty?"
You looked at the fire, the flames dancing in his eyes. You thought of the men in the alley, the knife at your throat. You thought of the terror you had felt, and the surge of power that had saved you. You had enjoyed it. You had enjoyed the feeling of being strong, of being the one inflicting pain instead of receiving it.
"Yes," you said, the word hanging in the air like a vow. "I am willing."
He smiled, a sharp, dangerous expression. "Good. Then we begin."
The training was brutal. He pushed you to your limits and beyond. He made you levitate heavy stones until your muscles screamed and your vision blurred. He made you manipulate fire until your hands were blistered and raw. He taught you offensive and defensive spells, ways to incapacitate an opponent, ways to shield yourself from magical attacks.
He was a harsh taskmaster. He criticized every mistake, mocked every failure. He treated you like a soldier, not a student. But under the cruelty, you sensed a grudging respect. He was molding you into a weapon, and he was pleased with the results.
Weeks turned into months. You fell into a routine. Days were spent in the underground chamber, honing your craft. Nights were spent in his quarters, a spartan room adjoining the main chamber. He slept on a pile of furs and silks, a remnant of his past life as a lord. You slept on a pallet on the floor, though you often found yourself waking up in his bed, curled against his warmth.
You never spoke of it. It was an unspoken arrangement. You would seek him out in the dark, drawn by the cold that permeated the stone walls, and he would let you in. He never wrapped his arms around you, never initiated the contact, but he never pushed you away. You would press your face against his chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart, and he would stiffen, then slowly relax. It was a silent truce, a temporary ceasefire in the war between his memories and his desires.
The intimacy was confusing. He would spend hours tormenting you physically and mentally during the day, stripping away your defenses and forcing you to confront your own power. Then at night, he would let you into his bed, letting you seek comfort from the very source of your pain. It was a messed up, toxic dynamic, and you were addicted to it.
You began to notice changes in him as well. The sharp edges of his hatred were dulling. He looked at you less with the desire to tear you apart and more with a brooding intensity. He touched you more often, lingering when he corrected your stance, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw or the curve of your spine. He was possessive, his eyes constantly tracking your movements when you were in the same room.
You were not the only one changing. Your magic was growing stronger, more responsive. You could feel the hum of the earth beneath your feet, the flow of energy in the air around you. You could sense the presence of other creatures, the weak minds of animals and the darker intent of predators. You were becoming what he wanted you to be. A weapon.
But you were also becoming something else. You were becoming a witch who knew her own worth. You stopped seeking his approval. You stopped apologizing for your existence. You met his gaze head on, unflinching. You challenged him, argued with him, and sometimes, you won.
One evening, after a particularly grueling session of combat training, you were sitting by the fire, nursing a bruised rib. He was pacing, lecturing you on your sloppy footwork.
"You hesitate," he grumbled. "In the moment of truth, you paused. If that had been a real opponent, you would be dead right now."
"I was thinking," you defended. "I was looking for an opening."
"Thinking is for scholars," he snapped. "Fighting is for killers. You do not think. You react. You let the instinct take over."
"Easy for you to say," you retorted. "You have had centuries to perfect your instinct. I have had a few months."
"Excuses," he scoffed. "You rely too much on your magic. It is a crutch. You need to learn to fight without it."
"Then teach me," you said, standing up. "Show me how to fight like a naga."
He stopped pacing and looked at you. A dangerous gleam entered his eyes. "You want to learn my ways? You want to fight like a monster?"
"I want to survive," you countered. "And you are the best survivor I know."
He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "Very well. But be careful what you wish for, little witch. I do not pull punches."
He lunged at you, moving with the speed of a serpent striking. You barely had time to raise your arms to block his attack. He grabbed your wrists, twisting them behind your back, and kicked your legs out from under you. You went down hard, gasping as you hit the stone floor.
He was on you instantly, pinning you to the ground. He straddled your hips, his weight holding you in place. He grabbed your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breathing difficult.
"You are dead," he hissed.
"Is this where you kill me?" you choked out.
"Maybe," he mused, his thumb tracing your jawline. "Or maybe I will just keep you here as my pet. A pretty little witch to warm my bed."
"I am not a pet," you spat, bucking your hips in an attempt to dislodge him.
He leaned down, his face inches from yours. "No. You are a nuisance. A distraction. A temptation I should have crushed months ago."
"Then why did you not?" you challenged.
He stared at you, his eyes searching yours. You saw the conflict warring in his gaze. He wanted to hurt you, to punish you for existing. But he also wanted to kiss you, to lose himself in the heat of your body.
"Because I am a fool," he whispered.
He lowered his head and captured your lips in a searing kiss. It was different from the kisses before. It was not a punishment or a brand. It was a need. He kissed you with a desperate hunger, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you. You responded instantly, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.
He groaned, pressing his body harder against yours. You could feel his arousal, hard and demanding against your hip. The heat between you flared, instant and overwhelming. You arched up, rubbing against him, seeking friction.
He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against yours. "You are dangerous."
"You like dangerous," you murmured, nipping at his bottom lip.
"I love it," he corrected, his voice rough with desire. "God help me, I love it."
He claimed your mouth again, his hands roaming over your body. He squeezed your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasped into his mouth, your back arching off the cold floor.
He shifted, positioning himself between your legs. He ground his hips against yours, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your veins. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
"Seonghwa," you breathed, your head falling back as he kissed a trail down your neck.
He bit you, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. It was not a gentle bite. It was a claiming mark, a brand of ownership. You felt the heat of his magic seeping into the wound, sealing it, marking you as his.
He sat back, pulling his shirt over his head. Your eyes roamed over his chest, the pale skin stretched over lean muscle. There were scars, old and faded, marks of battles fought and won. You reached out, tracing the lines of his abs, feeling the tension coiled beneath your fingertips.
"You are beautiful," you whispered.
"I am a monster," he corrected, catching your hand and pressing it flat against his chest. His heart was beating fast, a frantic rhythm that matched your own.
"You are my monster," you said.
He stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then he surged forward, capturing your lips again. He kissed you with a ferocity that scared and thrilled you. He tore at your clothes, impatient with the barriers between your skin. You helped him, pulling your shirt over your head, fumbling with the clasp of your bra.
When your skin was finally bared to him, he stilled. He looked at you, his eyes darkening with hunger. He cup your breasts in his hands, weighing them, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. They hardened under his touch, pebbling into tight buds.
"Perfect," he murmured, leaning down to take one into his mouth.
You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and licked, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He lavished attention on your breasts, switching between them, driving you crazy with pleasure. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, a dull ache that demanded more.
He moved lower, kissing his way down your stomach. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulled them down, taking your underwear with them. You kicked them off, lying bare before him.
He spread your legs with his hands, settling between them. He looked up at you from under his lashes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.
"Let me see how much you want this," he taunted.
He lowered his head and licked a stripe up your slit. You gasped, your hips bucking off the floor. He held you down, his hands gripping your thighs, keeping you open for him. He ate you out with a skill that left you breathless, his tongue exploring every fold, every ridge. He found your clit and sucked it into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue.
You were moaning loudly, your head thrown back, your hands gripping his hair. The pleasure was intense, building rapidly towards a peak. You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, ready to snap.
"Seonghwa," you gasped. "Please."
"Not yet," he murmured against your skin. "You do not get to come until I say so."
He continued his torture, bringing you to the edge and then pulling back, leaving you hanging. You were whimpering now, begging for release. He enjoyed your desperation, his ego stroked by your need for him.
Finally, he relented. He slid a finger inside you, pumping it in and out. You were so wet, so ready for him. He added a second finger, stretching you, preparing you. You bucked your hips, meeting his thrusts, chasing the pleasure.
"Please," you begged again. "I need you."
"Take me then," he growled.
He positioned himself at your entrance, his cock nudging your folds. He looked you in the eye as he pushed forward, burying himself inside you in one smooth thrust.
You cried out, the stretch intense but pleasurable. He filled you completely, stretching you to your limits. He paused for a moment, letting you adjust to his size. His eyes were locked on yours, watching your every expression, reading the pleasure and pain that warred on your face.
"You are tight," he ground out, his voice strained. "Like a vice. Is it the fear or the want, witch?"
"Both," you admitted breathlessly, your inner walls fluttering around him.
He smirked, a dark, arrogant tilt of his lips. "Good. Hold onto that fear. It makes you sweeter."
He began to move, his strokes slow and deep. He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, his hips hitting yours with a resounding slap. It was a punishing rhythm, designed to remind you of his strength, his dominance. But it felt incredible. The friction was exquisite, sparking nerves you did not know you had.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, digging your heels into his lower back, urging him on. You wanted more. You wanted to match his intensity, to take everything he gave and give it back. You met his thrusts, lifting your hips to meet his, grinding against him.
He groaned, his head falling back, exposing the long line of his throat. You leaned up and bit him, sinking your teeth into the sensitive skin over his pulse. He hissed, his hips snapping forward harder, driving a cry from your lips.
"Vicious little thing," he praised, gripping your hips bruisingly. "Mark me if it pleases you. It will not change who owns you."
"You do not own me," you panted, releasing his skin to lick the mark. "I let you in. There is a difference."
"Is there?" he challenged, picking up the pace. He was fucking you harder now, the coil of pleasure in your belly tightening to an almost painful degree. "Then tell me to stop. Tell me you do not want this."
You could not. You did not want to stop. You were lost in the sensation, the drag of his cock inside you, the slap of skin against skin, the scent of sex and musk filling the air. It was primal. It was raw.
"Silence," he mocked, though his breathing was ragged. "Your body speaks louder than your tongue. It clings to me. It milks me. It wants to be bred by a monster."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You did not care about the dirty talk, about the degradation. You only cared about the way he made you feel. Alive. Electric.
"Seonghwa," you moaned, your nails scoring his back. "I am close."
"I know," he said, reaching between your bodies to rub your clit. "I can feel you fluttering around me. Come for me. Scream my name."
He pinched your clit, and that was it. The tension snapped. You came with a hoarse cry, your body arching off the floor, your vision whiting out. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, rippling through your muscles, leaving you trembling and weak.
He followed you over the edge with a guttural roar. He buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled his seed. He collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy but grounding, his heart hammering against your chest.
For a long time, you just lay there, tangled together on the hard stone floor, the fire crackling in the background. You could feel his seed leaking out of you, a wet, sticky reminder of what you had just done. You should have felt used. You should have felt cheap. But you did not. You felt satisfied. You felt powerful.
He lifted his head, looking down at you. His eyes were softer now, the harsh lines of his face relaxed. He brushed a stray hair away from your forehead, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.
"You are mine now," he said quietly. "There is no going back."
"I know," you replied. "I never wanted to go back."
He kissed you then, a slow, languid kiss that tasted of sex and contentment. It was a promise, a seal on the twisted bond you had forged. You knew it was not love. Not yet. Maybe it never would be. But it was something. It was real.
In the weeks that followed, the training intensified. He no longer held back, pushing you harder, faster. He taught you to fight with a knife, to strike with precision, to use your environment to your advantage. He taught you how to use your magic in combat, weaving spells into your physical attacks.
You grew stronger. Your muscles became more defined, your reflexes sharper. You could hold your own against him in a spar, at least for a few minutes. He still beat you, but he was proud of your progress.
The nights were spent in his bed, exploring this new physical intimacy. He was insatiable, his appetite for you seemingly endless. He took you in every position, in every room of the underground chamber. He was rough, demanding, and sometimes cruel, but he was also attentive. He learned what made you gasp, what made you scream, what made you beg. He used that knowledge to drive you wild.
You stopped fighting the connection. You stopped worrying about the woman whose face you wore. You were just you. And he was just Seonghwa. A monster and his witch.
But the past has a way of catching up, no matter how fast you run.
It happened on a night when the moon was new, the sky a velvet blanket of stars. You were sitting on the roof of his hidden sanctuary, a rare spot where the trees parted enough to see the sky. The air was cool, the silence peaceful.
Seonghwa was sitting beside you, cleaning a blade with a scrap of cloth. He had been quiet all evening, a brooding tension radiating from him.
"What is it?" you asked, breaking the silence.
"Something is coming," he replied, not looking up. "I can feel it in the earth. A disturbance. The old wards are vibrating."
"The ones your family set?" you asked.
"Yes," he said. "They have not been triggered in centuries. Not since I slaughtered them all."
"Do you think it is them?" you asked, a chill running down your spine. "I thought you killed them all."
"I thought I did," he said, sheathing the blade with a click. "But Nagas are hard to kill. Some may have gone into deep hibernation. Or others may have risen to take their place."
He stood up, walking to the edge of the roof. He looked out at the dark forest, his eyes scanning the tree line. "They sense you. They sense the old blood. They are coming to investigate."
"To kill me?" you asked, standing up as well.
"To destroy," he corrected. "They will see you as an abomination. A threat to the purity of the line. They will not stop until you are dust."
He turned to you, his expression grim. "You are not ready."
"I am ready," you insisted, though your heart was hammering. "You trained me."
"Against common enemies," he said. "Not against my own kin. They are powerful. They are ancient. They are ruthless."
"Then we fight them together," you said. "You and me."
He stared at you for a long moment. Then he stepped forward, pulling you into his arms. He held you tight, burying his face in your neck. You felt him tremble, a rare show of fear.
"Yes," he whispered. "We fight them together. I will not let them take you. I will not lose you again."
The use of the word "again" hung in the air. He had not said it before. He had not admitted that losing you would be like losing her. That you were not just a replacement, but someone he could not bear to lose in your own right.
You held him back, your hands stroking his spine. "I am not going anywhere, Seonghwa. I am right here."
He lifted his head, looking you in the eye. The raw emotion in his gaze made your breath catch.
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "But I almost lost you once to my own blood. I will not make that mistake again."
He kissed you, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of fear and longing. You melted into him, opening your mouth to him, letting him pour all his darkness and all his light into you.
The attack came three nights later.
You were in the training chamber, practicing a levitation spell. One moment, the air was calm, the next, the explosion rocked the foundation of the sanctuary. The stone walls cracked, dust raining down from the ceiling. You fell to the ground, the spell dissolving into sparks.
Seonghwa was there instantly, pulling you to your feet. "Stay behind me."
The entrance to the chamber exploded inward, chunks of stone flying like shrapnel. Through the dust and debris, three massive shapes slithered into the light.
They were Nagas. In their true forms. They were horrifyingly beautiful, their upper bodies humanoid and muscular, scaled from the waist down. Their tails were thick and powerful, thrashing against the stone floor. Their eyes were glowing slits of gold and venom.
Seonghwa hissed, a sound of pure rage. He shifted then, partially. His skin rippled, scales erupting along his arms and neck. His eyes shifted, the pupils elongating. He grew taller, broader, the air around him shimmering with the heat of his power.
"Brothers," he spat, the word dripping with venom. "I see the rot did not kill the roots."
"Seonghwa," the lead Naga hissed. He was older, his scales a dull, muddy green, his face a map of old scars and cruelty. "The runt returns to the nest. And you bring a stray."
"I am no stray," you snapped, stepping up beside Seonghwa. Your magic flared, a shield of purple energy snapping into existence around you both. "I am the one who will end you."
The old Naga laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "Look at her. The face of the traitor, wrapped in the stench of witchcraft. You defile us twice, brother. Once by bedding a lowborn, and now by consorting with this abomination."
"Watch your tongue," Seonghwa warned, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated in your bones. "She is more powerful than your entire collective. She will be your end."
"She is a mistake," the third Naga snarled. He was younger, faster, his scales a vibrant, angry red. "A spell gone wrong. We will take her apart and see how she ticks."
They lunged as one.
It was chaos. The air filled with the sound of roaring and the clash of magic. Seonghwa met the old leader head on, his massive tail lashing out with enough force to crack stone. They grappled, tearing at each other with claws and fangs, a primal, brutal dance of violence.
The red one came for you. He moved with terrifying speed, his tail whipping through the air like a heavy club. You dodged, rolling across the floor, and lashed out with a wave of kinetic force. He staggered, his scales crackling under the impact, but he recovered quickly.
"Is that the best you can do?" he mocked, circling you. "The little witch throws pebbles."
You gritted your teeth, calling on the deeper reserves of your power. You felt the earth beneath you, the ley lines that crisscrossed the forest. You drew from them, pulling ancient energy up through your feet. It rushed into your hands, glowing white hot.
"How about this?" you screamed, thrusting your palms forward.
A blast of pure, concentrated energy hit the red Naga square in the chest. The force of it lifted him off his feet, slamming him into the far wall. He slid down, unconscious, his tail twitching feebly.
You turned to help Seonghwa, but the third Naga, a silent, calculating one with black scales, was already there. He was trying to flank Seonghwa, aiming a blade of poisoned magic at Seonghwa's exposed back.
"Seonghwa!" you screamed, launching a fireball at the black scaled attacker.
He deflected it with a sneer, but the distraction was enough. Seonghwa sensed the attack and spun around, catching the black Naga by the throat. He squeezed, his muscles bulging, and with a sickening crunch, he ended the threat.
The leader roared, seeing his kin fall. He redoubled his efforts, his magic flaring in a toxic green cloud. Seonghwa was forced back, coughing as the poison coated his skin. He was strong, but he was outnumbered, and he was protecting you.
The leader saw his advantage. He lunged, his fangs bared, aiming for Seonghwa's jugular. Seonghwa tried to dodge, but he was too slow. The poison was slowing his reflexes.
"No!" you screamed.
You did not think. You did not calculate. You just moved. You threw yourself between them, raising a shield. The leader's fangs struck the magical barrier inches from Seonghwa's face. The impact was immense. You felt the shield shatter, the force throwing you back.
You hit the ground hard, skidding across the stone. Pain erupted in your side, sharp and blinding. You tasted blood.
Seonghwa roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. The sight of you falling broke something inside him. The last of his restraint shattered. He did not just fight the leader. He decimated him.
He caught the old Naga by the tail, swinging him around like a ragdoll and slamming him into the ground. He stomped on his chest, the stone cracking under the impact. He leaned down, his shifting face inches from the leader's.
"You touch her," Seonghwa hissed, his voice no longer human, "and I will peel the scales from your body one by one."
The leader laughed, gurgling blood. "She is just a copy, Seonghwa. A pale shadow. Kill her and be free of the ghosts."
"She is not a shadow!" Seonghwa roared. "She is the light!"
He drove his claws into the leader's throat, ending the taunts permanently.
Silence fell over the chamber, heavy and thick. Seonghwa stood over the body, his chest heaving, his form still monstrous and scaled. He was trembling, the adrenaline fading into cold realization.
He turned to you. You were trying to sit up, clutching your ribs. Your face was pale, sweat beading on your forehead.
He rushed to you, dropping to his knees. He gathered you into his arms, his hands trembling as they checked you for injuries.
"Where are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice frantic. "Tell me."
"Ribs," you gasped, wincing as he prodded your side. "Maybe some internal bleeding. I will be fine."
"You will not be fine," he said, his eyes wide with panic. "You are hurt. I let you get hurt."
"I protected you," you reminded him, touching his face. His skin was still hot, the scales receding slowly. "I saved you."
He stared at you, his expression crumbling. "Why? Why would you do that? I am the monster. I am the one who deserves pain."
"Because you are mine," you said simply. "And I protect what is mine."
He let out a choked sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh. He buried his face in your neck, holding you so tight you could barely breathe.
"I could have lost you," he whispered. "Again. Just like before."
"But you did not," you soothed, running your fingers through his hair. "I am right here. I am alive."
He lifted his head, looking at you with an intensity that scorched. He looked at your eyes, your mouth, the blood on your lip. He saw you. Not her. You.
"You are not her," he said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "You are not her. You never were."
"I know," you said softly.
"You are stronger," he continued, his voice filled with wonder. "She was gentle. She was kind. She would not have thrown a fireball. She would not have taken a blade for me. She would have died in my arms again."
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I have been looking for her in you. I have been trying to find the ghost. But the ghost is gone. And you are here."
"I am here," you repeated.
"I love you," he said. The words were unexpected, shocking in their simplicity. "I do not know when it happened. I do not know how I let it happen. But I love you. Not for her face. Not for the memory. But for you. For your fire. For your rage. For your ridiculous, stubborn heart."
Tears pricked your eyes. You had waited so long to hear him say something that was not an insult or an order. To hear him say something real.
"I love you too, Seonghwa," you whispered. "Even though you are a bossy, arrogant, infuriating serpent."
He laughed, a genuine, happy sound that lit up his face. He leaned down and kissed you, a gentle, tender kiss that was at odds with the violence that surrounded you. It was a promise. A new beginning.
He helped you to your feet, supporting your weight as you limped towards the exit.
"We need to get you patched up," he said, his voice filled with concern.
"I will be fine," you assured him. "Just get me to bed."
"Bed," he agreed, a smirk touching his lips. "I can think of several ways to keep you there."
You laughed, then groaned as your ribs protested. "Easy, monster. I am injured, remember?"
"I will be gentle," he promised. "For now."
He carried you out of the destroyed chamber, into the cool night air. The forest was quiet, the danger passed. The old ghosts were laid to rest, finally banished by the living.
The days that followed were a blur of recovery and rebuilding. The sanctuary was in ruins, but Seonghwa did not care. He said he did not need the stone walls or the ancient artifacts. He only needed you.
He spent his time tending to your injuries, using his magic to knit your bones and soothe your pain. He was attentive, almost doting. It was a strange side of him, one you had never seen before. He brought you food, held you while you slept, and entertained you with stories of his past, stories he had never shared before.
He told you about his childhood in the temple, about the rigid structure of naga society, about the pressure to be perfect. He told you about the first time he saw his mate, how she was scrubbing the floors of the temple, her back straight, her head held high despite her lowly status. He told you about their courtship, stolen moments in the gardens, whispered promises of a future they could not have.
He spoke of the banishment, the brutal decree that had torn them apart because a creature of his lineage was not to mix with a human servant. He told you of the centuries he spent hunting for a cure to the poison that had taken her, a poison meant for him. He told you of the guilt that had eaten him alive, the belief that his survival was a punishment for his failure to save her.
"I spent a hundred years looking for a way to bring her back," he confessed one evening, as you lay resting against his chest. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the forest floor where you sat. "I delved into necromancy, blood magic, pacts with demons. I would have turned the world upside down to see her smile one last time."
You traced the patterns of the scales on his arm, now fully retracted into his human form. "And now?"
"And now I wonder if I was trying to resurrect a memory rather than a person," he said quietly. "I wanted her back so badly I was willing to destroy anything in my path. Including you."
"But you didn't," you reminded him. "You stopped."
"Because you fought back," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "You refused to be a ghost. You forced me to see the woman in front of me. You are stubborn, defiant, and fiercely loyal. You are not the gentle girl who died in my arms. You are a warrior. And I realized… I didn't fall in love with a memory. I fell in love with the storm that wears her face."
It was the closest he would come to saying he had moved on, and it was enough.
As your strength returned, so did your restlessness. The sanctuary was destroyed, and while the location was hidden, the attack had proven that nowhere was truly safe. Seonghwa's kin had found you once. They would find you again.
"We cannot stay here," Seonghwa said, watching you pack a bag with supplies salvaged from the wreckage. "The scent of blood will draw others. Scavengers. You are not strong enough to fight another war so soon."
"Where do we go?" you asked, slinging the bag over your shoulder. You were fully healed now, your magic humming at a steady, controlled thrum beneath your skin.
"Away," he said. "To the ends of the earth if necessary. I have lands in the East, mountains that touch the sky where the air is too thin for lesser creatures. Or we could go to the desert, where the sand buries all secrets."
"I like the mountains," you said. "But I want to travel. I want to see the world you told me about. I want to visit the temples, the ruins, the places you walked alone for centuries."
He looked at you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "You would walk beside me? After everything?"
"I would walk beside you," you confirmed. "Or ahead of you, if you are too slow."
He laughed, pulling you into his arms. "Then we travel. As partners. As equals."
It was a new chapter. You left the forest behind, leaving the ruins of the sanctuary as a grave for the past. You traveled by night, avoiding human settlements, moving through the world like shadows. Seonghwa taught you the languages of the old world, the secrets of the flora and fauna, the hidden pathways that intersected with the mortal realm only at certain times of the year.
You saw things that would drive a human mad. You saw cities of glass beneath the ocean, inhabited by creatures who sang to the moon. You saw forests of crystal where the trees hummed with the voices of the dead. You saw the battlefields of ancient wars where the spirits of soldiers still marched at twilight.
Through it all, your bond with Seonghwa deepened. The physical passion remained, a burning constant that flared whenever you touched, but it was tempered by a profound emotional intimacy. You knew his moods, his darkness, his rare moments of joy. He knew yours. You fought occasionally, clashes of will and ego that usually ended in bruised lips and tangled sheets.
But the world was not done with you yet.
You were in the mountains of the East, high above the cloud line, when you felt it. A disturbance in the magical currents. A pull on your blood.
You were meditating in a cave opening, the cold wind whipping through your hair. Your eyes snapped open.
"What is it?" Seonghwa asked, immediately alert. He had been sharpening his blade nearby, but he was at your side in an instant.
"I do not know," you said, staring out at the jagged peaks. "It feels… like a summons. But not for me. For you."
"Me?" He frowned, scanning the horizon.
"No," you corrected, closing your eyes to focus on the sensation. "Not for you. For the Naga blood. It is faint, but it is there. A beacon. It is calling to the Lords."
Seonghwa stiffened. "The High Council. They only convene when the balance is threatened. They would not call for me unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless they deemed me a threat to be eliminated," he finished. "Or unless they have sensed the awakening of a new power."
He looked at you, his expression grave. "Your magic has grown. It is no longer just witchcraft. It is intertwined with the earth, with the old ley lines. You are tapping into the source. The Council will feel that. They will want to control it. Or destroy it."
"Let them come," you said, your magic crackling at your fingertips. "I am not the weak witch they found in the alley. I am your mate. And I will burn them to the ground if they try to take you from me."
Seonghwa looked at you with fierce pride. "My warrior queen."
"We go to the Council?" you asked.
"We go to the Council," he confirmed. "But not to submit. To challenge."
The journey to the Council's stronghold was a treacherous trek through the treacherous shifting paths of the Spirit World. The air grew thin and cold, and the landscape twisted into impossible geometries. Gravity seemed to fluctuate, and time moved erratically.
Finally, you arrived at the Spire of Judgment. It was a colossal needle of black obsidian, piercing the sky, floating in a void between stars. It radiated an ancient, suffocating power.
You stood before the massive gates, carved with the faces of screaming demons. Seonghwa took your hand, squeezing it tight.
"Whatever happens in there," he warned, "do not let go of my hand. If we are separated, they will trap you in your own mind."
"I am not letting go," you promised.
The gates opened with a deafening groan, revealing a vast, domed chamber. The walls were lined with thousands of glowing eyes, the observers of the Council. In the center of the room sat seven massive thrones.
Upon them sat the Naga Lords.
They were colossal, far larger than Seonghwa in his shifted form. Their scales were iridescent, shimmering with colors that hurt the eyes. Their eyes were like voids, swallowing all light. They radiated an aura of power that made your knees weak.
Seonghwa stood tall, his head held high, refusing to bow. You stood beside him, pouring your magic into a shield that protected you both from the oppressive pressure.
"Seonghwa," the central Lord boomed. His voice was like grinding tectonic plates. "The Prodigal Son returns. And he brings a pet."
"She is my mate," Seonghwa corrected, his voice echoing with a power you had never heard before. "And she is here to answer your challenge."
"We issued no challenge," the Lord replied. "We issued a summons. You have broken the laws of our kind. You have consorted with a witch, a wielder of the forbidden arts. You have diluted your bloodline with a mortal."
"My bloodline is none of your concern," Seonghwa shot back. "I left your society centuries ago. I renounced my title. I want nothing to do with your politics."
"You renounced nothing," the Lord sneered. "Once a Naga, always a Naga. Your existence is an affront to our purity. And this… creature…" He pointed a clawed finger at you. "She is an abomination. She wields power that does not belong to her. She must be purged."
"Try it," you spat, stepping forward. You let your shield drop, revealing your full power. It flared around you, a vortex of purple and gold fire. The observers in the walls gasped, a collective ripple of shock running through the chamber.
"You dare threaten the Council?" the Lord roared, standing up. His serpent tail lashed out, smashing into the floor.
"I dare anything," you replied. "I am the daughter of the earth and the sky. I am the witch who broke the seal. I am the mate of your son. And I am done being spoken down to by old fossils who are afraid of a little change."
The silence was absolute. The Lords stared at you, their void eyes widening. They had not expected defiance. They had not expected power.
Seonghwa chuckled, a dark, proud sound. "I warned you," he said. "She is not what you think."
"She is a plague," the Lord hissed. "And she must be eradicated."
He raised his hand, and the air in the chamber began to darken. Shadows coalesced into forms, monstrous beasts of tooth and claw. The observers in the walls began to chant, a low, vibrating sound that felt like it was drilling into your skull. The Council was preparing to erase you.
Seonghwa moved in front of you, his own power erupting in a wave of midnight blue. He grew instantly, his form shifting, tearing through his clothes. His scales erupted, dark and iridescent, his lower half becoming a massive, crushing tail. His face elongated, fangs descending, eyes glowing with the slit-pupiled gaze of a predator.
"If you want her," he roared, his voice shaking the obsidian walls, "you go through me!"
"Then you die with her, traitor!" the Head Lord shrieked.
The battle was instantaneous and catastrophic. The lesser Naga Lords launched themselves from their thrones, their magic a chaotic storm of venom and shadow. Seonghwa met them mid-air, a collision of force that cracked the dome of the Spire. He was a force of nature, his tail lashing out, shattering stone and bone alike. But there were seven of them, and even his immense power was being tested.
You did not hide behind him. You moved.
You cast a spell of gravity reversal, sending the charging Lords crashing into the ceiling instead of the floor. You summoned chains of pure light, wrapping them around the massive tails of the beasts, pinning them in place. You threw spheres of void magic that ate through their defensive barriers like acid.
They were terrified of you. You could feel it. They had expected a weak human pet, not a being who commanded the fundamental forces of the universe.
"A sorceress!" one of them screamed, trying to bat away a bolt of lightning you hurled at him. "She is a sorceress!"
"She is the Queen!" Seonghwa bellowed, ripping the throat out of a Lord who dared to get too close. "Bow to her!"
The Head Lord, seeing his kin fall, grew desperate. He abandoned physical combat and began to chant a forbidden spell. The air in the chamber turned white-hot. The void between stars began to spin, forming a vortex that sought to suck you in.
"I call upon the Judgment of the Void!" the Lord screeched. "Be unmade!"
You felt the pull. It was terrifying. It felt like your very atoms were being ripped apart. You looked at Seonghwa. He was pinned, fighting off three others, unable to reach you. You saw the horror in his eyes.
No, you thought. I am not unmaking.
You dug deep. You went past the magic, past the training, past the anger. You reached for the core of yourself, the spark that had always been there, the thing that made you you. You remembered the alley, the fear, the power. You remembered the training, the pain, the love.
You grabbed the edges of the vortex with your mind. It burned. It felt like holding onto a sun. But you held on.
"Unmake this!" you screamed, and you pushed back.
The recoil was explosive. The void collapsed in on itself, blowing outwards in a shockwave of pure white energy. It slammed into the Head Lord, shattering his shield, then his body, then his essence. He didn't just die; he was erased from existence, turned into dust that scattered into the wind.
The shockwave blew out the walls of the Spire. The ceiling groaned and collapsed. You fell, the ground rushing up to meet you.
Strong arms caught you.
Seonghwa, bleeding from a dozen wounds, his scales cracked and dull, held you tight against his chest. He wrapped his tail around you, curling into a ball to shield you from the falling debris.
You blacked out.
When you woke up, you were lying on a bed of soft moss. The air smelled of rain and pine. You sat up, gasping. Your body ached, but you were intact.
Seonghwa was beside you, back in his human form. He was unconscious, his torso wrapped in crude bandages made of vines and leaves. His face was pale, drawn.
"Seonghwa," you cried out, scrambling to him. You touched his cheek. His skin was cool.
His eyes fluttered open. They focused on you, and a weak smile touched his lips.
"You destroyed them," he rasped. "You destroyed the Spire."
"Are you okay?" you asked, tears streaming down your face.
"I will heal," he said. "We are… away from the Spirit World. I managed to shift us out before the collapse."
He reached up, wiping a tear from your cheek. "You are terrifying, did you know that?"
"I had to save you," you said.
"You did," he agreed. "You saved us both. The Council is gone. The Lords are dead. There is no one left to challenge us."
"Who will rule?" you asked.
He looked at you, his gaze intense and serious. "I have no desire to rule the Naga. Let them descend into chaos. They have forgotten the old ways anyway."
He sat up, wincing slightly, and took your hands in his.
"But I do desire one thing," he said. "I desire a life with you. A real life. No more hiding. No more running. We are the most powerful beings in existence now, witch. We can go anywhere. Do anything."
"Anything?" you repeated.
"Yes," he said. "We can find a new home. Build a sanctuary. Or we can travel the world and watch the sun rise over every ocean. We can be monsters who terrorize the villages," he joked, "or we can be guardians who protect the weak."
He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours. "I choose you. Whatever path we walk, as long as you are by my side, that is my kingdom."
You kissed him, pouring all your love and relief into the touch. He kissed you back, his hands tangling in your hair, his grip possessive and tender.
"Then let's go home," you whispered when you finally pulled away.
"Where is home?" he asked.
"Wherever you are," you answered.
He smiled, a true, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He stood up, pulling you to your feet. The forest around you was peaceful, the birds singing, unaware that two gods walked among them.
"Come, my queen," he said, offering you his arm. "We have a lifetime to explore."
You took his arm, and together, you walked out of the shadows and into the light.
Everytime I read fans being unhappy about the Album photos/concepts/their hair colors/the styling/ecc... CLOSE YOUR EYES AND JUST LISTEN!! THIS IS WHAT SHOULD ALL BE ABOUT!THIS IS WHAT REALLY MATTERS:
Thinking about boyfriend!yunho who'd come home from a meeting exhausted and hair up in a ponytail without thinking much of it only for his girlfriend on the couch to freeze and go red.
And when he realises why, he lets out that menacing soft chuckle of his before placing a hand on the back of the couch to lean closer to her.
"You like it, darling?"
And she nods, sitting up straighter, admiring the way his face is framed by some of the strands that have fallen out of the ponytail.
"Y'know, they told me it's getting too long. That I should get it shortened before the next shoot," he starts, pouting playfully as she gently plays with his hair in awe.
"But I think we should see how...useful this new look is. What do you say, angel?"
At that, her gaze locks onto his again, breath hitching. When she does nothing but gulp, he smirks and leans closer teasingly. She expects to feel his mouth descend on hers so she moves her hands to his neck, playing with the end of the little ponytail.
"You're so pretty," she whispers, eyes softer. And he blushes a little, smiling bashfully, "Thank you, darling."
But right before their lips touch he pulls away with a dirty smirk.
"Oh, baby, not like that. I think we should just get to the most important part, y'know?"
He starts, getting on his knees,
And as he spreads her legs roughly before placing them over his shoulders, she gasps, hands falling to either side of her hips to grasp the cushions—only for him to growl and put her hands in his hair, around the ponytail, "Stay."
"Y-Yunho, you just got home, let's not-" "I don't care. Yes or no, angel?"
Her words die on her tongue as she processes his blunt words. And she nods. He smirks up at her a little, forgetting all his exhaustion at the way she's so caught off-guard. And when he presses the first peck to her inner thigh, he whispers,
i love the story of how wooyoung made his way into ateez. it's a little sad at first because he was the last to join and all the other guys (sans yeosang) were like do we really need him :////. and this boy's response wasn't to be like "oh i'm going to just show them how talented i am". "oh i'm gonna show them what a good singer and dancer i am". "oh they're going to realise i'm such a good fit for the band". no this bitch really said "i am going to kiss each one of them enough and annoy them so bad they will either have to fall in love with me or kill me and i've got nine lives and infinite smooches so do the math because i'm too pretty to". and it WORKED. like we don't have time for that sports movie underdog shit we have MEN to BREAK DOWN via AFFECTION. jung wooyoung you will always be famous
