“Go ahead,” he whispers. “Show me how your lips would feel wrapped around me.”
Or,
The Trimedian plan is weighing on Xanthus. Love has a solution. The only problem? Dontis is just down the hall.
CWS: established relationship, canon compliant, oral sex, switch reader, switch xanthus, deep throating, hand jobs, cum eating, face-fucking, hair pulling, choking, breath play, dom/sub undertones, power dynamics, praise kink, finger sucking, subspace, smut, fluff and smut, humor, exhibitionism, light angst, reader-insert, gender-neutral reader, non-penetrative sex, oral fixation, aftercare.
A/N: finally finished this fic. it took such a long time. i first started it around 20 July. i hope you guys enjoy it. as always, read the tags first and have fun <3
“He can hear us,” Xanthus hisses, a shaky breath escaping through his teeth.
“Dontis can hear you,” you push down on the back of his neck, “not me.”
Xanthus scoffs, though his voice carries no bite. Your fingers dip near the curve of his neck. The taut muscle of his shoulders feels solid like metal under your fingertips.
You push down harder. Xanthus lets out a sound, so small you almost miss it. You open your mouth, a quip forming on your tongue. Xanthus’ hand grabs your wrist before your mind can ever register his hold. He gives you a small, inviting tug. You bite at your lip, wondering if you’ve pushed too much. The thought only spurs you on; akin to fire spreading across your skin.
You move past the armchair he’s in. His eyes trail over the exposed skin of your nightshirt; your collarbone peeks out of the silk material clinging to your skin.
“You’re staring.”
The corners of his lips tug upward. “Am I? You’re one who’s become oh so attentive tonight.”
You slip between the table and Xanthus’ seat. From this position, he’s the one looking up at you. His hair is slightly ruffled. There are specs of ink under his fingernails. The paper scattered across the table behind you shuffles as you lean back. Your legs raise slightly. Xanthus parts his own, giving you space.
“Can’t I be attentive?” You tilt your head, your tone seeping with honey. “You’ve been working so hard.”
Xanthus’ smile grows into something amused; an expression that pushes back against your own. He’s challenging your composure while keeping his own.
You force back the thought. “A little break wouldn’t hurt.”
Xanthus lets go of the pen. It clatters on the table. His brows twitch.
“A break,” he repeats, as if the word is foreign to him. “From what, exactly?”
You gesture vaguely at the scattered papers. “The planning. Worrying. The—” you lean closer, your voice dropping, “—brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
“I’ve been alone all day.”
There’s a strike of light across his eyes. A white flash appearing only for a second, burning out in the crimson sea of his eyes. Your pride betrays you. You’d think you’d be able to resist the pull of his gaze, but you’re left chasing your own breath with every teasing word that escapes your mouth. Your own gaze is locked onto the curve of his cheek. You wonder if he’ll feel warm under your fingertips.
“Do you want to touch me, Love?”
His voice is steady. The constant tone reminds you of a ship fighting against turbulent waves.
Your hand moves with a mind of its own. The smooth fabric of his pants is like silk against your skin. The muscles tense beneath your touch. There’s a fire brimming inside you.
“I asked you a question.”
“And I’ll clarify,” you begin, voice lighter than intended, “Do you want to be touched?”
Xanthus’s hand trails over yours. His fingertip finds your pulse point, and you almost recoil, half embarrassed of your quickened heartbeat and half battling against your hesitation. There’s a thread between you two—the bond, your craving need aching alongside his own, emotions bouncing off each other—pulling tighter and tighter with every push and pull.
He brings your wrist to his lips. The touch of this mouth lights fireworks across your skin.
“Only by you,” he murmurs into your wrist.
Something wet glides across your pulse point. Xanthus’s tongue—maybe still tasting the blood from the last time he bit you—traces your veins. A glint of white bleeds into your eyesight again. His teeth—or fangs—scrape against the exposed skin.
You bite down on your tongue, trying to silence the moan that almost escapes you. You can taste the iron of your own blood. The corner of Xanthus’s lips curl, as if he can taste the blood in the air. The aroma of your blood is like an ichor; golden liquid he’s been chasing for the last centuries.
You lean closer, your knee resting just on the edge of the chair. Xanthus’s hand around your wrist tightens. He tugs you even closer. The curve of his cheek is even more prominent now. Even through the dimly lit room, you can make out how his cheek rises with each curl of his lips. How his eyes are different from the first night you saw him—the look of something primal, circling you, pulling at your threads with curiosity has transformed into something else akin to an expectant need swimming in his gaze.
“Let me take care of you for tonight.” The words spill out of you. “For once. Just let yourself go for a few hours. Stay in this moment with me and with me only.”
His hold on your wrist weakens, though the tenderness never leaves. You cup his cheek. The skin under your palm is cold to the touch. Xanthus tilts his head closer, chasing after your touch. You give it to him, now both hands cradling his face. For a moment you think something inside him breaks—a dead man walking for too long.
You kiss just above his brow. Xanthus’s eyes flutter closed for a moment.
“Talk to me." You whisper, and the shake in your voice surprises even you.
“I need to keep us safe.” Xanthus’s voice strains. “I need to keep you safe.”
“You already are keeping me safe.”
He scoffs. “It is because of my past we have to hide. These people will never stop. I dragged you into this.”
“You gave me a choice that last night in London.”
“An illusion of choice.” He pulls away slightly, as if he’s ashamed, as if he’s not worthy.
“Would you have left me alone then?” You spit out, voice higher than intended. You don’t care if Dontis hears. “No, you wouldn’t have. I chose to go through this with you by my side. Don’t shut me out.” You raise your hands towards him again like a silent offering. “Share this weight with me. Or—” you stutter, “or just let me take your mind off all this just for a few hours.”
Xanthus watches you move. The burning white has returned to his eyes. He tilts his head towards you again, right between your palms. Your fingertips trace the contours of his face.
“Show me,” he says. “Show me how you’ll take care of me. What it will feel like.”
The words hang around your neck. His desperation and want amplify the ache between your legs. For a moment, your mind goes blank, still trying to gather your wits about you.
Xanthus lets out a small laugh under you.
“Is this entertaining for you already?” You trail away from his face, nails scraping against his clothed skin.
“Are you shy, Love?” He asks, and his voice rings out like a bell in your mind.
“No—”
“Prove it to me then.”
Smug bastard. You’d tell him so, but the bemused expression on his face makes you hiss out a breath instead of any word.
“I’m,” you consider your words, “shy for you.”
His eyes widen slightly.
You continue. “Only for you. How does that make you feel? To know I only think of you?”
“I can feel it. Unlike anything I have ever felt before. I couldn’t care less if it’s the bond, Love. I’ve never,” —a breath escapes him— “felt this way before.”
“I could make you feel even better.” You trail lower, fingers now tracing his waistband.
“I’m sure you could,” Xanthus mutters. “I wonder what’s running through your mind right now.”
“Can’t you tell?”
“I knew you were planning something. Now here I am,” Xanthus leans back into the chair, “chasing that feeling. Chasing you.”
His words are hooks, digging deep. You feel like prey in the woods—watched, tracked, hunted by something patient and hungry. You’re just not sure which one you are as of now.
You push back against his chair. The wood catches against the floor. You catch a muffled laugh from Xanthus. Your brows furrow, and you look up at him as you lower yourself to his knees.
“I thought you were supposed to keep quiet.” His hand finds your cheek before a fingertip grazes your bottom lip. The flesh is warm underneath his touch. “You seem even more affected than me.”
Your body is locked into place, frozen under him. Somehow you fight against your embarrassment; your jaw doesn’t clench. Instead your lips part even further. His fingers shift; now his thumb hangs dangerously close to your tongue. If you open slightly, he could—
“I wonder how you’d take my fingers, Love.”
Fuck. Something almost snaps inside you. The knot of impatience across your body gets tighter and tighter. You’re shocked, because your lips part even further.
Xanthus takes the invitation. His thumb slips in. The wetness is instant. Warm and intoxicating, wrapping around his finger. He presses down on your tongue. You try to swallow down a moan, silence yourself, but he feels it before you do.
Xanthus tilts his head. His fingers follow in tandem. He pushes against the inhibitions around both of you, and you let him. His fingers graze your gums. Your teeth catch on his cold skin, tongue warms the same coldness.
“I take them well enough.” You barely utter the words around his fingers. His free hand rests on the chair arm. With one brow raised, he pushes harder on your tongue. You choke out a strangled moan. “God damn it. You’re doing this on purpose now.”
You could bite him; dig your teeth in. You doubt you’d break skin, but the idea spreads through your body like hot liquid, pooling in your belly. Xanthus’s fingers still just for a moment. Your body reacts to the sudden moment of restfulness; tongue and teeth now frozen in time, afraid of nicking his skin. He knows you won’t—the way his fingers explore the inside of your cheek, prodding and pushing at your gums and teeth and tongue—you know it, too.
“Are you struggling to get the words out?” His lips curl. “And what if I am doing it on purpose? What exactly am I doing?”
“You’re— you know exactly—”
“You seem to enjoy it.” His fingers leave your mouth with a string of spit following them. You whine at the sudden emptiness. He raises his hand—maybe just for you to see it clearer—the saliva glistens in the room’s wispy light.
The withdrawal lasts for mere seconds. He bends over, his free hand now forming a heavy hold against your nape. His hand leads you closer. The smell of ink and red wine—from Dontis’s collection—conquers your senses.
“I can hear your heartbeat from here, Love.”
Of course he can. He can hear your blood rushing to every pulse point in your body, the heat in your cheeks, the flip of your stomach every time his fingers dance across your skin. His fingertips draw lazy circles on your nape. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his waistband again.
“Impatient.” His head falls back against the back of the chair. His blond hair frames his face just like the dim light of the room.
The sight above you reminds you of a painting of some kind; a fallen angel with a halo around him. If only you could convince him that he deserves devotion.
“You?” You quip. “Or me?”
“Both of us, technically, but you’re the one having trouble with staying quiet. Do you want Dontis to hear how needy you are for me?”
“Does that make you jealous? Or is it not entirely jealousy? Do you want me to prove you’re mine?” Your fingers tug on his pants; the buttons give way.
Xanthus hisses through his teeth. His gaze shutters, pupils swallowing the crimson until there is nothing but want and need. Both of you are testing the boundaries of submission. Your eyes glimmer, like cinders scorching. Xanthus looks down at you with a mix of fascination and gnawing hunger—a route back to his instincts as something otherworldly and not human, which is only held back with the slight restraint woven into his veins over the centuries.
“I need you to say what you want, Xanthus.”
You’re goading him—he knows. You’ll prod until he gives in and parts with himself, exposing a desire long kept under lock and key. A fool he is—from the moment he laid his eyes on you, on that cold night in London, he had given you the key to his inhibitions.
“You know what I want.” Xanthus’s fingers press down onto your nape. With every pull you’re closer to him, caged between his legs. “With everything pulling my attention away from you, I couldn’t even give my mind the time to imagine this—imagine you. You’re a sight to behold, Love.”
“You’re doing it again.”
His lips form into a small smile. “Remind me again—what am I exactly doing?”
“Taking my attention away from you. You’re trying to distract me from what really is on your mind.”
“You’re always on my mind, Love. But I am now wondering what your curious mind thinks I’m trying to take your attention from.”
You tilt your head; a small scoff follows. Xanthus raises a brow. His hand shifts from your nape, now settling on the side of your neck. His thumb rests just on the side of your throat. You swallow down a whine. He feels the vibration; the sensitivity he’s accumulated over the centuries picks up your muffled sounds of pleasure and heightens them.
“From this,” —you fidget with his unbuttoned waistband, tugging the fabric down just slightly— “from how restless you are.”
Xanthus’s fingers curl slightly, holding your neck firmly.
“Waiting for my permission, Love?”
“Yes.” The word escapes you through a shaky breath. “I always am.”
His hand leaves your neck, trailing to your cheek. You instinctively chase his touch, leaning towards his palm. Your lips graze his skin. You press a chaste kiss on the inside of his hand. His hand flexes, fingers curling stiffly. You feel his nails faintly scratch your skin.
“Go ahead,” he whispers. “Show me how your lips would feel wrapped around me.”
Xanthus sits forward, his towering shadow falling across your frame. You want to get lost in it, let it engulf you so you never forget what it feels like to be wanted by him— at his feet, loved.
“You tell me if we need to stop, and we stop,” he rasps, voice hushed.
Xanthus’s breath escapes with a low, deep hiss as his cock springs free—lean and flushed. For a moment you freeze on the spot, hands just a touch away from where he needs you the most. To show you, uncovered by the stress of surviving all these years—it’s a sight that’ll forever be engraved in your mind.
You don’t ever realize you’ve been staring instead of touching.
“Love,” —you expect his usual tone, dipped in sarcasm or playful amusement, but no— “you’ve gone quiet, but your heartbeat sped up. Do you want to continue, or?”
“You’re so sweet,” you purr. “And tender. So easily riled up and fallen apart, too.”
You’re not sure whether vampires can blush in the traditional sense, but the way Xanthus’s knees buckle slightly, along with a hitched breath, confirms your suspicions.
You let your nails dig in the meat of his thighs. The flesh is soft under his touch. The image of his entire body exposed encourages you even more. Xanthus’s hips twitch. His cock throbs and you can imagine the way the veins running down the length would feel between your fingers. You don’t keep him waiting any longer.
Your fingertip settles on his slit. The skin is wet to the touch. His muffled whines are a melody to your ears as your hand closes around the head.
“Look at you,” you whisper, eyes catching his gaze, “so beautiful.”
“I should be the one saying that to you.” The words barely register between his shallow moans and the sound of slick between your fingers. “Not the other way around.”
“You’ll get your chance.”
“I’m sure I will,” —his hips buck against you again— “I’ve thought about what you’d look like beneath me too many times.”
You shift closer, lips grazing his skin just at the base of his cock. “Tell me all of it.”
Xanthus shifts his head to the side, blond strands sticking to his forehead. “Tell you about all the times I’ve imagined how to make you forget about everything but me?”
You let out a soft giggle. “In detail.”
You don’t waste a second. Your lips wrap around the head, while you let you grasp the further length of him. The sensation of a swirling tongue, fingers pressing and probing—Xanthus grips the edge of the chair, sure of the fact of his declining self-control and restraint.
“I wanted to bring you back that night,” —his hand tangles itself in your hair, pressing slightly down on your head— “I did get my fill that night, but I craved more than that.”
His hand guides your mouth, lips swallowing more and more of his length until you feel the head resting on your tongue.
“Your blood sung to me.” He admits, mirroring the need and want of the man you met that night. “But I cherish your kisses more. Your lips, your moans against my own mouth.”
Your cheeks hollow, trying to breathe through your nose as you take him even deeper. Xanthus tugs on your hair, stopping you from taking more than you can manage.
“Use your hands, Love.” His palm moves smoothly across the back of your head.
You groan against him, the moan vibrating through your mouth and to his cock. Looking back at him, you run your fingers up and down in a rhythm around him again. His eyes are unlike anything you’ve ever seen—an ocean of red with a glint. His gaze moves between your teasing hands, reddened lips, and your own eyes, which are brimmed with tears.
You want to get lost in his sea, hand over your submission and feel safe melting into his arms. His hand guides your head again. The pulse of his cock between your flushed lips, the cadence of his whispered praises, the guidance of his tender hand—it’s all just enough to let go of your mind.
Haziness is all your mind feels. Floating, disconnected from your own body, only led by the soft touches of Xanthus. You’d take all of him if you could, but he wants to save that for another time. There is no pain or discomfort. The sound of his moans and your own whines lull you in a state of bliss.
Xanthus’s voice strains; words slur together. “Love, look at me.”
He can see the way your eyes are glazed over; the slow blinking spurs him on even more. Your body is pliable against his slack limbs as both of you drown in pleasure linked between you.
You readjust, groping tighter around Xanthus. His head lolls back; the skin of his neck is exposed under the room’s light.
Letting go of the head of his cock, your lips find the side of the base instead. Your teeth graze the veins just for a second, and his hips buckle again.
“I—” he blurts, “apologies.”
You hum against him, only making him twitch even more. “So cordial. As if you weren’t fucking my mouth a few seconds ago.”
“Love.” His voice deepens into a warning, but you know there’s no bite behind it.
“What?” You let your wrist curl, leading your fingers in a tempo around his cock. “Afraid someone will hear?”
“We should have done this while Dontis was out of the building. Preferably streets away as well.”
“Hm,” you pretend to mull it over. “I’m not sure. I like how you're trying so hard to keep quiet.”
His brow rises, though his lips don’t form into their usual unamused curl—instead they hold back the sounds of his choked hums.
“It’s not working, by the way.”
“How helpful. Should have known you’d be such a tease even when you’re on your knees for me.”
You lower your head, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh. His breath catches. You feel the tremor run through him.
Catching his eye again, you see his rising chest with breaths you know he doesn’t need.
“Shh.” Your lips brush his hips. “Let me.”
The weight of him on your tongue is warm, heavy. You feel the pulse of him against your lips, the way his hips twitch involuntarily.
“Love—” His voice breaks. “Please—”
You hollow your cheeks, and he chokes on a sound—a strangled, desperate thing that he tries to swallow down.
His hand tightens in your hair again. His other hand grips the armrest, knuckles white.
He’s losing control. You feel it through the bond—the way his composure unravels, the way centuries of restraint finally give way. You could get drunk on this feeling.
“I cannot—” his voice is broken and raw. “Love, please—”
“Be good for me, Xanthus.”
“You—”
For a moment you think he might snap. Grab you by your arms and bend you over the desk. With every twirl of your tongue around his cock you can sense his control dim. You wonder what he’d do to you if he had his way—
But tonight, you’re the one unraveling him. You’re the one who watches his composure shatter with one last press of your lips around him. A spring coils tightly, and you know what can make it snap.
The earth stutters on its axis. Xanthus feels something akin to electricity running through his veins. He wonders if you can feel it too. By the way you’re choking around his cock, you might as well be.
His hand tangled in your head leads you, positioning you between his legs again. Your weak knees lean against the edge of the chair. Your hands, slick with him, rest on his thighs
Xanthus's thumb grazes your cheek, the cum you weren’t able to swallow splayed across the soft flesh. He grabs your chin, firmly leading you only a touch away from his face. His cold breath prickles against your neck. He tilts your face down before his lips part and tongue slides across your cheek.
“Fuck,” you groan, “my god.”
Your spine arches, body turning even more pliable in his hold. Xanthus’s free hand snakes up to your waist, tugging you into his lap.
“No god here,” he whispers against your skin.
“Only you?” You laugh.
Turning your head, you catch his lips in a chaste kiss. He doesn’t let you pull back. Arm pushing firmly against the small of your back, you’re pressed flush against his chest. His lips run over your own, sucking the bottom lip.
Your arms fly around his neck, pushing him down as the kiss deepens. It’s animalistic—teeth click against each other, fang grazing against your lip and drawing blood. His hold gets tighter as your blood seeps into his mouth.
“You taste divine, Love.”
All you can exchange are small pauses between kisses, lips just apart by a breath.
“So do you.”
His forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed. His breathing is slow, even—peaceful for the first time in what feels like forever.
“Charmer.” You press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Get used to being taken care of like this.”
“It felt a lot like teasing mixed with your notion of taking care of me.” He laughs—a breathless sound—and pulls you closer, burying his face in your neck.
And then—
Creak.
Your body goes rigid. Xanthus goes absolutely still, his breath catching in his throat. The sound drifts through the hallway—the unmistakable sound of a cupboard door opening, then closing. A faint hum follows. Someone is moving around.
“I swear, if he mentions this in the morning—”
“I hope he does.”
“Both of you are insufferable.”
“You weren’t thinking of how insufferable I was just a few moments ago.”
Xanthus’s head rests against the chair; a small sigh escapes him. His hand rests against your cheek. The amused smile on his lips makes you swallow back a groan.
“I’ll show you exactly what I was thinking of soon. But not tonight.”
A promise— it lingers in the air. Your body feels heavy as you lean into his chest, finding your rightful spot in his arms.
“Rest, Love.” Xanthus runs his fingers down your spine. “Leave the mess you made of us to me, and I’ll return the favor just the way we’ve both imagined it.”
A/N: if I had a penny for every time i had to use the tag “cum eating,” i’d have three pennies, which isn’t much -- but it is a pattern i’m noticing. The next fic will probably be a part two of “honey whisky” -- so we’ll see isaac again.
the xanthus nsfw fic is finally done! i have the first draft finished and now i’ll re-read it and tweak a few things. i really wanted to post a small snippet, though choosing a specific part for a sneak peek was so hard 😭 the writer’s block was hard on this one, i barely got through it + i tried to explore some new dynamics so that’s that.
Lawrence Tritus Cleyburne and Nathaniel Quies Cleyburne
Struggling under his father's cruelty, young Lawrence Cleyburne finds solace in his little brother, Nathaniel. After losing their mother and dying in battle at twenty, Lawrence is turned into a vampire against his will. Cursed with immortality, he silently watches over Nathaniel's life from the shadows, forced to watch everyone he loves fade away.
Warnings!: Features physical abuse and child neglect by a parent, death of a parent, illness, grief and crying, war violence and blood, non-consensual turning into a vampire, and deep emotional distress.
At thirteen years old, Lawrence grew up surrounded by the suffocating wealth of nobility. He struggled under the crushing weight of expectations as the sole heir of the Cleyburne family—expectations driven heavily by his cold, unyielding father . At such a young age, he couldn't understand why he had to endure so much misery. All he truly wanted was to explore the world and experience a life of simple peace and happiness. He had never asked for any of this burden.
Lawrence struggled through endless lessons in leadership, governance, combat, and courtly etiquette. His young mind fought to process the mountain of information shoved at him daily. But if he failed to memorize every tedious detail, his father, Viscount Richard, would subject him to relentless lectures about how lazy he was, pounding into his head just how crucial it was for him to be the perfect heir. He had to be the heir; he had no other choice.
Exhausted by the endless parade of aristocratic nonsense, Lawrence grew sick of playing the perfect son—sick of maintaining flawless posture and keeping up an untarnished reputation. Every single birthday, when he closed his eyes to blow out the candles, he secretly wished for nothing more than to run away, praying someone would let a tired young boy live the life he actually wanted.
The day Lawrence finally snapped and confessed to his father how deeply exhausted he was by all of it, all he received in return was a stinging slap across the face. Viscount Richard locked him inside his bedroom for days, desperate to "discipline" his son's rebellious behavior.
Soon enough, bitter rumors began circulating among the other highborn families, whispering that Lawrence was a ruined, troublesome child who would make a dreadful heir. He was forced to listen to those poisonous rumors at only thirteen years old.
By the time Lawrence reached fifteen, the only solace he found was in the quiet moments he shared with his mother. He opened up to her about his struggles and how harsh his father became whenever he failed to master his studies. His mother listened carefully to every single word, though her heart broke in silence; there was so little she could do. It was one of the most agonizing burdens she carried, watching her eldest son suffer while knowing that if she dared ask her husband to soften his discipline, Viscount Richard would refuse her outright, asserting his absolute right to govern his household as he saw fit.
Despite his isolation and misery,
Lawrence constantly reminded himself that he wasn't alone. He had his younger brother, Nathaniel.
Little Nathaniel, just eight years old, would often try to step up or defend his big brother from their father's wrath—only to receive a cruel slap across the face himself. Afterward, Lawrence would hold and comfort Nathaniel, soothing his tears. They would sit together on the deep stone window sills, gazing out at the vast sky painted in shades of fiery orange and soft purple, talking about their wildest dreams and everything they wished they could do. On quiet nights, they would sneak out of their bedchambers just to lie beneath the stars.
Whenever either brother felt overwhelmed or defeated by the darkness of the manor, they immediately sought each other out. The rest of the world faded away; they would ignore their tutors and lessons for the rest of the day, standing firmly by each other's side just to bring one another comfort.
Lawrence loved teasing Nathaniel whenever the opportunity arose. Whenever their father hosted a lavish noble gala, Lawrence would creep up behind Nathaniel and tickle him ruthlessly until they were both breathless with laughter, completely unbothered by the unamused glares or soft giggles from the surrounding aristocrats.
They frequently overheard young noble girls whispering about having crushes on them, gushing over which brother they hoped to marry one day. Being just as young, Lawrence and Nathaniel would simply shake their heads or laugh, amused by how certain those girls were about their futures.
Lawrence routinely dragged Nathaniel into his mischievous shenanigans—fooling around in the dark hallways after hours, or sneaking down to the grand kitchens to swipe jars of golden honey, candied sugar-plums, and iced fruits. Whenever they broke the minor house rules, Nathaniel adored seeing this playful, unburdened side of his big brother. Lawrence never hid his true self when he was with Nathaniel.
Lawrence always listened attentively whenever Nathaniel excitedly rambled about his dream of becoming a great explorer, embarking on dangerous adventures into uncharted lands, or doing bizarre, wonderful things. Nathaniel swore he never wanted to become the heir—and even though Lawrence secretly felt the exact same way, he knew he couldn't abandon his duty to the Cleyburne name. Lawrence was willing to sacrifice his own freedom, suppressing his own desires so that Nathaniel might one day be free to chase his dreams.
Before the shadows of war ever reached their doorstep, tragedy struck the heart of the Cleyburne estate. Their mother’s health rapidly deteriorated, confining her to her bedchamber as her strength faded day by day.
For the first time in their lives, Lawrence and Nathaniel witnessed their father's cold, unyielding mask shatter completely. Standing by her bedside, holding her frail hand, Viscount Richard wept openly for his beloved wife—a sight so strange and heartbreaking that neither brother knew how to process it. Their father, who had only ever shown them harshness and strict discipline , was entirely broken.
When she finally breathed her last, the manor fell into a cold, suffocating silence.
The funeral took place under a dark, weeping sky. As the earth was laid over her coffin, Lawrence and Nathaniel stood side by side, numb with grief. But as night fell and the heavy silence of the estate became unbearable, Lawrence couldn't hold it in any longer.
In the privacy of his bedchamber, the heavy burden of being the perfect heir, the fear of his father, and the crushing grief of losing his mother finally shattered him. The older brother who had always been a shield for Nathaniel collapsed into tears. For the first time, it was thirteen-year-old Nathaniel who held his big brother tightly in his arms, stroking Lawrence's hair as Lawrence wept uncontrollably into his shoulder, clinging to the only piece of comfort he had left in the world.
At twenty years old, Lawrence was arranged to marry the daughter of one of his father’s influential allies. But before the union could be finalized, war broke out across the land. Viscount Richard called off the wedding immediately.
Because of his own physical disability, Viscount Richard announced he was sending his eldest son to fight in his place. A cold mixture of deep terror and burning fury washed over Lawrence—made even worse by his father's ultimatum: if Lawrence refused to march off to war, he would be stripped of his title, disowned, and cast out into the street.
Thirteen-year-old Nathaniel wept bitterly when he heard the news. Tears streaming down his face, he begged his father not to send Lawrence away. He didn't want his brother to fight; he wanted Lawrence to stay home where it was safe so they could grow old together. If Lawrence died in battle, Nathaniel's dream of exploring the world would shatter in an instant.
Standing on the muddy bank at the Battle of Newburn, twenty-year-old Lawrence tightly gripped of his musket. Surrounded by the cold rain and the scent of blood, a heavy realization settled in his chest: he was going to die here. He would leave this world without seeing his brother ever again, leaving all his unspoken dreams behind to fade into the mud. A sharp, blinding heat pierced through his chest as a stray musket shot its mark. Lawrence let out a ragged gasp, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed onto the cold, muddy ground. Crimson blood slowly pooled across his clothes, soaking into the soil. Lying heavily on his left side, his fading eyes stared up at the gloomy, weeping sky.
Does Heaven even exist? his mind whispered weakly as his breathing slowed. Will I go there and be with Mother? Nathaniel… I’m so sorry. I failed to be the heir… I couldn't be the son Father wanted... Then, darkness took him.
Suddenly, Lawrence gasped for air, waking up to a reality that felt entirely wrong. Everything was different. The very earth felt sharper, stranger... and the overwhelming scent of blood and lingering death from the surrounding soldiers flooded his senses.
Panic surged through his chest, but a calm voice cut through the chaos. Looking over, he saw a medical officer standing above him. The man gently calmed him down, revealing the horrifying truth: he had given Lawrence his own blood and broken his neck.
It was happening too fast for his mind to comprehend. The officer introduced himself as Audric and explained that Lawrence was no longer human—he was now a vampire.
A vampire...? Lawrence processed the words in stunned horror. They truly existed. He was now trapped with an eternal, burning hunger, turned into a creature of the night without his consent. He had accepted his death on the battlefield—yet here he was, reawakened into a brand-new existence, cursed with unimaginable power.
His very first thought was to check on Nathaniel and his father.
As soon as Audric allowed him to leave, Lawrence slipped into the shadows of the Cleyburne estate. Secretly watching from the dark, he saw Viscount Richard throwing items across the room in a fit of rage, spitting bitter insults about his fallen son. The painful realization settled deep in Lawrence's heart: his father had truly never loved him.
Moving to Nathaniel’s room, Lawrence saw his younger brother sobbing uncontrollably, clutching his chest in grief. A wave of intense, heightened emotion crashed over Lawrence—an agonizing side effect of his new vampiric senses.
In the days that followed, Lawrence watched as aristocratic dinner parties were held in the manor, realizing with disgust that his father and the other nobles were merely using his "heroic death" to garner pity and social status.
As the years blurred together, Lawrence—now carrying the name Xanthus—watched his younger brother take on the burden of becoming the new heir.
To his surprise, Nathaniel handled the responsibility with incredible strength despite having no desire for the title. Xanthus watched from afar as Nathaniel married a sweet, charitable woman he deeply loved. Together, they started a trust to support victims of war—a noble act that made Xanthus swell with immense pride for the boy he had raised.
Decades passed like sand through an hourglass. Xanthus remained in the shadows, a silent guardian over his brother, ensuring Nathaniel, his wife, his children, and his grandchildren were always protected from harm.
Until the inevitable day arrived. Nathaniel grew old and passed away.
When the mourners had all left and the churchyard fell silent, Xanthus stepped out from the trees to visit his brother's fresh grave. Standing alone in the quiet dark, paying his final respects to the little boy who used to steal sweet sugar-plums with him, the crushing weight of his heightened emotions shattered him all over again.
Xanthus had lost everything. His mother, his father, his beloved brother, and eventually the entire Cleyburne bloodline—all gone, reduced to dust . Friends and past lovers had faded into memory, leaving only his progeny behind. In the end, he only had himself.
Being a vampire was never a gift. It was a curse—a endless abyss that forced so many to lose their moral compass, leaving him tethered to a world where everyone he loved was destined to fade away.
Lawrence Tritus Cleyburne and Nathaniel Quies Cleyburne
Struggling under his father's cruelty, young Lawrence Cleyburne finds solace in his little brother, Nathaniel. After losing their mother and dying in battle at twenty, Lawrence is turned into a vampire against his will. Cursed with immortality, he silently watches over Nathaniel's life from the shadows, forced to watch everyone he loves fade away.
Warnings!: Features physical abuse and child neglect by a parent, death of a parent, illness, grief and crying, war violence and blood, non-consensual turning into a vampire, and deep emotional distress.
At thirteen years old, Lawrence grew up surrounded by the suffocating wealth of nobility. He struggled under the crushing weight of expectations as the sole heir of the Cleyburne family—expectations driven heavily by his cold, unyielding father . At such a young age, he couldn't understand why he had to endure so much misery. All he truly wanted was to explore the world and experience a life of simple peace and happiness. He had never asked for any of this burden.
Lawrence struggled through endless lessons in leadership, governance, combat, and courtly etiquette. His young mind fought to process the mountain of information shoved at him daily. But if he failed to memorize every tedious detail, his father, Viscount Richard, would subject him to relentless lectures about how lazy he was, pounding into his head just how crucial it was for him to be the perfect heir. He had to be the heir; he had no other choice.
Exhausted by the endless parade of aristocratic nonsense, Lawrence grew sick of playing the perfect son—sick of maintaining flawless posture and keeping up an untarnished reputation. Every single birthday, when he closed his eyes to blow out the candles, he secretly wished for nothing more than to run away, praying someone would let a tired young boy live the life he actually wanted.
The day Lawrence finally snapped and confessed to his father how deeply exhausted he was by all of it, all he received in return was a stinging slap across the face. Viscount Richard locked him inside his bedroom for days, desperate to "discipline" his son's rebellious behavior.
Soon enough, bitter rumors began circulating among the other highborn families, whispering that Lawrence was a ruined, troublesome child who would make a dreadful heir. He was forced to listen to those poisonous rumors at only thirteen years old.
By the time Lawrence reached fifteen, the only solace he found was in the quiet moments he shared with his mother. He opened up to her about his struggles and how harsh his father became whenever he failed to master his studies. His mother listened carefully to every single word, though her heart broke in silence; there was so little she could do. It was one of the most agonizing burdens she carried, watching her eldest son suffer while knowing that if she dared ask her husband to soften his discipline, Viscount Richard would refuse her outright, asserting his absolute right to govern his household as he saw fit.
Despite his isolation and misery,
Lawrence constantly reminded himself that he wasn't alone. He had his younger brother, Nathaniel.
Little Nathaniel, just eight years old, would often try to step up or defend his big brother from their father's wrath—only to receive a cruel slap across the face himself. Afterward, Lawrence would hold and comfort Nathaniel, soothing his tears. They would sit together on the deep stone window sills, gazing out at the vast sky painted in shades of fiery orange and soft purple, talking about their wildest dreams and everything they wished they could do. On quiet nights, they would sneak out of their bedchambers just to lie beneath the stars.
Whenever either brother felt overwhelmed or defeated by the darkness of the manor, they immediately sought each other out. The rest of the world faded away; they would ignore their tutors and lessons for the rest of the day, standing firmly by each other's side just to bring one another comfort.
Lawrence loved teasing Nathaniel whenever the opportunity arose. Whenever their father hosted a lavish noble gala, Lawrence would creep up behind Nathaniel and tickle him ruthlessly until they were both breathless with laughter, completely unbothered by the unamused glares or soft giggles from the surrounding aristocrats.
They frequently overheard young noble girls whispering about having crushes on them, gushing over which brother they hoped to marry one day. Being just as young, Lawrence and Nathaniel would simply shake their heads or laugh, amused by how certain those girls were about their futures.
Lawrence routinely dragged Nathaniel into his mischievous shenanigans—fooling around in the dark hallways after hours, or sneaking down to the grand kitchens to swipe jars of golden honey, candied sugar-plums, and iced fruits. Whenever they broke the minor house rules, Nathaniel adored seeing this playful, unburdened side of his big brother. Lawrence never hid his true self when he was with Nathaniel.
Lawrence always listened attentively whenever Nathaniel excitedly rambled about his dream of becoming a great explorer, embarking on dangerous adventures into uncharted lands, or doing bizarre, wonderful things. Nathaniel swore he never wanted to become the heir—and even though Lawrence secretly felt the exact same way, he knew he couldn't abandon his duty to the Cleyburne name. Lawrence was willing to sacrifice his own freedom, suppressing his own desires so that Nathaniel might one day be free to chase his dreams.
Before the shadows of war ever reached their doorstep, tragedy struck the heart of the Cleyburne estate. Their mother’s health rapidly deteriorated, confining her to her bedchamber as her strength faded day by day.
For the first time in their lives, Lawrence and Nathaniel witnessed their father's cold, unyielding mask shatter completely. Standing by her bedside, holding her frail hand, Viscount Richard wept openly for his beloved wife—a sight so strange and heartbreaking that neither brother knew how to process it. Their father, who had only ever shown them harshness and strict discipline , was entirely broken.
When she finally breathed her last, the manor fell into a cold, suffocating silence.
The funeral took place under a dark, weeping sky. As the earth was laid over her coffin, Lawrence and Nathaniel stood side by side, numb with grief. But as night fell and the heavy silence of the estate became unbearable, Lawrence couldn't hold it in any longer.
In the privacy of his bedchamber, the heavy burden of being the perfect heir, the fear of his father, and the crushing grief of losing his mother finally shattered him. The older brother who had always been a shield for Nathaniel collapsed into tears. For the first time, it was thirteen-year-old Nathaniel who held his big brother tightly in his arms, stroking Lawrence's hair as Lawrence wept uncontrollably into his shoulder, clinging to the only piece of comfort he had left in the world.
At twenty years old, Lawrence was arranged to marry the daughter of one of his father’s influential allies. But before the union could be finalized, war broke out across the land. Viscount Richard called off the wedding immediately.
Because of his own physical disability, Viscount Richard announced he was sending his eldest son to fight in his place. A cold mixture of deep terror and burning fury washed over Lawrence—made even worse by his father's ultimatum: if Lawrence refused to march off to war, he would be stripped of his title, disowned, and cast out into the street.
Thirteen-year-old Nathaniel wept bitterly when he heard the news. Tears streaming down his face, he begged his father not to send Lawrence away. He didn't want his brother to fight; he wanted Lawrence to stay home where it was safe so they could grow old together. If Lawrence died in battle, Nathaniel's dream of exploring the world would shatter in an instant.
Standing on the muddy bank at the Battle of Newburn, twenty-year-old Lawrence tightly gripped of his musket. Surrounded by the cold rain and the scent of blood, a heavy realization settled in his chest: he was going to die here. He would leave this world without seeing his brother ever again, leaving all his unspoken dreams behind to fade into the mud. A sharp, blinding heat pierced through his chest as a stray musket shot its mark. Lawrence let out a ragged gasp, his legs giving out beneath him as he collapsed onto the cold, muddy ground. Crimson blood slowly pooled across his clothes, soaking into the soil. Lying heavily on his left side, his fading eyes stared up at the gloomy, weeping sky.
Does Heaven even exist? his mind whispered weakly as his breathing slowed. Will I go there and be with Mother? Nathaniel… I’m so sorry. I failed to be the heir… I couldn't be the son Father wanted... Then, darkness took him.
Suddenly, Lawrence gasped for air, waking up to a reality that felt entirely wrong. Everything was different. The very earth felt sharper, stranger... and the overwhelming scent of blood and lingering death from the surrounding soldiers flooded his senses.
Panic surged through his chest, but a calm voice cut through the chaos. Looking over, he saw a medical officer standing above him. The man gently calmed him down, revealing the horrifying truth: he had given Lawrence his own blood and broken his neck.
It was happening too fast for his mind to comprehend. The officer introduced himself as Audric and explained that Lawrence was no longer human—he was now a vampire.
A vampire...? Lawrence processed the words in stunned horror. They truly existed. He was now trapped with an eternal, burning hunger, turned into a creature of the night without his consent. He had accepted his death on the battlefield—yet here he was, reawakened into a brand-new existence, cursed with unimaginable power.
His very first thought was to check on Nathaniel and his father.
As soon as Audric allowed him to leave, Lawrence slipped into the shadows of the Cleyburne estate. Secretly watching from the dark, he saw Viscount Richard throwing items across the room in a fit of rage, spitting bitter insults about his fallen son. The painful realization settled deep in Lawrence's heart: his father had truly never loved him.
Moving to Nathaniel’s room, Lawrence saw his younger brother sobbing uncontrollably, clutching his chest in grief. A wave of intense, heightened emotion crashed over Lawrence—an agonizing side effect of his new vampiric senses.
In the days that followed, Lawrence watched as aristocratic dinner parties were held in the manor, realizing with disgust that his father and the other nobles were merely using his "heroic death" to garner pity and social status.
As the years blurred together, Lawrence—now carrying the name Xanthus—watched his younger brother take on the burden of becoming the new heir.
To his surprise, Nathaniel handled the responsibility with incredible strength despite having no desire for the title. Xanthus watched from afar as Nathaniel married a sweet, charitable woman he deeply loved. Together, they started a trust to support victims of war—a noble act that made Xanthus swell with immense pride for the boy he had raised.
Decades passed like sand through an hourglass. Xanthus remained in the shadows, a silent guardian over his brother, ensuring Nathaniel, his wife, his children, and his grandchildren were always protected from harm.
Until the inevitable day arrived. Nathaniel grew old and passed away.
When the mourners had all left and the churchyard fell silent, Xanthus stepped out from the trees to visit his brother's fresh grave. Standing alone in the quiet dark, paying his final respects to the little boy who used to steal sweet sugar-plums with him, the crushing weight of his heightened emotions shattered him all over again.
Xanthus had lost everything. His mother, his father, his beloved brother, and eventually the entire Cleyburne bloodline—all gone, reduced to dust . Friends and past lovers had faded into memory, leaving only his progeny behind. In the end, he only had himself.
Being a vampire was never a gift. It was a curse—a endless abyss that forced so many to lose their moral compass, leaving him tethered to a world where everyone he loved was destined to fade away.
I finally have something to post to this alt Seal blog…
Soooo this has been in the works for literally months (don’t call me out-) but I tried something new with rendering and realised a lot about my art style! So I’m super happy with it. Might’ve taken 9 hours (I got really lazy at points-) but worth it :3
Okay serious talk over COME COLLECT YOUR BUNNY BOY DONTIS
I finally have something to post to this alt Seal blog…
Soooo this has been in the works for literally months (don’t call me out-) but I tried something new with rendering and realised a lot about my art style! So I’m super happy with it. Might’ve taken 9 hours (I got really lazy at points-) but worth it :3
Okay serious talk over COME COLLECT YOUR BUNNY BOY DONTIS
I finally have something to post to this alt Seal blog…
Soooo this has been in the works for literally months (don’t call me out-) but I tried something new with rendering and realised a lot about my art style! So I’m super happy with it. Might’ve taken 9 hours (I got really lazy at points-) but worth it :3
Okay serious talk over COME COLLECT YOUR BUNNY BOY DONTIS
I finally have something to post to this alt Seal blog…
Soooo this has been in the works for literally months (don’t call me out-) but I tried something new with rendering and realised a lot about my art style! So I’m super happy with it. Might’ve taken 9 hours (I got really lazy at points-) but worth it :3
Okay serious talk over COME COLLECT YOUR BUNNY BOY DONTIS
You previously mentioned that Elias gets lost in drugs, so I was wondering: does he still do them in secret? Like, is he secretly taking drugs at safe house without Barista knowing?
2. We know Xanthus can be super overwhelming and possessive—what is a boundary that Love could set that Xanthus would actually respect, versus a boundary he’d secretly cross because he thinks it’s "for their own good"?
3. Xanthus has lived for centuries and seen so many eras, but what is something small or unique about Love that caught him completely off guard compared to anyone else he’s ever met in his long life?
Elias wouldn't have any supply in the safe house.
I think Xanthus would respect most boundaries that Love sets, but if it ever concerns their safety, he'll bypass it immediately, and he wouldn't be secret about it. For example, if Love was meeting someone they hadn't seen in a while and Love asked for Xanthus not to come, he'd say that he'll be watching, and he would.
I would probably say the confidence in which they fought back when they first met. Any other qualities would be headcanon because I initially wrote Love to be a bit of blank slate.
THEHEHE that’s my man YALL my man! MY MAN MY ALL TIME FAVORITE BLONDE SAQUVERSE CHARACTER THE OG MY MAN LIKE WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE WOULD SMASH THAT RULE LOVE SET UP THE MOMENT THEY FELT UNSAFE???
Ngl the Elias part I expected him to really get lost in the dawg and that thought makes me wanna make a fic of him doing it secretly but i don’t know maybe that’s too dark content for YALL.
You previously mentioned that Elias gets lost in drugs, so I was wondering: does he still do them in secret? Like, is he secretly taking drugs at safe house without Barista knowing?
2. We know Xanthus can be super overwhelming and possessive—what is a boundary that Love could set that Xanthus would actually respect, versus a boundary he’d secretly cross because he thinks it’s "for their own good"?
3. Xanthus has lived for centuries and seen so many eras, but what is something small or unique about Love that caught him completely off guard compared to anyone else he’s ever met in his long life?
Elias wouldn't have any supply in the safe house.
I think Xanthus would respect most boundaries that Love sets, but if it ever concerns their safety, he'll bypass it immediately, and he wouldn't be secret about it. For example, if Love was meeting someone they hadn't seen in a while and Love asked for Xanthus not to come, he'd say that he'll be watching, and he would.
I would probably say the confidence in which they fought back when they first met. Any other qualities would be headcanon because I initially wrote Love to be a bit of blank slate.
THEHEHE that’s my man YALL my man! MY MAN MY ALL TIME FAVORITE BLONDE SAQUVERSE CHARACTER THE OG MY MAN LIKE WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE WOULD SMASH THAT RULE LOVE SET UP THE MOMENT THEY FELT UNSAFE???
Ngl the Elias part I expected him to really get lost in the dawg and that thought makes me wanna make a fic of him doing it secretly but i don’t know maybe that’s too dark content for YALL.
You previously mentioned that Elias gets lost in drugs, so I was wondering: does he still do them in secret? Like, is he secretly taking drugs at safe house without Barista knowing?
2. We know Xanthus can be super overwhelming and possessive—what is a boundary that Love could set that Xanthus would actually respect, versus a boundary he’d secretly cross because he thinks it’s "for their own good"?
3. Xanthus has lived for centuries and seen so many eras, but what is something small or unique about Love that caught him completely off guard compared to anyone else he’s ever met in his long life?
Elias wouldn't have any supply in the safe house.
I think Xanthus would respect most boundaries that Love sets, but if it ever concerns their safety, he'll bypass it immediately, and he wouldn't be secret about it. For example, if Love was meeting someone they hadn't seen in a while and Love asked for Xanthus not to come, he'd say that he'll be watching, and he would.
I would probably say the confidence in which they fought back when they first met. Any other qualities would be headcanon because I initially wrote Love to be a bit of blank slate.
You previously mentioned that Elias gets lost in drugs, so I was wondering: does he still do them in secret? Like, is he secretly taking drugs at safe house without Barista knowing?
2. We know Xanthus can be super overwhelming and possessive—what is a boundary that Love could set that Xanthus would actually respect, versus a boundary he’d secretly cross because he thinks it’s "for their own good"?
3. Xanthus has lived for centuries and seen so many eras, but what is something small or unique about Love that caught him completely off guard compared to anyone else he’s ever met in his long life?
Elias wouldn't have any supply in the safe house.
I think Xanthus would respect most boundaries that Love sets, but if it ever concerns their safety, he'll bypass it immediately, and he wouldn't be secret about it. For example, if Love was meeting someone they hadn't seen in a while and Love asked for Xanthus not to come, he'd say that he'll be watching, and he would.
I would probably say the confidence in which they fought back when they first met. Any other qualities would be headcanon because I initially wrote Love to be a bit of blank slate.
I’m back at the phase where I’ll be thinking about schoolwork or I’m doing schoolwork and then my chest feels wrong/heavy and I don’t know if my heart is beating at it’s normal rate or it’s speeding up
