Jongho's lip kisser @shownumiss - Tumblr Blog

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐁'𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐙 | 𝐂.𝐒 | 𝐏.𝐒𝐇

⛧ genres: oneshot, hard smut, dark romance-fantasy, unreliable narrator, obsession, psychological, stockholm syndrome, love triangle, angst, pwp 18+ ⛧

⛧ pairings: yandere hunter! seonghwa x captive angel! reader x guard! san (have fun struggling)

⛧ summary: you come to terms with your distorted desire for your captor—damning yourself to never return to heaven in favor of living in his ominous and vulgar captivity. the entanglement only complicates further when he instructs his personal guard to watch over you while he's on a mission.

⛧please read the warnings below before proceeding! this is a content intense oneshot. i am NOT saying this lightly the warning list is actually insane

elements of dub-con, bondage, dumbification, stolkhom syndrome, manipulation, minor descriptions of wounds, minor violence/high anxiety, a gun being used threateningly, fingering, squirting, corruption, free use, solo play, seonghwa using ur underwear to… 🤭, caretaker seonghwa, hard dom seonghwa, virgin! san, service top!san, face sitting, threesome, mxm action…. ☺️, blindfolding, dacryphilia, overstimulation, toys, vaginal penetration, anal penetration, cum shots, creampies, death threats, objectification, oxygen deprivation, brainwashing, unhealthy obedience, betting on your life, oral, san eventually wears a collar, bitter and unhealthily possessive hwa, a razor (not in a sexual circumstance nor put into use) there will be no middle ground u will either love or hate my characters

⛧ wc: 23.5k

theme songs: perverts (intro) by ethel cain, frosti by björk, and for you i hold my breath by lalleshwari

AN: it’s finally finished!!

His voice slips into the room like incense—soft, saccharine, laced with something almost holy.

“My angel,” Seonghwa coos, circling the sigil etched with care into the cold stone floor. “Are you alright in here?”

The silk binding your arms has long since lost its elegance. It burns now, chafing raw skin, your limbs aching with the dull throb of time passed. Relief pools behind your eyes at the sight of him—his cherubic face glowing pale in the firelight, so lovely it’s almost cruel. Your legs draw together, a conditioned reaction.

“Hwa.” your voice breaks like old glass. “Hold me.”

He smiles—sweetly, softly—but his eyes search you. They always search you. For defiance, for rage, for the threat of rebellion. There’s nothing but a quiet plea in your gaze, and so he breathes out, satisfied.

“I’m sorry it took so long. San got injured during a long hunt and I had to stay back until we were in the clear.” He says lowly, stepping into the sigil to kneel delicately before you, and softly brushes your hair out of your face.

Nudging a cheek into the palm of his hand, you wait for his next words obediently. A dull ache pulses from your back– remnants of old gaping wounds try their best to remind you of something dire in their phantom pains—that there’s something dreadfully sinister in your presence, but you can’t recall exactly what.

The cold palm of Seonghwa’s hand distracted you. Seonghwa’s elated eyes glow at the sight of your truest form of resignation and remain unnoticed by you. Dark eerie eyes sink onto your form like little moons, testing the waters “What do you think about spending a few days here with San? I’ll be…on a mission and I don’t know how long it’ll take. It’s been a good while since the sun has touched you, dove—San could take you to the river?” he lightly disguises his suggestion, inquiring with a sense of casualness.

You shake your head immediately. “Why can’t you take me with you?”

Heavy distraught implodes within your body like a landmine. The anxiety sends a direct shock to your heart—already abhorred by and enduring the hours he spends away on missions during the evenings—and now he’s saying he’ll be gone for days? What if he didn’t come back?

You’d rather die.

You go cold, fighting the urge to well up and vomit at the sudden anxiety induced nausea. Seonghwa shakes his head calmly.

“That wouldn’t be safe–” He throws an attempt at reasoning with you before you disregard his words immediately, cutting in like a dull knife trying to get through a tough surface.

“You’d be there to protect me, wouldn’t you?” You plead adamantly, raising your voice with confidence. No harm would come your way if Seonghwa was around. He wouldn’t let that happen even if it killed him.

“My love, you know I can’t take you with me. If I did, they’d find out and take you away—because you’re special, remember? I can’t risk that. Be a good girl and stay with San.”

You scowl at the reminder.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you mutter, turning your head away in defiance. You don’t even remember Heaven anymore. A dull throb pulses behind your eyes, making you wince—but Seonghwa doesn’t notice.

“I don’t want you to go back either. Can we just… agree to disagree?” His tone is resigned, edged with mild exasperation.

He shakes his head, defeated, then leans in slowly—his breath brushing your lips as he changes the subject. “I’ve missed your mouth. Will you kiss me? Please?”

The yearning in his voice is unmistakable: soft and silken, like a flower petal. A delicate plea in that familiar cadence—moderately pitched, never louder than necessary. Always composed. Always him.

He cradles your cheek and reaches out to smooth down your hair, the gesture almost motherlike. Then he pulls you into his chest, and you tumble forward into his lap. The leather of his trench coat stretches beneath you, releasing a soft, rubbery sound. You lift your head, eyes dilated—wide, unfocused—and tilt your face up. With a delicate lick, you lift his bottom lip, asking for permission to enter—for the unspoken invitation to taste the day he lived outside, the one you lost to your muddled memory.

But it was warm in his arms. He liked to remind you that you were his little bird—placed on Earth for him alone, so he could care for you. No one else loved you enough to lock you away from a world that only wanted to marvel at your mystic rarity, to exploit and desecrate what made you different.

Even when he punished you, it was always—at least in his eyes—for your own good. And on most days, he did everything he could to spoil you.

Your Seonghwa is sweet. He always reminded you that he could do no wrong to you.

He’d asked you to keep your binds on and wait here, in the old mausoleum nestled deep within the woods—secluded enough to quiet his worries. ‘It’s the safest place for you, Dove. Please understand that.’ He’d say and you couldn’t argue with him–Seonghwa always knew best.

This was his hidden sanctuary, and it was the only place fit for his most prized possession.

Seonghwa’s half lidded eyes gaze down at you quietly, a soft simmering that was reminiscent of a God you’d forgotten–watching your tongue flick before slowly parting his mouth.

When you press an open-mouthed kiss onto him, you immediately taste a faint combination of tobacco and ginger candies—a usual indicator of his oversight to his own care and almost pull away to reprimand him for most likely not eating actual food again. An arm wraps itself around your waist with a firm grip rubbing against your rib cage. The initial softness parting away and opening into true realm of Seonghwa’s nature.

“Can you be a good girl and do something for me?” His light voice rings like a bell, requesting softly and waving its frequency sweetly at you. You’d never say no—not to him. Sliding off his leather coat and unbuckling the silver clasp of his black slacks, knowing exactly what your reply will be.

“Anything.” Your eyes shimmer with an unnatural reverence—dull, yet awestruck, as if you’ve never seen anything like him before.

Seonghwa slinks a hand down the flat of his abdomen before slowly unbuttoning his slacks, cat-like and sultry. A trimmed array of hair is revealed as he peels his bottoms to his thighs, not wearing any briefs and exposing the pink velvet that hung neatly between his legs.

A mouthwatering and painful girth saddled itself there, its natural vulgarity a direct contrast to his cherubic and idyllic appearance. His cock twitched for a moment, hardening and lifting towards his stomach the more you stared.

He loved seeing how obedient you were and that despite your well-trained appetite, you knew to wait for his words before doing absolutely anything at all—because you’d do anything for him and Hwa would burn the entirety of Heaven and Earth if it meant to keep you by his side, whatever the means necessary.

“You know what to do from here right?” Flattening his palm to the back of your head before jolting you harshly towards him, cock hitting your cheek and momentarily resting on your jawline.

Your arms were still tied as your cheek landed on his upper thighs and shuffled towards him to place him into your mouth somehow. The shape of his cock protrudes from the side of your cheek

Small drops of saliva fall from the corners of your mouth, stifling a gag when he stuffs himself into the back of your throat and settles there unmoving.

Another hand reaches down to pinch your nose, blocking all access to oxygen. He keeps you stationed there, and you forget to count the seconds.

“Don’t think. Don’t fight it either—just focus on feeling my cock in your mouth, got it?” His voice shifts, a little more deadpan and firmer–melancholic, empty, and foreboding in its direction. He presses down on the back of your neck; blank gaze shadowed under a thick blanket of dark lashes.

Your head’s throbbing, alarm signals raising and firing, but you rub your thighs together, unable to resist his temptations, moaning at the friction. The meat on them begin to bead with a mixture of sweat and sweet slick.

At some point, your brain goes numb. The main point of existence, the meaning of the universe led you here to this moment. Nothing else exists here, everything before was a mere figment—a daydream filled with light. There’s a brief flicker and you tug yourself off suddenly, coughing through the spit and paling in realization.

It was a blip but the memory woke you from the disturbing reverie.

Just days ago, he’d nearly snapped your ankles when you offhandedly told him he couldn’t keep you here forever—that he’s a mortal man, and mortal men die in the blink of an eye to beings like you. He wouldn’t be able to bind you to his deathbed, nor hold you in the afterlife either.

Your gaze falls onto the black and blue finger shaped bruises wrapped around the skin of your ankle. It happened again.

It’s becoming harder to separate desire from rationale, especially as your episodes stretch on longer each time. And it isn’t just Seonghwa’s manipulation—it’s the exhaustion of constantly suppressing a twisted longing for the only person around you. You craved his warmth, his affection, and at times, find yourself defending your own captivity.

To forget and damn it all was to experience unconstrained bliss in this funeral of a body, subjecting yourself to pleasures amongst the dead by playing dead. He’ll make your home a Mausoleum if it meant you’d die with him and when you’re in the mist of that reverie, you’d do it willingly. Seonghwa abhorred his mortality and the fact that even with his best efforts he would only be an ephemeral being to you.

There was no heaven that would welcome him.

You avoid his eyes and stare at the moss overgrowth spindling its way above the pillar and towards a stone tomb. This was a grave of Seonghwa’s unreachable hopes– of a dark past you knew nothing of.

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter knowingly over your expression.

He thought this would happen.

Seonghwa knows he has to break you further, but this was the longest he’d ever held you in that space—suspended, stripped of every thought and desire but him. It was working. And soon, it would consume you entirely.

He’ll make sure of that.

The look in his eyes unsettled you, shaking you to the core—gazing at you like the end was already decided, like he knew everything.

Moonlight bled from the skylight above you, dousing your conflicted and horrified features in a shade of blue you began to drown in. An ominous stillness permeated the space as you finally take note of the dark gleam in his eyes.

“There you are, Angel.” A grin slid onto his face as he sat back and leaned his weight onto his palms.

Your heart trembled as it fought the fear and desire to stay here without any effort to push back against that fate, needing to remember yourself and why you couldn’t remain here.

“Why are you still doing this?” A resigned whisper falls from your mouth, your downcast gaze igniting something painful in Seonghwa. You’ve asked this question again and again for however long you’ve been here, and not once has he answered you.

A pensive expressions sways onto his face before he honestly utters. “I have no other motive than my love for you.” Leaning a hand forward to brush a stray eyelash from your cheekbone before continuing

“The world outside is too dirty for a thing like you. Why don’t you understand that?” He whispers out, venom hiding on the sweetness of his tongue.

“—You’d run back to a place where my hands can’t reach you? Do you truly believe you could pass among the innocent, wearing their softness like a mask, after what I’ve done to your body?”

Your lungs tremble, a sharp gasp slipping free as he crawls toward you on all fours—unashamed, his half-bared form moving with the grace of something deceivingly lighthearted. His lips hover a breath above your skin, tracing a reverent path along your abdomen, up your chest, and finally, to the hollow of your throat.

Seonghwa’s tongue flattens vulgarly on your jugular, licking up the length of your jawline. “Your God won’t fuck you. He’ll only watch me desecrate you.” He whispers with a palpable seduction choking the air.

“I wasn’t made to do things like this—it was never my purpose.” You grit out halfheartedly. Angels didn’t have any appetite. Food, water, sex, affection–all of that was unnatural to the celestial thrumming in your bodies. In reality, you were too bitter about his constant restraint and only ever found reprieve in denying him when you could. Perhaps it was also a matter of being able to deny yourself too.

“I’d beg to differ. How else would I’ve been able to fit inside of you? You take my cock so well, little dove.” A hand trembles trails it fingertips above your womb before pressing down on it.

“A shame that Angels can’t get pregnant.” A dark mumble of disappointment leaves his lips.

You hate the fact that you’re falling into it and that you were distorted enough now to still want his praise—to be capable of fulfilling his wants and needs.

He sighs before standing up to brush his legs. “Well, since my angel’s a stubborn one—I suppose I’ll have to try again some other time.” He leans down to swipe your legs from under you, huffing with reprimand, and dragging you up to grip a strong hand at the lining of your underwear to tear it off to examine between your legs. He flings the sad tatters like crocodile tears, absentminded and ignoring the world as all else goes quiet at the sight of you. Seonghwa stiffens when he catches a glimpse of your wetness, gazing at you questioningly passive.

“You’re all bark but little to no bite.” He spits out for a moment, sarcastic in the wake of his joy before continuing

“Say please and I’ll take care of it.”

Your eyebrows furrow, legs trembling as they hung in the air–his grip tightening around your ankles to hold your lower body up. Your arms and back are tensing at the uncomfortable burning that squeezes from your intricately bound arms, tied together at the base of your spine.

Seonghwa’s white hair glimmers hauntingly under the moonlight, fluttering slightly as a small gust of wind enters through the cracks of the Mausoleum, and your breath leaves you–he looked lovely.

You open your mouth to reject but the words feel too strained to leave you once an uncomfortable clenching in your chest distracts you. His eyes are black seas, waiting for your reply but maintaining his hold.

“No. I’m perfectly fine. Let go of me.” You swallow hard, body stinging at the mere idea of his hands releasing you. He was too prideful, confident even, to force himself onto you. Seonghwa never needed to– he was tactical and patient, easing you into his seduction bit by bit before you caved to him time and time again on your own volition whenever he broke you enough to desire him without thought.

He says nothing for a moment, gaze stoic.

“Suit yourself then.” He mutters, a dance of a smile playing at his lips before he picks your body up and into his arms, reaching down to cut your bindings for the night. “I’m off to bed—” He stops to pick up your discarded underwear “I’ll bring you a new pair. Don’t forget it’s bath time tomorrow.”

He stretches his lithe body, yawning into his hand before exiting the lonesome section of the Mausoleum, leaving you to your own haunts. His Silhouette turns to the immediate makeshift room to the right of the corridor. Your gaze remained where his phantom shadow, illuminated by the haunting torches aligning the walls, swayed off into another direction, squeezing your eyes shut with bitter reprimand.

You’re unsure if you’re bitter about not falling into his hands

Or by the fact that you sickeningly wanted to, the fever spreading throughout your body and drenching it in an uncomfortable humid heat.

Perhaps you’re already damned.

The thought drifts through you as you flinch, your fingertips grazing the tender flesh of your arms. A sigh escapes your lips, weary and hollow, as you sink onto the cold stone floor—long past the point of trying to decipher a way out of the ornate sigil that binds you here.

There’s comfort in the darkness that greets you once you shut your eyes, fading away into the only kindness you knew these days, sleep offering reprieve and blurring the lines of your desire to offer yourself to him on a platter—ominously willing to pay the price, if only for a moment of joy and basking in his praise. You dream of distant sunlight at the edge of a horizon that night—by the end of it, you turn away to walk back into the shadow you crawled out of with your bleeding body.

Seonghwa stifles a frustrated groan, the sound muffled by the fabric of his black sweater as he bites down on it to keep from crying out. His teeth sink into the material, holding it taut against his abdomen, as he clutches your underwear around his cock. He throws his head back, eyes clenched shut, as anguished bliss courses through him. The throbbing in his hand drives him mad, recalling the image of your body, suspended by the ankles, vulnerably exposed and pulsing with unfulfilled desire.

He can't comprehend your restraint. The God you serve is a warlord, thirsty for blood and conquest—nothing remains pure in this world. Murder, lust, gluttony—these desires plague every living thing, from animals to angels. You were no exception, merely isolated in your divine garden.

Seonghwa's palms grow slick as he rubs himself against the fabric, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Images of you assault his mind, driving him to the brink of insanity. He sees your flushed breasts, bouncing gently, slick with sweat. He hears your loud, innocent moans, your eyes wide with astonishment as new sensations corrupt your body.

"Fuck," he whimpers, increasing the pace of his strokes. His stomach rolls and tightens with each wave of pleasure, but it's not enough. He needs you broken open before him, exposed and mindless, drooling and desperate.

Born with a darkness he's worked hard to repress, Seonghwa has always been determined not to tarnish his family's name. Descendants of a prestigious lineage devoted to hunting and eradicating the "otherworldly," they have always been a beacon of purity and righteousness. Until he found you.

Injured and alone near the old mausoleum, you were a curiosity he couldn't resist. Tending to your wounds, he found himself unable to let you go. Since then, his disciplined moral compass has crumbled, burning away in his descent into madness.

He grits his teeth, huffing against his sweater as he adjusts the pink cloth to envelop the tip of his cock. Jerking his hand wildly, he throws all reservation to the wind, his heart pounding as erotic images assault his mind.

Your silken cloth, the one he imagined rested against your pussy for hours, is a torment to him. He wants to be that cloth, to wrap himself around you, to be your skin, your breath, your sweat, your spit. The thought sends shivers down his spine, and he moans loudly, his eyes fixed on the steadily drenched underwear, glistening with his pre-cum.

"Be patient, Seonghwa," he mutters, reminding himself that it's only a matter of time. The thought of rushing back to you, of breaking you completely, invades his mind, but he pushes it aside, focusing on the sensation of your cloth against his sensitive flesh.

He imagines the bulge in your stomach, the maddening clench of your cunt as he ruts against you, his groans hot in your ear. Wanting to fuck you without restraint, to corrupt your body entirely, to take your ass with wild abandon.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, his hips lifting and falling in a desperate rhythm as he fucks his hand. His weight presses against the back of his neck, his feet planted firmly on the ground as he tries to keep his hips raised. Gibberish and phrases fall from his lips, a mix of endearments and insults—'my pretty angel' and 'stupid little thing' can be faintly heard from the corridor.

With a final, hard thrust into his hands, Seonghwa orgasms, gripping tightly onto his base as he arches his back off the floor. Cum shoots up, landing on his abdomen, chest, and near his eye, a sticky, white mess.

He collapses, his chest heaving as he stares at the cold marble ceiling, his mind spinning with thoughts of you. You were still learning, still dancing on the precipice of desire, your celestial understanding of the world at odds with the mortal realities of sex and emotion.

Seonghwa knows that it's only a matter of time before you fully succumb to your desires, before you understand the true depth of your feelings for him. Until then, he will wait, biding his time, his patience wearing thin as his need for you grows more desperate by the day.

With a final shake of his head, Seonghwa doesn't bother dressing himself, descending into a cold, dark, dreamless sleep, his body hardly sated— mind still hungry for you.

San’s sharp face said all of the words refusing to leave his mouth. The cool, damp air of the mausoleum sickened him— even more so in the presence of the captive angel Seonghwa liked keeping for himself. Spindly vines seemed to grieve their bodies over graves, almost symbolically curling their fingers to reach out to you but not quite making it to where you lay, he notes. Perhaps—they too—pity only being capable enough to witness your bindings, yet unable to do anything on their own. Too seemingly powerless and brittle.

San perches his back against a cold wall facing you but closes his eyes. Donning his formal attire for the task, he didn’t want to risk appearing either casual or familiar in front of Seonghwa—specifically concerning his assignment to watch you. The wrinkled white button up paired with an ankle length trench coat saddled against his form stiffly, and he longingly questions himself when he'd get the chance to sleep. San was here for work. Nothing more—nothing less.

Though, he didn't know how to see you without choking on an unknown feeling. San was admittedly softer than his cohorts, despite not caring for your kind in particular—somewhere along the lines of trained ambivalence rather than violent superiority. You're bound again, arms knotted with silk and everything that made your ethereal beauty glow like a comet, and he fleetingly wonders if all Angels looked like that—like you.

San’s loyalty for Seonghwa was written in blood. For each generation, the eldest son of his family was destined to guard the most elite of their faction; the eldest son of the oldest family of Hunters. Madness be damned, Seonghwa was inarguably the brightest of them all—an elegant sword of a man who danced through the throes of darkness without so much as a blink. Yet San had noticed something inherently absent in their heir—too precise, too mechanical, a masterful yet hollow imitation of human connection and humility. A vast shadow accompanied the brilliance of his skill, and that is precisely why an angel lies hidden on this… barren excuse of— what the fuck is this place even called again? A mausoleum?

Even someone like Seonghwa wouldn’t be able to evade the consequences of hiding a being like you. The entirety of their lineage’s codex believed in human superiority—motivated by a primal desire to eradicate all else with the exception of what they can feed off of. The fragility of his beauty did nothing to negate the carnality of his true nature. No starlike quality can dim that murderous hand of his

Before Seonghwa departed and left you in San's care, he'd only said one thing: "You know what and what not to do."— in other words, 'protect her but you may not care for her.' Thus began San's mildly uncomfortable task of sleeping in Seonghwa's wretched morgue and dread fills his body when he sees the rain falling through cracks on the skylight, directly onto your body.

The dresses Seonghwa adorned you with were often too extravagant for comfort and the chiffon layers that ballooned from your waist weighed your posture down. San assumed Angels couldn't get sick, but the sight of your trembling body told him that angels could, in fact, get cold—that they could register the absence of warmth, feel hurt, and know right from wrong. He hated that he couldn't shake off the sudden understanding.

"Angel... what does Seonghwa allow you to do when you're cold? Don't lie to me—you'll only get us both punished without reason, and I don't feel like being taxidermized by the man I'm chained to for the rest of my life." San steps towards your kneeling figure hesitantly, coming close enough to be seen and acknowledged, but no further.

Your head hangs low, a slow tilt raising your strange eyes to gaze at him. It's with a trepid sense of innocence and lack of awareness that you let a small utter leave your lips—almost as if afraid to speak.

"He bathes me until I'm warm if I don't want to be warmed in... other ways." A rosy blush paints your cheeks, and you look lovely as a spring's day even under the dread of rain. He quirks his eyebrow in awkward surprise, blinking, and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Right. That makes sense." For Seonghwa at least. San didn't receive any detailed instructions other than to protect you from exterior harms and to be his eyes while he cleans up after a massacre of witches in another city. Some new recruits were too hell bent during their first hunt, and it resulted in a bloodbath.

There's a small twitch to his leg when he inches a slow hand towards you, silently warning you of his incoming touch—San didn't know how to care for something and worried for a moment that you'd dislike the roughness of his hand. Droplets of rain pelted his head as he shielded your body from the crack above you. Arms curl under your knees and wrap around your back, cradling you to his chest—stiff as he makes his way to the bathing room.

He falters at the entrance, carefully setting you down before scrambling to steady you. Your knees were still too weak to bear your weight. With a quiet sigh, he pushes open the old wooden door and lifts you onto the bathroom counter, striking a few matches to chase away the darkness and ignite the array of candles scattered across the room.

"I'll, uh—leave you to it. I'll be outside right outside of the door so please don't do anything unsavory." His tone is unintentionally gruff, only accustomed to speaking to men with higher levels of testosterone than others, stepping back to nod and swiftly turn away.

A small clunk alerts him as you stare at him owlishly, arms still tied behind your back. You didn't seem to like talking much but were expressive enough to communicate without words—tapping a small finger against a cup carrying two wooden toothbrushes that clink charmingly while you attempt to alert him of your distress.

"Oh." A small flush decorates his neck, embarrassed at being caught so obviously wanting to leave. His hands dexterously unwind the silk and eyed the swelling imprints on your body. Again, a sinking feeling weighed his stomach and those open eyes—wide and expansive as the universe—adorned his heart and anchored it with guilt.

A hand shakily reaches to grab at his shirt sleeve, sliding down the counter to the best of your abilities, leaning and standing against him. "Why are you leaving?" The voice that finally leaves you renders him breathless—almost a bell-like whisper tumbling to form a genuine question.

"To give you privacy." San's direct reply still confused you— his expressionless face gazed down at your form, but not unkindly.

You give a slow blink, thoughts thumbing through your database of a mind—but don't recall learning this particular form of etiquette since arriving to the mortal realm. "I don't know... how to do it myself."

It was an honest reply, not performatively sweet or innocent yet all the more enticing.

"You don't know how to do it yourself?" San's eyebrows shoot up, an incoming tide of dread contorting his face into slow horror. Fuck, Hwa's gonna kill him.

"I didn't know Human's didn't wash or accompany one another to this—chamber?" You hesitated on the word, unsure if it was right. Your cheeks warmed as the silence stretched, a quiet worry creeping in—maybe you were saying it all wrong. Seonghwa didn’t like it when you got things wrong or asked too many questions—it always ended badly. His quiet anger rendered you from sleep—a slow seduction crawling onto your bed to erase any desire to doubt him, and in the anxiety, you'd cave into your disturbing yearning for him. Scrambling quietly, you attempt to correct your mistake

Seonghwa didn't even allow you to be alone in the restroom—just how far gone was he? San's eyes furrow and you grow increasingly afraid. He tugs you lightly towards the bathtub, holding you upright with an arm wrapped around your waist before pointing around.

"Here, I'll get it set up for you. Just watch and learn." Shrugging off his coat finally, San takes a moment to explain what each knob was meant to do, measuring hot temperatures from cold, and instructing that you don't use only one knob, else you'd burn your skin or freeze. Hands are flying around, pointing at strange knobs. You stand and try your absolute best to take it all in diligently, but you feel your eyes spin. San stiffens for a moment, realizing he’s rambling before turning to look at your expression of devoted seriousness. Fidgeting, your small hands clutch at your dress, accidentally squeezing out some of the rainwater weighing it. To be honest, you didn't want to do it yourself. While you were anxious around San, you craved and welcomed any other interactions from outsiders—but you didn't know how to approach without the words getting stuck in your throat and berating yourself for sounding stupid.

San takes notice of your anxiety, sighing out into the air and gazing up at the ceiling, backing down from his previous resolve. "What does he do for bath time?" He grumbles out, eyebrows furrowing—positively disturbed by the task.

Muscle memory clicks as soon as you hear his frustrated tone, and you wait for permission to speak. Your eyes strain and San tilts his head in confusion. Truly—he's starting to feel like Angel's spoke a different language entirely. "Well? Got any answers for me?" He prods, a little exasperated. Of all the tasks Seonghwa could've given him— bathing the object of his absolutely heinous obsession wasn't exactly on the top of his list. He couldn't say no to the heir, else he'd likely summon the murder of his family. The life of a hunter and the society's hierarchical structure wasn't one for the weak—and once sworn onto the path, no descendant can escape without wiping out their entire line.

"He puts little 'bombs' into my bath and scrubs my skin to keep it soft. I'm unsure about my hair though." Almost mechanically, you let out a reiteration of what you faintly recall Seonghwa explaining to you—he lathered a multitude of fragrant oils in your hair and removed all labels to ensure you never tried to do it yourself. San seemed to have caught onto the label situation with an anguished groan. Christ—what is wrong with that man—and why was he destined to monitor his strange tyrannies? Another faint grumble leaves his lips.

"Fine." You don't reply, immediately taking his words as both permission and a command, before reaching behind your back to drag the zipper down your spine. San feels his heart jump to his throat, frozen at the wake of your shamelessness.

Shimmying out of your undergarments, a part of you anticipates small praise at your immediate response. As much as you abhorred Seonghwa, you indulged in his sweetness from time to time, and your all-time favorite treat is whenever he flippantly calls you his good girl. A soft grin would gracefully pull at his lips, unreadable marbled face in the state of calm Nirvana as he'd watch you memorize his wants without needing to explicitly tell you. This is why he couldn't let you go— you were a juxtaposition of many things, contradictory in your existence and pale desire, perfectly malleable—maintaining the delicate amount of innocence necessary to constantly indulge in corrupting you. You were naive and doll-like; ethereal and dishonest. You're glowing, legs practically thumping— waiting to hear that you were best girl ever. San's eyes twitch, appalled

The slowly gliding of your panties drift down to the slim of your ankle and you lift a leg up, waiting for San to pull it off as Seonghwa always did for you. His face reddens at the sight of you exposing your opening, cunt clenching due to your movements and exposing the fleshy insides. A thick finger raises to curl into the loop of the fabric, pulling it off and successfully avoiding coming in contact with your skin. San's never seen a naked woman in this circumstance—only ever during moments that called for an objective view; torn clothes in order to dress wounds, ritualistic practice, paintings even. Not this. He’s never taken time to really notice his lack of motivation to indulge in desire—too busy playing guard dog to love or want anything properly. A woman has never laid in San's bed, and she’s certainly never stood this close to him completely nude either.

The sound of his heart thrumming silences everything else, your figure suddenly deifying before him, as if watching Venus rise from her beloved waters—born into immediate beauty. He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing once an unfamiliar heat throbs and thickens in his jeans. San's eyes glance down fleetingly before freezing at the hardness that greets him. You catch sight of the obvious bulge and immediately fall onto your knees, wanting to help.

You didn't hate San and Seonghwa might reward you with an outing if you were good and took care of his San while he was away—instantly brightening at the idea. Seonghwa called them dates and always gave you things he noticed interested you on the way back—shiny rocks, flora, perfectly smooth sticks, and even let you play in the stream for a while.

Heat slicks in between your legs in response and San almost shrieks when you rub your cheek against his hard on. "WOAH—CHRIST. Please get away from there."

You immediately comply, confused and saddened. He almost groans at your downturned eyes—the constraint of his jeans bordering on painful. "You don't need help?" There it is. That voice of yours.

Perhaps he'd prefer if you didn't speak after all. Though he's unsure if he could handle being in the presence of your body language any longer either.

San's eyes squeeze together, exasperated. It was clear that Seonghwa taught you mannerisms with the intention of never integrating you into society. He wholeheartedly meant to house you here for as long as he could and San feared that Seonghwa would put his life on the line to ensure you weren't taken away from him.

Which also meant that if Hwa's life was endangered, San had no choice but to get dragged into this—and he couldn't resolve this with your murder. That’d only invite more chaos and Seonghwa's already clearly unwell enough as is.

A tired, anguished, and clearly fabricated smile wiggled its way onto his lips. "I'm...perfectly fine. Let's just get you cleaned up." San swears his soul left his body but steeled himself to see the situation objectively.

There's a cold Angel in the tub who didn't know how to bathe herself.

He convinces himself it's like having to take care of a pet and continues to avoid looking at you any more than he needs to, guiding you into the tub.

You sigh quietly in relief, goosebumps raising on your skin before gazing at him expectantly.

"What is it this time?" He deadpans.

Blinking owlishly, you reply simply

"Bomb."

Your hands are folded together as you try to contain your excitement. Watching the little bomb fizzle and buoy around the water filled you with joy. San yawns into his hand, eying you strangely.

What a peculiar specimen.

Bored, he lays his chin on his palm, losing track of the time passing. After playing in the water a bit, you bravely hand him a small loofah.

"Scrub?"

Ah, that's right. He's playing Seonghwa's role.

Rolling his sleeves up, San grabs the loofah, fumbling with the various bottles littering the bathroom—his hair sticking out due to the humidity and matting with sweat. After taking his best guess, he lathers your body, hoping he wasn't being too rough. Hwa would kill him.

You remain still, not wanting to disturb his process, shifting your head only whenever he needed to get into a particular crevice. A small heat pricks you again when you felt the roughness of his hands glide around your body, instinctively spreading your knees wide enough to knock them against the ceramic edges of the tub. San's laser focused on his task, suddenly dedicated to the nearly tantric calmness the distraction provided him. It's when he grabs your left hand to scrub lightly at your nail beds that his breath hitches when he fleetingly meets the expression on your face.

Red splotches decorate your body, heat dampening you around the edges as you stared at him with glazed eyes. Whenever Seonghwa was here and you were less stubborn, you'd begrudgingly ask him to help you with the fever—saying it was his responsibility because it was his doing to begin with.

“What is it?” San utters hesitantly, moving to continue with his light scrubbing, hair falling into his eyes that pointed downward to avoid yours again

You've never had to explain this heat to someone else—partially still not having the same understanding of the body as Human's do. Seonghwa explained that it was a natural phenomenon, one as natural as water is to the sea: desire was to the body. Though, Angels never took part in these customs, and you felt like the more you indulged your curiosity, the further you got from home—too human to live within Eden. It was natural but it felt like a dark cesspool of filth. Filth you strangely enjoyed rolling around in despite your behest—a painfully delightful and pricey unraveling. Was it wrong? It felt like it was.

"I'm warm." Owlish eyes greet his own feline curve, and he reaches over to turn the knob to let a little bit of cool water enter before he registers the lukewarm temperature, the heat having long left the bath. "Have you been in the water for too long—" San begins innocently, shaking off the water on the tips of his fingers to turn and look at you before taking note of that heated look in your eyes—anguished even.

Oh god, what else does he have to do now?

You inch a hand forward, grabbing his palm and placing it flat against your cunt, unblinking— "I'm warm." You hope he understands what you mean, having no other words to explain. A small urgency sparks within you, but you didn't want to ask anything that might anger him or say anything stupid.

San's never felt this texture— the silk of a woman, and suddenly all of the conversations his men had made sense. Is this what a woman's body feels like? Her warmth?

How can he touch you with the intention to cool you and not look any further? He feels where the soft skin separates and beckons him inwards, pulsing—yearning for the absence to be filled. The lukewarm water licks at the edges of his dress shirts rolled sleeves, and the heat is moderately dizzying, unable to think straight in the strange conditions.

He reminds himself of his position, knowing that there'd be no way Seonghwa wouldn't find out—senses too sharp and observation of you much too detailed— to allow room for another man to touch you without his noticing.

It's Seonghwa's fault that you didn't know any better, but he also couldn't risk going out of his way to teach you, and he could see a small pain in your eyes that still didn't understand the concept of hunger.

If Seonghwa caught wind of you offering yourself to someone, San doesn't want to think about what punishments he'd deal to you and the person on the other end of it. Your wide, expectant eyes gaze at him—unknowingly pleading and he internally curses at you for your naivety. Shutting his eyes in acceptance, he searches his brain for middle ground.

"No matter what, you can't tell Seonghwa. Okay? You'll have to guide me." His tone is resigned, coating itself in hopes of preserving his desire to deal with by himself later on his alone time.

You nod obediently, not completely understanding why you couldn't tell Seonghwa but agreeing nonetheless as San moves the bath stool closer to the edge of tub—trying his best to get into a position comfortable enough to wrap his arms around you to reach your intimacy. Tugging at his shirt lightly, San immediately shakes his head.

"I'm not taking off my clothes." You don't say anything in reply, admitting defeat silently. Once he realizes all attempts are futile—every position promising an awkward hunched back—San almost caves and moves to take off his clothes before you pull him, falling to the impulse of your impatience and forcing him to fall into the tub, still clothed.

He's completely stumped, stabbing at you with his wide-eyed gaze and pointed glare. San pulls you towards him, back flattened against his hard chest completely as he boldly slithers a hand between your legs in frustration.

"Be good. Stop being impatient." He chastises gruffly. You mutter a small yes, wanting so badly to be good— you were always told you existed for that very reason. It felt familiar, almost light— a reprieve from the guilt and gift of your desire.

You squeeze yourself closer, getting comfortable from your place between his legs. Happy to feel the warmth radiating from him and the act of being cradled. San's middle finger experimentally runs itself along your slit and you flinch— he stops immediately, worrying that he's already done something wrong with self-deprecating shame and furrowed brows.

The sound of a small moan leaving your mouth raises the hair on his arms, a strange fascination slowly burning into his body. Again, he runs his finger up and down slowly. Sighing, your lay your head back to rest against the junction between his collarbone and neck.

San's cheek rests against your temple as he stares down between your legs, focusing on the task when he finds a small, firm bud. A loud squeak of surprise leaves you, deliciously over-sensitive at the unintentionally hard press. Easing up his touch, he flicks over it curiously before asking

"Show me what makes you feel good." You tilt your head back holding eye contact curiously before you reach a hand down experimentally, pushing his to the side to touch yourself when he shakes his head.

"No, show me." He instructs and your eyes lighten in understanding, grabbing his hands and guiding them to your cunt. Leading one to softly rub small circles around your clit before pressing another one against your entrance.

"This goes inside of me." You've never pressed your lips against anyone other than Seonghwa, but you instinctively find yourself reaching up to curl an arm around his neck—silently asking for him to part his lips.

San doesn't remember the last time he's had the time to kiss a girl. He wasn't so inexperienced that he's never tasted another person, at the very most.

Yet there was something enticing, welcoming even—about the warmth surrounding your aura like an all-encompassing halo and he finds himself leaning in to capture your kiss. Simultaneously, he dips the tip of his finger inside of you and furrows his eyebrows at the sudden rise in restraint necessary to stop himself from doing anything other than his duty to relieve you. Your cunt clenches, sucking him in until the second notch of his finger eases inside of you, knees knocking together and San smacks your inner thigh lightly, signaling you to keep them spread.

He eases his tongue into the hollow of your mouth, twisting it around yours slowly, wet sounds clashing at the infrequent separating of your lips, Smacks echo and are accompanied by the slow drip of the faucet. A low groan eases out of him when you delicately wrap your doll-like lips around his tongue, lightly sucking and kissing the flat of its pink flesh. Prominent veins stretch along the expanse of his neck, tensing when he presses his lips against you harder, caving into your form deeply. Resuming slow pumps, his other hand reaches to rub small circles around your clit, occasionally offering a small flick to its surface. An open mouthed mewl leaves you, small pants decorating the curve of his jaw when he unlatches his lips from yours—unconsciously kissing the side of your temple.

"More please." You beg politely and he can only oblige at the sweetness of your tender tone. San curves another finger into you, moving his other hand away to fasten the pace of the one remaining inside of you. The flat of his palm slaps against your clit and you arch your back in response, a small scream leaving you as the bath water splashes against the swelling plump of your chest.

Unable to resist, he slides his free hand to cusp your left tit—rolling his thumb against your perked nipple and grasping onto it with a sudden strength that had you gyrating your hips against his hand. The friction of your bare ass rubs against the submerged fabric of his pants and doesn't stop himself from grinding up into the squishy flesh. A pitched moan leaves his mouth, a small "ah!" at the sudden foreign sensitivity and pleasure invading his body. San loses all attempts at being soft with you, staring at your cunt taking his thick fingers repeatedly. Slick coats his fingers when he momentarily takes them out to slide them to caress your pussy lips.

Your hips chase his hand, whining a bit at the sudden emptiness.

"Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?" San peppers small kisses onto your cheeks, begging lightly. He seriously needed you to. Else he'd lose his virginity in a fucking mausoleum to the one girl he really couldn't afford to and risk a death sentence. Seonghwa was too methodical for murdering in a fit of rage—he'd actively search for the unconventional, hitting precisely where it'd kill the soul slowly.

You never took note of how distinct San's voice was until it was muttering uncharacteristically sweet into your ear with a soft encouragement.

Your stomach clenched and coiled, and you reached down to hold his wrist and propel his hand into yourself before you found your release with a shout, chest heaving at the strength of your relief.

"You're such a good girl. Feeling better now?" San's hand rubs at your tummy softly in circles, calming your body as it melted back into him. His hold on you was different—warm in a way that didn't burn but eased you into a puddle. You find yourself rising to turn in the tub to face him, raising your arms to cradle his cheek.

Seonghwa taught you this— a specific kiss that held the weight of gratitude he said.

San's floored at the softness of it—it's sweet and heavenly— all of things he should've known already and Seonghwa intuitively warned him it'd be. Lips wrap around his bottom lip to cradle it intentionally.

The palms of your hands hold him deceptively adoringly—everything Seonghwa trained you to do and more.

"Thank you, San." A small whisper leaves you and you curl into his soaked body, clutching at the wet fabric of his shirt and hiding your face in his neck. Comfortable and satisfied with his physical affection.

He realizes that it's the first time he's heard you utter his name, and it hits his heart like a metal pan—a harsh pang plummeting onto its surface like a cold, dead comet. Soft breaths hit his neck, and San feels your body slump slightly.

You fell asleep.

He shuts his eyes in horror, still unbelievably hard as he sighs into the palm he slams onto the center of his face with. If you're living proof of a God existing, he'll gladly send a prayer out in secret—hoping he'd survive a little longer to at least buy another pack of cigarettes since he's on his last leg.

San picks up your body, waking you up silently to dress you with clothes he found in the extra guest room. Guiding your languid body back to your area of the mausoleum and covering you with a blanket.

"I won't tie you tonight but please, for the love of God—don't try to escape." The sigil should be enough to hold you there, and frankly—he's not feeling up to the task of tying you intricately enough to satisfy Seonghwa if he were to return. Your eyes widen in alarm at the sound of him mentioning your father and you nod in panic. He snorts, tiredly amused.

He's received no word as of yet, which should buy him enough time to think about his actions moving forward. The rubbery sounds of his clothes echo throughout the corridor and San ends his night completely naked in the laundry room, waiting for his only outfit to dry.

It's comical really—the sight of a grown man naked pondering on a stool, waiting for his laundry to dry casually after touching a woman for the first time.

San was too tired to feel shame.

He's fucked out and horny in a way that he's never experienced before, and wonders if it's his belated puberty alas hitting him.

San stands and leans down to momentarily pause the laundry cycle. Reaching for a cardboard box he'd thrown in to dry alongside his clothes—satisfied with the extent of its drying before plucking the lone cigarette that sat in it. Lighting it with a sigh, San waits in nude contemplating silence, reflecting on the madness of his decisions for the next hour.

Seonghwa still hasn't returned.

Over the past two weeks, San has struggled to resist your advances in every conceivable way.

Like clockwork, he has either been left blue-balled or succumbed to your curious gaze whenever he tried to read his lone book while you watched him. Days turned into an unspoken routine—your innocent way of asking to be held without saying a word, and him pretending not to notice while already giving in to your unconscious desires.

He realized you were the cuddly type—naturally inclined to hold a hand or lean into a chest. For the past two weeks, he has been reading his book aloud, cradling you close, your back pressed against his chest, much like your first night alone together.

This is the exact position he finds himself in when he reads the final words of "Paradise Lost" by John Milton: “They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, through Eden took their solitary way.” San mumbles, glancing at you to gauge your reaction to the ending.

Your eyebrows furrow briefly as you digest the words in momentary silence. "I don't understand," you say, gazing at San and awaiting his reply patiently, inquisitive as always.

He nods slowly and adjusts his slim glasses. "Adam and Eve fall from grace and are forced to leave the Garden of Eden," he summarizes simply.

"Why did they have to leave?" Your voice is soft, naturally otherworldly.

"Because they knew too much to stay and remain happy. Salvation to them was following the path from which there was no return," he explains. The silence from you feels heavier than usual.

Lately, you have been more talkative. Still not particularly chatty, but San has noticed things about you he shouldn't have—like your inherent pensiveness, curiosity, and how, in all your innocence, you are undeniably a woman. A beautiful one. There is a dichotomy to you, in all the ways you are wise and pensive, yet unavoidably naive to human social and bodily cues and customs.

Like this moment—you didn’t know how to bathe yourself just two weeks ago, yet you can sit here and question Milton with only your previous understandings of the celestial world and its functions.

You turn, tucking your face into the warmth of his neck as you quietly ask him to hold you. San draws you into his lap without hesitation, settling you with ease—your legs parting naturally, knees resting at either side of his hips. When your fingers begin to toy with a button on his vest, and your dress shifts so you can press closer against the firm center of him, he feels it again—that slow, stirring shift.

For the life of him, he doesn’t know how he’ll make it through this unscathed. It has become your daily ritual—to ask San to soothe your fevers—and like the guard dog he is, he obeys without question, devoted to obliging his lady (he sarcastically began calling you this after he realized he couldn’t help but cater to your every whim.) To be fair, there isn’t much else you need. You aren’t human; you require no water, no food, no sleep. And so, San fills the quiet hours by offering you stories from his books, the cyclical reprieve of his body, or letting you watch him eat—your gaze full of wonder, the simple act always putting you in a state of strange awe.

San makes sure to eat everything nice in the pantry, given that any meal could be his last. His hands slide to rest on your hips, leather gloves squeaking lightly at his tense grip.

"I taught you how to ask properly, Angel," he mutters softly, a disguised gentle reprimand. You blink, trying to calculate the proper words as instructed.

“I want you to touch me, San,” you say, your gaze lifting to meet his as you remain nestled in his lap, arms lazily looped around his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away—just stares, caught between exasperation and something that looks a lot like pride. You’re obedient, after all. Almost too obedient.

San sighs before leaning back flat on the ground. "Lift up your dress and come here," he instructs, dragging you to situate yourself above his face. You obey and lift the silk fabric just above your hips, and San immediately places his mouth over your lace panties.

The thin, airy fabric is immediately doused in spit. San licks up the creased lining, pressing into your skin, and your tummy clenches with a red-hot want. Gloved hands stroke soothingly over your thighs, massaging lightly at the skin and pushing you closer to his face. “Don’t hover—sit,” a gruff admonishment slides out of him, his neck aching from how he had to crane to meet your core.

San tugs your underwear to slide directly between your lips, pulling it a few times so it presses and massages the bud, and enjoys the sight of your puffed skin sandwiching the cloth.

You shiver when he eases a hand between your legs, pulling your underwear to the side to press an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, and separating your lips with his tongue.

“San—it feels good,” you gasp, the confession ripped from you. Something in him breaks—splinters, like he's been holding back too long. He snarls, the sound low and feral, then yanks off his glove with his teeth, careless and shaking. His hand is on you in the next breath, fingers slick as he drives his middle and ring fingers into you—deep, unrelenting

You yelp, startled, clenching tightly around his fingers. Your body moves without permission—grinding softly against the press of San’s touch, his mouth. His cheeks are flushed, glasses fogging, and you find yourself staring, unsure why the sight pulls at something deep within you. Carefully—almost reverently—you reach to remove them, fingertips brushing warm skin. A sensation follows—gentle, strange. It spreads through your chest, unfamiliar and unnamed. You don’t understand it, but it doesn’t frighten you.

San feels it—the strange shift in the air that curdles his intestines, blooming like a wildflower in concrete, somewhere it shouldn’t be, but nonetheless continues to root itself in. The partly cloudy day reflects on your hair like a halo, dousing your body, and he’s suddenly even more aware of what sort of holiness he holds in his arms—that he even tastes it on his tongue like false salvation. A profound emotion of wanting to carve inside of you, to ease every burn in your body, and cater to your strangeness bleeds inside of him. San knows what this means—that although it is too soon to call it love, it is nonetheless devotion. Momentary fear throbs in him—

Did Seonghwa feel it too, in the beginning? Was he lost from the start—or did he slowly unravel, seduced by the gravity of your existence, slipping over time into the skin of a madman, his fall from grace etched in stone?

He pushes the thought away—now’s not the time to contemplate dread. The sooner he gets you off, the sooner you both can go on with your day.

A slow lap flicks at your clit, the stringy liquid attaching itself to the tip of San’s tongue—following his movements as he slides and sandwiches it between your folds, drinking in the sounds of your melodic moans. His fingers piston themselves inside of you, curling up to graze a spongy spot, and you spark up—eyes seeing stars.

A desperation inside of you wells before it reaches a boiling point—you want more. This isn’t enough for you.

It clicks in your mind before you can fully process what it means. You’ve done this with Seonghwa countless times, but back then, you were too raw—too angry and unmoored to truly sit with the feeling of wanting someone inside you. Desire was still a foreign language, one you hadn't yet learned to speak fluently.

You hold your stomach and reach a hand down to hold San’s cheek, pausing him. He eyes you curiously—bottom half of his face glistening with slick. “Everything okay up there?” A dry remark leaves San, accompanied by a raised brow despite his best efforts at being softer with you—losing his mind at the thought of having to beat off in the bathroom after this for the third time today.

“I want more.” You confess, hesitant—gazing down at him like he was a puzzling thing. You push his head down, shaking your head when he moves to drag his tongue down and into you with more fervor. San’s eyes flick around your face, looking around for an expression he’s registered and committed to memory. He finds himself at a standstill, despite typically being able to read you like a dog-eared book. And so he waits for the words to fall out of you on their own, as they often did once he was patient enough to truly learn you.

“I think… I want more of you.” Wonder coats your honeyed tone, and you reach out to cup his warm cheek.

San stills at your words, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts invading his mind, but he fumbles to regain his composure.

“I don’t think you fully understand what that means, Angel,” he says, offering a shaky smile as he gently tries to urge you away, not wanting to rush you into something you might not fully comprehend.

“San,” you say softly, requesting a pause to calm his anxious thoughts. He takes a deep breath and looks at you expectantly.

“I’m still adjusting to these urges,” you explain. “Parts of me want to resist, to hold onto the world I knew, but I’ve given in to Seonghwa’s touch again and again. I’m still learning, San, what it means to have a body, and I feel it. I don’t fully understand it, but I want you, as I’ve wanted Seonghwa. But I want you differently. It’s easier to want you…it doesn’t feel like a sin.” You exhale, as if confessing a secret.

To Seonghwa, these words would be sacrilegious in his doctrine. San knows this. Something’s burning off in his stomach, fragments of the desire he’s forced himself to chew off were coming together to form a dark mass.

The silence is thick, broken only by the faint rustling of nature outside the marble walls of your private sanctuary. A drop of your wetness trails down to San’s cheek, snapping him out of his internal struggle. A ravenous hunger consumes him, and he hoists you up, sliding out from between your legs and pulling you close with a searing kiss.

Groans escape his lips as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving sloppily across your jaw and neck, nipping and breathing heavily into the hollow of your throat. His arm snakes up your leg, tugging your underwear down as a small whimper of anticipation escapes you.

This desperation is new to San, a feeling he’s never experienced so intensely. It makes sense now—the verses and prose written throughout the ages about the carnality of desire. He scoffs at his past self for thinking he was superior for never having experienced it. There’s no muscle memory here, only sheer instinct—a fragility hanging in the air as San loses the last of his innocence.

San shivers as your nail gently drags across his hard-on, slipping a finger between the teeth of his zipper to slowly pull it down. Your curiosity guides your hands as you explore his body, something you’ve never done in the two weeks he’s been caring for you. The flush on his face spreads from his nose to his cheekbones, and his chest heaves with anticipation.

Should he tell you he’s never done this before?

His other still gloved hand reaches out to grab your wrist, and he gazes into your eyes.

“It’s my first time,” he admits, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrays his anxiety.

You blink slowly, processing his words.

“Your first time being touched?” you ask, and San stifles a laugh, feeling suddenly inexperienced by comparison.

“I suppose it’s my first time being inside, Angel,” he says, a mix of embarrassment and defeat in his voice.

“Oh, I get it. That’s okay,” you reply simply, and San exhales, ready for you to pull away before you move to slide down the top of his boxers. You lay a soft kiss on the underside of his cock and take his tip into your mouth. San’s body tenses, and his hands shoot out to clench his thighs, eyes squeezing shut to keep them from rolling back.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, overwhelmed by the sensation of your mouth wrapped around him, soft and silky, working him with your throat. What has Seonghwa been teaching you? He shakes his head briefly. Probably doesn’t want know.

San is particularly well-endowed, and he’s aware of it. He watches you, worried, as you take him deeper, feeling your saliva dribble down his shaft. His skin turns pink and engorged, and a small gag escapes you as he hits the back of your throat.

San’s hips rise, folding into your face as he shakes with pleasure. You guide his hand to your head, looking up at him curiously.

“What is it?” San asks, sweat beading his brow as he grits his teeth, trying to understand what you want from him.

Your words are muffled, so you push his hand against your head again, telling him it’s okay to control your movements. The vulgarity of it all sends a rush of heat to his face. Unable to resist, he thrusts deeper into you, pleasure drowning out the sounds of your struggle. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, groaning at the feeling of his cock moving in your mouth.

“Wait—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, using the last of his willpower to slide your mouth off him. A string of saliva remains attached to your bottom lip, and he’s captivated by the sight of your teary, red face.

Saliva smears across your jaw, and San knows there’s no going back. You take a moment to catch your breath, blinking away residual tears, and wait patiently for San’s next move.

Your gaze pulls him in like a magnet, and he crushes his lips against yours in a fiery kiss. His hands grip your hair, tilting your neck back as he slides his tongue into your mouth, sucking on yours eagerly. He’s panting as he unravels your dress with practiced hands, having tied and untied your corsets daily. He peels off the last of the fabric concealing you from his eyes.

By the gods, you're beautiful. You were worthy of the crime he was about commit, on the edge of betraying the strange man he was born to protect.

Though his hands are often on you, San has made a quiet effort not to look too long trying, in his own way, to soften the weight of his wanting and make it easier to swallow. But today, he can hardly blink. He dips down, taking your left breast into his mouth, nipping gently as if to memorize the way your body trembles, the soft mewl spilling from you like a wave pulled towards the moon.

He marks your swelling chest with slow, deliberate bites, his tongue flicking over your nipple before sealing the moment with a wet, reverent kiss. Your fingers find the buttons of his vest, working them open before slipping his dress shirt from his shoulders—pausing only to admire how the sunlight sets fire to his golden skin. When you lean in to nip at his collarbone, San moans, low and shaken, his hands gliding over your bare form like he’s trying to memorize every inch before he loses control.

There’s a silence in the air, a stillness broken only by the dancing dust particles in the light. When San lays you onto the cold marble, shrugging off the last of his clothes and tossing them aside, he stills himself between your legs. The moment is reminiscent of a prayer as he kneels before you, your legs parted like a pathway to heaven—your slick dripping onto the floor, cunt clenching around nothing, begging for him to fill you.

San lets out a shaky breath, sheathing himself slowly into you. He immediately presses his temple against yours to gather himself. You litter small kisses onto his cheekbone, stuttering out a moan as he slides out and then back in fully.

San feels drunk on the sensation of you wrapped around him, willing himself to savor the moment and not finish too quickly.

"W-wait please." He stutters out softly when your hips roll against him, hitting his pelvis—already damp with the slick you rubbed against him in the process. San tenses once the sensitivity hits him at full force, trying to hone in on your small palms grasping his jawline.

With his eyes open, it finally hits him—undeniable and heavy that nothing will wash away the image of your silhouette draped on the dreaded mausoleum floor, as the dust particles billowed around your energetic halo like soft winter. His palm drags itself down the softness of your stomach, cradling the flesh around your form—so willingly full of him and he thinks he wants to sit inside of your forever, and pales at the thought.

He couldn't afford you.

Not in the ways he needed to be able to.

However—he did nothing to stop himself from rolling into you with a sudden desperation, wanting to fill the hollowness of his thoughts.

He hated that even now, Seonghwa's presence seemed to fill the air—branding and consuming your habitual desires that were a mere extension of his deliberate teachings

In a flicker of fragile honesty, he admits he could never refuse you. His body never stood a chance—but now, unsettlingly, his heart might be tangled in it too.

A gasp, an opening, a tongue in mouth: the minutes pass as sweat drips down from San's body, and he memorizes every gap formed between your bodies, praying that somehow his heart will be torn away in the process.

Yet desire persists and consumes him with an open jaw, breaking him open until he's crashing against your whimpering and delirious body—leaning to teethe at your neck and grope at the swell of your breasts. Hands drag to the dips of your waist, squeezing the skin until it bloomed red, craving to bring you as close as possible to the act of bleeding.

San wanted you and feared that his desire would sentence him to his own damnation—

And so, he carved into you with a sort of violence his usual attempt at softness never permitted, and you welcomed him as a means to fill the gaps to ease a desire you may never understand or compute for who it may actually be for.

His hips smacked against your skin, filling you to the brim until cream wrapped around the smoothness of his cock, repetitive motions unknowingly sealing your shared fate.

A throbbing vein,

the betrayal of his own visible pulse,

and most of all— his lips that couldn't seem to stop their spewing of sweet nothings even at the firmness of his actions.

"Is this okay, Angel?" He breathes, panting against your mouth, stomach churning at how beautiful you look—at how grace seemed to be imbued even in the simple action of a subtle nod to your head.

San was betraying himself—every law he'd lived by, every truth etched into his bones—but your mouth was the most real thing he'd ever touched. Centuries of inherited hatred unraveled themselves beneath the lips of a girl too innocent to understand what men like him and Seonghwa truly were, or how they hunted—like wolves, by nature, not choice.

San was raised to be subservient to Hwa but that didn't unwrite his own genetically imbued violence—the irrefutable instinct to conquer and own.

And for the first time in his life, San prayed for and pitied his hunt—cumming into you so as to not deny himself his long-awaited reprieve, before gazing down at the tragically beautiful mess he's made in more ways than one. Your chest rises in shallow breaths, hands gliding up his body, wrapping tenderly around his neck.

There's a particular warmth you feel when you press your skin against San's—one you'd never found or experienced, even in Eden's pastures. It flickered in the air like a sunspot, and you curled into him slowly, syncing your breaths to his heartbeat.

Did Seonghwa ever feel like this?

You think you miss him, but the thought of his name falls hollow like an empty shell into your heart: all remnants of war and nothing at all like a day in the sun.

San found himself in a sticky, sticky predicament.

He failed to gauge his own desperation and found himself spoiling your appetites to excess, which have only seemed to worsen after your first sin.

What used to be early mornings spent gazing at his chewing mouth morphed into an ugly, saturated desperation that manifested in hiking you up and fucking you hard into the kitchen counter and having to profusely apologize for the small and swelling bump on the back of your head after it repeatedly banged against the cupboard door.

He's even lost count of how many times you've woken him up, mouth stuffed full of his cock, and blinking up at him like you could do no wrong. It seems you've developed a bit of an attachment for San, trailing after him in silence wherever he went.

Showers? You were there clinging to his leg, not minding the water flooding your eyes as you blankly sat in the tub—unbothered and patiently waiting for his "bath time" to end. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner? He had to maneuver around your body to avoid accidentally knocking you with a knife or a pan because you held onto him like a second skin.

San tried his best to appease you and yet you ate at his body, energy, and hours with a level of gluttony more similar in form to a demon rather than an angel.

He held onto the headboard of Seonghwa's bedframe for dear life as you rode him like your life depended on it, after you followed him into the room when he left to grab you a change of clothes. You easily made your way in, interrupting his internal debate on whether a pair of lace or floral socks would accompany your baby doll dress better.

San made it a nasty habit to finish inside of you—too entranced by the look and feel of it to reprimand himself the amount he should've.

This is exactly how he falls into the horridness of the day he dreaded for the last few weeks.

Moments after your escapade, you slip back into your designated corner of the morose establishment—just as the faint clank of the mausoleum’s hidden entrance echoes through the dust-laden air. The sound of jagged stone dragging against the rigid entrance of the doorway stirs something in you, a slow flood of anticipation laced with unease.

When Seonghwa walks in, he immediately takes note of the stillness in the room—sharp eyes drinking in your form for the first time in weeks, squinting minutely at the womanly softness gracing your face. He came immediately after the final mission debrief in a hurry, still donning a pristine suit and slicked back white hair. Only a few strands now poking his forehead expose the rush he was in.

He makes a small movement, almost unnoticeable, to gaze at San, and clenches his jaw at the sight of the flush decorating his nose bridge. Seonghwa marches forward; quiet, elegant, and dreadfully beautiful as he approaches you— fear, admiration, and denial painting your tummy in a confusing amalgamation of emotions. He leans to press a small kiss to your jawline, patting your hair down, and stares at you for a couple of moments.

“Dearest, have you been good?” his voice is a soft, melodic mutter and a sudden queasiness overwhelms you. You have been, right? Then why can’t the words fall out of you truthfully?

His eyes sharpen at your lack of reply, a simple command fluttering out of his mouth

“Spread your legs and lift your dress.”

You immediately comply, lifting the soft white lace to your stomach and Seonghwa immediately pushes your underwear to the side before shoving two fingers inside of you—noting the slickness between them and how easily they slid inside of you.

His breathing stills as he removes his hand to reveal cum coated fingers. Eyes burning, Seonghwa’s head flicks over to San, holding his fingers up in quiet anger on the verge of boiling over.

“Care to tell me what my dog’s been doing while I’ve been away?” He seethes, voice teetering from its usually performative gentleness.

San squeezes his eyes shut, already knowing this would happen. Your own eyes widen, recalling one of San’s first warnings to you— “If I do this for you, don’t tell Seonghwa.”

Did you put him at risk? Horror fills your body.

San doesn’t respond and merely moves his gaze to the floor.

“Well? Does anybody have a lovely explanation? And you—“He flips back to you with a shaking finger and a tsk.

“—and you, my angel, seem to need to be educated on manners. Specifically, on how to host a guest and not fuck them. Bad girl.” Seonghwa pinches his nose bridge in annoyance, tapping his foot as he stared at the two people he rightfully owned: his own personal guard dog since birth and the angel he earned through…trial and error—but that’s beside the point.

Pointing at San, Seonghwa instructs firmly

“Kneel.”

Wide eyes flick up to gaze at him in surprise, but San obliges, nonetheless. Seonghwa pulls his tie off before slowly walking towards him, and the boy stiffens as his footsteps drift closer, echoing throughout the hallowed hall.

San’s vision is immediately obscured by the thick navy cloth of Seonghwa’s tie, and flinches at the sudden darkness.

“Hwa, what are you— “He attempts to question, a dry tone leaving him in exasperation.

“Don’t even speak. Don’t move either or God so help me, your entire lineage will fall to my sword.” The words are tense, promising.

Seonghwa’s step fade away, moving towards you once again. Leaning down to capture your lips and your body is a fire—burning and yearning for him beyond all logic. It knows him best and it’s craved him despite your admonishments.

"I didn't explain this because I thought it was obvious, but you aren't supposed to offer yourself to anyone else, stupid girl." He chides casually.

"You're mine. In life and in death. If you want to play with my puppy so badly, fine. Both of you will pay the price." There's a promise in his words, and you worried for San. Seonghwa takes note of this—gaze sharpening again and distorting his typically cherubic features with a wolfish grin.

"Now, will you be a good girl today? I don't have the patience to deal with your dishonesty to your body."

You didn't think you had it in you to deny Seonghwa today either. Your body called for him, growing wet at the sight of his familiar beauty that invoked a strange comfort now. You nod, staying silent and await his next orders.

"Strip and bend over." A sharp inhale comes from San, as he comes to the slow understanding of Seonghwa's intention.

He's going to take you while he's in the room.

The sound of your rustling clothes spur both his imagination and memory, and his pants grow stiff as he grits his teeth in restraint.

Your nipples harden at their exposure to the cold air, goosebumps raising as you stare meekly into Seonghwa's eyes. More than likely, due to San's spoiling affection, you dare yourself to step forward and wrap your arms around the slim of his neck.

Seonghwa's dead eyes maintain their dull pallor, face unmoving but he can’t deny that his heart stuttered at the wake of your foreign approach. When you reach up to kiss him with an apology laid out on your tongue, he melts into you slightly and brushes away his white hair—pulling stray strands entangling themselves on your tongues.

He reaches a hand to pull hard at your hair, smacking your hip

"You're going to take it today, yes?"

"Yes—"

"Yes, what?" He deadpans questioningly.

"Yes sir." Your big eyes are clear like spring.

He turns his head slightly to San "Did she bathe recently?" It was a double-sided question he already knew the answer to. San slowly nods, blindfold still intact and rustling against the collar of his shirt.

Seonghwa side eyes you for a moment.

"I wanted to take my time in training you to take me in other ways, but today seems suitable, given that we have such an esteemed guest with us." He turns you around, pressing you against an old statue. "Hold on tightly." is all he says, before sliding two fingers in your cunt, immediately smacking into it repeatedly. A small scream leaves you at the suddenness, spine straightening at the brutality of his ministrations.

"Don't forget who taught you how to use this fucking cunt. You're a stupid little thing—an object. A little cock sleeve who gets mindlessly fucked when she's good." He spreads his fingers to widen you, and you whimper at the stretch. Your slick splashes itself onto his palms before you jolt at the feeling of his finger rimming around your ass.

"Hwa?" You question, apprehensive. He'd been putting strange objects into your other end for weeks, and it felt strange—different from how it usually felt whenever Hwa was inside of you.

"Stay still." He pulls his fingers out of you and walks to his room. You overhear the sounds of him rummaging through his dresser before returning, stationing himself behind you when you feel a thick, cold substance being poured onto your ass. "I was going to wait, but I really don't feel like it anymore." He lathers his tongue around his middle and ring finger, before popping them in your ass, pulling out to push the lube inside.

You yelp at the burning stretch, eyes widening in realization. "Wait—why there?"

"Why not there, is the question—What do you think I've been doing with that ass of yours?" He says simply, unbuttoning his slacks and vest haphazardly, lathering the heavy pink flesh with lube.

"Now, are you going to take it like a good girl or are you going to be the biggest pain in my ass?" His tone is light, and he stills behind you—waiting for your confirmation.

There was a part of you both fearful yet curious of the incoming pain. Whenever Seonghwa experimented on the other relatively unused... end of yours, new sensations would drift through you—dancing between pain and small blips of ecstasy as time progressed.

However, you had no idea if you could fit Seonghwa inside. "Hwa, it won't fit." Seonghwa reaches a hand to stroke your cheek in momentary softness.

"There you go doubting yourself again. Have I ever been wrong, my love?" His voice is sweet, soothing even; serpentine and lovely in all of the worst ways. "Need I remind you how I fit so well in you already?"

Seonghwa pushes inside of your cunt with one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A shaky, exhilarated sigh leaves him, eyes rolling before he grits his teeth in frustration when he feels San's remnants and proceeds to pound into you intentionally. Silent screams leave you, open mouth dragging down the statue as you struggled to hold yourself up.

San is left entirely forgotten, chest heaving at your sounds. This feels like torture. He's queasy at the thoughts overwhelming him. Of course, Seonghwa knew your body better. A chuckle breaks his reverie, as Seonghwa peers at San with dark eyes without his knowledge. "You can take the blindfold off, San." He says dryly, pounding away at you and reaching to wrap an arm around your waist to hold your body up when your knees weaken.

San hesitates

"Come on, Sannie. You don't wanna see my angel?" The words are a deceptively gentle encouragement but were in reality—a thinly veiled mockery.

San sighs, unraveling the blindfold, and his jaw goes slack at the sight of you getting absolutely wrecked. You don't register San, body going numb and mind blank at the incessant banging against your cervix. Seonghwa beckons San over with a silent finger.

He moves you to kneel on the floor, and you do so obediently— before nudging you into San's arms.

"Hold her upright" is all he says before he pours another round of lube onto you, sliding in his middle and ring finger. You hiss at the burn, clutching onto San's sleeves with teary eyes but say nothing. San observes your expression, soothing your body with his hands and pulls your head to rest against his chest. He can't help the morose look decorating his eyes and Seonghwa scoffs.

"Oh, how sweet." He deadpans before sliding out his cock to ease his tip into your ass.

"—ah!" You gasp, eyes flying open.

"Hang in there for me." He grins before shoving himself further into you with shallow thrusts. You crane your head to San, silently begging for his kiss before Seonghwa's hand intercepts, fingers crawling into your mouth to use it as a pulling force to enter you entirely. He only waits for a singular moment before jumpstarting his pace.

San can't seem to force himself to look away at Seonghwa's brutal force, eyes glossed over at the sight of your ass rippling at the force he slapped into you with—the grotesque squelches of him pummeling into your ass and balls patting your cunt with an awe-inspiring vulgarity distracts him from his insecurities.

He sees the sudden dark vacancy in your eyes, almost doll-like as you still to let Seonghwa take you in whatever way he wanted. There wasn't a singular thought behind them— you were gone. Seonghwa seemed to sense this with a sharp smile, cooing down at you

"Is my dumb little angel enjoying getting fucked in the ass? You're fucking disgusting." You moan out in reply, falling into San's lap as Seonghwa only seems to dig deeper into you, and nod in reply. Your brain couldn't compute anything outside of Seonghwa's body and words.

Seonghwa's eyes brighten maniacally before leaning down to speak directly into your ear. Stilling completely and chuckling as you drive your ass back onto his cock in desperation.

Slick drips down your thighs, pussy clenching around nothing—crying at the emptiness inside of it.

"You'd do anything for me, won't you?" He asks lightly, a kind suggestion.

"Anything." You reply instantly.

Bingo.

"Renounce your God for me." The smile on his face practically splits passed his cheekbones. San's head raises in alarm, eyes wide in shock.

There's a miniscule sliver of light fighting through the overcast haze in your mind. Alarms blare in your mind, screaming for you to wake up—something is horribly, irreversibly wrong. But Seonghwa has always been your safe haven.

He’s shielded you from the cruelties of the world, even brought San into your life. Your Seonghwa would never hurt you. He couldn't.

"I renounce my God for you." An ecstatic giggle bubbles from his throat and San's face contorts into an expression of absolute horror. You weren't in your right mind—the usual brightness of your curious eyes is nowhere to be found and his heart clenches. Seonghwa broke you.

The moon seemed to hide itself from your words, disappearing behind a cover of clouds, and taking away all light from the room in its absence. San holds your face with equal amounts concern and aching desire.

Seonghwa’s gloomy eyes roll over San’s form like a disappointed God—peering through the eerie starlight lacing his gaze.

“Angel, why don’t you make room for our San?” He says suddenly and you pull away from San’s arms before he chided at you

“No darling—here.” Seonghwa practically purred, trailing a hand down to cup your soaked cunt. His head digs into your neck to bite lightly; eyes still trained onto San’s.

San’s pulse throbs erratically, veins strangling against the surface of his neck. Your eyes join Seonghwa’s in staring at him, waiting expectantly.

Slowly, he peels off his slacks, and sighs in relief at finally releasing himself from the uncomfortable constraints.

Seonghwa’s hand pulls at San’s wrist, guiding it to replace his hand, and to his surprise—wraps around the base of his cock.

San flinches at the sensitivity, a small moan of surprise leaving him at having Seonghwa’s soft and cold skin against him. A soft jerk at his shaft causes him to fall against your shoulder and unconsciously fucking his hips into Seonghwa’s hand.

Seonghwa uses the other to cup your jaw to crane towards him, licking into your mouth and parting it to spit directly into your tongue. “Go and accommodate our guest. Show me what you’ve learned while I was away, my love.” There’s a playful glint to his voice, now in a much better mood after hearing you renouncing your father for him.

You crawl over to San slowly and whine at the sudden emptiness as Seonghwa slides out of you. San gazes up at you with reverence when you seat your self onto his lap, spreading your cunt and taking him entirely. His head snaps back, jaw slack, choking a groan at the sudden grip.

Seonghwa still peers at San with dark eyes and reaches forward to brush a strand of hair matted with sweat from his temple.

His fingers pull at San’s jaw towards his lips and kisses him like he was trying to take something back.

In all of San’s years, he’s never imagined kissing Seonghwa. They grew up together and it was his job to take care of Hwa’s messes— every day was spent next to one another as childhood friends, deceivingly as equals even if that weren’t the truth.

He’s never denied being Seonghwa’s dog and despite never thinking of Seonghwa in a sexual or intimate way—kissing him felt like an act of loyalty. It touched at a sensitive part of San’s boyhood like an apology, squeezing his tongue into Hwa’s mouth as if to say

‘I didn’t mean to like her, but I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.’

San mewled into Seonghwa’s mouth and opened his eyes slightly to take a look at you—almost choking on a laugh but swallowing it down. Your mouth is slack, wide eyed and curious at the interaction— never having witnessed two boys kissing but found yourself admiring their conjoined beauty. San was a night sky laid beneath Seonghwa’s moonlit form.

His hands find their way back on your hips and lays back down, rocking you against him slowly. Seonghwa follows him shortly, peppering kisses onto your shoulder blade before thrusting back into you.

Your mind goes blank at being stuffed to the brim and Seonghwa only adds to it when he shoves his fingers down your throat—laughing when you cry out and gag in surprise. Drool dribbles out of your mouth as they both fuck into you, and San quickly loses all reservations, jackhammering into you whenever Seonghwa would pull out.

“She looks stupid, doesn’t she?” Seonghwa chuckles dryly, face contorted into a horrendously disturbed—almost murderous expression as he nails into you.

San, body trembling with exertion, begins to move in sync with Seonghwa, their cocks moving in and out of you in a brutal, relentless rhythm. You're sandwiched between them, their bodies pressing against yours, their cocks filling you completely. For a moment, Seonghwa feels a sense of satisfaction at San's fucked out expression—grabbing at his face with a rough hand. "—and look at this stupid fucking dog. You've kept it in your pants for years and I come home to your cum inside of her?" Seonghwa taps at San's cheeks before sliding two fingers into his mouth, immediately hitting the back of his throat and forcing him to take it. "Since you're all grown now and clearly your balls have dropped—you can take this much, can't you?" He's still pile driving into you, and you were residue of the person you were an hour ago.

"Pretty angel—" He hits your ass, the surface flushing red and clammy with sweat. "Cum for me so I can show our dearest San how pretty you look when I do it." Your trained body immediately adheres to his words, digesting his voice the way a computer is coded.

San stills, spit trailing onto your neck before he forcibly pulls his throat away from Seonghwa's hand—crying out at your cunts vice grip before cumming an unholy amount inside of you. Hwa's face is cold when he drills into you before pulling out—ejaculating on both your and San's bodies.

Seonghwa's skin is drenched in sweat as he tilts his head up to gaze through the broken skylight—heart thrumming, chest heaving—too cherubic for his own good, despite the brutality of his possessive nature.

You were his. That was final.

And San—San was his too. Always had been.

Maybe he didn’t crave San the same way he craved you—didn’t ache for him in that raw, possessive way—but Seonghwa didn’t let go of what was his. Not ever.

He tossed his suit jacket over your tangled bodies and turned without a word, vanishing into the dark recesses of his room. He needed space. Time to think. To breathe.

San stayed on the floor beside you, too drained to move. The weight of what had happened pressed down like a storm.

Something had shifted. And none of you could take it back.

You wake up groggy, peeling your eyes open against the onslaught of sunlight. Flinching at the soft breath on your neck, you peer down in surprise at San’s figure—completely nude and barely covered by the corner of Seonghwa’s suit jacket.

Where was he?

Anxiety churns in your stomach. You attempt to rise, but your knees give out—waking San in the process. He squeezes one eye to shut out the brightness before wrapping a toned, tanned arm around your waist to steady you.

“You doin’ alright there, Angel?”

He groans as he feels a crusted substance on his cheek, quickly realizing it’s Seonghwa’s cum. What the fuck’s wrong with that guy?

San knows he went along with it in the desperate heat of the moment, but his brow creases at the strangeness of it all as he recalls the feeling of Seonghwa’s fingers in his throat—silken tongue in his mouth.

You open your mouth to speak, but an overwhelming dryness hits your throat quickly followed by a foreign clenching in your stomach. San stills at the clear rumble, eyes widening in apprehension: you were hungry.

Mumbling a quick “wait here,” San stumbles into Seonghwa’s room—ignoring his groggy protests to shut the door because he’s letting in too much light. In his desperation, San doesn’t even register the cold air clinging to his naked body before jumping onto Seonghwa’s bed and tugging at a white tuft of hair.

“Hwa, it’s bad—I think she’s hungry.”

Seonghwa lies quietly for a single beat, still trying to ignore San in extreme annoyance—until his eyes shoot open, finally registering the words.

He falls out of bed, bolts upright, and rushes into the open space with a wide, maniacal smile. San picks up the blanket Seonghwa had flung away, wrapping it around his waist before hobbling after him.

Seonghwa kneels in front of you, softly grabbing your shoulder and San couldn't quite hear his mummering—but takes note of the dangerous spark in Hwa's eyes, a soft simmering settling in his stomach.

San plops down next to you, leaning his head on your shoulder as you both watch Seonghwa flutter to and from the kitchen. The distant cacophony of pots and pans clanging finally seize before the man returns with a glass of water and half-burnt pancakes. At least the effort was there. San grimaces.

You raise your brows in surprise when he hands the plate to you, shaking your head sweetly.

"Hwa—thank you for making...that for me, but I don't need it." You didn't know what pancakes were, but San commended your instinct for knowing that whatever it was—wasn't supposed to look like that. Giggling lightly at your recoiling before clearing his throat and manually stiffening his expression.

"Sweet girl, yes you do—now you do. Just try it, yeah?" Seonghwa hums sweetly before slicing into the pancake, prodding your lips with the fork. Maple syrup and honey butter coat your lips before you hesitantly part them, stilling at the foreign feeling.

"Chew slowly, taste, and then swallow." He holds your chin with two fingers, guiding your jaw gently. "There you are—is it good?"

You think it is—but can't know for sure, you've never tasted anything bad before either; not really comprehending the concept yet.

Body stilling, a small voice in your brain prods at you—why are you eating? Your eyes go white before the horror falls on your body like a bucket of water, legs pushing themselves with a tremor. Please God—no. Anything but this.

Chest heaving, you swallow hard before hesitantly poking a leg out of the sigil and bracing yourself for a sharp, painful sting—but are greeted by nothing. Seonghwa only places the fork down onto the plate before watching you with his dark eyes, holding his chin up with the palm of his hand. San feared this would happen—your inevitable fall from grace. Seonghwa got exactly what he wanted—your mortality.

and now, there was nowhere else for you to return to.

With watery eyes, you jump onto Seonghwa—crying into his arms, and he smiles maternally, adjusting to cradle you to his chest.

"Now—what's the matter, my love?" He hushes you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, and wiping your nose lovingly. "Are you not happy?"

San watches you both, stomach churning. "I suppose now that you're back, I should return to headquarters." His eyes avoid you both, rubbing the back of his neck, heart aching when your arms reach out towards him.

"Please don't leave." He pauses, finally shifting his gaze back to you. There was something in your voice—something familiar, even if you weren't aware of it. Having watched you day and night, San recognized it as easily as he recognized every pattern that adorned your skin.

It was fear. Fear you weren't present enough to understand.

That same uncomfortable squeeze makes him unconsciously reach up to grab the skin above his chest absentmindedly, as if it'd soothe the unerasable ache.

A part of you had to still be there and San racked his head to find a way to return to you. Seonghwa observes, smiling lightly—fully aware of what was transpiring before him. "There's no need."

San turns his head, looking at Seonghwa questioningly. "No work to do or somethin'?"

"Your work is here. I told your family you'll be gone for a long while." Seonghwa's tone is airy and melodic—sweet, soft spoken, and angelic.

San's eyebrows furrow "What are you talking about?"

Seonghwa merely scooches you off his lap, dusting his knees once he stands before striding into his room—returning with an item San couldn't quite see yet, but hears a faint chime emit from it.

The calm in Seonghwa's eyes break for a singular moment—stormy, brooding, resentful—betrayed. He wraps his arms slowly, seductively around San's neck as he clamps a collar around his throat. Seonghwa's lips graze San's ear, whispering low.

"Since you wanted to act like a dog, you get to live like one now. You know better than to disobey—right, San?"

San isn't surprised. He knew Seonghwa like the back of his hand—He pinches his nose bridge, shrugging him off with a sigh. "Are you gonna give me a shirt at least?"

Seonghwa walks back to you, throwing back a laugh.

"Nope."

After that, Seonghwa had you and San start sleeping in his room, ordering a bigger bed. He was restless after the incident—San could tell. And now, he finally understood: Seonghwa didn’t just own you. He owned him, too.

The dynamic was strange, to say the least. When Seonghwa was away at work, he left San to look after you—calling him a good dog, telling him to indulge your every whim. Over time, intimacy between the three of you became routine and almost mundane. San didn’t even flinch anymore when Seonghwa kissed him. A part of him had learned to enjoy it, though he couldn’t quite explain how he’d grown so numb to it all. Exhausted? Absolutely. Disturbed? Not really.

Seonghwa breezes into the room, unintentionally elegant and languid in his barely dressed form, silk robe untying and sliding down to expose his pelvic bone, and landing just above the well-maintained patch of hair saddling his soft phallus. A pitcher sloshes around in his hand, as he rests it on the nightstand. He found joy in feeding and reminding you to drink water— a consistent reminder of your mortality and how your body functions the way his does.

Bed creaking, he slinks towards your exhausted form—the night before left you spent. Being human meant you were easily exhausted now, energy needing to be replenished by consumption. The memory was a haze, doused by the wetness between your thighs when he and San made you squirt for the very first time. Safe to say, Seonghwa was ecstatic you drank water now for this very reason, and committed himself to the task of draining you of every fluid that your body could produce at moments notice. The dynamic worked well—Seonghwa delved into your body until you cried at the overwhelming sensations consuming it, and San would wipe them away diligently.

San slept to the very far right, arms still reaching for you in his sleep to try and drag you closer with the tips of his fingers. His obsidian, cropped hair was slightly damp from overheating under Seonghwa’s thick sheets.

Dark eyes land on him, observing, calculating. Seonghwa didn’t necessarily…desire San in a carnal way. Not to say that he didn't enjoy some of the convenience involved in the change of events. It was the one concrete way to keep the two you tucked in tight by his side—he didn’t like sharing but if he had to share with anyone, it’d be San. Intimacy between them two was more of a means of tactic—of softening you.

San was his since birth. His previously faultless champion.

However, not long after his return, Seonghwa caught onto your strange attachment to his guard dog and despite his qualms, found it hard to say no to you in the ways he had available to spoil you.

San's departure would only push back the progress he's made.

Thus. he integrated the boy in—sharing his other possessions with you because that acted as a relic of Seonghwa’s love for you.

Seonghwa slips off the last of his hanging silken and lavender colored robe, laying on his side to trace a finger down your nose bridge.

"My angel, wake up." Your doll-like lashes flutter at the groggy opening of your eyes, stifling a yawn and you scoot closer to curl into his arms. You weren't coherent enough to pull away.

“—Come take a bath with me.” Seonghwa’s hand cusps your cheek, thumbing at the skin tenderly before he scoops you into his arms. He smiles down at your limp form, digesting your languid body with quiet adoration.

Steam rose from the hot water, as Seonghwa lathered a fragrant concoction onto your hair. The Edison lightbulb flickered in asynchronous flutters and only the sounds of Seonghwa’s soft breathing, sloshing bath water, and the hypnotic electric buzzing filled the room.

“Hwa?” You question lightly and receive a small, absentminded hum in reply. Seonghwa’s laser focus on the task at hand hadn’t broken.

“Sometimes you scare me.” He stills, palm freezing halfway down a strand of your hair.

“…and why is that?” His soft voice flutters into the air, strangely uncomfortable as he shifted—going back to fidget with your hair.

"I don’t really know how to explain it. The only fear I’d ever known was the fear of God. But then I met you. It wasn’t always like this—don’t you remember?" you say softly, your voice gentle, almost forgiving, free of judgment. Even though you were no longer an Angel, there were still moments when your tone carried that same layered, otherworldly resonance.

Ah, You were awake.

Seonghwa noted, continuing on with his task but his face goes slack from the original gentleness he displayed—the one he often plastered to try and keep soft with you. However, only another masks takes its place: feigned indifference

“Remember which part?” He doesn’t blink, trying his best to busy himself as an act of burying the uncomfortable experience of feeling the queasiness churning in his stomach. Of course he remembered. If he could forget, you wouldn’t be here—in his ancestors remote Mausoleum no one bothered to visit.

The dead remained dead, unsurprisingly. It seemed that in death, after a lifetime of being worshipped by Hunters— they were left on their own with dusty stone and marbled coffins, only the overgrowth providing cold and obligatory company, as nature often does. All of that infamy, the shallowness of his position, it all bored Seonghwa.

“The beginning, Seonghwa. The very beginning.” That tone again. Ringing through sound waves, unnerving; unsettling. No personal feeling detectable, only something alike to the deifying of words. He imagined that the oracle of Delphi may have sounded something like this.

Your words were seemingly omnipresent—prophetic.

“—why did you keep me here?” You continued

“I had no other motive than my love for you.” He utters softly, pausing the business of his hands to stare at your spine. The water sloshes as he leans forward to wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer and leaning a cheek onto your shoulder.

“You know that’s not what I’m asking Hwa.” You turn slightly, facing him as best as you could but Seonghwa holds you still. He doesn’t want you to look at him. Not right now.

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. The thick silence choked the two of you—full of ugly and profound emotions you both were scared to face.

“…I remember how it felt when I first saw you.” He starts, voice husky and filled with an emotion you didn’t know how to name yet.

“—my first instinct was to kill you. You didn’t need the wings on your back to tell me what you were—I just knew. You were so palpably innocent. Didn’t even realize the barrel of a gun had been pointed at your head only a couple of feet away for a long while.” Seonghwa’s gaze melts into the bath water, watching your expression from its reflection, eyes still needing—yearning to be on you. He chuckles, aghast at the recollection.

You sit for a couple of beats in silence. The confession, on its own, didn’t scare you.

“But then, you spoke. A small word—insignificant, really, in retrospect. You said hello and I froze for the first time in my life. My instincts—even the most primal of them told me that it was fate. It had to be. I don’t know what it was that made you different; that allowed you to live until now unlike the other Angels that had the unlucky experience of crossing my path. And so I sat next to you on that old stump and asked for your name. For the very first time in my life, someone had regarded me with fascination and not for my position of power. I dare say you were my very first friend. Not even San filled that empty space within me. Y/N, I never had a moment to myself, but I’ve always been lonely.”

Seonghwa strokes your arm, cupping the water in his hands to warm the now cooling skin. Your heart clenched at the sound of his voice, finally uttering your true name after so long, and were immediately thrown back into a time when you’d felt safe with Seonghwa.

Seonghwa, the kind human that made you question the teachings of Eden.

Seonghwa, who was initially proof that humans were good, kind, and capable of emotions and complexities Angels weren’t taught to have.

Seonghwa, who would sit next to you—teaching you the names and descriptions of emotions you’d never felt. The man who would read you books and wrapped your wounds.

Your first and only friend on Earth.

“Why did it all have to change?” You grieved your old friend, not believing that the lot of it was entirely a lie. It was easy to forget in more ways than one: during episodes when you lost yourself entirely or at the wake of your resentments.

“You would’ve left. For good. I couldn’t stomach that.” And for the first time Seonghwa’s voice broke. You couldn’t help the pity dousing your stomach like kerosene, waiting for the fire to start again. Before all of this, you were an angel after all. Maybe that’s why you still had the maddening struggle of wanting to forgive Seonghwa despite his captivity.

“I would’ve came back to visit you—“ you start, but he only clutches you closer, eyes wide and afraid, like a small child for a fracture of a moment.

“I had no way of knowing that. My people are sharp—they would’ve found you if I didn’t hide you myself. And your God? He wouldn’t have let you leave a second time.” Seonghwa’s typically soft, overcast voice squeezed out from his throat—desperation coating its edges.

“Please. Just…please don’t truly hate me. Not you. Anyone else but. Not. You.” He slowly lowers his temple onto your shoulder, breathing out shakily.

And then muscle memory kicks in. You couldn’t help the softness this particular version of Seonghwa summoned from you.

Your arm delicately reached behind you to cradle him closer to your neck. In the thick of his emotions, Seonghwa snaps open—gutted at the wake of what he knows is an irrational amount of love for you. Digging his face into your neck to press deep, desperate, and reverent kisses down its slope before dragging a wet hand from the water to cup your right breast into his large hand.

Your body shakes, neither out of fear or desire—but a strange third option you didn’t know by name. And that? That was the scary thing.

It was frigid, undeniable; all gunmetal stuffing itself into your mouth and you knew you’d accept the blow if it’d come. You feared the fact that it was entirely possible that you truly desired Seonghwa, with and without the delirium of captivity clouding your senses. His fingers break your reverie, as they curled around your jaw to greet you with a kiss. Bath water spills off the sides of the claw foot tub when Seonghwa turns you and pulls you into his arms to sandwich your breasts against his chest. He groans at the feeling of your cold skin, trailing his hands to feel the litter of goosebumps decorating its expanse.

His own muscle memory kicks in, reaching down to curl his fingers into you. You yelp at the intrusion of his thin, soft fingers—clenching your cunt automatically and panting against his open mouth. A pink tongue gives a kittenish lick to the corner of your lip, chuckling softly.

“You’re being so well behaved today.” He notes curiously, driving his fingers deeper and not minding the loud pounding of water. Your hands shoot up to clutch at his shoulders, hiding and crying sweetly into his neck. His other arm curls around you, trying to soothe you with soft hushes.

Seonghwa stops to peer at you meaningfully before reaching into the nearby by bath tray, and leaning back into the water.

He hands you a facial razor— heavy with antiquity, and its iron handle curved slightly. Its blade had to be unsheathed and pulled directly up to station itself upright with a small click. He guides both your hand and the blade so that it hovers a hair above his jugular.

“You can do anything to me. Understand that no one else can do this, my love. And if you want me dead, then so be it.” His unwavering gaze meets your unreadable one, noting the tremble in your hand. The air stills, electric buzzing droning out into a mere hum in the background.

You contemplate it. You truly did. Tried to. But imagining a cold, dead Seonghwa beneath you brought you no peace. The ominous part of it all is that if Seonghwa died, a part of you would want to follow him.

And he knew this. You knew he did: the ever-so cunning Seonghwa, brilliant and primal—elegantly perching against the morose shadows his light casted. He doesn’t blink when you fling the razor behind him, white strands of hair lightly caught in the crossfire fall and stick onto his wet collarbone.

But then you kiss him with the closest thing to emotion he’s ever felt from you and he crumbles under the weight of his desperation to be loved by you; to mean something. A part of him abhorred San for being able to do that so effortlessly. He almost laughs—if San knew that he was jealous of his qualities, he wouldn’t be able to process the fact that someone like Seonghwa felt frighteningly small and inferior to him.

He felt it in your hands, in your tears that fell into his mouth as you kissed him. Seonghwa knew there was no turning back from this, from his crimes: every beautiful and organic emotion you may have felt at one point in time was marred by rage and betrayal. Something like love: simple, grandiose, and seemingly pure couldn’t define your sick entanglement. It didn’t surprise him when you denied him so fervently.

Love was powerful and entirely capable of being hideous—but not like this. Which is exactly why he never taught you the word nor its definition, too distorted and dark in his natural form of pursuit to have any right to speak it out into the air.

But he taught you desire and the ugliness of hanging from the edges of sharp teeth. He kissed you like he was begging you to stay—to stay even if he shackled you right there to him. To want to stay even without his restraints.

You didn’t mind the clumsiness of this Seonghwa—a far visage from the commonly elegant, skillful and unflinching hands he carried. When you rise from the water, he gazes up at you with helpless, reverent eyes: palms squeezing at your hips in case you tried to leave him. There was a boyish quality to him, eyes wide with a palpably emotional gleam.

You only cradle him to your chest, soothing him for a moment with the sound of your heartbeat. He digs his face into your breasts, inhaling deeply before pulling your hips down to hover above his cock, sliding you down and moaning at the feeling of you stretching to accommodate him.

“Please. Do whatever you want to me—just don’t leave.” He begs, head thrown back as you slowly pushed him deeper into the water, rocking your hips as he tore you open.

Your hand mimics the common ministrations of his own, and he gasps when you clutch softly at his throat, leaning down to bite hard on his jugular. There’s a word for the feeling pounding in your chest, throbbing like life in your stomach.

“What word would describe what you’re allowing me to do to you?” You pant out, arching into his hand the petted your breasts lightly with adoration.

“Power. The word is power, my love” and he smiles from his heart for the first time in a long while in reverent defeat, having not been able to since he’d taken you for his own.

When he finishes inside you, Seonghwa doesn’t let you go for several hours, even when the water ran cold. For a moment you thought he cried but he didn’t answer when you asked and only dug his hands tighter into your skin in response.

“Up you go,” San murmurs, lifting you with practiced ease to grab the box of linguini from the top shelf. He lets out a playful groan, more for show than effort. The small bell on his choker swings as he moves, a delicate sound that barely registers over the quiet thrum in your chest.

You laugh—without meaning to, without knowing why. It’s light, fleeting, the kind of laugh that almost aches on its way out. Maybe it’s not the moment itself, but the way it clings to something that already feels like a memory.

San laughs too, louder than you, and for a second, it almost feels real. But as he sets you down, your smile falters at the edges. The warmth between you is still there—but so is the knowing. The awareness that this softness can’t last. That you're stealing moments from something inevitable.

Still, your laughter lingers, echoing in a space that already feels too quiet.

San's been teaching you how to cook, should the day come when you’d have to do it on your own. Out of the three of you, he seemed to be the only one gifted at making a fully digestible meal. Hwa tried his best to impress you, or better yet, get back into your good graces. However, each attempt seemed to end in worse form than the last.

With Hwa's busy schedule, the two of you were often left to your own devices. Boredom consumed the days you were only permitted to stay inside of the mausoleum. San—who was instructed to stay by your side at all times because the sigil no longer had the power to keep you stationary—was sentenced to another form of imprisonment. He never complained about the duties Hwa left him, especially those involving you.

The only time he could afford to truly thaw was when Hwa was summoned away to play the part of the dutiful eldest son. In those borrowed hours, he’d sink into the warmth of your body, unguarded, or eat your imperfect meals—meals that somehow became his favorite flavor despite its obvious flaws, second only to the taste of you. It felt different when San touched you: it was easier to relax—the equivalent of breathing, a sacred sinking into his flesh. You didn't experience this sort of reverence for someone—even for your father, who is a true god.

You found the words to describe what you felt for San one evening, after panting out a confession without your knowing. His skin clung to yours, pulling away and sticking back with each movement, but he froze after hearing the words that fell out of your mouth.

“San, I feel... warm when I’m with you. What does that mean?”

His breath stills. Your head rests quietly on his bicep as silence settles between you. Then, with a slow shift, San turns and draws you into his chest. A few quiet heartbeats pass before he finally speaks—each word chosen with careful deliberation.

"Well—it could mean lots of things" He starts with, a whisper traversing the air, afraid he'd somehow disturb the fragility of this moment if he spoke even a decibel higher.

You tilt your head to gaze up at him with clear, curious eyes.

"Like what?"

"Maybe I'm familiar. Or my skin warms you because you get cold easily." San hesitates, dancing around the final consideration.

"That's true." You hum lightly, instinct telling you that something about those options isn't quite as right—but you can't expect San to know everything.

In a moment of bravery, San pushes passed his fear, stuttering and gazing at the doorway of the bedroom—afraid that Seonghwa would suddenly appear without warning.

"Or something like love."

San has seen many horrors throughout his life: massacres, seemingly bottomless gore, unsightly creatures that run on the sheer instinct to kill—but he's never known this sort of fear before. Something in his chest feels torn open, and like the words falling from his mouth were a plea for you to check inside the purposeful wound.

"Love?" You pause. The word's familiar; love thy neighbor— love as written in the scriptures of your kind. It feels correct on your tongue, even if it took on a different meaning with San.

You've come to find that days with San didn't feel like captivity or isolation: they felt like dancing into the arms of another world.

There was another word, one that Seonghwa taught you many moons before—desire. It was undeniable, all consuming—jagged teeth pointing towards skin as the body trembled in anticipation. You couldn’t help its existence inside of you.

A small recollection pushes to the forefront of your mind of Seonghwa sitting on that familiar old stump, legs spread as he gazed outward into the decay of the autumn forest, the morning fog marred and thickened the cold air around you to describe the word desire with a cold, casual objectivity.

“It’s a primal instinct. Ugly, running on old fuel that seems to keep burning through despite it hitting points of exhaustion. Its consumption, Y/N. Desire is for beasts. And men are the true beasts of this world.”

You didn’t understand it then, the obsessive struggle he may have been dealing with already without your knowing.

But love?

Was the only difference that it was almost unconditional? That it fell into you without much fight?

You didn’t want to fight it. Not San. And so you say it, breathing to life words you’d only just begun understanding.

“— it seems that I love you, San.” You peer up at him smiling peacefully, accepting the kind churning and warmth in your stomach as you gaze at his features you committed to memory: the sharpness of his jaw, the razor edges of the upturn of his eyes—his dark hair.

He pauses, heart throbbing—yearning for the bravery to fall into it. He squeezes his eyes in defeat, knowing it was too late. He already did.

“As do I, my lady.”

Seonghwa’s dark silhouette perched silently against a nearby wall, torches yet to be lit as he slinks from the shadow he rested in.

He won’t lose you both.

He’ll make sure of it.

When Seonghwa returned one night, something was terribly amiss. Unsettling, on the brink of breaking and sharpening into something with the intention to tear open—to cut; to make you bleed.

The only light came from the broken skylight, the half-moon doing its best to illuminate the room but casting more shadows than clarity over Seonghwa’s features. None of the torches were lit, and you stepped forward slowly, instinctively hesitant in the face of the ominous energy radiating from him.

As you approach, you catch sight of Seonghwa's porcelain face—forebodingly still and unreadable as you register the blood painting its pale surface. Pausing mid-step—your heart thrums and rises to your throat, body pushing passed the fear to move forward. Was he bleeding?

Seonghwa melted into the shadows, the sharp edge of the hunt still clinging to him as he eased back into the illusion of normalcy. The high was fading, but not gone—belligerent on an unnamed violence from earlier on in the night. Dressed in black from throat to heel, he wore a heavy leather trench coat, its high collar snapped shut over a sleek turtleneck. No skin showed—his hands gloved, his silhouette precise.

The light illuminated his hair like a halo when his voice fell like an empty husk in the cold and damp air. He waits a couple of ominous beats before speaking.

“My love, what do you say about playing a game with me?” His eyes were still unreadable, glimmering like the tip of a steel blade.

You tilt your head, confused.

“A game?” Melodic, sweet, inquiring.

Seonghwa hums, still not blinking but the corner of his lip quirks up.

“Mhm, a game.” Sweet, convincing—falling from his blood red mouth like a simple suggestion.

You shuffle a bit, rubbing a hand over your other wrist, and only nod slowly in reply. He tilts his head, you weren’t awake. Not yet—your true self resting beneath the layers of delusion.

The click of Seonghwa’s slow approach lifts your head before his hand cradles your chin, as he leans down to brush his lips against yours—delicately licking at the familiarly soft skin.

“I had an interesting thought” he starts with, rubbing his nose against you, whispering softly before continuing. Your stomach churns instinctively.

“—I thought that if my Angel were to stay, I’d want her to choose to stay. Did I ever tell you the coming of age custom of my people?” His finger on your chin tightens, lips ghosting over your pulse and momentarily pressing at skin when you shake your head innocently in silent reply. He skulks around you, walking a circle around your form; suddenly a predator eying his prey.

Another soft hum—an intimate voice that refuses to raise and disturb the air and foreboding of the moment

“In order for a hunter to even embark on his very first mission, he first has to be able to hold his own and escape our land. Several proctors will follow him on his way out and if he can’t fight them off—he’s unable to complete his rite of passage. So, I wanted to offer you an option of freedom.” He starts with, trailing a hand down his torso to slowly grasp at the cold gunmetal hidden in a holster beneath the thick leather of his coat.

“—thus, my sweet, sweet girl— I’m offering you a chance to run as fast as you can. If you escape, your life is your own. But if I catch you? Your life is in my hands to do whatever I want with it.

What do you say?” His tone is a light whisper, dancing around with the initial simplicity coating his original thought.

He turns to look behind him and towards the shadows with dark eyes “And you. Don’t intervene—you know the customs.” San steps out, jaw clenching.

“You know she’s not one of us. Don’t subject her to this.” His tone is firm, a thinly veiled plead, already knowing Seonghwa wouldn’t relent.

“Aha! That’s exactly what I thought. Because of that—isn’t that all the more reason to initiate her?” He brightens slightly, voice rising in mock excitement.

“She’s no Hunter, Hwa. She’s a fucking captive.” San seethes, nails digging into the bed of his palms.

Seonghwa scoffs, a saccharine smile decorating his features.

“Do you think you’re any better?” He walks towards San, dragging a finger down his throat and chest before rubbing imaginary dust from its surface. “What right do you have? Night and day you indulge in my angel with the dishonest excuse that you’re doing it for her. You’re just as guilty of the crime. Not once have you thought about helping her escape. Of all my men, San—you are the only one who’d have the chance to actually succeed. You were trained alongside me—to protect me in the case that I wouldn’t be able to do so myself, after all?”

San stills, squeezing his eyes shut at the uncomfortable reminder of his cowardice. In many ways—he too was Seonghwa’s captive but the mentioned man would never change his approaches to adoration. He steps back with a prayer and tries to will himself to not vomit. Hwa wouldn’t kill you.

He couldn’t, right?

Your eyes danced between the two, confused.

“Hwa— I don’t want to leave you. I don’t think I want to play the game.” Your voice rises, apprehensive at his ploy. Did he grow tired of you? Did he not want you anymore?

He sees your face fall in distress, noting your quivering lip with a clenched heart.

This is the final stretch.

Seonghwa will have you, one way or another.

“If you don’t want to, why are you already stepping away?” Again, his casual tone unnerves you—too much perceived sweetness clouding your frazzled mind before his expression distorts back into a sobering reality.

You flinch, waking up from your long reverie. He wasn’t sweet—Seonghwa’s tone was calculated. His touch wasn’t firm; it’s bruising you.

Your body moved before your mind could agree and process, the voice of your consciousness finally breaking through the fog in your head.

Seonghwa pushes you by the small of your back, nudging you towards the entrance obscured by shadows of the mausoleum far across the area you stood in. “Run little rabbit.” a conflicted whisper tumbles

and your legs move. Slowly; unsure.

But there’s a throbbing in your heart as Seonghwa’s words echo through your body

If I catch you, your life is in my hands to do whatever I want with it.

And the sudden adrenaline shakes you—the gateway seemingly only grows further as you push your way towards it.

Please.

“Please God. This is my last shot”

Seonghwa’s slow steps are lax; calculated. A finger rests near the trigger, two hands hold the gun down as he slinks towards you.

He raises the gun—bang. The shot tears through the air. You don’t know what it hits, only that it’s too close. It’s still sharp and beautiful, like Seonghwa under the moonlight—a thinly veiled prowess of a hunter disguising himself as your benevolent savior.

His eyes—all gunmetal and bronzed blood fixate on your form, spotting and following you easily in the dark of the room.

He slowly counts, knowing from the start you wouldn’t make it out.

One.

Another bang. Does it hit something else?

Two,

“Can you run faster darling?” He released a small chide, almost hopeful and genuine in its inquiry. It’s quickly followed by a spark, another sonic ricochet of an unseen bullet.

Three.

Your ears ring—tears fill your eyes. The more the fear settles, the sicker you feel.

You miss him as the distance grows, even as something inside you begins to splinter—slow, tragic, and wrong.

You want to go back.

You want to turn around.

You want him to hold you and not point the gun at your head—you want Seonghwa to love you better, but he will never know how to love you kindly.

Seonghwa was primal—cold-cut precision born of blood and legacy. A creature blessed with the God-given gift of the Hunt.

He could only love you as prey.

Maybe you’d be able to love him without needing to fracture and erase yourself in order to do so.

Where’s San?

Your heart throbs and you close your eyes—remembering for a final moment the glow of his tanned skin under sunlight, kissing him between the empty spaces of uncharted time and illuminated dust particles. San was warm.

You remember love—distant, fading like a dream at dawn. His face, his warmth, almost gone. Now there’s only this: another man’s arms around you, steady, unyielding. His eyes find yours, and you let go.

Your last cohesive thought was of the sensory memory of his arms wrapped around your form, squeezing you tightly but his eyes—

Oh, his eyes

The held you with a soft hand.

When Seonghwa’s gloved hand squeaks like the hinges of a coffins door once they catch onto your wrist

You fall into it—into him, completely. For good into the belly of his sharp mouth—never to remember the truth of your captivity under the wake of your desperation to survive all of this somehow—to outlive the sick reminder of your desire and captivity. You've always been afraid of loving Seonghwa, but you never had a choice in the matter. You're right back at entry point one.

This is how you’ll survive.

The chamber is dim, the air heavy with fear and something darker. You're forced down—arm wrenched behind you, cheek crushed against the filthy floor. Seonghwa rises and presses the cold metal tip of his steel toed boot down onto your face lightly.

“Got’ya.” His voice is mellow; soft, tired. Mud from his shoe collects on your cheeks.

“—You know what this means now, don’t you?” He releases the pressure on your face before tugging you up to kneel.

Seonghwa stands before you, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity. You kneel on the cold stone floor, a shiver running down your spine as you gaze up at him with a mix of terror and devotion. Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, but one thing remains clear: your fate is sealed in his hands, and you have come to accept it—alas embracing your inner conflict in full.

Devotion scores your body, tallying the days you were able to withstand him before the inevitable fall.

Seonghwa's hand rests on the gun now tucked into his waistband, his fingers drumming a slow, ominous rhythm against the cool metal. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear as he whispers, "I want to see how much you trust me, my angel. I want to know if you're truly mine."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird. You know what he asks of you, and you're willing to give it, to prove your devotion. You nod slowly, your eyes never leaving his, a silent promise passing between you. An exchange.

He steps back, his hand wrapping around the gun as he pulls it free from his waistband. The click of the safety being disengaged echoes through the chamber, a chilling symphony that sends a shiver down your spine. He presses the barrel against your forehead, his eyes searching yours for any sign of fear or hesitation. You find none, only a deep, abiding trust, a disorienting submission that has taken root in your soul.

"Good girl," he murmurs, a calculated and searching smile playing on his lips as he trails the gun down your body, pressing it against your chest, stomach, and thigh, before finally resting it between your legs. You shudder, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you feel the cold metal against your cunt

"Seonghwa," you whisper, your voice barely audible—surrendering and praying for his touch. You spread your legs wider, inviting him in, offering yourself to him without reserve.

His eyes are dark as he holsters the gun and begins to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, a teasing striptease designed to torment and arouse. You watch him with anticipation, body aching with need.

Pink velvet, intimidatingly vulgar in its engorged appearance—a testament to his arousal during the hunt. He takes your hand, placing it on his length, as a silent command. You wrap your fingers around him, touch tentative at first, then more confident as you stroke him, your eyes locked on his, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Seonghwa groans, his head falling back— eyes clenching shut as he savors the sensation of your soft palms. But he wants more. He wants your softness that he, himself, could never have nor embody. He’s always wanted more. More of you—more of something to fill the gap where he knows humanity should’ve been within him. He pulls you to your feet, hands gripping your hips as he turns you around, pressing your back against his chest. The gun’s still tucked into his waistband, ominous and patient.

"You trust me, don't you, my angel?" he murmurs, his lips against your ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You know I would never hurt you, not truly. You're mine, and I protect what's mine."

You nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal as you feel his cock press against your ass, a hard, insistent demand. You reach back, your hand wrapping around his length, guiding him to your entrance, a silent invitation

He enters you slowly, inch by inch, his breath hot on your neck— hands gripping your hips tightly as he fills you completely, utterly, and without reserve. Your jaw goes slack, head falling back against his shoulder, eyes clenching shut as you savor the burning sensation of him stretching you

He begins to move, his hips thrusting against yours, cock sliding in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. You rise to meet him, spine arched, fingers clutching at his thighs. Breathless and breaking

The gun presses against your stomach. You welcome it, letting the fear simmer into something delectable. you lose yourself in him—relinquishing the last of your faith, existing for the sole purpose of being consumed whole. His breath is on your neck, hands on your hips, and voice in your ear—a love song or a threat. Maybe both. You welcomed it either way. Seonghwa was in every direction: he was inside of you and the cherubic voice echoing from every wall—heralding the arrival of a new world of his very own making.

“Do you still love me, dove?" The cold tip of the gun drags into your hair, against the back of your head before settling there; erotic in the way only Seonghwa was capable of configuring such a disturbing, gut wrenching action—but you feel nothing. You feel whole, unafraid—willing. Pushing your head towards the gun as a reverent "Always" falls from your lips. Seonghwa merely smiles before raising the gun towards the ceiling—his arm pin straight and aiming towards heaven before pulling the trigger three times in a row. You flinch at the loud sound, turning to gaze at him owlishly—cradling your ears in surprise.

He smirks charmingly, muttering "They were blanks." before shrugging and flinging the gun passively to the side.

"You're mine, my angel," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to fuck, mine to own. You trust me, don't you? You know I would never let anything happen to you. You're safe with me. You are everything."

You nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal as you feel your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation and emotion, a release, a redemption, a madness. You cry out, your voice a high, keening wail as you come undone, body convulsing. Your mind shatters, fragments flinging to a place out of reach—sanity recoiling to save you from the fear and anguish of your own desires, and in this—you find salvation. Reprieve.

He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you, his seed spilling into your womb, a mark of his ownership, his possession, his love. He holds you tightly, his body shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he finds his release, his redemption, his madness.

As the waves of your orgasm subside, you slump against him, your body boneless, your mind a blank slate, your soul at peace. He turns you around, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head as he rocks you gently, a lullaby, a promise, a love song. A hand drifts to rub at your womb with curious eyes.

"You did well, my angel," he murmurs, his voice soft, gentle, a stark contrast to the dangerous lover who had just taken you with such genuinely murderous ferocity. "It's you, our little puppy San, and I—nothing else is important. Always remember that my love."

You nod, eyes clenching shut as you savor the sensation of his arms around you. No thought of heaven or hell—only him and San.

San’s name stirs a strange, hollow ache in your chest—a voice whispering not to lose him, not to forget that he’s the one you truly love, despite the darkness of Seonghwa’s pull.

But you don’t hear it. Not anymore.

Not in Seonghwa’s arms. Not with the thrill of his gunmetal aimed at you.

San watches, hiding in the shadow of the hall, as he leans against a stone pillar, solemn eyes fixed ahead. For more reasons than one, he can't leave you both. But most of all—he can't leave you here, even if you forget him. You wouldn't have wanted him to leave you. He tugs at the collar on his neck, uncomfortable at how it strangles against his skin but stops himself from removing it. He's scared that Seonghwa will find a way to make him forget too and so he recounts the memory of the first time he'd made love to you, again and again, just in case Seonghwa takes it away from him someday. He’ll be here. He’ll always be here with you.

As you stand there in Seonghwa’s arms—your body used, your mind quieted, your soul no longer your own—you feel… peace.

You would do it all again. Every touch that tore your mind open until you were a remnant of Heaven and a living gash, personified. Every bullet—Every time he broke you open just to remake you in his image.

Because whatever you were before doesn’t matter now.

You are his.

And he is yours.

Not because you chose it—

But because there is nothing left of you that could refuse.

Forever, you whisper. In this life or whatever comes after. In madness. In silence. In the dark where your name used to be.

You are his.

And the only one left who remembers who you truly were stands silently beside you—bound by the same chains, held in quiet captivity for the rest of his life. Loyal to the end.

And Seonghwa—oh, Seonghwa.

He buys a grave big enough for three.

Author's note: Please don't shoot me *Smiles nervously, dabbing at a bead of sweat*

taglist: @faerouzia @tenxouttanine @tunafishyfishylike @lemon-sage17 @clarizz08 @calilovesdilfs