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silenzahra · 2 days ago

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❤️ Where is my brother? 💚

⚠ BROTHERSHIP SPOILERS ⚠

This is basically a narration of the intro scene of the game, so as you can imagine, this story is spoilery for those who haven't started playing the game yet. Beware! ⚠

This might be a simple story, but the intro scene really spoke to me. Ever since I saw the first trailers, and especially, after seeing the looks the brothers exchange when Luigi saves Mario, I knew that I had to write something related to it. Just, those expressions resonated deep within.

So... here's the result! As a way to celebrate that Brothership came out a week ago today, I thought it'd be the best moment to post it. Since there are spoilers here, I won't be tagging anyone, but I sincerely hope whoever reads this story will enjoy it 🥰 And of course, likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are always more than welcome! 💖

As always, feel free to choose between reading this fic on AO3 or continue reading under the cut. Whatever you choose: get ready for some brotherly love coming your way! ❤️💚

(Needless to say but just in case: please do NOT tag as ship 🙅‍♀️)

❤️ Where is my brother? 💚

“Luigi?”

Mario walks through the green island where he’s ended up searching for his brother. Everywhere he looks he only sees trees, bushes, grass and more and more vegetation, and beyond, the crystalline blue sea, but no trace of Luigi.

Except, of course, for the visions.

It's not the first time Mario has seen his twin before him even though Luigi isn’t physically standing next to him, but it's been so long since the last time that Mario has been caught completely off guard. At first, in fact, he broke into a run towards him, convinced that Luigi had found him, and stopped dead in his tracks in confusion the second his brother vanished in front of his eyes.

When he heard him trying to push a rock behind him, Mario turned around, full of happiness and relief, and immediately set out to help him... only for Luigi to disappear again the instant Mario began to push too. The feeling of joy that had flooded him at seeing his twin deflated like a balloon that had just been stuck with a pin. Crestfallen, he could do nothing but repeat Luigi’s name, anguished at not being able to find him.

But then he heard his sibling once more.

This time, the voice came from the top of an embankment that Mario hurried to climb in a few jumps. There he found him again: standing at the beginning of a dirt road, Luigi was jumping and waving to him incessantly, excitement shining on his face.

And it was then that Mario understood.

These were not mere visions... but their brotherly connection guiding him to his twin.

After all, the bond they share since birth has always been special, intense, profound. It’s a bond that knows no bounds, that goes beyond what the mind can comprehend, that is not of this world.

It’s a bond that binds the hearts of both brothers with an unbreakable thread, stronger than any rock and more solid than the very ground their feet walk on. A bond that lets them know that the other is safe and well.

A bond that, since their childhood, guides their steps towards each other so that they can be together again as soon as possible.

After all, they’re not used to being apart for long.

So, at last having understood, Mario headed towards the path that Luigi indicated, ready to travel the distance between them.

His little brother, just as he expected, disappeared shortly before he reached him, but Mario didn't falter this time. He knew, he knows, that their twin sense was guiding him towards Luigi, and that, at the end of the road, there he’ll be at last: alive, real and solid.

On all those occasions, Luigi guided him by calling his name. Now, as he walks along the path that his brother showed him, Mario realizes that his heart is filled with relief as he remembers that Luigi's voice has sounded sing-songy every time, amused even, almost as if he were playing hide-and-seek with him. Maybe that's a good sign...

... Or maybe he's clutching at straws.

After all, Mario knows his brother too well to know that Luigi would never try to make a game out of a situation like this, in which, once again, they’ve been separated by accident and in strange circumstances. Surely, his brotherly sense is only trying to reassure him, as Mario, in fact, imagines, with a shudder that takes away all traces of ease from his inner self, that his twin must be terrified, anxious and desperate to find him.

Very similar to how Mario himself is feeling at the moment.

So he continues to look for Luigi and call him, on the lookout for any sign that might indicate the whereabouts of his little brother.

But, for the moment, nothing.

As he walks, Mario rubs his arm regretfully. Guilt pricks his soul and his heart shrinks in his chest. Why didn't he hold him tighter? Why did he have to let go... again? It's not the first time his sibling’s hand has slipped through his fingers and Luigi has ended up somewhere out of Mario’s reach. He should have learned his lesson by now.

He should have learned to be a better big brother by now.

Mario grits his teeth and keeps moving forward. He may have made the same mistake again, but he’s more than determined to make amends. The resolution to find Luigi takes up his heart completely and relegates guilt to a corner of his heart, though it doesn't disappear entirely, not by a long shot. They may both be grown men now, but Mario can never shake the feeling that Luigi and his well-being are his responsibility. He will always support his brother in whatever decisions he makes about how to live his life, and of course, he has unwavering faith in Luigi and his skills, but Mario, at the very least, will always see to it that his sibling is well, safe and sound, and will do everything in his power to contribute to his happiness. Always.

But, for that, first he has to find him.

It is then that Mario realizes that he hasn't seen any new sight of his brother for a while nor heard his voice calling him again, but that won't stop him.

Nothing could stop him from doing whatever possible to reunite with Luigi.

Looking around again, Mario notices that he’s reached an area of the island that leads to the ocean. And off in the distance, sailing across the mighty sea that surrounds him, he sees a huge ship, more like a floating island, which, however, also appears to be covered with vegetation. A huge tree stands out in its center, its leafy crown serving as a sail, and the figurehead appears to be a thick tree branch. Mario stares at it in the distance, amazed and astonished.

But then he hears something that startles him.

A scream.

A scream that sounds very similar... to his name.

That voice...

In a hurry, Mario runs to the very edge of the island where he is, wanting to listen better in case the sound comes again.

And indeed...

“MARIO!”

Mario gasps, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Luigi!”

Of course! If he hasn't been able to find Luigi yet, it's simply because they've ended up in different places. Again.

But that's about to change.

His twin sense has guided him there. He’s heard Luigi again, and this time he sounded scared, terrified. Mario's most primal instincts, those that push him to always protect his sibling from all evil, have been activated and run through the plumber's body from top to bottom, filling him with adrenaline and urging him to do something, to help Luigi in any way he can. What if he's in trouble? What if he's been kidnapped? He couldn't bear the thought of his little brother being captured once again, and because of him too. Just like last time.

No, no way. He has to do something.

Without hesitation and with his twin’s desperate voice echoing in his ears, Mario steps back. For a few seconds, he just stares at the huge ship that continues to advance before his eyes, his brow furrowed, his fists clenched. Soon it will be nearby, and the time will come to bridge the distance between the two with a wide leap. He must time it very well and be very fast, for the ship is moving swiftly.

Showing a patience that he’s only capable of when it comes to Luigi, Mario waits. He doesn't lose sight of the ship for a second and counts down mentally to determine the moment when he should run. Almost there, he says to himself. It's not long now.

Soon he’ll be able to see Luigi again, and he’ll fight against all odds to help him.

Mario takes a deep breath and positions himself on the ground. The ship is almost within reach. It's only a matter of seconds before it’s close enough.

So, without a second thought, Mario starts to run.

He does so with all his might, getting closer and closer to the gap that separates him from the island ship. The determination to aid his brother, to make sure he’s safe, governs his movements and makes his heart beat faster in his chest.

After all, Luigi sounded scared.

He needs him.

He needs his big brother in the same way Mario needs his little brother.

Mario reaches the point where the island he is on ends and leaps.

His jump is high and forms an arc in the air, as always. He’s more than used to making jumps like this, both in his many solo adventures and in those in which his beloved brother has accompanied him.

The ship is nearing. Mario heads for it at full speed in the air and stretches out an arm to cling to the edge as soon as he reaches it...

But then he notices two things.

The first is that, being a ship, it has continued to move. It’s no longer so close to the island from which Mario leapt seconds before.

The second is that, therefore, his jump is not as high as he expected it to be.

He hasn't timed it right.

He's not going to make it.

He's going to fall into the sea and the force and speed of the ship will finish him off.

And he’ll never have the chance to meet Luigi again.

Mario panics. As his body begins to fall, as he watches before his terrified eyes how the ship slips from his grasp, he can only think that he cannot die without first making sure that Luigi is all right. He hasn't had a chance to see him since they fell through that portal, he doesn't know if his twin is okay. That was undoubtedly a cry for help. Luigi is in danger! How can Mario help him if he falls to his death?

“NO!”

Mario screams. It's not a cry of terror at his own impending death, but of frustration and rage. He asks only to be able to see Luigi one last time, to be certain that he’s all right, that he’s safe and sound, and then he’ll be able to move on.

He will accept his end with open arms if only he can know that Luigi is fine and well.

But, above him, Mario sees only the sky, a limpid blue, which begins to recede farther and farther away as he plunges to his death in the sea.

At least, he tells himself, the last thing his eyes will see before they close forever will be the vastness of the sky, which today seems to be clearer and brighter than ever.

And then, suddenly, fingers reach for his and a palm strikes his.

Unexpectedly, Mario finds himself hanging over the ocean. Some small stones fall around him, and he allows himself to look down for a moment, towards the roaring waters that were about to become his grave. He’s unable to restrain the mixture of terror and relief that takes over his entire body and soul as he realizes that he’s narrowly escaped.

He’s been very close to dying.

“Mamma mia...”

Mario's heart is still beating wildly in his chest, distressed at the proximity of death, when he decides to look up to find out to whom the hand that has just saved his life belongs.

His face immediately lights up as he notices the person that, leaning over the edge of the island, is silhouetted against the crystalline blue of the sky. A hat, a moustache, overalls... An outfit very similar to his own, but in shades of green and blue instead of red and purple.

Mario is beside himself with joy.

“Luigi!”

His exclamation is full of relief and the deepest and purest bliss. There he is: his strong little brother, eyes closed, clutching his hand, making a visible effort to hold him and not let him be swallowed up by the waves.

And, above all, more alive, real and solid than ever.

Mario's soul begins to sing with joy — Luigi is fine! Luigi is well and real, and not one of the visions that have been guiding him towards his sibling.

And not only that, but he has just saved his life.

Mario owes it to his dear, brave little brother that he can continue to breathe.

In fact, this was all he wanted: to be able to see Luigi one last time, to check that he’s well, that he’s alive and not in danger at all. If now death were to take him out of Luigi's reach, if the sea were to claim him in spite of everything, Mario would be happy to let himself go.

But his younger sibling, much stronger than he thinks he is, clings to him with all his might, almost in desperation, and does not seem to be willing to let death take his big brother away. In the midst of the effort, within seconds of hearing Mario call out to him, Luigi opens his eyes and looks directly at him.

The terror and anguish glistening in his eyes cut Mario's breath for an instant.

For a second, suspended over the edge of the ship, held only by his twin's fingers, Mario ponders how he himself would feel if the situation were reversed.

In fact... he knows all too well.

Before they ended up in that world that seems to consist only of a wide sea and a couple of islands, Luigi, in an attempt to flee from some bees that were attacking him, fell off a cliff in the Mushroom Kingdom. Mario almost fell with him from the momentum with which he rushed after him to rescue him, and he vividly remembers the fear he experimented, the horror that gripped his heart, as Luigi dangled from his hand, one step away from death.

Mario swallows. The anguish that invaded him at that instant hasn’t completely left him. He’s been so close to losing his brother that he’s sure that never, not even if he lived a thousand lives, would he be able to forget the panic, the terror, the horrible and sad prospect of living in a world without Luigi... and that it was his fault.

He could not bear it.

Guilt would not let him live.

His shattered heart would never recover.

And his twin's eyes, at this instant, scream exactly the same to him.

Mario can't blame Luigi for being afraid of losing him, for he himself would see his life end if death were to take Luigi from him.

Clinging to the edge of the island with his other hand, Luigi closes his eyes again and pulls Mario up, grunting from the effort. With only one hand, he manages to lift his big brother up enough so that Mario can grab onto the edge of the cliff with his free hand and pull himself up. With their combined strength, Mario finds himself taking a small, unexpected leap into the air before his entire body is safely on the ground.

He only allows himself a second to catch his breath before he sits up and begins to turn around so that he’s sitting on the grass.

“Thank you, Lu,” he manages to say in the meantime, between gasps.

Looking at Luigi out of the corner of his eye with a tired smile on his face, he notices that Luigi, standing next to him, is silently watching him, trembling, his face falling apart, his eyes moistening. Mario barely has time to wipe the smile off his face before his twin, screaming his name with a mixture of fear and relief, begins to cry loudly as he stretches his arms out to either side. Mario turns his head towards him for a second before, with an exaggerated jump caused, no doubt, by the state of nerves in which he is, Luigi pounces on him.

Despite the surprise, a wave of sheer love and warmth floods Mario when he feels the arms of his little brother, his emotions always running high, surrounding him and holding him with a mixture of liveliness and affection that warms his soul and heals all the fear and anguish he’s experimented in the time he’s been apart from his sibling. Still crying, Luigi starts to rub his cheek up and down against Mario's, who, again, smiles, this time moved, and he raises his arms to return his adored twin's embrace.

“Oh, Lulu,” he whispers, soft laughs springing from his throat due to the tenderness that invades every corner of his soul.

There he is, next to him, always as concerned for his well-being as he is for Luigi's. His twin, his brother, his sibling, his other half. The person who balances him, who keeps him sane and without whom he could not go on living.

Mario has finally found Luigi and never plans to be separated from him again.

#where is my brother?#zahra's fics #zahra's writing #super mario #mario and luigi #brothership #mario and luigi brothership #brothership spoilers #mario brothers #super mario brothers #cute brothers #platonic brotherly love #please do NOT tag as ship #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer

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zara-renata · 3 hours ago

Note

Hello and good morning~ I was listening to RED by taylor swift while working and suddenly ALL I could think of was the Sylus series (and how MC thinks she was rejected). 💙❤️ Think this song fits them so well

I have been meaning to answer this ask since you sent it, but it gave me a little Scenario that I had to carry around in my head until I could figure out how to work it into a story. Your ask, in combination with a post by @leaderincrows about wanting to see Sylus collared and gasping pathetically, led to this story. I hope the result is enjoyable. Thanks so much for sending this ask, and I'm sorry it took 8 million years to answer!

Goodcat code, or how you learned to care for your catboy | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Your crimelord boyfriend disappears for a week, you make yourself sad listening to breakup songs, you learn that he got turned into a catboy, you get assigned a mission on the worst cruise ship ever, undercover shenanigans ensue. Loosely based on the Sylus memory Goodcat Code.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV MC is referred to by they/them pronouns, intended as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. Established relationship, can be read as a standalone. This story contains: profanity, activities of a sexual nature, violence, probably too much internal monologue and not enough action, too many feelings and not enough sexual activity, inappropriate use of a tail, an argument with your boyfriend, a happy ending.

You wonder if it’s because you trounced him in kitty cards the last time you played.

The silence.

For the past week, your phone has been pinging with constant notifications but none with My Sy listed as the sender. Just work, spam, Xavier asking if you want to go to the bookstore the next time you’re both free, Tara spamming you with pleas to go to some shitty club where her latest favorite indie EDM DJ is playing—why she thinks that her insistence that “He looks just like Skye, I promise!” is enough incentive for you to wade through loud, sweaty, touch-feely dancers as you can’t help constantly checking the exits, while simultaneously making sure a molly-rolling Tara doesn’t abscond to the bathroom with a mistake waiting to happen, while being subjected to mediocre beats from her artist-of-the week, is beyond you. “Skye” is gorgeous, yes, but you’d rather admire the real thing up close than squint through a fog-machine haze to look at a cheap knock-off.

Maybe Sylus’s snobbery is rubbing off on you.

Then again, Tara doesn’t know how up close you get to examine Skye on a regular basis, so perhaps you’re being unfair, because you’re in a terrible mood, because you haven’t heard from him for a week now.

Because maybe you won’t have the chance to see “Skye” up close ever again. Because all you have is a deafening silence from him, and it started the day after you wiped the floor with him at the kitty cafe playing kitty cards.

Could something so petty cause him to finally lose interest in you, the way you've feared ever since you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that Sylus may be romantically interested in you?

It’s not your fault that the longer you spend time with him, the more you have unraveled his mysteries. If he doesn’t want to be so easy to beat, he needs to try harder to be less predictable. You never would have thought, when you first met him, that you’d ever think the words “predictable” and “Sylus” in the same sentence, but the mercurial man is like clockwork when it comes to kitty cards.

He always, always offers you the chance to go first. Why on earth would you say no, and then lose the chance to play your inevitably shitty, low-value cards in the matching colored cups, just to prevent him from playing one of his inevitably high valued cards in the matching cup?

He grumbles, tries to give “helpful” advice about being patient and gambling on drawing a higher value card instead, all the while doing the exact same thing when it’s his turn and he has a shit hand. The condescending hypocrite. You stew a bit thinking about it.

And then, you’ve long since learned that the arrogant bastard is cheating while you play. He somehow marks the cards—you don’t know how. Something to do with his evol? He refuses to admit it outright, so you doubt you’ll ever know. But what you first thought was a generous habit of offering to give you two of his cards for one of yours, actually turns out to be an opportunity for him to offload his low value cards and give himself a chance to poach your higher value cards. You refuse his offers now.

And lastly, you’ve figured out that for all of Sylus’s skill, brilliant brain, and talent at strategy, the man has a few weaknesses that you are ruthlessly willing to exploit to gain the upper hand to beat him despite all of his dirty tricks.

Namely, he’s easily distracted by a few very specific things.

Your mouth being one of them.

So last week, you went first, played your shit cards in the colored cups, refused his offers to trade, and ordered a strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream to enjoy while you played.

He leaned back in his seat at the kitty cafe where he was sitting across from you, manspreading as usual, arms casually draped over the back of the booth, the picture of casual, smug confidence. The dictionary definition of winner.

“Do you really have the luxury of splitting your focus between the game and your dessert, kitten? It looks like you need all of your concentration just to keep up, let alone win this round,” he drawled, secure in his five point lead over you. It was his turn, and yet he had time to taunt you.

You just shrugged, holding your cards fanned in one hand, dipping your finger in the whipped cream with your other. You brought it to your lips, pretending to think very hard about which card you’d play next when all of them were crap, and rubbed the cream over your bottom lip.

You heard a sharp inhale from the other side of the table, but ignored it. You “absentmindedly” flicked your tongue out, gathering the cream there before swallowing and biting your lip pensively.

“It’s good,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off your cards. “Not too sweet.”

Silence. It took all of your willpower not to look up to see what his face was doing. But you heard him place a kitty in a cup, its cute little meow signaling the start of your turn.

You let your gaze flick back and forth between the board and your cards. Good. It was working. He played a low value card in a white cup instead of drawing a new card like he should have.

You put your crap sage card in the last sage-colored cup. Sylus tsked and drew a new card.

This time, you picked up one of the glazed strawberries adorning the shortcake and placed it between your lips, sucking on it gently as you “thought.”

The groan coming from across the table was so low that you almost didn’t hear it over the sounds of the cafe—other players chatting, the meows of the kitties, the clink of cutlery and tableware. But you heard it, even through your tinnitus.

You played another low value card in a matching cup—the last one. Unless he had a six, this round is yours.

You finally dared to look up and find Sylus glaring at you, all while petting a beautiful, tawny colored cafe cat that had apparently settled in his lap while you were busy trying to distract him and beat his ass at this ridiculous game.

“Sy, you know the rules of the cafe—no petting the cats unless we pay extra!” You looked around furtively, forgetting the game, worried that the staff were going to get mad and kick you both out for this breach of etiquette. You pay first, then pet!

“I can’t help it if, unlike some, this particular kitty is straightforward enough to ask for pets from me,” he said pointedly. “Who am I to deny its desires?”

In response, you popped the strawberry fully into your mouth, closed your eyes, and bit down, letting out a genuine little sound of appreciation for the sweet fruit.

Suddenly there was a disgruntled mewl from across the table. You opened your eyes and saw Sylus with a death grip on the cat where he was previously petting it gently. The cat squirmed, trying to get off of his lap. He blinked and let go of the cat, which then bolted off of his lap like he had just yanked its tail—which he hadn’t, but Sylus’s grip was no joke. You would know.

He watched the cat, a rare apologetic look on his face, before turning to glare at you again. “If we get kicked out, it will be your fault,” he accused.

You just looked back at him innocently. “What on earth did I do?”

“Maybe I’ve been too soft with you, and you’ve gotten too comfortable with me—you grow more cunning by the day,” he said softly, almost like a threat, but he looked… pleased.

“Still have no idea what you’re talking about,” you hummed, taking a big forkful of the shortcake and shoving it in your mouth.

Sylus just groaned again. He lost every game the two of you played the rest of the evening.

When you parted ways with him, heading back home to sleep while he was heading to a meeting, he pulled you into his arms as you stood by your motorcycle. He breathed in your hair and sighed, and then pulled away, turning on his heel, and walking away without a backwards glance.

And that’s the last you heard from him since that night.

You sit at your kitchen table, staring glumly out into the chill fall night. Your phone lights up, but it’s just Rafayel sending a photo of a little crab brandishing a plastic spork captioned Lol littering humans suck but at least this trash is useful for this lil guy he’s got a sword now

You often wonder why both Rafayel and Sylus sometimes refer to humans as if they themselves are not also human. You text back.

You: he just needs a shield. give him a bottle cap and he can fight wanderers with me

Fried Shrimp: nope he’s my new bodyguard because you suck too and have been too busy lately to guard my body like you promised

You: you’re perfectly capable of guarding yourself you pyromaniac

Rafayel just responds with a poop emoji.

You consider his text. Rafayel may have a point for once—you have been spending every free moment that you're not working with Sylus lately.

Which is bad. You don’t want him to take over your life. You want to maintain a balanced, a healthy relationship with him, if possible. It would be so easy to let yourself be consumed by his charismatic, overwhelming presence in your life. But what happens when he disappears as quickly as he appeared?

You don’t want to think about it. But that point may have already arrived. You stare at your dark phone again.

You could… call him first. Or send a text. But you’re not to the point where you can bring yourself to contact him first. If he wants to talk to you, he isn’t shy about reaching out for your attention. He calls almost every day. To tell you that you need to expect a package. To complain about his bad luck at a poker game with business rivals. To pester you about when you’ll come visit him again. Mephisto hasn’t seen your face for two days, he’s starting to pout. The twins brought home ten different flavors of syrup for the espresso machine, look at what you’re doing to them, they’re going to get diabetes at this rate.

You don’t think you’re to the point of being able to handle being left on read by this man if you send a text first and he doesn’t answer.

It’s time to wallow. You reach for your phone, pull up your music app, and put Taylor Swift’s RED on repeat.

You’ll give it a few more days, and then you’ll put on Olivia Rodrigo. After another week, it will be Sabrina Carpenter, because you’ll probably have entered the anger stage of grief by then. After that, it will be Hozier, when you finally accept that Sylus will never be calling again and try to find the beauty in everything you’ve lost.

***

“Status report?” Sylus growls into the phone.

“Boss, I really think that you should reconsider this course of action,” Kieran’s voice is just loud enough for Sylus to be able to hear over the absolute cacophony of the closed cat cafe, which is considerable, even with his double, hypersensitive hearing due to his current… condition.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked for a status update,” Sylus hisses, and then clears his throat. He totally meant to hiss just then. His hissing has nothing to do with his current affliction.

“But I really must insist—” Kieran tries to argue, but he’s drowned out by the cat cafe’s OTTO.

“Caracal Butler! May I remind you that not only is your customer satisfaction rating in the negatives, but you are also not allowed to make personal phone calls on the kitties’ time!” The OTTO hovers menacingly in front of him.

“Oh, I’m so scared,” he responds, voice dripping with sarcasm. Even the robot should be able to discern his disdain.

“You should be,” it says, threateningly.

“Oh? And what are the kitties going to do that’s worse than what they’ve already done.” He flicks some cat hair off of his bespoke tuxedo. The fact that he’s going to have to get it de-haired and dry cleaned if he ever wants to wear it again just adds insult to injury, as he had been hoping to wear it with you to a Linkon City Symphony Orchestra’s performance soon. He had a matching outfit tailored for you at the same time he ordered this tux, so he has resigned himself to getting the damn thing cleaned when this... ordeal is over.

The OTTO jerks him out of his irritation with its nagging voice module. “It is protocol for this kitty cafe to act as a responsible caretaker for the kitties under our care. We require spaying and neutering of all kitties under this roof. You have not yet received such care.”

The threat in response to his sarcasm could not be clearer.

He narrows his eyes at the OTTO and feels his tail swish menacingly as his ears press flat to his hair.

“Come anywhere near my balls and I’ll fill this cat cafe with so many cat toys of the loud, exploding variety that there will be nothing left of either it, the cats, or you except a smoking crater.”

The OTTO flits backwards out of Sylus’s reach.

“Perhaps Caracal Butler may be allowed a limited number of private phone calls on the kitties’ time without repercussions,” it says, tone placating as it drifts quickly to the other side of the room.

“That’s what I thought,” Sylus growls again, and not because he’s been stripped of his evol and cursed with two fucking cat ears and a tail that betrays his emotions no matter how much self control he tries to exert, but because he meant to growl.

He returns his attention back to the phone as his patience wears ever thinner. “Status. Report.”

“Boss, I really must insist—” Kieran tries again, tone incredibly concerned, before being interrupted by Luke.

“Your hunter is listening to breakup songs and mopily staring at their phone every spare moment they get.”

Sylus’s ears swivel around to full attention and his tail thwacks a kitty climbing tower so hard it’s almost knocked off its base.

“Breakup songs? Why—”

“They obviously think you’ve ghosted them,” Luke continues. “Keep this up and you’re gonna lose them.”

Sylus tilts his head. Could you really believe that he’s capable of ever leaving your side before you tell him to leave and mean it? What an absolutely ridiculous notion. His tail swishes thoughtfully. He did not want you to see him like this—stripped of his power, kneeling to these demanding cats like a… well. Like a fucking catboy butler. He has his pride, after all. He was hoping that the curse would fade quickly and you’d be too busy with work and your social life to notice that he has been absent for a little while. And you hadn’t reached out to him either, during this time. He runs his gloved hand along his bottom lip before realizing that he’s been touching cats all day, makes a disgusted face, and taps his temple instead. Why hadn’t you reached out to him? His mind drifts over memories of all of your interactions with him when you are apart and he's been forced to make do with communicating to you via phone and text.

This is not the first time that it occurs to him that you have never, not once, reached out to him first. He is always the one calling you, texting you, sending you packages.

He stops, tail and ears still. He has noticed it, but he hasn't thought about it deeply. He's willing to chase you to the end of time, after all. But now, he wonders what he's missing. He is almost entirely sure that you miss him as much as he misses you when you’re apart. You always pick up the phone. You always respond to texts. As for sending packages, you've grumbled about not knowing what to gift a man who has everything, but he always reassures you that he already has everything he wants, as long as you’re there.

So why is it that you have never reached out to him first? He flicks his ears. It would be nice, if you reached out first, every once in a while. He doesn't require it. But it would be nice. He tucks that thought away for further analysis after the current problem is fixed.

Time to assess the damage, and then engage in damage control.

“What kind of breakup songs?” he asks.

“Currently listening to RED by Taylor Swift.”

Sylus considers. Taylor Swift isn’t as bad as Sabrina Carpenter, or Hozier. Once you start with Hozier, Sylus will really be worried.

“Are you gonna stop being a big scaredy-cat and contact your hunter now?” Luke demands, sounding absolutely done with his ridiculous boss and his equally ridiculous partner.

Sylus values the intel they just provided, so he lets the insubordination slide. This time.

“I will remedy the situation. You’re dismissed from hunter observation detail.”

All he hears are twinned sighs of relief and then the phone disconnecting. He stares at it. What impudent henchmen.

He turns and wades through the meandering cats to the OTTO.

“I’m leaving, but I will be back to fulfill my contract once a personal emergency has been resolved.”

The OTTO, with his previous threats clearly still fresh in its memory, meekly allows him to pass without any fuss.

He steps out into the cold winter evening, the street lights and bright advertisements of Linkon City temporarily blinding him. Normally he would just teleport along rooftops to get to you as quickly as possible in such an emergency, but with this fucking curse, he has to make his way to your home like a regular human. His lip curls in disgust, but then he schools his face into its customary blank, intimidating expression as he notices people passing by gawking at his swishing tail and his cat ears. He’s drawing enough attention to himself without looking threatening while doing it. He quickly strides to where he parked his motorcycle, jams his helmet on his head, and breaks six different traffic laws trying to get to your place as quickly as possible.

***

You’re trying to wallow, snuggled into your bedding with a tray of some sad soup heated up from a can and a chunk of stale bread, when your hunter watch pings. You flick through the new assignment. Some asshole smuggler in biologically modified wanderers code-named “Snowy Owl” apparently needs to be brought down. You slurp some soup while you try to formulate a plan of action for snaring this new target, who has in turn snared many innocent wanderers to then sell them to shady collectors with who knows what kind of intentions for them.

This is just the sort of thing that you’ve all too easily grown accustomed to discussing with Sylus, due to his spiderweb of connections through the underworld. But isn’t that part of the problem? Where before you would rely on yourself and Association resources to arrange a mission of this kind, now you’re all too comfortable relying on Sylus for help. That sort of sloppiness is unacceptable, and the gaping absence he’s left behind in the last week only serves to drive that point home. You cannot let the blade of your skills dull because of reliance on your all-too-willing-to-help boyfriend. Maybe ex-boyfriend, you think miserably.

You sigh, leaning back, turning up the music that you had previously turned down to focus on the mission details. You’re trying to drown out all thoughts of the man who you need to get out of your head, only to find yourself yelping in surprise and flinging the tray with the soup at the tall intruder who has just silently appeared at the side of your bed—who you hadn’t heard at all, as if they had entered on padded cat paws.

Only to realize halfway through the soup’s trajectory that the intruder is Sylus and he’s wearing a very fancy suit.

All the previous times you have flung tableware containing hot liquid at him, Sylus has been able to dodge the container, if not its contents, because of his evol. But this time he’s struck square in the chest by both the soup and the soup bowl. It hits one big pec with a dull thud and then crashes to your floor. He stands there, dripping soup, looking down at his dress shoes.

“The fuck, Sylus,” you breathe, not because he appeared out of nowhere in your home, again, but because you can clearly see two twitching, incredibly real-looking cat ears—tawny, fuzzy on the insides, coming to a beautiful, regal black point at the top—swiveling through his gorgeous silver hair. As your eyes travel down his long, lovely body, they catch on a flicking cat-tail with the same coloring as his ears. Something about the fur strikes you as familiar, but you can’t quite figure out why.

“Darling. Dearest to my heart. My heart, in fact, beating within the safety of my ribcage. Could you, perhaps, in the future, try to refrain from assaulting me with molten liquid when I surprise you in your home.” His tail swishes, swishes, swishes behind him, and you’re utterly mesmerized. It takes a moment for it to sink in that Sylus is actually here. You want to scramble off the bed, climb him like a tree, the dripping soup be damned, and just hug him. Now that you’re seeing him in person for the first time in a whole week, you are able to actually feel how much you’ve missed him, instead of suppressing, repressing, pretending that the unending ache didn’t hurt so terribly much.

You’re about to launch yourself at him when you remember why you had been feeling this way all week. Where the hell has he been? And why does he have cat attributes now? Well, more than he already had to begin with, you snicker internally, until you remember that you’re still feeling heartbroken and wary of why he has shown up now after ghosting you all week. Are you being melodramatic? Are you being immature? Are you being unfair? Could you have called him to check in, when he didn’t? You eye his ears. His tail. Yes to all of the above, but it doesn’t change how you simply can’t bring yourself to go to him, and instead draw further back, away from him, on the bed.

He apparently doesn’t miss your movement, as his ears swivel forward as you move, and then flatten onto the top of his head as he assumes an aggressively bored expression on his face.

“Not going to answer me?” he growls. Actually growls, like a cat warning a naughty kitten.

You can’t help yourself. “Who’s actually the kitten now, Sylus?”

His tail flicks violently behind him.

“Careful, kitten. Perhaps you’ve forgotten in the past week that this cat has claws,” he says, low and menacing.

You just laugh at him.

“Mmmm, yes, your oh-so-so sharp claws, which are now covered in soup. What are you doing here?”

He narrows his eyes at your unimpressed reaction to his empty threat. “Do I need a reason to visit my heart?”

The more he acts like nothing has changed, as if he didn’t just disappear on you without a word for a week, the more wound up and jittery you feel. “What heart?” you ask, a little petulantly.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know the answer to that question.”

“Do I? Not a very important organ, if you can survive a week without it,” you grumble.

His ears swivel forward, and his tail starts to… wag, but his facial expression doesn’t change.

You immediately regret revealing so much.

“Ah,” is all he says, but he sounds pleased.

You look away, out the window. But all you see is Sylus in the reflection, and the dark night beyond. You’ve said too much already.

“I’m going to change. And then we’re going to talk,” he announces, and it sounds like a purr.

You feel silly as you realize that Taylor Swift is still warbling loudly in your bedroom about loving him but losing him so suddenly, trying to stop when you’re already in free fall, loving him being like the colors in autumn, so bright, just before they lose it all. You flick off the music.

He’s here again. He’s here again, but for how long?

You hear water running in the bathroom as you go to the kitchen to grab some towels and return to your bedroom to mop up the soup, tidying your embarrassingly messy flat along the way. You return to bed and wait for him.

After a few minutes, Sylus emerges from your bathroom clad in one of the soft sweaters and silk sleep pants he keeps in your closet. You can’t help yourself again—you stare at where his tail emerges from under the sweater. The flexible waistband of the pants must have been pushed down a little over his ass to accommodate where his tail emerges.

He strides to the bed and pauses next to it. “May I?” he asks, tail flicking, ears twitching.

You nod, and he prowls onto your duvet on his hands and knees. Before settling next to you, however, he turns in a circle, once, twice, three times, before sinking down and pulling you into his arms, your back to his chest, curling around you. You let him, feeling the flood of safety and sense of wholeness that you always get when Sylus is touching you. You sigh. All of your worries seem so trite now. Why didn’t you just text him first? Why did you wait for him to reach out first? Why are you like this?

As if reading your mind, Sylus says, “Were you worried this week?”

His arms are wrapped tightly around you, he has one leg shoved between yours, and you feel his tail curl around your bare ankle. Its fur is so, so soft.

You nod.

“Why didn’t you call me, then?”

You don’t want to tell him how afraid you are of him finally not answering. Of him finally losing interest. It sounds so pathetic to even think it, let alone say it out loud.

“I’m sorry about your fancy suit,” is all you can say.

He hums, and his tail wraps tighter around your ankle. “It’s a tuxedo. And it can be cleaned.”

“Fancy suit, tuxedo—pretentious, overpriced pieces of fabric,” you tease him.

“My heart is a heathen,” he sighs into your hair. “It’s a tux that matches pretentious, overpriced pieces of fabric that happen to fit your body perfectly.”

“What use do I have for such fabric?” you ask, turning in his arms, lulled by his familiar humor, his still-unexplained tail wrapped around your ankle. You lie on your side, facing him. His ears twitch in your direction.

“There's a ticket to the Linkon City Symphony Orchestra with your name on it. You should note the date in your agenda.”

“What if my agenda is already full? I haven’t heard from you for a week.”

His ears flatten in his hair. “You’d replace me in just a week?”

You hum a little, reaching up to run a finger along one cat ear. He makes a purring sound, deep in his throat, closing his lovely eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replace you, even if I wanted to,” you murmur, lost in his presence again, feeling safe now that he’s here again. But the week was long, and you really were afraid he’d left for good, no matter how silly it seems now. “But maybe I thought you had replaced me,” you admit, marveling at how soft the ear is, how good it feels to caress it between your forefinger and thumb. You want to kiss it, rub your face all over it. You lift your other hand and fondle his other ear.

His tail loosens on your ankle and begins drifting up your bare leg, the fur caressing your skin so gently, until it curls around one thigh and squeezes between your legs, right below where your thighs meet. You shiver at the sensation and forget to pet him for a moment.

“You should have more faith in your pet. Sometimes cats have business in the neighborhood that keeps them away for a few days, but they always come back home.”

“Did your ‘business’ have anything to do with your new accessories?”

He leans, shoving his head against your hands to remind you to keep petting him, and his tail drifts up, up, until it’s nudging between your legs. You gasp softly at the delicious pressure, but have enough presence of mind to keep massaging his ears.

“Yes,” he murmurs, a little breathless. “Like that.” You continue, and he continues teasing you with his tail. It’s not enough. You want more of him.

“How did you get the cat ears and tail, Sy?” you ask, trying to remain focused.

The tail nudges you a little harder—you can’t help the jerk of your hips which sends you rocking into him, where you’re met with his hard dick under the fabric of his pants. The sensation of his hardness against your front and his tail at your back is almost overwhelming.

“Your fault, kitten. You and that fucking strawberry last week,” he growls again, flexes his hips into yours. “That cat I was petting was unhappy with how roughly I handled it while you cockteased me with your cake,” he gasps as you grind back into him, as you widen your legs to let his tail do whatever it wants, restricted only by your sleep shorts. “The evol kitties cursed me for petting without paying, and for roughing up the cat.”

You can’t help it. Even through the pleasure, you burst out laughing.

“They cursed you with a tail and ears, and that’s why you avoided me all week?” It’s absurd. All that worry, thinking that he’d finally grown bored with you, because he was too, what? Embarrassed? to reveal that he’d been given such adorable attributes. “You mean we could have been doing this all week?” you ask, incredulous, as his tail rubs against your sensitive spots through your shorts, as it nudges you again and again, as Sylus loudly purrs from the pleasure you rubbing his ears and the friction against his big dick is bringing him.

He opens his eyes, half-lidded, lips parted, panting. One of his hands drifts down your back and takes a handful of your ass, pulling, bringing your hips against his cock again. He grinds you on himself, leans forward, licks a swipe up the side of your face.

“The biological markers that were affected by the ears and tail are tied to my own evol—I don’t have my ability to manipulate energy so long as this curse lasts,” he says, breath hitching with the movement of your bodies.

You lean forward, press your forehead against his, share his panting breath. “What does that have to do with not calling me?” you manage, even though all you want to do is rip his pants down, shove down your own shorts, and impale yourself on him.

“Didn’t want you to see me as weak,” he admits. He opens his eyes, looks into yours. He then kisses you with his full lips, soft, slow, in contrast to his tail still nudging you through your shorts at a steady rhythm, teasing, teasing, teasing.

You pull back from his kiss, catch his gaze again. “Even without your evol, you’re still one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” you whisper.

He pauses, his ears flattening again. “Just ‘one of’ the strongest people you've met?”

You laugh. “I know a lot of strong people Sy. And your new bits are cute, just like you.” His tail firmly nudges you again, once, as if to warn you. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you tease him.

He just groans and kisses you again, his tongue slipping between your lips, his big hands moving to shove down your shorts. “I don’t make threats,” he says, low, smug. “I make promises.”

You roll your eyes, but neither of you talk any more after that.

***

Much, much later, after you’re thoroughly fucked out, muscles pleasantly sore, as Sylus purrs beside you in sleep, one arm flung over you, you lie awake thinking about his admission of worrying about being 'weak' in front of you. Of the vulnerability in his questions—why didn’t you call him if you were worried? Would you really replace him within a week?

You’ve been so wrapped up in your own insecurities, so busy trying to protect yourself from what you think is the inevitable pain of being abandoned, that you’ve never stopped to consider what Sylus may worry about. What his insecurities may be. He has always seemed so larger than life to you, from the very beginning. Invincible. Solitary and strong. But as you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve also had glimpses of his own tender heart, the same tender heart he warns you about having—a liability in his vicious world. The care he shows the twins, who he insists are just his henchmen but clearly love him like family. His meticulous maintenance of Mephisto, whenever the bird needs parts switched out, cleaning, or upgrades. His habit of masking his true feelings by maintaining a look of boredom, as if revealing such feelings is a vulnerability that even those closest to him could exploit. Even his tendency to cheat at kitty cards—his luck is so bad, and he works so hard to compensate for it in the best way that his brutal life has taught him. In the end, Sylus is just a person, like anyone else. Complicated. Layered. Strong and vulnerable, cruel and kind. You’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about him as something you crave, something you adore, as well as something you fear, a threat to your heart. Not always as just a person, with feelings of his own.

Feelings that include feelings for you, specifically. He has never hidden his care for you, not since those first days of knowing him. Even if he looks indifferent, the words coming out of his mouth are always achingly straightforward, and sweet in a way that sounds sarcastic but you have learned is actually simply the unvarnished truth. His actions—his gifts, his texting, calling, physical clinginess when you’re with him—in the quiet dark, with Sylus’s soft snores next to you, his cat ears twitching even in sleep, you realize how utterly unfair you’ve been to him. How one-sided this relationship has been up until now in a lot of ways.

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to show him how much you care about him too. How safe he is with you, just as he makes you feel safe whenever you’re together. You recognize that you need to do some work on yourself. That it’s not normal to go through life terrified of being abandoned. That the past does not predict the future. You can’t spend the rest of your relationship with Sylus, no matter how long or short it lasts, punishing him for the pain others have caused you.

You roll over in the dark and pepper his face with soft kisses, each one a silent apology for not calling him this week, when he probably needed to be reassured that you still care for the version of him with ears and a tail and stripped of his god-like abilities. How worried must he still be, moving through the world without such abilities, without his customary armor against a hostile world that wants him caged or dead?

As you lean over him, trailing your lips along his skin, his arms snake around you and pull you closer.

“Tell me what I did to deserve this, so I can do it again,” he says, voice raspy from sleep. His tail wraps around your waist.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” you whisper between kisses.

“A hunter’s trade secret?” You can hear his smile in the dark.

“A lover’s inability to properly articulate that all you have to do is continue being you.”

His tail tightens around you, and its end wildly thwacks your back. “That sounded pretty articulate to me. Your words are honeyed—is there a catch?”

You kiss him on his soft lips. His hands run along your hair, down your back.

“Only one way to find out,” you tease.

“I see you’re done pouting. Do I get any other rewards for just being me?” he asks, sly.

“Only one way to find out,” you repeat, nudging his nose with yours.

“Oh, I like surprises.”

“I know,” you say, because you do know that. You know so much about this man already.

He pauses, catches your gaze. “Keep it a secret, okay?”

Yet again, he’s showing you his weakness. Reminding you that he’s taking a risk by being here with you at all, just like you are risking your heart, and everything else, by being here with him. “Your secrets are safe with me, Sy.”

He holds you tighter in response, and you fall asleep in his arms. You don’t dream about anything at all.

***

In the morning, after you’ve made him coffee, after you’ve eaten breakfast and you’ve lounged on the couch with him, watching something stupid on tv while he browses online auctions, you tell him about your Snowy Owl mission. He’s heard of this person, but they’re not colleagues or rivals, moving in different circles. But he knows where to locate them, and you form a plan, inspired by Snowy Owl’s interest in modified wanderers and humans, and Sylus’s twitching ears.

“You want me to act as your catboy butler.” He says it flatly. “Boring.”

You nod. “And I’ll be your owner, willing to sell you to the highest bidder.”

His ears flatten against his hair, despite his bored expression, and his tail whips back and forth, back and forth, slowly. He really hates the idea.

“Do you have a better plan?” you ask.

“Better than you selling me off to someone else? I can think of a few. A carefully placed bomb on the cruise ship, for one.” At your look of discomfort, he continues. “You don’t even have to come. Just check off the mission as accomplished on your little Association to-do list.”

You scowl at him. “I’m supposed to bring Snowy Owl in, not assassinate them.”

“Boring,” he repeats.

“I’m not actually selling you to anyone, Sy. I just need a small distraction, much smaller than a bomb,” you cut him off as he opens his mouth. “While I plant a tracking device with them, once we pinpoint who they are.”

He leans over, rubs his cheek against yours. “What’s my reward for considering this utterly boring plan?” He drags your hand to the base of his tail.

You take the hint, grasping his tail firmly, and he groans. You pull a little, and he lets you, rolling onto his stomach on the couch. You straddle the back of his big, meaty thighs and begin palming his tail, starting at the base where it meets the skin of his lower back, circling your thumb and forefinger around it even though it’s thick enough that your fingers don’t meet. You pull, and pet, over and over again, and his purrs are so loud they start to vibrate the couch.

“Say yes,” you demand. “Put that tux and your new parts to good use before the concert.”

“Fine,” he gasps, as his hips jerk a little, pressing himself into the couch.

“Excellent!” You spring to your feet, heading to the shower. There’s not a moment to waste if you’re going to get this mission over with before his tail and ears disappear.

“Stingy!” he yowls. Literally yowls, like a big tomcat thwarted in his attempt at mating by a mean owner yanking him into the house from the alley where his would-be mate was waiting.

“Consider that the down payment. Upon delivery of your promise, you’ll get the rest,” you say in a sing-song voice, just to further annoy him.

“I want double!” he yowls again, but anything else he might be whining about is cut off when you let the bathroom door close behind you.

***

Sylus has been impeccable for the duration of your agreed-upon mission. Poised, elegant, obedient. He has tolerated you treating him like an object to be admired and dismissed on a whim, even when people approached you not just to express interest in your catboy butler up for bidding, but also when they showed interest in getting to know the mysterious owner of said catboy butler more intimately.

The only indication that he was perhaps not entirely pleased with his code name was a flick of his cat ears and one hard thwack of his tail against the rail of the cruise ship when you first said, “Please fetch me more of the strata, Mister Whiskers,” in front of the other guests on the dining deck.

Furthermore, he only tried to attack and eat one person’s pet parrot, and he dropped the seagulls he kept catching at each ordered “Drop it, Mister Whiskers!” from you every time.

All in all, you think that you’re having a harder time than he is. High tea is over, seagulls have been caught and released, and you’ve already collected a number of business cards and varying degrees of subtle invitations to further discuss your catboy butler. You’ve navigated each diplomatically, and are rather proud of yourself, but your own patience is wearing thin as you stand at a luxurious bar in a small lounge on one of the upper decks of the cruise ship. The floor to ceiling windows give a lovely view of the blood-red sunset over the water—it reminds you of Sylus’s eyes. The evening, and therefore the black market trading, is about to begin in earnest. You’re waiting for a mocktail—you’re on the job, and you are a professional after all—when yet another person sidles up to you. Sylus, who has been standing at a respectable distance from you at relaxed attention, hands crossed behind his back, looking coolly over the people scattered at elegant standing tables, ears swiveling at constant alert, looks toward the newcomer, but he makes no move to come closer to you. It occurs to you that one of the reasons you are feeling increasingly off-kilter is that you are so used to Sylus touching you, draping himself over you, maintaining at least a sliver of contact at all times, that this respectful distance makes you feel like he’s standing on the other side of a great canyon.

You turn to the person who is trying to join you at the bar. He’s handsome. Tall, muscular. Dressed nicely, with subtle style. Nothing like your boyfriend’s flashy jeweled necklaces and bold colors. His blue eyes are startling in contrast to his black hair.

“Hi,” he says, smiling a little ruefully, like he wanted to open with something better, but this is all he could think of. He knows that he’s handsome and can skate by on the bare minimum.

You smile faintly back at him, despite wishing Sylus would come closer. “Hi,” you say. You’re not going to do all the work, dammit. This guy wants something from you, not the other way around.

“You’ve caused quite a stir tonight with your… companion,” he says, dark eyebrows lifting, gaze darting to Sylus and back to you again. “It’s made for more entertainment than usual on nights like these.”

You lift an eyebrow in response. “Oh? How so?”

“Watching the sharks circling and getting into tussles about who will ultimately have your pet.”

Your stomach twists at hearing someone other than Sylus calling him a pet. He’s not your pet. He’s your partner. He’s a whole person—a complicated, vicious, funny, cruel, gentle man. You suddenly hate the appraising look this asshole is giving him. But you’re a professional, damn it. You smile wider, going for seductive, amused, haughty.

“No need to tussle,” you tilt your head. “It’s simple. Offer the highest bid, and congratulations, you’re the owner of a new, obedient, exotic pet.”

The fuckhead eyeing Sylus chuckles heartily, as if what you said isn’t disgusting but the height of rich-asshole humor.

“I like the idea of owning the obedience of such a big, powerful creature. Is he willing to do anything you ask?”

The way his gaze keeps flicking to Sylus, as if he can’t help himself, makes you want to remove his eyes with one of your knives and wear them as a warning to anyone else who dares look at Sylus with such depraved, cruel desire.

“Place the winning bid and maybe you’ll find out,” you say coyly, somehow controlling your homicidal urges. Barely.

“Something to consider.” He shakes his head, as if trying to break the spell Sylus seems to have over him. “In any case, after a while, all these events start blurring together. May I buy you a drink, to thank you for dumping new blood in the water?”

This guy is the pinnacle of rich guy ennui. He probably would enjoy dog fights or hunting other people for sport, anything to break through his privileged, seen-it-all, can-buy-it-all numbness. Despite sharing the same status of filthy rich elite, this piece of shit is everything that Sylus isn’t. You want to hunt him for sport. Your nerves are fraying, and it’s getting harder and harder to maintain your composure.

“Shame, I just ordered a drink.”

He leans closer, invades your space.

“Why not indulge? You can have two drinks. And after, perhaps you’d like to show me just what your cat can do… a sort of preview, if you will.” He leans even closer, tilts his head as if a new thought has just occurred to him. “Is there perhaps a possibility of bidding for the pair, instead of just the butler?”

You realize that he’s propositioning you as well as your catboy butler, but the fury you feel at the idea of using Sylus for this fuckhead’s viewing pleasure overrides even your indignation at the insinuation that you, too, are for sale.

Suddenly Sylus’s warmth is at your back and the effect is immediate. Your murderous rage settles inside of you. You turn to him, lift an eyebrow like the imperious owner you’re supposed to be, slightly irritated at your servant’s interruption of… whatever this asshole at the bar thinks he’s getting away with. “Speak,” you command, imitating the most imperious man you know. Sylus, as he has done the entire duration of your appearance in public on this ship, does not react at all to your obvious inside joke.

“My owner,” he purrs deferentially, dipping his head. “You asked that I escort you back to your cabin at 21:00 in order to properly prepare for the bidding.”

The asshole’s gaze drifts from Sylus to you and back again. “A possessive cat, I see. What will he do, when his owner abandons him to another?”

You shrug, as if you don’t want to pull this guy’s tongue out of his mouth and garrotte him with it.

“As I said, buy him and find out,” you breathe through the nausea, trying desperately to stay in character—you are the same ilk as this guy, here to pawn your broken, loyal manservant onto anyone who can afford him. “But he’s right. Thank you for the interesting … offer, but the auction is about to begin. Tick tock, tick tock.”

“You’re a very good salesperson,” he smirks, as if pleased with the idea of depriving Sylus of his beloved owner and seeing if he can bend him to his will. You can’t see why you ever thought him handsome at all. “A raincheck, then, on the drink, and perhaps your own company.”

You just lower your head slightly, barely suppressing the urge to put this man on the ground and punch his smug smile until he is permanently unrecognizable, and the intensity of your renewed desire to hurt him for daring to even look at Sylus has you reaching for Sylus’s arm for support. He tucks your hand into his elbow and leads you out of the lounge.

When you finally reach your first class cabin on this pretentious floating black market, however, you see the strain that his flawless behavior has placed on your miscreant boyfriend.

As soon as the door closes behind you, he growls, deep in his throat, and spins, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you more roughly than usual through the elegant sitting room—the place looks like the interior designer was trying to recreate the staterooms of the Titanic—to the bedroom. Without letting go of your wrist, he yanks the scarlet velvet duvet and crisp white sheets from the bed and dumps them on the floor. The ocean glitters under the bright moonlight outside the bedroom’s window, the salt scent strong. The bed successfully stripped, Sylus now tries to jerk you onto the mattress, but you dig your heels into the plush carpet, feet dragging because despite your own strength, you can’t match his. You jerk your wrist from his grasp and whirl on him. You are willing to die for him, but you aren’t going to let him manhandle you like this.

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, rubbing your wrist.

“If I still had my evol, you’d be on the bed.” His voice is still calm, but his tail flicks angrily.

“If you still had your evol, I hope you wouldn’t use it on me when you’re this upset,” you glare at him.

He doesn’t respond, just begins to pace. Around the bed. Back into the sitting room. He veers into the bathroom and then returns to the bedroom. The anxious energy he’s giving off is palpable—you’ve never seen him this agitated in the entire time you’ve known him.

The longer he’s quiet, the more concerned you become.

“Sylus?” you ask, softly. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m Sylus again? Not Mister fucking Whiskers?”

You stare at him. Your boyfriend, who is always up for teasing pet names and playful banter, is looking at you like he’s genuinely angry about the silly code name.

“Sylus—?”

His tail is thrashing back and forth as he continues to pace, ears flat against his hair. “Are you sure you’re interested in hearing how Mister Whiskers is doing now? You didn’t seem to be too interested when you were being fawned over by your suitors.”

You stare at him. At the tension he’s holding in his body, the wild movements of his tail.

“Sylus—”

“This was a boring plan to begin with, and now it’s even less interesting. You already have a mountain of gifts from my bidders—leave. Go through them to see if Snowy Owl has taken the bait so we can get this charade over with,” he snaps, effectively dismissing you. He sits on the side of the bed and puts his head in his hands.

With each harsh word, you feel your insides folding in on themselves. He hasn’t spoken to you like this since he held you captive when you first met. He promised he’d never treat you like that again, but you realize he never promised to never speak to you like that again.

Normally, how he’s talking to you—if it were any other person, you’d be out the door. Gone, ghosted. You speak to yourself cruelly enough every day in your own head, you don’t need that shit from other people. You’re even more shocked that it’s coming from Sylus, of all people. The Sylus who has cared for you so patiently, through all the time you’ve been together since that first auction. Who kills with his bare hands, but touches you with those same hands as if you’re made of glass. Until tonight.

You are tempted to run as the betrayal, confusion, and fear of the inevitable end course through you. To just stuff the gifts waiting for you on the sitting room’s coffee table into one of the big duffels you brought, move to another room, and wing the rest of the operation without Sylus. You can pose as a fucking waiter once you figure out Snowy Owl’s identity. You don’t need him for this mission. And you don’t need him in your fucking life, if this is his true self.

As you’re almost to the door leading to the hallway, reaching for the handle, you suddenly remember your promise to yourself, just a few nights ago—the night Sylus came to your place and you learned why he had gone silent for a whole week.

Your resolution that you wouldn’t give in to your fear at his expense anymore, that you would show him you care for him, just as he has done so for you through all of your time together. Even when he witnessed your worst moments, he did not walk away from you. He stayed, even as you pushed him away.

You think about how he was afraid for you to see him stripped of his power, as if you’d ever think him weak, and think less of him for something outside of his control. If I still had my evol, you’d be on the bed. How unnerving must it be for him to be in this shark’s tank without his ability to protect himself beyond his own body? It suddenly occurs to you that if he gets injured while his power is suppressed, he won’t heal like he normally does. The idea that he could get seriously hurt while here, helping you on a mission that has nothing to do with him, hurts a hundred times worse than the words he just snapped at you.

Weren’t you just furious with that fuck from the cocktail lounge for talking about Sylus like he was an object, instead of a person? Sylus is a human being. He’s not a god. He’s not perfect. He’s just a complicated man, a complicated man who hurt you with his harsh words tonight, but who has steadfastly shown how much he cares for you in the best way he knows how. Who could be expected to act normally, to be their best self, if one were to find oneself fundamentally changed, stripped of a lifetime of skill and ability, experiencing strange new urges, and to top it all off, thrown into a dangerous situation?

You turn and walk back through the sitting room, to the bedroom where he’s sitting, head still in his hands. You stand in front of him.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach out, gently grip his chin, and lift his face.

He lets you, docile. His cat ears are drooping.

“Tell me,” you order.

He refuses to look at you. His tail swishes petulantly behind him.

“Tell. Me.” You tighten your hold on his jaw.

His eyes flick to yours, but he keeps his face turned away. “Caracal’s hate water.”

You gaze into his beautiful eyes, fire-lit gems. “And a caracal is the type of cat that you’ve partly mutated into?”

He nods, just a little movement of his head.

“And I brought you onto a boat, surrounded by water.”

He finally turns his head to face you, gazing at you but not responding.

“What else?” You relax your hold on his jaw, moving your palm to cup his cheek and bring up your other hand into his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands.

“Each person who shook your hand, who handed you their business card, who leaned too close to you… their stench is all over you.”

You run your fingers through his hair until you reach one of his cat ears and gently begin to rub it. He closes his eyes and he leans into your touch.

“What else?”

“If this plan goes sideways, I won’t be able to protect you.”

With each admission, his shoulders relax. His face softens. But there’s still something bothering him. You search his beautiful face. His tail flicks, flicks, flicks.

“What else, Sy?” You lean down, rest your cheek against his soft hair. His ears are velvet against your skin.

He reaches out and clasps the backs of your thighs to pull you closer to him and rests his forehead against your chest. “Even if it’s just for the mission, are you really okay with letting someone else have me?”

It takes you a moment, but when you realize what he’s saying, you’re floored.

Sylus has spent the whole evening watching you laugh off multiple peoples’ offers to take over ownership of your catboy butler. He watched you tell that little bitch at the bar, more than once, to buy Sylus to find out how obedient he is, how he’ll react to being parted from his beloved owner. Each time, you responded in character, like the idea didn’t bother you at all. Because that’s what the mission required.

You realize that this entire ordeal has made him insecure. He wants you to be jealous. He wants you to be possessive of him. The thought never once crossed your mind that he would be bothered by the cover you planned for this mission. He is always so self-assured, only hinting at flashes of jealousy in playful, dismissive terms. And yet he doesn’t want you to be okay with the idea of him being possessed by another, no matter how briefly, no matter how falsely.

You continue to pet him as you let everything he just admitted sink in. The water, other peoples’ scents on your body, his lack of power at the moment, your lack of jealousy at the mere idea that another would have him.

After all the times Sylus has comforted you, cared for you, solved problems for you, it’s now your turn to do the same for him.

You drop your hands and he looks back up at you with such raw longing that you almost can’t step away. But you must.

“Would you like to abort the mission?”

He looks at you in confusion. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is your job.”

You smile down at him helplessly. “Don’t you realize by now that you’re more important to me than my job?”

He sucks in a breath.

“How else could I be with the most wanted man on the planet?”

“The only reason I have been able to repress my instincts through this whole shitshow is reminding myself how important this mission is to you,” he breathes, closing his eyes.

“Your instincts?”

“You have no idea,” he says through clenched teeth. His tail is violently flicking again. You can’t bear to see him so distressed.

“Yes or no. Forget what you think I want. If it’s too much, we leave right now.”

Eyes still closed, ears still flattened to his head, he shakes his head no.

“Okay.” You turn, but he reaches out and grabs your wrist to stop you leaving. You put your hand over his. “Since I can’t remove the ship from the water, I’m just closing the window and the curtains so you don’t have to see it.”

He reluctantly releases your wrist. You do as you promised, and when you’re done you return to stand between his legs.

“What do you need to do about how I smell?”

You don’t have to repeat yourself. He grasps your wrist again, pulling your closer. He grabs the hem of your outfit and pulls, tugging it over your head, lifting your legs one by one to tear off your shoes, tossing everything into the farthest corner of the room, until you’re standing in front of him in your underwear. He then pulls you down onto the bed with him, rolling you under him. He presses his face into your neck and rubs, rubs, his tail wagging behind him, his ears brushing against your skin again, their softness making you want to grab them and pull, pull, the cuteness aggression difficult to contain. You satisfy yourself by running your hands through his hair, gripping slightly, tugging, releasing.

As he rubs his cheeks all over you, he pauses to lick your skin, runs his hands along your shoulders, your arms, your waist.

After a long time, his manic movements slow and he inhales deeply. “You have no idea how hard it was to resist the urge to piss on your shoes while you were talking to that bastard in the cocktail lounge.”

You freeze. “Piss… on my shoes?”

“Didn’t you know? Cats urinate to mark their territory,” he licks your skin again, purrs. “And you’re my territory, sweetheart.”

You don’t even know how to feel about his admission. “Well… I might be willing to die for you, but I draw the line at letting you pee on me. So thank you, for not giving in to your caracal urges.”

He pauses, lifts his head. “Don’t fucking say you’ll die, ever again,” he growls. “I forbid it.”

You laugh, a little breathlessly. You decide it’s not a good time to point out that you will, in fact, someday die. Probably sooner than the average human, with your job. So you just say “Okay.”

He looks mollified and his tail begins to swish playfully again. “So that’s a no on watersports, in the future?”

You scowl at him. “Just try to piss on me and see what happens.”

“That sounds like a challenge. And you know that’s like catnip to this big cat. Are you sure you aren’t actually interested in golden showers?”

All you can do is laugh, and pull him down to you, and kiss him so he’ll shut the fuck up about peeing on you.

After a few minutes of mauling him, you groan and pull away.

“If we don’t want this entire thing to be a waste, we need to check the contacts we made today and finish the mission before the auction is over.”

He rests his head against your shoulder. “I know, but I don’t want to get off you. No one can hurt you as long as you’re under me,” he grumbles.

You stare at the ceiling and run your hands through his hair again, fondling his cat ears. “I survived before I met you, because I’m a fucking badass. I’m strong enough for the both of us, especially for a covert mission like this. We go through the business cards and gifts, pinpoint Snowy Owl’s room, you distract them for ten minutes while I plant surveillance, we get the fuck out before the auction’s over.”

“You and I both know how quickly plans get fucked,” he murmurs into your skin.

“And you and I both know that I am skilled enough to unfuck it. And with you here, even without your evol, it’s going to be okay.”

His tail lifts, curls up your leg.

“Fine.” He rolls off of you reluctantly, and you immediately miss his weight. “But the reward for going along with your plan is now tripled.”

“You can have anything you want, when this is over,” you promise, sliding off the bed and gathering your clothes from the floor.

“Even a golden shower?”

You throw your shoe at him. He just catches it and laughs, relaxed again.

After you’re dressed, the two of you tear into the gifts people sent hoping to gain your favor and therefore an advantage in the auction for your catboy butler. Sylus, the spoiled creature that he is, tosses multiple priceless trinkets aside like they’re trash, complaining about being bored out of his mind. However, he bats at a feathered butt plug before realizing what he’s doing and then tosses it as well. The only other thing he expresses even a passing interest in is a little spray can with DOCTOR SLEEPYTIME printed on the side, with the caption reading, “A stalker’s new best friend! Never worry about your target waking up too early again! Ten fewer side effects than chloroform!” You squint at it. The legal disclaimers are a solid block of text underneath the caption. Apparently, one of the side effects that it still shares with chloroform is death. You don’t comment when you see Sylus slip it into the breast pocket of his tux, not even wanting to know what he has planned for it. Finally, you open a small box and realize that the weird little thing inside matches the description the Association provided you of Snowy Owl’s calling card.

“Got you,” you whisper triumphantly, pawing through the packaging to figure out which room it came from.

Sylus stands, prepared to play his part in this little ruse, but you stop him before he opens the door. “Wait a second,” you say, running to the bedroom, throwing open your luggage in the cabin’s closet, and pulling out what you had hastily prepared in anticipation of this mission.

You return to Sylus with the item hidden behind your back.

“You asked if I’m really okay with the idea of sending you to someone else.”

He just watches you in silence, ears twitching in curiosity, tail swishing behind him.

“Of course I’m not. You don’t know how badly I wanted to slit that fucker’s throat who talked about you like you’re not even a person. I feel sick at the idea of anyone else looking at you with anything less than respect and admiration, let alone as some kind of object to be owned. I can’t even stand the thought that I own you. You are wholly your own person, and I’m just happy that you want me by your side, and allow me to adore you.”

His tail swishes faster the longer you speak, but stills at your last sentence. “But you do own me. Body and soul.”

You swallow through the thickness in your throat. You’re not going to cry at his absurd, devoted answer.

“Then perhaps you will do me the honor of wearing this while we’re apart.” You show him the soft black leather collar. “It can only be placed on you, and taken off you, by a person whose pheromones match those of your owner. Your true owner.”

“So this was your trump card,” he murmurs, tail thwacking against the door so hard that the door vibrates.

You shrug. “You don’t have to wear it.”

He flattens his ears against his head. “Nonsense. Put it on me,” he commands imperiously.

You try to hide your smile, but probably fail. “In that case, I hope it will remind you that I am definitely not okay with sending you to someone else. But none of this is real, and when we’re off this boat, I’m never going to ask you to do something like this again.”

He reaches out and wraps his hand around your wrist. “How many times must we go over this? You can ask anything of me.”

“Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to.”

Without waiting for his answer, you unclasp the collar and lift onto your tiptoes to thread it around his neck. He growls softly, in annoyance or exasperation, and sinks to his knees in front of you.

As always when Sylus kneels before you, you’re overcome with a sense of wrongness. But he seems to want to give this to you, to drive home the point that anything he has is yours for the taking. You can’t find it in yourself to refuse him by insisting that you could have reached his neck just fine without him having to kneel.

You lay the collar against his neck, thread the end through the buckle, and tighten it. His eyes are half-lidded, the glow of his irises spilling from between his eyelashes. He seems to be enjoying this so much that you tighten it just a little bit beyond what is necessary, just to see his reaction. He lets out a pathetic little gasp, and you loosen it, worried you’ve hurt him. But his chest expands and his ears droop, almost as if he’s disappointed. So you tighten it again. “Yes,” he breathes.

You stand there, with this gorgeous, half-feral man at your feet, fingering the pendant of the collar. You couldn’t afford the platinum that you think Sylus deserves, so silver had to do. But you did splurge a little to have your initials engraved on the inner side of the pendant, so that it’s pressed against his skin where no one else can see it. Your little secret against his pulse.

“We need to get moving, Sy,” you whisper, regretfully.

He rises gracefully to his feet.

“If you want it taken off, just ask.”

He gives you a disdainful look, his only response a tsking sound on his tongue. He leans down, kisses you, once, hard, and then straightens. He turns, throws open the door, and disappears down the hallway.

The rest of the mission goes off without a hitch. When you arrive at Snowy Owl’s door, you pick the lock easily, slip into the empty room, leave a variety of tracking devices in their possessions, and slip out again unseen.

You return to your room, prepared to wait for Sylus, trying to suppress the worry that he’ll have to put up with yet another handsy asshole all because he doesn't want to jeopardize your mission.

However, when you open the door, you find your big, beautiful cat already lounging on one of the sitting room’s ornate love seats, examining his nails and humming leisurely.

At his feet is the asshole from the cocktail lounge, bound, gagged, and clearly roughed up, his bloody nose dripping into the fabric of his mouth gag.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you ask.

Sylus rolls his head to look at you, lovely eyes glowing in the light of the tiffany lamps on the tables on either side of the love seat.

“I brought a gift for my owner,” he says, ears twitching between you and the asshole who started to struggle at your entrance, making little pleading whimpering noises. “I could tell how much you hated this waste of oxygen the whole time you had to endure his attention at the bar.”

“A… gift?” you repeat.

“You have no idea the self control it took to suppress the instinct to bring him to you as a corpse, as nature intended, when I was done playing with him. But I assumed that would make my owner mad,” he says languidly, but his tail is flicking in agitation.

“Okay,” you draw out the word, trying to process this… gift. “And Snowy Owl?”

“Passed out in a janitor’s closet in the ship’s casino,” he shrugs. “Doctor Sleepytime is true to its claims. A great improvement over chloroform,” he drawls. “I’ll have to leave a good review on their website.”

Relief floods through you. You’re done. The mission is almost complete. All that’s left is to get the fuck off this floating cesspool.

“Thank you,” you murmur. But you’re still left with the problem of what to do with Sylus’s ‘gift.’ “But Sy, what the fuck am I supposed to with… this.” You can’t help but sneer a little at the asshole still struggling on the ground.

“Whatever you want, my heart,” Sylus responds. “He’s wanted in Linkon City by at least three different agencies. But we could just dump him over the railing and be done with it. In fact, I’d prefer that,” he says, perking up.

You march over to him and slip a finger under his collar.

“No! Bad kitty,” you scold, pulling a little on the leather, intending to simply tease him for his outrageous suggestion.

Sylus just gasps, eyes going half lidded again. You stop in surprise at the clear pleasure your rough treatment is causing him, but he wraps his hand around your wrist and moves your hand again, tightening the collar against his neck once more.

“If I’m a bad kitty, you better keep a tight hold on me to make sure I don’t drag home any other unwelcome surprises,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Oh?” You marvel at how lovely he looks, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, breathing hard. “Maybe my bad kitty needs to be punished, so he stops suggesting I murder wanted criminals instead of bringing them to justice like a professional.”

The man on the floor who is forced to witness this flirtation struggles harder, his whimpers ranging from disgusted to terrified. You ignore him.

“Oh nooo,” Sylus says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he narrows his eyes. “You better make good on your promise. Or are you just full of empty threats?”

You lean down and press the heel of your hand onto his hard cock straining against his zipper, hard. He moans, eyelashes fluttering.

“Get us to the getaway boat without causing a scene and you’ll find out what I’m full of. Or what I’m about to be full of, if you’re a good kitty for me,” you breathe into his ear.

The man on the floor gags a little.

Sylus stands, lifting you in one arm, grabbing a full duffel bag you hadn’t noticed with the other.

“What’s that?”

“Your bad kitty helped himself to a cat treat,” he purrs.

“What kind of souvenir?”

“The loud, prone-to-exploding-if-you-shake-it-too-hard-kind.” He grins at you, canines flashing.

You can’t help yourself. You burst out laughing.

It may have started with trouncing your crimelord boyfriend at kitty cards, but it ended with you learning how to better care for your catboy boyfriend. It also ended with the arrest of both Snowy Owl and the poor bastard who had to listen to you 'punish' said boyfriend from inside the duffel bag that he was stuffed in after Sylus cut the engine of the getaway boat halfway to your destination, too impatient to wait till you both got home to claim part of his reward for being such a good, good kitty.

#love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #my fanfic #love and deepspace sylus #sara answers

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oblivionsdream · 2 days ago

Note

Do you have any book recommendations?

I read a book you talked about and it was really good so I might need more also I love your art ❤️

Oh I always have book recommendations and I will always happily gush about books! I dunno what kind of books you enjoy so I'm just going to list some I enjoy :)

-Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

-Murderbot Diaries by Martha Wells

-If We Were Villains by M.L Rio

-Vicious by V.E Schwab

-Long Live Evil by Sarah Rees Brennan

-Circe by Madeline Miller

-Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

-A Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson

-Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas

-The Tarot Sequence by K.D Edward's

-Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

-A Lady for a Duke by Alexis Hall

-The Charm Offensive by Alison Cochrun

-Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett

-The Green Creek series by TJ Klune

-The Reanimators Heart by Kara Jorgensen

-Legendborn by Tracy Deonn

-Heaven Official's Blessing by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu

-Winters Orbit/Oceans Echo by Everina Maxwell

-Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green

-We Are the Ants by Shaun David Hutchinsons

-The Wicker King by K. Ancrum

-Not Even Bones by Rebecca Schaeffer

-This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

-Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhou

-Summer Sons by Lee Mandelo

-A Dowry of Blood by S.T Gibson

-The King of Infinite Space by Lyndsay Faye

-Babel by R.F Huang

-Legends and Lattes by Travis Baldree

I'm sorry my list got so long. I hope you enjoy them! And thank you!!

#i get way too excited to recommend books i adore

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just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace · 1 day ago

Text

Tonight is one of those nights, worse perhaps as he moans and writhes in his sleep, rousing you immediately. You can't seem to wake him from his torment, every gentle touch, every kiss to his temple only seems to fan the flames. You end up atop him, each of your thighs either side of his abdomen, trying to shake him awake.

Whyyy am I imagining a puppy kicking his lil' feet in his sleep. My poor baby🥺

What makes you think a servant as worthless as you deserves a love like hers?

Morgoth's words hold him in a vice grip; he can't break free, the unshed tears behind his closed eyelids threaten to leak onto his cheeks, stricken with fear and pain.

Okay I’m gonna say this as politely as I can FUCK YOU MORGOTH I HOPE YOU STEP ON LEGOS FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY WHEREVER YOU ARE NOW

He can't show you what he saw, what he went through, the horror and the agony of his master's worst torments. The image of you performing the worst of it is tattooed on his eyelids, a reminder of Morgoth's favourite form of punishment. He can't show you, can't tell you, but he can ask you to make him forget.

Well since you’re asking so nicely sure lemme fuck the nightmares right out of you—

You glide your hands over his torso, relishing in his hot velvet skin and the soft hair that covers him; taking your time as he tries to kiss you senseless, his heated skin glowing with sweat that you can't resist tasting for yourself, salt and smoke on your tongue.

Rings of Power: Return of the Chest Hair👀👀👀

"Use me... take me... love me..." he begs you, with less and less breath left in his lungs with each command, as you gently lay him on his back, straddling his thighs, grinding your core into the hard muscle.

Yes, yes, and yes. Beautiful line😭

His cock twitches in your hand as he moans your name, begs for release, begs for your cunt, begs to be remade.

"That's it, love, let yourself go. All you need to do is feel good for me, my love," you lean down, whispering in his ear, "please me, show me how much you deserve your release."

Reader being Dom AND sweet😩😳🤭

(...) your fingers and tongue and lips work together like an orchestra, drawing an irresistible melody from the depths of his pitch black soul, and all the seed his cock can muster.

The words are wording the metaphor is metaphoring the art is arting the author is authoring 🛐

You can't help but feel absurdly powerful, a Maia fallen apart at your fingertips, never mind this Maia, this beautiful demon who vowed to never relinquish his control again. It's an honour and a privilege to see him submit to you like this, submit to himself like this, let himself just feel without exercising his need to dominate, to just let go with the one person in the world he knows he is truly free with.

Yesss I love the idea that she is his safe space where he can let go of his need for control and just feel good. Some sweetness in all the rest of their derangedness🥺

"Hush, my love, focus on me, only me, you don't have to speak, you don't have to beg for me unless you want to, just let it happen." You trace the shell of his ear with your tongue, savouring the tiny sighs that escape him, before nipping the pointed tip and relishing his sharp moan.

Again, so sweet and hot at the same time the absolute best!!

Your brain is empty, but your cunt is full, and your heart is happy.

Brain? Empty.

Cunt? Full.

Heart? Happy.

Me reading this? Fed.

Hotel? Trivago.

What more can I say stunning as usual ❤️❤️❤️

Subjugate the Devil (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron has a nightmare. You are only too happy to oblige in making him forget; or:

Sub!Sauron makes a lengthy appearance. Plot, what plot?

Set in my In The Dark series, but works as a standalone (alludes to trauma mentioned in other chapters, but it is literally just smut) // AO3 Link

Soundtrack: Disease by Lady Gaga, Don't Let Me Go by Raign, Like a Prayer by Madonna, Oh You Are Not Well by Chloe Foy

Playlist!

Warnings: 18+! Dom/sub - gentle dom, needy sub; just pure smut; literally Plot What Plot (though there is a bit if you squint); P in V sex; oral sex (male and female receiving); copious amounts of bodily fluids (sorry, like for real); cockwarming; dry humping; handjob; begging/denial/teasing; praise kink; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; unresolved trauma; tiny bit of violence but it is just an illusion; very soft!Sauron, so tender. We make him cry and that's all I wanted to do.

A/N: I've been working on this for a few days, it is ummm filthier than anything I've ever written, like I really don't know where it came from. The warnings are just what's on the menu at this point idk.

I pictured Annatar for this one, but you guys can imagine whomever you like (@troublesomesnitch he's got that chest hair though!!) Sub!Halbrand would be a treat ngl.

Excuse the gif guys, I just want to see him cry :)

Word Count: 4.2k (!!)

Sauron does not sleep. Ordinarily.

However, you make it look so peaceful, he has to try it occasionally. Of course he usually finds you in your dreams, takes all the attention you can spare and more, leaving you wanting until waking when he can ravage you again.

Sometimes however his dreams come unbidden. Instead of slipping into your mind, he falls deeper into his own, unearthing old memories he'd rather stay buried, burned beyond recognition.

You always know when this happens; your usually calm and collected lover wakes in a cold sweat, clutching at your skin, his face in your neck, desperate to forget what his mind has shown him. He has never told you the details, but you can only assume it has something to do with his master, with his cruel and unusual forms of punishment.

Visions of Morgoth in his wrath; illusions of you partaking in his torture at his master's hand; pain and terror in his heart, as the nightmare refuses to cease, even as you try to soothe him.

What makes you think a servant as worthless as you deserves a love like hers?

Morgoth's words hold him in a vice grip; he can't break free, the unshed tears behind his closed eyelids threaten to leak onto his cheeks, stricken with fear and pain.

"I've got you, you're okay, you're here with me." You stroke his face, your hair brushing his chest, unsure of what to do except hold him.

When his eyes finally fly open, he grasps your arms, and with a leg hooked behind you, flips you onto your back, a dagger at your throat.

You're fairly sure his weapon isn't real, but he is a master of illusion, and pain is merely a construct of the mind; he could hurt you if he wanted to.

In this state, you're reminded of just how dangerous your husband is, even between dreaming and waking. His eyes are black, unseeing, with a terrifying expression you're sure would have annihilated any enemy he could have been dreaming of.

Your hands shaking, you reach up slowly and try to take the knife; surely enough, when you clutch at it, it disappears like smoke between your fingers, so you take his hand instead, still clenched unfeeling around his shattered illusion.

You pull his hand to your chest, letting him feel your racing heart flutter against his fingers.

Slowly but surely, you bring him back to you, his daze broken but his psyche bruised and bleeding.

Your shallow breathing evens out as the light returns to his eyes, and for a moment he looks at you confused as if his position above you is of your own making.

His eyes dart from his hand on your chest, to your fiercely fixed expression, attempting to soothe his nerves but unable to hide how shaken you are.

"Is this real?" He's still breathing hard, for someone who doesn't really need to breathe. "Are you really here? Is it you?"

He's so tender, tracing your cheekbones, your cupid's bow, gently raking your hair with his fingertips.

"Of course, beloved, I'm right here, I'm always right here." You try to hide your confusion, assuming he's still walking the line between dreaming and waking.

He slowly pulls himself away to nestle at your side, reluctant to break eye contact with you as he does so, still clutching at you to ground himself.

"What did I do? Tell me I didn't hurt you, love." He's so quiet, it's unnerving, but you take him in your arms anyway, crading his head to your chest.

"All is well, my love, it wasn't real, you're here with me, no one can touch you here." Some nights, holding him close and murmuring sweet reassurances in his ear is enough to soothe him; tonight he needs a little more from you.

All you want to do is tell him you love him, that he deserves you, that you're his, that he deserves everything you want to give him, that you ache for him when he's not by your side.

But he's hard against your hip, a fact you're trying to ignore; taking advantage of him is the last thing on your mind, not that he would protest, even when he returns to his right mind.

He listens to your heartbeat for a while, focusing on the strong rhythm to forget his waking nightmare, marvelling at how your heart beats in tandem to his, running his trembling fingers across your exposed skin, up your arm, across your collarbone to your throat, watching the artery jump in time with your heart. He knows you so well, so intimately, that when you notice his erection, your heart skips a beat, and he can guess exactly what you're thinking, not needing to peer into your mind for himself.

You feel him grind against you and you release a breath you didn't even realise you'd been holding.

"Love..." You murmur into his hair, absentmindedly running your fingers over the sensitive pointed tips of his ears. "Come now, you need to rest, darling."

"I need you," he whispers in your ear, strangled groans peppering his sentiments, making you gasp, "need you to feel good, need you to know how much I adore you-"

Your eyes widen as blood rushes to your cheeks, the heat of his words enflaming your core.

"I want you too, love, but right now? Are you sure?" You ask him through ragged breath as he turns his attentions to your neck, licking and sucking and blowing cool air over your wet skin, before warming it with his tongue once more.

You're so close to giving in, wanting to give him all he craves and more, and he knows it.

"Use me," his breathy moan breaks on your skin like a wave on the shore, tingles washing down your spine, filling your core with empty warmth as he bucks his hips into yours, which respond in kind as you turn your head to meet his hungry kiss.

"I'm yours. Make me yours."

His words thrill you, but his tone makes you feel incredible; needy, wanton, desperate to please you.

You slide your hands between the layers of fabric separating your skin, stripping him slowly and laying him bare for your viewing pleasure alone.

He arches his back for you, baring his neck and thrusting his hips into the ghost of your touch, chanting your name and praying for you to take his aching cock in hand.

You trace the contours of his thighs, his firm abdominal muscles, the stiff peaks of his nipples, earning you a shudder and a moan that shoots straight to your core, hot wet arousal dripping onto his thigh.

His fingers move to gather your nectar instinctively, wanting to savour every taste of his wife, but you grip his wrist and raise it above his head, and he gasps. You've never denied him before, not in the eons you've adored him, but it turns him on beyond belief.

Sauron watches you hazily, through heavily lidded eyes, in disbelief that the goddess above him is his and his alone to enjoy and to ruin. You are a sight to behold, as your hair cascades down your back, lips parted and breath ragged; your breasts bounce as you ride his thigh, hypnotising him, drawing him deeper into your thrall.

He tries to lean up to kiss you, lave every inch of your skin with his desperate tongue, but you push him back to the bed.

"Not yet, soon but not yet." You want his mouth on you, the aching between your thighs only amplified by the distinct lack of your husband’s throbbing length inside you, but tonight is for him; he needs to surrender to you first.

"I don't think you've let go quite enough yet." Your warm breath breaks on his sensitive neck, washes down his spine, straight to his cock, throbbing in his need for you.

You haven't touched him yet, hands firmly in place on his chest; his eyes plead with you to be lenient, and as his loving wife, you're only too happy to oblige him as he continues to beg for all the care and attention you can give.

"Please, love, please, need you to-" he gasps as you run your fingers over the head of his cock, gathering the copious amounts of precum pooling on his stomach to ease the glide over his flesh.

"Is that better, love?" You can't help but smirk at his pained gasps, as you languidly stroke his shaft, circling the sensitive head with your thumb, your eyes locked on his.

His cock twitches in your hand as he moans your name, begs for release, begs for your cunt, begs to be remade.

"That's it, love, let yourself go. All you need to do is feel good for me, my love," you lean down, whispering in his ear, "please me, show me how much you deserve your release."

His breath hitches and you hear him swallow hard; his expression is a masterpiece, eyes wide, jaw slack, as he begs you to show him mercy, groaning and whimpering as you pump his length.

"Please..." It's only one syllable, but it feels like a lifetime as he chokes out his plea, tries to touch you to no avail as you hold his hands above his head, placing them in a death grip on the headboard.

"Please, what? You might need to be more specific, my darling." You edge down the bed, holding him in place as he tries to follow you, until your head rests on his thighs.

"Need you to... fuck!" He growls and curses and grips the headboard as his hips jerk and writhe to meet you.

"Need me to...? What, my sweet, tell me?" You are enjoying teasing him, perhaps a little too much, and you will pay for it later, but right now he's so deeply needy for your love and attention that he'll take whatever you bestow upon him.

"Touch me..." he groans, as his cock visibly throbs with need, "your fingers, your mouth, I don't care, I need you, you're the only one, only one who can make me feel like this..."

His pleas and whimpers cut off with a sharp gasp, as you take his cock in your mouth as deeply as you can manage. He feels the opening of your throat on his tip and loses his mind, his oversensitive flesh shooting stars up and down his spine, heat pooling in his abdomen that almost immediately spreads like wildfire throughout his body, as your fingers and tongue and lips work together like an orchestra, drawing an irresistible melody from the depths of his pitch black soul, and all the seed his cock can muster.

You pull away and let him spill himself over your thighs, your abdomen, your hands; he looks mortified but he can't stop now he's started, pearly white splattering your skin, making you his.

"I belong to you," he keens and stutters but you hear him through his orgasm, his whimpers becoming moans that reverberate through you.

You can only watch him adoringly as he finishes quaking and moaning beneath you, unable to quite believe that he is yours, even after all this time.

You sit up, licking him from your fingers, and your smile is so radiant, he forgets where he is, who he is, all the evil he has ever done. For one shining moment, it is just you and him, all he'd ever need.

"Proud of you, love, so good for me." You murmur as you lean down to kiss him softly, giving him that tiny confirmation of your affections he needs right now.

"...thank you, needed you. Ahh- Need you." He is grateful, oh so grateful, but his still-hard cock betrays him, and you can't help but grin.

"Oh love, did I not do a good enough job? Have I left you wanting?" Your faux sincerity pains him and he immediately starts apologising.

"No, no, not that, never that, always so good to me, my beautiful wife, love you so much, my sweet..." His cunt-drunk ramblings are adorable but you put a finger to his lips.

"It's okay, I know, I've got you," you smile at him; he returns it so radiantly, you have to kiss him, to be the one to destroy it.

His pretty moans flutter to your cunt, arousal dripping from you like honey from the hive, and he looks up at you, gloriously wide eyed, begging to be allowed to taste your nectar, to sate his thirst for you.

"Please, my love... remake me, make me yours," His breathless plea is like no music the Valar have ever sung, his moans a spell all their own, enrapturing you even as you hold the key to his release, as you take command of the Maia who values his control of others above all else.

"I do believe, dearest, that you made quite the mess, actually, perhaps you'd be so kind?" You gesture to the cum that still drips down your thighs, sticky and uncomfortable and definitely ready to be washed from your skin.

He is only too happy to oblige.

You lie back and beckon him to you; he works his way up your body, methodically but no less desperately, licking up every drop to please you, content to savour every inch of you. When he tries to make a detour to your mound, you gently yank his hair, reminding him of his task, revelling in the absolute control he's given you.

"Oh love, you did make a mess," you moan as you stroke his hair, "so good for me, cleaning me up, such a good husband, always so good to me."

Receiving such praise is almost cruel and unusual for Sauron, who is frankly more used to giving it to you, and receiving wrath from all others. A tiny voice in his mind tells him he should be embarrassed; but what is worship if not praise? Your devotion, your care, your undivided attention; all for him, giving him that for which he yearns above all else.

He can't resist stealing a kiss, crashing his lips to yours as he cradles your face. You taste his seed on his lips, something that feels strangely forbidden, thrilling in its taboo. The aching in your core has only intensified with his efforts, and you feel it is about time he served you with his silver tongue in the way you both crave. You push his head to your cunt, with which he gladly complies, settling between your thighs, gripping your legs firmly apart to allow him to feast on you.

Before his tongue can delve into your folds, he holds back, locking his gaze on yours.

"Please? Let me taste you, let me show you how much I love you."

"Fuck, yes, love, yes," you chant his name as he finally puts his tongue to excellent use, seeking out your swollen clit, lapping at your entrance, sucking at the velvety skin of your inner thighs.

He keeps his hands in view; you haven't told him he can touch himself, and he won't break this spell now.

Like a starving man at a banquet, he indulges in you, exquisitely. Every tiny moan that escapes him vibrates over your folds, making you whimper in return; he flicks his tongue over your entrance before sliding two fingers deep inside you, hooking them and stroking that delicious sweet spot inside you that makes your toes curl. He watches you the whole time, basking in the chorus of your pleasure.

You feel the heat coil in your abdomen, and you pull him away sharply; his disappointment is evident but you want him inside you when you finally claim your orgasm.

"Lay back, love, hands on the headboard." It is intoxicating, having your husband obey your every command, and as he settles into the mattress, looking up at you expectantly, you vow this won't be the last time the two of you play this game.

Sitting astride him, you feel as if he's never been so deep inside your cunt before now. You hiss a little at the intrusion but he's so familiar, every time he enters you, it feels like coming home. You grind your hips into him, capturing with your lips every whimper that forces its way past his clenched teeth. Tracing his firm chest, running your fingers through the smattering of soft hair, feeling every curve and contour slowly, languidly, while he writhes beneath your thighs, caging him inside your wet heat.

His strangled moans and gasps echo throughout your chamber; every time he reaches for you, you press a kiss to his palm and hold it above his head, until he learns to behave.

"No one could love me like you, care for me like you, knows how to take their pleasure from me like you, beautiful wife, only yours." He feels like he's losing his mind, slipping further into some deep quiet space where it's just the two of you, where nothing matters but you on his cock.

"Only you can put me back together, can sing the song my soul yearns for-" you interrupt his pretty words with your fingers in his mouth.

"Bound together, you and I, for all eternity... and I wouldn't have it any other way, sweet husband." You groan out between thrusts, every movement within you the sweetest form of torture.

No other thrill in the world will ever compare this; your divine husband laid out beneath you, looking up at you with blissful wonder, eyes black with lust, golden hair mussed and tangled by your fingers, your name tumbling from his swollen lips like a prayer and a curse. Right now, you'd take either.

"Darling, please," his broken gasp spans an octave, jumping to a breathy moan as you descend on his cock once more.

"I know what you need, love," you moan as you ride him, the drag of his cock inside you fucking delicious, but the look on his face is a feast in comparison.

His eyes widen as he clutches the bedsheets, refusing to look away but requiring every iota of self-restraint to stay present with you, not to lose himself to the unearthly sensations you've introduced him to tonight.

"I've got you, just let it go, give yourself to me, beloved, let your mind empty-" you kiss him deeply and swallow the groan building in his chest.

"So proud of you, so good for me, doing so well," you let out a throaty moan as you clench your walls around him, feeling his cock throb within you.

"I know what you need..." You murmur as you lean over him, slowing the rhythm of your hips, "nothing in that head, cock wet and wanting, heart full and happy."

His ragged breath hitches as the last shred of self-control slips through his fingers. He thrusts up deep inside you, throbbing, aching to fill you, as you grab his hands and pull them to touch you finally, a precious relief to you both.

As he runs his hands up your bare skin, he kneads your soft flesh, worshipping every inch as if he's never beheld anything so perfect in his long life. His large hands encircle your abdomen, grasp your hips, pull your ass impossibly closer until you can't tell where you end and he begins; not that the distinction is important anymore.

He rests his hands on your back, fingers splayed as if to encompass you within his flesh, as if being wrapped around you, caged inside you, isn't enough contact, like the two of you enjoined in body and soul isn't enough, will never be enough to sate his hunger for you.

Finally, you let him lean up to join you, his torso flush with yours, gliding against you, slick with the sweat you've provoked in your teasing. He kisses you hard, tongue tangling with yours, teeth hungry, lips swollen, your breath mingling just as your souls are entwined, a maelstrom of pleasure in which you'd be happy to be imprisoned forever.

You brush back his soft hair, grip the roots, and pull his head back, bearing his throat to your greedy lips. You grind on his cock as you press harsh kisses, soft bites, to his tender flesh, laving his skin and savouring his moans under your tongue. He fucking whimpers under you, and you pull away to take him in, in all his ruined glory.

There are tears in his eyes, his lips wet and parted for your kiss; his expression is nothing like you've ever seen, so completely has he given himself to you and your pleasure.

You softly trace his throat before grasping him firmly, feeling every breath, every sob, every whimper, reverberating through you, inflaming every nerve in your body.

His Adam's apple bobs under your fingers, firm in your grip but tender in your passion. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes, falling down his glorious face and filling your heart with such love, such adoration, such utter and complete devotion, that it scares you for a moment, pushing you over the edge at last.

You clench around him, milking his sensitive cock for every last drop of seed, as you ride this new high, this indescribable feeling of power that his submission has wrought in you. You think if you could just hold onto that feeling-

"I feel it too-" his strangled moan is cut short, all the stars in the sky paling in comparison to the pleasure he feels beneath you right now.

You feel him paint your insides, his cock throbbing and twitching inside you until he is spent. Your foreheads pressed together, your limbs entangled, every breath shared in tandem; you would stay here forever. And he would gladly grant his goddess that wish, and any more that your heart desires.

You roll onto your side, limbs shaking with exertion, pulling him to join you, refusing to allow him exit from your wet heat. He huffs a small, relieved sigh, not wishing to be parted from you either.

His iron embrace never fails to comfort you, and it is especially firm tonight. Your heart swells at the thought that even after surrendering to you so entirely, so perfectly, he still needs to hold and shelter you, can't give up his role as your protector even at his most vulnerable.

"We should do that again, love." You murmur, feeling his smirk against your neck.

"Whatever you desire, my Queen," he peppers your neck with tender kisses, sensing you are close to sleep. "I am yours, you are mine-"

"And always will be." You interrupt with a sleepy smile, provoking a chuckle.

Sauron can only watch you enthralled, as you drift off, content, your limbs entwined with his, reluctant to follow you into sleep after tonight's events. Perhaps, yielding control is something he should master, he muses; after all, you did seem to be utterly delighted with the turn of events, and he is nothing if not a loving Lord, a devoted husband enthralled by his wife to distraction.

You slip into dreaming, holding onto him as if for dear life, relishing in the feeling of being so loved, so obeyed.

Your brain is empty, but your cunt is full, and your heart is happy.

#fic rec #sauron x reader #the rings of power

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 day ago

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Never Let You Go

Inspired by this post; in the same universe as this and this and this

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Sam Wilson

Summary: you run into an old face as you try to build a new life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Richard, hi,” you approach the table on the cafe patio. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Oh, don’t fret, I’m always impeccably early,” he stands to greet you and offers his hand, “so good to finally meet in person.”

“Yes, finally,” you smile. “I really appreciate you coming all the way down here.”

“I’m of a mind to try new things,” he says. “Especially local places. They put a touch more care into their food.”

“Have you ordered? They have a great curried egg salad.” You suggest as you claim the seat across from him. He sits as well.

“Just a coffee,” he says.

“Sounds great,” you reply. “Could use one as well but if you’d rather just get to business--”

“Go on, I can wait,” he assures as he checks his watch. “Our meeting is still ten minutes away, technically.”

“I’ll be quick,” you get up with the promise.

You head for the door and dip through to join the queue. You’ve been looking forward to the snickerdoodle latte all day and yet Richard spoiled that by being even earlier than you. It’s a good sign at least. It means you’ll probably get the commission.

You wait your turn patiently. You sway back and forth. You greedily ogle the desserts in the case, your restraint at battle with your sweet tooth. Your eyes are drawn to the paper taped to the glass. ‘Under New Management. Fun changes coming soon!’

You come here a couple times a week and you had no idea. You suppose you didn’t ask. You’re always in autopilot; you get in, get your coffee, and go.

Your turn comes and you step up to order your latte. The snickerdoodle is discontinued. Oh. You get the vanilla bean instead. No use being picky, much more important things to tend to.

As you pay, a familiar tone catches your ear. It can’t be. The timbre flows through the open door to the back. You take your coffee and go.

It’s all in your head. You’re not paranoid, just a little... cautious? It’s been months. You’re in a new neighbourhood, you cut all your former clients, well, the ones he didn’t chase away, and you have a new favourite coffee shop. Things are looking up.

You take your order and return to the table. Richard looks up, smiling over his cup.

“The coffee is great. I understand they have a new supplier,” he says. “I was chatting with the new owner, he said it’s hand-roasted.”

“Oh, wow,” you smile. “I didn’t even know it was sold,” you push your shoulders up and set your cup on the table. “Did you want to see my mock-ups?”

“I certainly would,” he says.

You bring your bag into your lap and slide out your tablet. You flip back the case and scroll through your folders. You open his file and turn the screen towards him.

“You can look through,” you say. “I used the pictures you sent me and I applied the changes digitally. I even have an invoice with an inventory of paints, flooring, fixtures. The furniture is separate for ease. And if there’s anything you want to switch out or change or keep, we can do that as well.”

“Ah,” he takes the tablet. He drags his thumb across. You watch him as he focuses on the screen. “A talented editor too.”

You turn your head. You don’t want to pressure him. It’s normal for clients to have feedback. You had your initial consultation online and you got his general ideas but it’s different when you can see it.

“Did you have any alternates? I think this dove grey is immaculate but I’m curious. If we could do around the fireplace in a different colour perhaps?”

“Oh, I could do something else. I did have another idea for that but it was entirely different. Rustic. The brick was red clay and the walls hardwood.”

“Interesting, you have that?” He wonders.

“Sure, it’s in my drafts.” you reach across.

You take it back and shuffle through to your drafts. You return it to him and he clucks. “I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he remarks. You wince. “I’ve now brought myself to stalemate. I’m not sure which on I prefer.”

“Oh,” you chuckle in relief, “well, it’s easier when you see swatches and materials. That could be the deciding factor.”

“Probably best,” he agrees.

He gives you back the tablet and you return it to the other file. You offer it again and he continues to browse. He hums and lowers it again.

“I know one thing for sure. You’re hired,” he grins. “When can we begin?”

“As soon as you like,” you try to repress your excitement. Admittedly it’s been difficult since your break-up. Relocating destroyed much of your existing client-base.

“Wonderful,” he says. “Not to rush out but it is such a nice day and I think we are agreed. If you don’t mind, could you forward those images? I could offer more specific notes?”

“Sounds good,” you take the tablet. “Thank you so much.”

“Not at all,” he stands and grabs his cup, draining what’s left in the porcelain before setting it back down. “Have a wonderful day.”

“You too,” you smile.

He leaves and you watch after him. You’re ecstatic. You don’t have to dig any further into your savings.

You sit back and grab your cup. You haven’t even tried the latte. It's not bad. Not the sort of vanilla that’s too sweet.

“Is it good?” The voice startles you. Not only because it’s unexpected, but because it’s familiar. The same one you were sure you didn’t hear inside. There’s no way... “I changed the recipe. Upgraded the machines...”

You look up and put the cup down. You gape at Sam as he steps closer and puts his fingertips on the wooden tabletop. “Lot of changes, huh, honey?”

You gulp. “What?”

“It’s a cute place but the management was a disaster. Tanking. But I made an investment--”

“Sam,” you croak, “how...”

“You blocked my number, yeah, I know.” He smirks.

You blink. You know better than to argue. Disengage. You put your tablet in your bag and stand, abandoning the latte you’d looked forward to all day.

He as quick as ever. He catches your wrist over the chair. You tug and look around, “Sam,” you hiss.

“Shh,” he hushes you. “You know what happens when you make a scene.”

He calmly sits and draws you closer. You try to resist but he’s too strong. You peer around. No one else seems to notice the tense encounter. If you cry out now, it will be just like that night you broke up with him. For the fourth time.

He forces you down, onto his lap. Now that might catch a few glances. You shift and lean away from him, your hip pressing into the table.

“Let me go,” you plead.

“So, you moved on quick.”

You wince. It’s been almost a year.

“New place, new coffee, new... man,” he grits the last word.

“He was a client.”

“Oh, I know how you are with your clients,” he sneers. “All bubbly. You were never like that with me, baby.”

“I tried. Sam, you know it’s over.”

“I never agreed to that,” he snarls.

“Sam,” you warn in a flat tone. “Let go or I will scream.”

“You changed a lot,” he ignores the threat. “Your mom didn’t though. She’s still in the brownstone.”

“Sam,” you repeat.

“I really did miss hearing you say my name.”

Your eyes wet with helplessness. How did it come to this? How did that charming, funny man you met all those years ago turn into this? You mourn what you thought he was more than the relationship.

“You should finish your coffee,” he leans forward, crushing you against the table as he grabs your cup. “Go on.”

You stiffen as he lifts the cup to your lips. You sip as you feel him watching. He snickers and pulls it away. He presses against you again to put it down.

He tuts as he sits back, “ah, you got something...” he wipes your lip with his thumb and purrs.

“Why are you doing this?” You whimper.

“Because you’re mine,” he growls and runs his hand up your back, gripping the back of your neck, “you better not forget that again.”

#sam wilson #dark sam wilson #dark!sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #drabble #au #one shot #mcu #marvel #falcon #captain america #avengers

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elixirfromthestars · 3 hours ago

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Sink Your Teeth In Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Neighbor!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are supposed to attend Sam's party on Halloween. However, when you show up to his place looking like temptation itself—he gets other ideas on how to spend the night with you.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warning(s): spooky fun vibes / smut / fluff / female reader / mutual pining / love bites / dirty talk / unprotected sex / pet names / 18+ mdni / sprinkles (who am I kidding it might be a little more than just sprinkles) of possessive Bucky / breast play / a tiny moment of drinking / smut with little plot

Prompt(s): human (vampire costume) / treat (fluff, smut) / neighbor / “Why are you looking at me like that?” + “Spread them. Further.” + “You’re pretty like that.” + “There you go. Doing so good for me.” ཐི❤︎ཋྀ

a/n: uhhhhh this is what happens when you let me write while on medication post surgery lol please ignore how late this is, your girl was going through it 😭 This is for @buck-star ‘s Trick or Treat fun 🎃🧡 Also based on this ask she sent me, so this is for you Sydney 🤭🧡. I hope you all enjoy!! Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ❤️🦇❤️

vampire divider ♡ // main masterlist ♡ // bucky masterlist ♡

You’ve heard all the superstitions about the full moon before. The way it seemingly makes people act strangely—far from themselves. The word lunatic and lunacy are tied to the moon as well, having been believed to incite mania in people. An unrecognizable version of themselves whose impulses bordered on primal. Tonight was no exception to such superstitions as the full moon hung high in the sky on Halloween. Promising to pull the sentiments from the deepest depths of each person out into the open.

However, in this instance, an argument could be made that the moon was not at fault for how your pulse quickened or how your heart hammered in your chest. No, not even if the moon’s glow reflected in Bucky’s eyes so beautifully that they resembled a pair of sapphires staring right back at you. Freezing you to your spot right outside his door.

The moon was also certainly not telling you to push Bucky into his home and crash your lips onto his until your lungs begged for air. No, oh no, that was all you.

“You here to drive a stake through my heart, doll?” Bucky’s playful tone broke you from your trance, biting his bottom lip as he held back a smug grin. A flicker of something bewitching crosses his eyes as they search yours for an answer.

You shifted on your feet, mortification prickling your skin as you collected yourself. “I might if you don’t keep those fangs to yourself,” you quip, tapping his chest with the fake wooden stake in your hand, trying to disperse the attention away from the way you had ogled Bucky. You wouldn’t say you had a thing for vampires, but his costume was giving him this mystic allure that was fueling an unspoken desire you had been harboring for him since you met half a year ago.

Bucky’s vampire costume was far from the cheesy kind you could find at any corner pop-up Halloween store—it was quite the opposite. Bucky dawned on a crisp white dress shirt underneath a black vest that wrapped around his torso—emphasizing his broad build. A few buttons on the shirt were undone, revealing just enough skin to make your eyes wander. His black trousers fit his legs as if they had been tailored perfectly to their length. His velvet cape was an onyx color with a deep crimson lining that swayed behind him at every movement. To top it off, a pair of fangs poked out from his smile that sent a shiver down your spine from their playful danger.

He certainly looked the part of a vampire—dreamily menacing in the best way.

A deep chuckle leaves his lips, his eyes glinting mischievously as he winks at you, “Don't worry, doll. I won’t bite unless you ask me nicely.” His words bore a hint of a promise that caused your heart to skip a beat. Flirting with him wasn’t unusual—you’ve been doing it since you became neighbors—despite that, tonight, it felt different.

You let out a sound between a snort and a laugh—pushing away the heat that wants to spark itself into a flame, “I’ll pass on the biting, thanks, but I would appreciate a drink before we head out.” Your words are punctuated with an expression he can never say no to.

When Bucky is met with your soft eyes and sweet smile, that appeals to him like no other—there’s no way he can say no. He opens the door wider for you to step inside, welcoming you into his home with a passing comment that he could use a drink too. You walk in with a familiarity as if the home were your own. Which—if you asked Bucky—it might as well be. You spend so much time here he’d go so far as to say this was more your place than his.

He didn’t mind that. On the contrary, this place hadn’t felt like home until you came into his life. Since you started coming around, these four walls transformed with your presence—traces of you woven into every corner. The stray hair ties that lay scattered throughout the rooms, a few of your sweaters in his closest in exchange for stealing some of his, the cat mug you claimed as yours, and your latest read left unfinished on his coffee table to be picked up and continued while he cooked dinner for you two on his nights off. All these little things and more made his house warmer, fuller, and undeniably a home. Turning this space into something he longed to come back to every night.

You close his front door and follow him to his kitchen, the butterflies in the pit of your stomach not going away. Not that they ever did in his presence, but on some days it was easier to ignore the fluttering.

Today would not be that kind of day.

He reaches up into his cupboards, taking out two crystal glasses while idly chatting about the Halloween party Sam was throwing. You weren’t listening, mind elsewhere as you attempted to distract the inappropriate thoughts away, simply watching as he promptly poured out two servings of wine. He handed one to you, his hand brushing against yours at the motion—sending a jolt of electricity through it. You grip the glass a little tighter than you should and hastily take a sip.

You would definitely need more than one drink.

“Are you even listening, doll?” Bucky was staring at you with an amused expression, wine glass hovering at his lips as he called out your inattentiveness. Your attention gets brought back to his mouth which no longer hosts the fake fangs. He had removed them so as to not stain them with the wine.

When had he done that? How long had the passage of time escaped you?

A warmth found its way to your face, trying to hide behind the crystal glass in your hand. Bucky knew you weren’t listening to him and his only theory as to why was clued in by the fact that your gaze continued to drift to his lips.

“Huh? Oh, I was—it’s just…” you trail off trying to find an excuse, but when you can’t find one—or at least one you can tell him—you concede. “Sorry, what did you say?” He leans against the counter at your question, a smirk dancing on his lips. His eyes darken ever so slightly, as he ponders how far he can take the flirting tonight.

“I said you look good, doll. I really like your costume,” he repeats his unheard compliment, shamelessly raking his eyes over your form. You gulp the rest of the wine in your cup—the spark of tension reigniting. Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away from how the black lacy gothic corset top hugged your breasts perfectly, and the matching leather pants clung to you like a second skin—leaving nothing to the imagination. And to Bucky’s added torture, you decided to strap a leather harness to your thighs that he had to resist the urge to grasp by the straps and pull you flush against his frame so you could feel how hard you made his—

Bucky stopped himself from letting his mind wander to places that would cause all of his blood to rush south.

You looked down at your costume, not thinking much of it when putting it together. When Bucky told you he was dressing up as a vampire you thought it would be fitting to dress up as a vampire hunter. You were on a budget though, so between your closet and thrifting you came up with the outfit you’re wearing now.

“Thanks, Bucky. You definitely did a better job though,” you compliment him, thinking that if anyone deserved praise for their costume—it was him. Bucky shakes his head, taking another sip of his wine, “Not me. Sam. He’s dressing up as a twenties mobster, so he let me borrow his costume from last year. Apparently, he goes all out every Halloween.”

“Does he? Can’t wait to see how the party turned out then,” you comment, your nerves over meeting his friends for the first time bubbling its way into your system. Bucky gives you a small smile, the sight easing your anxieties ever so slightly, “Speaking of which—we should probably head out now. The party starts soon and Sam’s due to blow up my phone any second now,” he grumbles, finishing off the rest of his wine. A single deep red droplet runs down the corner of his mouth. Your fingers itch to wipe it off, but instead his tongue darts out to catch it—licking his lips in the process. A soft intake of breath was heard from you, an instinctive response to what he had done. The subtle sound revealing more than words ever could.

There’s a shift in the air—it’s inevitable—you both feel it.

The space between you is now charged, the kitchen feeling smaller and yet the space between you two, too far apart. Bucky’s eyes shine with a gentle intensity as he saunters over to you. Delicately towing at the lines you both wish to cross tonight.

Your eyes search his for his intentions the closer he gets. Trying to decipher what you can as his left arm reaches out behind you to grab his keys—momentarily caging you. Your lower back presses against the counter, heart stuttering in your chest as the scent of cedar and spice from his cologne encases you.

“Yeah we should…” you swallow hard, voice barely audible as your eyes lock on his lips, the wine having stained them a deep crimson color. Resembling that of a vampire’s after they’ve feasted on the blood of another. A rich shiver makes its way down your spine—one he easily catches. This emboldens him, his own eyes travel down your face and then further down to observe the way your breasts strain against the corset.

Bucky was tempted to sink his teeth, and something else, into you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you found your voice somewhere between the longing that plagued you and the urge to pull him closer.

“Like what, doll?”

“Like you’re seconds away from changing everything between us.”

When those words leave your lips, Bucky knows there’s no point in denying it. “Maybe because I am,” he responds in a low murmur, before wasting not another second and crashing his lips against yours. His hands finding purchase at your hips and giving a light squeeze. Your lips part in a soft gasp at the sensation, his touch kindling the craving you’ve had for him from the moment you stepped foot into his house. Your hands find their way to his robe, the velvet soft underneath your fingertips as you pull him closer, wanting to leave no space for air between you.

Bucky’s on the verge of losing his mind with your body pressed so close to his. His tongue prods gently at your mouth seeking entrance—something you eagerly give. When your tongues tangle you let out a soft moan that teeters on a whimper and it stirs something deep in his gut. He so desperately wants to pull more sounds out of you, but he needs to know you want this as much as he does.

He pulls away from the kiss momentarily, resting his forehead against yours to catch his breath. Your hands relax and let go of his robe to rest against his chest instead. Savoring the way oxygen finds its way into your lungs again.

“Tell me to stop and I will…” Bucky swallows hard as he says this. His mind reeling as he tries to calm the tightness in his pants. You shake your head, “I won’t. I want this, Bucky. I want you,” to assure him of your words, you pull him in by the loops of his dress pants, rolling your hips slowly against his bulge causing him to hiss at the pleasure.

“Fuck, doll. The things you do to me.”

“Show me.”

Your plea makes Bucky throw all hesitation out the window. Grabbing onto the straps of the harness at your thighs to press you into him and grind against you—groaning at the friction. You reach up and card your fingers through his hair to pull him down for another searing kiss. Your mouths moving with a sense of urgency and purpose. Needing to make up for all those days you only let yourselves flirt and never truly gave in to what you really wanted.

The spark of desire bursts into embers as the intensity of the kisses increases—tongues dancing, teeth clashing, and your breaths entwined as you lose yourselves to the taste of one another. Every inch of your skin titilating in anticipation for Bucky’s touch. It’s evident you both need more, so Bucky snakes his hands down to cup your ass, hiking you up and around his waist to carry you over to the nearest surface.

“You’re. So. Goddamn. Beautiful,” Bucky punctuates every word with nips to your jawline as he places you on the granite island. Your fingers brush past the edge of something plastic as you steady yourself on the cool surface. Your eyes reflexively look over and see the fake fangs Bucky had on earlier. Your remember the way they looked on him and your mind wanders to what his own teeth can do.

“Bite me,” the words slip out before you register how demanding they may sound. A deep rumble resonates from Bucky as he laughs at the way you said it. He removes himself from your jawline to get a good look at you—his cock twitching at the sight of you.

Your chest heaved with exertion from all the air Bucky stole from you, your breasts threatening to spill out from your corset—lips swollen and pupils blown wide with desire. Knowing that this was your reaction to his kisses, to his touch, to him before you’ve even gotten to the main part—Bucky had to stop himself from coming undone then and there knowing he had such an effect on you.

“Didn’t I say you had to ask nicely, doll?” he mocks playfully, eliciting a needy whine from you. The sound goes straight to his dick as it painfully aches to be inside you. He doesn’t think he can hold out much longer, as much as he’s enjoying the kisses.

“Spread them. Further,” Bucky mutters the command into your lips, his hands sliding up your legs. You oblige his request, giving him more space to settle between your thighs. Your fingers thread through his hair as he trails open-mouthed kisses down to your pulse point—nipping and sucking hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky relishes in the soft whines and whimpers that leave you whenever he bites down just enough to hit the bliss point between pain and pleasure—soothing any remaining sting with his tongue. He catches the way your nipples harden underneath your corset—pressing against the fabric—making him crave a taste.

“Gonna mark you up pretty girl—everywhere,” the low murmur of a promise is sealed into your skin, teeth grazing your neck delicately as he holds off on marking you there for the time being. His fingers hastily unhook the clasps of your corset, your breasts spilling out. He cups them in his hands, kneading the soft flesh while you moan copiously. Bucky greedily swallows every single one.

His head dips down to pepper kisses across the valley of your breasts before dragging his tongue across one hardened nipple—teasing you as your breathing grew ragged. Your chest arches into him, moaning out his name as he moves to the other breast. Taking the unkissed bud into his mouth and sucking on it with a hunger that borders on savage.

“I know I said bite me, but watch those teeth.”

“I’ll be good, doll. I’ll be real good to you.”

He chuckles against your breast, causing delicious vibrations that send shivers down your spine. He moves over to the other nipple, giving it a playful nip that causes you to hiss out a watch it. He laughs again, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he continues to worship your breasts. The pleasure shoots straight to the throbbing between your legs, your underwear dampening.

Nimble fingers find their way to his dress shirt and vest where you do your best to unbutton as much as you can, needing to see and touch more of him. You run your fingers down the hard planes of his chest and abs—your touch leaving heat in its wake. Bucky continues to lavish attention to your sensitive buds, his lips swirling and sucking the peaks insatiably.

When his lungs burn for air he reluctantly releases your nipple with a wet pop—pulling away to see the evidence he’s left on your skin. “Mmm, you’re pretty like that doll—all marked up by me,” his fingers trailing and tracing over the marks he’s left on your neck, your collarbone, and your breasts. His thumb brushing over them with feather-like touches as an almost affectionate gesture. Your body shudders at the possessive gleam in his eyes—one that only intensifies the more his gaze lingers on your skin.

You’ve never seen him look at you like this before—and you didn’t mind it. Not one bit.

“Bucky…please…I need more of you.”

“I know, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

As if the word baby wasn’t enough to have your heart leap out of your chest—Bucky’s fingers toying with the harness at your thighs, and the button of your pants certainly did. Swiftly, he proceeds to undo it all and the zipper. You eagerly help him slip it all off, and when his gaze meets the soaked front of your seamless cotton panties, a husky growl reverberates in his chest. His fingers hook at the edges while his teeth graze along the front of the fabric. The action takes your breath away, your heart racing a mile a minute. His hooded eyes bore into yours as he takes the fabric between his teeth and drags it down your body, baring your slick folds to him—he groans at the sight.

“Fuck, doll, so ready for me.”

Bucky takes your panties and pockets them. Just as you're about to give him shit for it, he springs up to kiss your lips fervently. Hands at your thighs massaging the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing ever so slightly where you need him most. All prior thoughts are forgotten as you reach for Bucky's belt, desperately removing all obstacles until you can easily slide your hand into his pants. You palm over the bulge in his boxers, stroking him through the fabric. Your eyes widen at the feel of his size causing him to grin at you wolfishly.

“Something the matter, doll?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Your confident tone provokes a deep rumble in Bucky’s throat. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, seeking more of your arousing touch. He pulls his pants and boxers down and off, freeing his cock. It springs forth, long and thick, the tip already glistening with precum. "Got me all worked up, baby. Just look at it—fuck," his voice is thick with lust, guiding your hand to wrap around his shaft. Your hand glides against him, causing him to let out a low grunt followed by the neediest moans. His nose brushes against yours as he tries not to entirely lose himself to the sheer pleasure that courses through him at your touch.

Almost desperately, he leans in to capture your mouth again, kissing you deeply, his hips rocking into your hand at the rhythm of your movements. His flesh hand grabs the back of your neck to keep you close as he devours you, while his metal one trails up between your thighs—the coolness teasing the delicate skin—contrasting the heat that builds with the kiss. You moan into it, reveling in the feel of Bucky’s length in your hand as you stroke him slowly, becoming familiar with it.

Bucky groans into your mouth, a resonant growl of pure want. His fingers go higher up your thighs until the cool metal grazes against your center, drawing out a whimper from you. Your thighs part further in response causing him to smirk against your lips. A smirk that falls into a ravenous hiss as his fingers brush your folds, the sick arousal coating them as he dips to circle your entrance teasingly—your hips bucking in response.

“Bucky…” his name falls from your mouth with a carnal yearning that snaps Bucky's control entirely. His hands grip your hips to pull you closer to him—balancing you on the edge of the counter. He takes hold of his cock, positioning himself at your entrance, the head brushing against your cunt. Your patience is nonexistent at this point.

“Bucky, if you tell me to ask nicely I swear to ah—” Bucky cuts off your whiny gripe with one swift thrust, burying himself inside you until he fills you completely. “What was that?” his cheeky question does little to hide he’s just as overwhelmed with how good it feels as you are. Yet, with the cockiest grin, he drinks up your hazy expression as you adjust to his thickness.

Something shifts inside him when you look at him with soft adoring eyes, filling his heart with a thing that can only be called love. It causes him to pepper kisses—gentle and tender—all over your face to help ease the achy stretch. You melt into them, so contrastingly soft to the prior ones that your heart does a little flip. The deeper feelings behind them not lost on you. Even more so when he whispers the sweetest words of devotion at every kiss. How beautiful you are, how good you feel, how good he wants to make you feel, how he’s dreamed of this, and so much more. All the meanwhile, his thumbs massage comforting circles into your hips.

“There you go. Doing so good for me, doll,” he praises you when he starts to feel your hips slowly move against him—pleasure replacing the ache. He reciprocates your desire, rocking into you slowly, letting you feel every inch until he goes as deep as possible once more—both of you calling out each other’s name by the time you’ve fully adjusted.

It’s like this at first—slow and deep—dragging out each thrust to savor the sensation of intimacy. Breathy kisses with exchanged whispers blend with one another, your hands wrapped around his shoulders to keep him close. Fingers gently tugging on his brown locks at the nape of his neck, which only serves to drive him crazier. Making it hard for him to keep his restraint in check.

“Been dying to have you, baby. Fuck, you feel incredible,” he groans out, continuing to bury himself deep into your welcoming heat. But it’s not enough—not for either of you. Not when it does little to help fully unleash all the pent-up hunger that has built up over the course of months. You feel it in the way Bucky grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises to ground himself, and he can feel it in the way your legs wrap around his hips and lock behind him—pushing him in impossibly deeper.

One of you is bound to break soon—and it won’t be you.

You cup his face in your hands, eyes glazed over and needy as you tell him, “Bucky, don’t hold back. It’s okay. You don’t need to hold back,” you assure him, his pace faltering slightly. Bucky’s blue eyes search yours for a reason not to give in. “I don’t want to hurt you, Y/n. I don’t know if I can trust myself,” the vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heartstrings, your thumbs gently caressing his face to soothe him. He instantly leans into your touch, the comfort it offers addicting.

You shake your head, planting a soft kiss on his forehead, “You won’t. I trust you, Bucky. I told you—I can handle it, baby—please, baby,” at the term of endearment the rope of restraint inside Bucky snaps. You had never called him baby before, but now that you had Bucky wanted to know what else he had to do—or not do—to keep making you call him baby like that.

“Keep calling me baby and you’ll get everything you want, beautiful,” Bucky nips at your bottom lip—eyes darkening—turning his pretty blues into a storm. One that’s ready to consume you. He grips your hips harder, picking up his pace until he’s pounding into you with reckless abandon, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. You meet his powerful thrusts with equal fervor, a stream of curses and sobs of his name falling from your lips. The counter beneath you shakes and for a moment you’re worried he’s going to break it, but the worry washes away instantly as it feels too good to give a damn.

“Gonna keep marking you up, doll. Want everyone to see my pretty girl all marked up,” he growls, head dipping down to nip and suck on your neck. Bruising kisses strewn along the delicate skin of your collarbone until his teeth graze your shoulder. Your cunt throbs in time with the relentless onslaught of his cock—bodies synced in pure desire. Every touch, every thrust, every kiss, and every word is a brutal assault on your senses. All filled with his overwhelming want of you.

“Bucky, s-so good, please…” you plead breathlessly for who knows what. Mind fuzzy and gone, only focusing on the searing pleasure in your veins. Bucky lets out a deep chuckle, lips finding their way to yours, metal hand snaking to palm your breast while his other keeps a tight grip on your hips.“Atta girl—taking me so well,” he grunts out, cunt fluttering at his praise, causing him to let out a half moan half chuckle. You’re close to finishing and he can feel it.

“Cum for me, doll. Be a good girl and cum for me, baby,” Bucky commands, pounding into you with renewed vigor as he works to get you both to your releases. “Baby…I’m gonna…I’m close,” you whimper out and Bucky's response to you is immediate, his hips snapping forward even faster, harder. His metal hand lowers between your legs to apply pressure and circles to your clit. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing through the kitchen—the room forevermore ingrained with the actions of tonight.

Your body bows off the counter as you scream out his name, your orgasm crashing over you with a hot intensity. Bucky keeps you close and steady, your inner muscles clamping around him like a vice—triggering his climax. Bucky lets out a guttural growl of your name, biting down on your shoulder as his release pours out, burying himself to the hilt as he fills you. The intense contractions milking his shaft for all he’s worth.

You collapse back onto the counter, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath—body trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky shudders from the force of his climax, cock twitching and pulsing as the last of his cum drips out. His upper body collapses on top of you, holding you close as his face buries into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling with the aftermath of your coupling. He trails loving kisses from your neck to your shoulder, not wanting to be apart from you.

“You did so good, doll—my doll,” he mutters into your shoulder, kissing the area he had previously bitten, nuzzling the marks he left. You can only muster a breathless whimper as he gradually pulls out of you, your combined arousal spreading along the inner skin of your thighs and down onto the counter. He raises his head just enough to admire his handiwork—you, flushed and disheveled, with multiple bite marks and hickeys proudly displayed across your skin.

"I could get used to this—seeing you like this," Bucky says with a satisfied smirk, his gaze roaming over your figure appreciatively. You let out a breathless laugh, “Yeah? I think I could too, baby…” You can feel the way his cock threatens to harden again, the look in his eyes warning you to not push it. He lowers his mouth onto yours again in a hopeless attempt to silence you.

“Doll, you can’t say it like that. I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

“What about the party, baby?”

That about does it for Bucky.

“Screw the party. I’d rather show my pretty girl, my baby—a good time here,” he mumbles against your lips, his breath hot and uneven as he picks you up from the counter. You giggle out a gasp as he carries you over to his bedroom where he does indeed show you a good time—a great time, in fact, all night long.

Happy Halloween to you.

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