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i-am-a-bad-influence-writes · 21 hours ago

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P*rn ☆ Chapter 5, Drive me crazy

Masterlist Word count: 1.9 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Author's note: This one is a doozy. I was a little stuck and I hope this makes sense. Next chapter will explain a little more about Sylus' life before moving next door.

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, alcohol, mentions of domestic abuse, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut.

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1 pm and you're just now making your first coffee along with your breakfast/lunch. You're not used to late nights anymore. Not like you were when you were still in school and partying. Well, "partying." Aka movie night with your friends and making stupid drinking games around the movies you were watching.

Lucky for you, it's Saturday. You've got a whole weekend left to fix your sleeping schedule. Fixing is a big word. Make it so that you've at least had seven hours of sleep before you get to work.

While lazily reading Tara's dramatic retelling of getting Kieran into bed, you notice a notification. One that usually only pops up when Red Crow, or Sylus, posts but it's Saturday. That's not his usual schedule. Frowning, you check the notification.

Red Crow liked your comment: "Raw, next question."

You feel as if you've just shat out your heart. "Cocky," you think to yourself as you tap the notification. It takes you to the comments under the video from last night and that's when you notice it... Your biggest nightmare.

You were horny on main instead of on your alt account and now he probably knows it was you. But now comes the real big question. Do you leave it there as a testament to your thirst for him, or do you delete it in hopes he hasn't noticed it was you to protect your sanity? You scroll a little through the comments and quickly notice that Sylus never likes any comments. "Shit, he definitely knows."

Still, you decide to delete the comment. If he saw it when he was drunk yesterday, then maybe there's a chance he doesn't remember or was just fucking around on his phone. The moment the comment disappears from your screen, there's a knock at your door. You're not sure who it could be. Maybe it's Tara. Did she leave anything yesterday? Or Kieran forced by Tara to apologize? But he would go to Sylus’ house for that.

By the time you're done wrecking you're brain, you're already opening the door and there stands the one and only Sylus. Suddenly there are no more thoughts in your brain, just the picture of Sylus in front of your door wearing grey sweatpants and a black tee that seems a size or two too small. You can see every muscle on his stomach and chest through the shirt. However, that's not even the best part. The best part is that he stretches and moves one hand behind his neck, making his tee rise up and showing the little happy trail that you've salivated over more times than you'd like to admit.

'Hey, sorry to bother you but I'm out of coffee.'

'Go to the store,' you grumble and try to close the door again but he pushes against it.

'Let me try that again,' he says, a playful but subtle grin on his lips, 'I'd like get to know you better over coffee. Preferably at your place.' It seems getting your brain fried is a regular occurrence when Sylus is around and you are suddenly awfully aware of how you look.

Yes, you showered this morning, but you aren't exactly dressed. You threw on a shirt and a big sweater over top with some absurdly stupid miffy pajama shorts. Your words get stuck in your throat and you only seem to be able to mutter out a weak: 'Why?'

He chuckles in response, the sound rumbling through his chest. 'You intrigue me. I'm curious what's going on in that pretty little head of yours.'

"He called me pretty," is the only thought that sticks and you want to hit yourself over the head for only picking up that part, but you remind yourself of the video he had made after meeting you. He must have ulterior motive. 'Nothing else?' A sly smirk appears on his face, like he had been banking on you asking a question like that. Like he had been practicing his response, and it comes out sticky as honey.

'Only with your willing participation.' You try to keep your bratty attitude but it's hard when he is so damn beautiful and so damn close and so damn hot. Goddamn!

'In your dreams, big boy,' you sass, 'come in before I change my mind.'

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There's a tense sort of feeling as you both sit on your couch with coffee in your hands. He keeps watching your movements, almost as if he's studying you or stalking his prey. It makes you feel on edge and at the same time, insanely turned on. To push him off balance, you decide to ask a question that had been hanging in your head for a while now.

'How'd you get into it?'

'It?' He's teasing. His lip quirks up into a smirk again. He wants to hear you say it, hear you say what he does, wants to watch your reaction to it. You feel strangely alien in your own space.

'Porn.' You try to keep a straight face, but you can feel your ears heat up the slightest bit, and he fucking notices. You can tell he fucking notices. He's noticed everything so far. It's so fucking hot and so fucking annoying at the same time. You can only imagine how attentive he would be as a partner.

'I was doing voice acting for a while and got hired for some smut books,' he explains like it's the most normal thing in the world, like it's the same as any office job, 'and I liked reading those books and the reaction people had to my voice. So, I tried my hand at posting some pictures of myself to see if people liked my voice and my body. After that I kind of rolled into it.' He takes a second to study your reaction and then asks you: 'And what do you do?'

'Interior decorating.' He nods.

'So I should've met you before I started decorating my place.'

'I don't work for free,' you retort.

'Neither do I,' he says, that damn smirk on his face again, 'but your reaction was more than enough payment for that video.' You're sure you're bright red now.

'I didn't request your services.' Why did you invite him in? Are you that desperate? He puts his mug on the coffee table and takes yours out of your hands to set it down next to his. Then he leans over you, one arm on top of the backrest of your couch, the other gripping the armrest behind you. Naturally, you lean back a little bit, tilting your head up to look at his face. He doesn't look predatory, nor dangerous. In fact, you feel like if you would say no right now, he would go home in an instant. It's strangely comforting.

'See it as a free trial.' He is impossibly close, closer than a stranger should be. Then again, you're not really strangers, are you? You are to him, but he's been on your mind for quite some time now. He's toying with you, he seems to want you for some reason. Barely knows you but it feels so familiar, so nice. You feel desired and... sexy.

'A free trial for what?' You absentmindedly bite your lip. A low groan slips from his lips in response, and he shifts his position on the couch. With one swift motion, his one leg is kneeling on the couch while he pushes your legs onto the couch so you're laid underneath him, your back against the cushions. His lips are next to your ear now.

'Worship,' he growls and ever so gently takes your earlobe between his teeth. You whimper in surprise. He lets go and moves on to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down to your collarbones. 'Pleasure.' The hand that was on the armrest moves to your waist, slipping under your shirt and you shiver. 'And sex.' His words sound like a promise. A promise you would offer up your life for. You feel breathless as he leans back a little bit to admire your figure. That damn smirk of his, back on his lips as he sees your lust filled eyes. He definitely knows that comment was yours. 'What do you say?'

'You don't even know me,' you manage to mutter.

'I know enough,' he answers and leans down to press a featherlight kiss on the corner of your lips. A strange surge of despair rushes through you and suddenly your hands are behind his neck, entangled in his grey hair, pulling him towards your lips. 'So needy,' he teases, readjusting his knee on the couch to be between your legs, 'I thought you were worried I didn't know you. You wouldn't want to take advantage of me, would you now?'

His lips are only a breath away from yours, his eyes stare into yours intently. You tell yourself it's just sex, yet there's something soft in the way he looks at you. Something you can't quite place, because he shouldn't be looking at you like that. You've only just met him. 'What are you thinking about?'

'Why me?' He doesn't have a quick nor sly response to that. You can tell you've caught him off guard. His eyes widen a little and his head moves away the slightest bit, but you can't tell if it's because you've just asked the dumbest question in existence or because he does not know either.

'There's something about you,' he tells you, his tone no longer teasing but as serious as he can get, 'it's intriguing and I want to find out what it is.'

'Because I gave you a hard on when we first met?' He cracks. His serious demeanor disappears for a second, as does the sexual tension when he sits up on his heel trying to stifle a laugh. The hand that was under your shirt is now on his face, rubbing his jaw to hide his smile.

'You've got a dirty mouth on you, sweetie,' he comments, trying to get back into it but you've already propped yourself up on your elbows with the cheekiest of grins on your face.

'Shouldn't you be used to those kinds of comments by now,' you say, trying to provoke him even more. Truly, you don't know what it is about him that brings your brat out but you don't hate it. It's fun.

'They're different when you read them on a screen,' he answers, sounding almost sincere. Almost. Only if you hadn't known what he proposed so sweetly just a minute ago.

'Maybe you take me out some time and I'll try to behave,' you offer, feeling as daring. This is all so new for you but it just flows. There's no good reason for why you feel this way and yet it's fucking exhilarating. You don't want any of it to stop, but your ovaries are running your brain right now and you can't trust them. Not when it comes to men. They've shown that to you before. You need a second to calm down before you engage in anything that could someday become regrettable to you.

Though you probably wouldn't have minded sleeping with him right here and now.

Sylus doesn't answer you, he just hands you his unlocked phone. You type in your number, already regretting it when you hand it back to him and see the grin on his face. You've just given him so much power to tease you. Well, you should regret it. You think you should.

In reality you can't wait for what's to come.

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flowercrowngods · 1 year ago

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part 1 | ao3

shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides

— a steddie ghost story —

part 2 / 7

Soaked through by the icy water and the howling winds, and weighted down by shock and fright, Steve’s legs may as well have been made of lead as he, slowly, with a racing heart, accepts his fate and enters the lighthouse.

He flinches, hard, when the door falls shut behind him, as if pushed by an invisible force, and he flinches again when a wave crashes violently. It’s almost as if the lighthouse is shaking with the impact, but maybe that’s just him.

“Okay,” he breathes, whispering because he doesn’t dare to speak any louder, lest the unending darkness might be disturbed — and something tells him that it wouldn’t take all that kindly to that. “Okay.” Once more, with feeling.

Before he can move and find an oil lamp or even just a candle to bring some light into this place, something thumps from somewhere up the stairs he cannot see.

He knows that, just like ancient manors, lighthouses have a life of their own, knows they’re prone to moving and moaning along with the tides, with the wind and the water — but that was not the settling of wood or metal. That was something else.

“Hello?” he calls with a trembling voice, closing his eyes at the echoes of his own voice travelling up and down the tower he is being made to call home for the foreseeable future. “Is— Is anyone there? I’m… Well, I’m Steve.”

Images fill the space behind his eyes, horrible visions of the old keepers luring him here to murder him, out of sea madness or cannibalistic urges, or just to have a bit of entertainment out here, just for a while. Other images, then, of ghosts coming to haunt him, to drive him to the brink of madness, to the railing all the way up on the tower, and watch his descent into—

Another thump. The sound of a door opening, the wood groaning, the hinges creaking, everything insists the lighthouse protesting its new inhabitant.

And then, through the pitch black darkness, a whisper. Travelling down towards him, growing louder as it comes closer and closer and—

Steve takes a step back, his breath coming in shallow rapidity as he reaches for the handle and finding it unmoving.

Run, the whisper says, sounding more like an inhale than anything else — and is the air getting thinner? Run.

Another wave crashes into the lighthouse.

Run.

The whispering voice is in his head now, loud for all of its tonelessness.

Run!

Steve stumbles backwards, his body too frozen with cold and fear to catch his fall. His body collides with the wall and he slides down, covering his ears with his hands to keep out the noise, to keep out the world as he tries in vain for the fear to subside.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hiding behind his knees like a little boy, scared of his father’s raised hands and his brothers' gloating. “I’m sorry, I mean no harm, I’m just— I’m here to fix the light. I’m here to make sure it’s— everything’s, everything’s fine. I don’t mean to disturb, I’m sorry. I’m Steve. I’m sorry.”

Everything stills then — or maybe it’s the cotton in his ears and the staccato of his heart that drown out everything else and remind him that he’s painfully, desperately alive. And mortal.

But the whispering stops, and so does the groaning up ahead, and silence falls. An unnatural silence, not even broken by the ocean waves outside.

It’s like the lighthouse has stilled to listen to him.

It’s something Robin told him once (or rather, debated at him while he was letting her rant wash over him in a whiff of fondness for his best friend in the whole wide world):

“Ghosts don’t know your intentions, right? So it’s only fair to communicate with them. It’s you breaking into their house, after all. Well, unless they’re haunting your house, but even then it’s fair to assume they have been there all along and you either deserve the haunting and had it coming, or you’re just the poor lad caught in the crossfires. Either way, worth a try, right? If even those still alive assume the worst, I would think an eternity spent in the aether is unlikely to be beneficial to your judgement of character.”

Steve had waved it off then — or, in his case, smile patiently and waited for her to answer his initial question from half an hour ago before she went on a tangent on aether and ghosts and the supernatural; she’d been spending too much time in the library.

“You learn a thing or two about haunted houses, growing up in a family such as mine,” he’d said, and then, “Dinner?”

A pang splits him down the middle, regret and uncertainty tearing at him concerning Robin’s wheareabouts and her safety. She must be safe. She must be!

“They say you don’t like— you, uh, strangers. The locals said you don’t like when people come here, so I’m sorry, but… I’m sorry. I have to fix the light. I’m Steve.”

It’s madness, it must be. Early onset, although his father would have a thing or two to say about that, would claim it had always lived in him, would claim the way he looks at men is proof of that and reason enough to have him hanging in the streets.

It wasn’t madness back then, Steve knows, vehemently, desperately knows. But this? Talking to a lighthouse, speaking into the darkness like it’s sentient even just a minute after he first set foot into it? It must be. He’s never been superstitious, has never been prone to ghost stories or supernatural appearances like Robin.

But something about this place, something about the way it has been haunting his dreams, something about Old John capsizing is enough to make even the calmest man lose his wits.

Something tells Steve that talking with the darkness is the right thing to do, if only for his own comfort.

He looks up, his head thumping against the brick wall behind him, as steps approach. They still, right in front of him, and he’s staring into nothingness, almost expecting to make out a shape. Expecting for the next breath to be his last.

Expecting… something.

But nothing happens, and the sound of the ocean returns. The darkness seems less impenetrable as a sliver of light falls in through a side light up above.

“Thank you,” he says, as stupidly as it is soundless, his voice buried beneath fear and dread.

Miraculously, the darkness seems to fade a little more.

Enough, eventually, for Steve to get up and dust off his trousers in an attempt to look presentable, or to shake off the residue of his fright — if only it was merely residue.

Now that the darkness has lightened, he keeps his eyes fixed to the spot where he feels like he can make out a shape in the dust. Maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, though, maybe it’s just the expectation of finding a spectre that makes one appear.

Madness, he reiterates. But something about it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t feel mad. And the steps never receded. If they were not an illusion, something created to steal the grounds from beneath his feet, playing with his senses to warp his perception of reality and the truth, then something — someone, quite possibly — is still standing right in front of him.

He looks on even long past the point of impolite staring, searching the dust for a shape that only appears in his periphery when he moves his eyes.

It feels rather undeniable, though, that someone is watching him.

“Hello,” he says at last, having regained some of his voice and footing. His hands clench by his sides, though, his body revolting against speaking with an apparent ghost.

The darkness doesn’t answer, and neither does the dust. But with the memory of urgent whispers still on the forefront of his mind, Steve is almost grateful for it as he carefully reaches for his bags and stars to move so slowly that it might almost be a mockery of the situation if his legs weren’t so shaky.

The weight of an invisible gaze rests on his shoulders and settles in the bones of his neck. It takes everything in him not to rub at it — he has no idea what the darkness would take offence to, and he already feels incredibly lucky to have made it this far with his life still intact and only his sanity and his pride having taken a crack along the way.

He thinks of Old John again, thinks of Good luck, kid. He almost asks the darkness about him, but he bites his tongue just in time. The stairs are steep and if he fell, given an invisible push, chances are he wouldn’t remain as alive as he is right now.

So he swallows and feels his way along the wall up the stairs. When he finds an oil lamp, he reaches for the matches in his bags — blessedly dry — and lights it.

It’s almost blinding, the shine of the flame that sets to illuminate the way, but Steve feels his gaze drawn to the foot of the stairs where the spectre is still framed by the door. Still appearing to look at Steve.

Stalemate is one thing to call it, maybe, this tension in the air, the weight of their gazes accompanied by the stumbling of Steve’s heart and the trembling of his hands.

Steve swallows and continues with his ascent of the winding stairs, never once losing the feeling in his neck. He finds more lamps along the wall and lights them until they lead him to a set of chambers that in any other lighthouse would have been down at the bottom or even in another building altogether, leaving room in a large house or a tiny hut for the keepers to reside in. But none of that is possible out here, in the middle of the sea, towering on top of cliffs that already make it nary impossible to get here.

The lighthouse is prone to flooding if the wind shifts or the ocean remains ruthless in a storm, so everything needs to be located above the threat of sea level.

He finds two bedchambers, the beds unmade, a richly stocked pantry that will last him several months if he keeps it locked away from wet air, and an almost inviting kitchen. A burnt smell wafts from the oven, grown stale over time but a certain bite has never quite managed to air out, and when he takes a look, he finds what was supposed to be bread still in there. A coat hangs on a rack, another is hung over the back of the chair, and another stool has been thrown over.

It looks for all intents and purposes like someone was just here. Like someone is still here.

What happened to the old keepers? — That does not concern you.

A shiver runs through him and he tries not to succumb to the terror that seems to lurk inside these walls as he starts a fire in the hearth. He is exhausted, adrenaline rushing from his body and leaving behind only apathetic tiredness and a longing for rest. He doesn’t even remember the light, his head filled with fog and exhaustion.

Once the fire is going and he is sure there is enough coal for it to last all night and keep him from freezing to an early death, Steve falls into bed without dinner. He only has enough strength not to retreat into a dead man’s unmade bed, instead finding new bedding and linen to make it his own.

He doesn’t sleep on that first night, but he falls into a haze thick enough to be unable to move as the whispers return, knocking and hammering along the walls almost rhythmically, as if waiting for a signal.

There is no time, they say, though he cannot be sure the next morning if he dreamed that or if he really heard it echoing along the walls.

Run. Leave. There is no time.

Tick.

And the night remains dark.

tagging: @klausinamarink @steviesummer @auroraplume @dragonmama76

#steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fic #stranger things #dio words #spooky lighthouse au #if i tell y'all i am writing these things on my phone within the last hours of the day... :p #i have never done anything spooky so this is my lame attempt at eerie atmosphere i hope i succeeded i hope it doesn't suck #steve will be more in character soon but for now he's stressed and scared and haunted hope that helps #ao3 will take a while to update sorry #i feel like this one's vastly different from part 1 in tone and pace but i'm trying not to obsess over that as i still regain my words #tried to keep this one shorter than yesterday’s hence the rather abrupt ending sorry bebés

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