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sangwookisser · 2 months ago

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DOLLHOUSE | THE SALESMAN

cw: ceo! salesman, stalking, sadism, naive! reader, heavy manipulation, coercion, dacryphilia, female pronouns used on reader, groping, heavy petting, lying, voyeurism (threat), p in v, fingering, backshots, consensual, MDNI, mature content ahead

synopsis: the salesman, ceo of a multinational corporation and one of the richest men in the country, finds a plaything to occupy himself with

He didn't really need to be here. But he wanted to.

His empire ran without his supervision. It was fueled by the greed lurking deep in every human, the desperation for success and wealth. He liked to watch the hope of people- people so unlike him, who sat in his expensive leather chairs, wrung their hands and emptied their pockets- flicker weakly in their eyes.

He liked to watch the way they ached to change their lives by putting their last won in the right investments, but only if they played smart. Listened to the right people.

He walked the upper floor of the building methodically, his hands buried in his pockets as he surveyed the floor below through the glass. From up here, he could see everything. The traders looked like ants, which they were, to him. Ants he could crush beneath the heel of his designer shoes, if he felt like it.

They scrambled at their desk, fingers moving across keyboards, their voices a quiet din of numbers and false promises. At the heart of it all was money. His money.

He had spent years honing his instincts to lie, cheat and steal. He knew which buttons to press, and which words to make people crack under pressure. He built his empire with the same philosophy that had helped him survive back when he worked only for the games. Find the desperate, make them hope, and watch them crash and burn.

And they did burn. Every time. Here, though, he worked on his own terms. He didn't have to slap them around or bait them into playing a ridiculous children's game. Here, they approached him to sign away their savings, future, and dignity.

He leaned against a railing, crossing his arms over each other, his watch glinting and shining from the lighting of the chandelier hanging overhead. He watched a man in a poorly tailored suit wipe sweat from his forehead while speaking to one of his advisors. His hands shook wildly as he signed a contract. Probably the last of the man's money, going straight into one of his accounts.

The salesman smirked, shifting his weight as the smooth fabric of his suit stretched against the muscles of his back. He didn't feel bad. He had worked for all of this luxury.

His gaze smoothed over the floor, over the rows of desks, and the electronic boards displaying market trends and stock markets, his gaze stopping on a woman sitting in the office of one of his best employees.

Hunched in your chair, shoulders curled inward as if trying to take up less space. You sported an old sweatshirt, faded from too many washes, wrinkled jeans, and a baseball cap that tugged low over your face, though it couldn't hide the resignation clouding your delicate features.

You looked young, much too young to be sitting in an office like this, across from one of his employees, listening to the man pitching a high risk, high reward scenario, encouraging you to invest more than you planned. Just a little more, of course. Pushing the idea that this was your big break.

And of course, you were listening. The exhaustion in your eyes was momentarily replaced by a sickeningly impossible chance at making it big. Hence why that was one of the Salesman's favorite employees.

You weren't demanding guarantees or questioning the risk. No, you were nodding along like you were in a trance, your eyes flitting periodically to the numbers on the big screens above you like they held all the answers to your sad little life.

His eyes lit up with a fascination he hadn't felt in a long time.

He had seen plenty of people about to hit the age of a midlife crisis come around here and fall for this trap. But girls like you? Quite rare.

His blood heated ever so slightly. Because you weren't just desperate, you were naive. Easy to influence. He liked that sort.

And yet, despite his growing interest, he wouldn't go down to meet you. Not yet, at least. That wasn't how he operated. The best games required patience for the reward to be more fulfilling.

So, instead of approaching himself or making himself known, he turned away and walked back to the executive wing of his building. The private floors, higher up, where the real power sat.

As he reached his office, he was already undoing the top button on his suit jacket, leaning back into the chair behind his desk. Opening his computer, his monitor flickered to life, casting a pale glow over his face. It held his security system. Hundreds of cameras. Spectating ever floor, ever hallway, every desk.

He leaned back, crossing one ankle over his knee as he flicked through the channels using his mouse, finding you quickly.

Still sitting there, still nodding at whatever bullshit his advisor was feeding you. You looked hesitant, gnawing your lower lip before finally reaching for your phone, presumably to check your account.

He tsked. "Tch. Little thing insists on hiding her face under such a filthy hat." He zoomed in, trying to catch a glimpse of your features, while simultaneously turning up the volume of his monitor. He watched you schedule another appointment for next Thursday.

He quickly grabbed his agenda from his desk, flipped to the right page, and noted it down. His gaze returned to the gaze, watching as you stood and made your way towards the exit, he tilted his head, quickly switching his feed to a new angle, one of the cameras near the elevator bank.

He watched as you stepped inside, leaning back against the wall as the doors slid shut.

Before they did, he lifted the walkie from his desk.

"Security, come in," he murmured. A crackle. Then, "Yes, sir?"

"The girl in the baseball cap." His eyes stayed glued to the screen, tracking the floor numbers as the elevator descended. "Follow her. Discreetly. I want to know what car she gets into."

"10-4, boss."

He nodded with satisfaction, now moving through the cameras more rapidly. His fingers twitch over the angles almost like a man possessed. He hadn't had excitement like this in ages. Anticipation curled in his gut as he ignored the ringing of his work phone for a board meeting which was meant to take place tonight, lingering on the outside camera.

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped out into the dim lighting of the parking structure.

But something made him sit up straight.

Because as you walked, you lifted a hand to the brim of your cap. And then, with a small sigh, you tugged it off. And fuck.

Your hair spilled out, soft and tousled from being pressed beneath the hat, falling in slight curls that brushed your shoulders.

And your face... long lashes with bright eyes that caught in the dull overhead light. You let out a long sigh, perhaps of relief, as you ducked your head once more, continuing towards your car.

He ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek as something swam around in his stomach. It wasn't pleasant for him. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d had a physical reaction to just looking at someone, but now, sitting in his chair, his breath was heavier, slower.

"Boss." His earpiece sounded once more. "She's getting into... some old Honda. License plate..." He read out the numbers and letters, and the Salesman quickly wrote them down, mumbling them to himself.

"Acknowledged." He says sternly to his security guard team. "Thank you for your work."

He leaned back in his chair once more, watching the screen as your taillights disappeared down the ramp, already counting down the days until next Thursday.

Later, in his boardroom, he was hardly listening to the constant droning of men in suits. Some executive from the European division was talking about expansion in Berlin, with another adding in information about the numbers in Munich. Projections for the next quarter that he didn't give a fuck about.

Not when he had a little someone that was invading ever corner of his mind. He was on his phone under the table, deriving information from your license plate. He found your vehicle identification number, a few accidents you'd gotten into years ago that he was thankful you recovered from.

But the jackpot was your home address. He grinned, watching his screen with interest. You lived just where he had expected. In a little apartment far from the city. A low income area with cheap rent and cramped rooms.

He tapped on his maps app and typed in your address nimbly, staring at an overhead view of your apartment. He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes to imagine you making your way to your bedroom to take off your clothes and shower. God, he could imagine how you looked under those old clothes. Probably all soft curves and smooth skin. He felt himself getting too worked up, in the middle of a meeting as well.

He loosened his tie a little to breathe properly, trying to will away the throbbing in his crotch. He wished he could see inside. He wished he could have bugged you slipped a camera into that tiny excuse of a living space and watch you flit around like a mouse.

He swallowed thickly, gnawing on his lower lip. Oh, when he got his hands on you...

"Sir?" He barely glanced up. A man was staring at him expectantly from across the long, polished table. "What." he said coldly, wanting to almost snap at him for interrupting his little fantasy, his eyes still flicking through the images on his screen.

"I was asking if you approve of the updated revenue projections for the Munich division."

"Sure. Do whatever you want, Mr. Park. I trust you know what to do with expansion." he said, not looking at him.

The man hesitated. "Uh, so—that’s a yes?" He sighed through his nose, clicking his phone off and finally lifting his gaze. "Yes," he said flatly. "Good work, Park. Keep it up." The man beamed, nodding furiously before returning to his numbers.

He groaned slowly, his grip tightening around his phone.

The knowledge that you were all alone, desperate, and in a time of need, made him ache. He hoped you were crying. He liked tears, the look of defeat and helplessness in people's eyes, because it made them so easy to control, and if you were crying, he could have his way with you so easily. You'd fall into his hands.

His blood hummed. It was too risky to just show up at your dirty apartment, even with how badly he wanted to break in and pounce on you like an animal without a leash.

Instead, he opted for an alternative. He flicked his hand.

"The meeting is closed. All of you, back to your stations, if you have anything left for the day. If not, go home." He paused, turning his gaze to the advisor who'd spoken to you today. "Mr. Kim. You stay."

Mr. Kim paled slightly, fearing punishment, and the rest of the employees scrambled out of the room, not wanting to face his potential anger.

The man straightened, approaching his boss with careful reverence.

"Sir?"

"You handled the woman today," he said, voice smooth, measured. "The young one. Soft, pretty face, yes?"

Mr. Kim fidgeted slightly, letting out a soft, confused scoff. "Uh… yes, sir. A few actually, but-"

"You know which one I mean."

The man nodded quickly.

"She scheduled another appointment for Thursday," Kim added. "Seemed… hesitant. Didn’t have much to invest with." He already knew that.

"Her bank details."

Mr. Kim blinked. "Sir? Doesn't our policy say-"

"Her. Bank. Details."

Kim nodded quickly, knowing better than to question his boss.

He sat in the office of his luxury apartment, logging into your bank account with ease. He sees your recent transactions, and the pitiful sum of money lingering in your savings. His lip curled, and he transferred out three-quarters of your money, sending it into one of his private accounts, untraceable and easy to plant seeds of doubt in your mind.

Gone. Just like that.

With your money gone right after coming home from his company, you'd either assume your advisor had made the investment without you, or you'd think you'd just been robbed outright. Either way, he knew you'd return. His breath came shallow with excitement of the prospect of seeing you tomorrow.

Like clockwork, you were in the office next morning, early. He spotted you from a few meters away, standing in the middle of Mr. Kim's office, your hands shaking as you gripped the edge of his desk.

Tears streaked your face, and your whole body wracked with panic. God, you were hysterical. Your screams rang throughout the entire lower floor. His breath hitched.

He was already getting hard. You were wearing yoga pants today, something unfit for such a fine establishment. your jacket was faded, and his gaze roamed your body as you began to pace and shake with the sheer desperation clouding your mind.

"I didn't authorize that! What the fuck made you think it was okay to just drain my bank account while I was sleeping? Do you realize how sick that is? I don't even know where it went! You took advantage of me!" your voice broke, hoarse from crying, thick with rage.

Mr. Kim jumped, looking slightly put off. "Miss, I understand, really, but I swear I didn't-"

"Then where the hell is my m-money?" You shriek, your voice breaking on the last word.

The Salesman closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose as he felt a sharp coil of pleasure tighten in his gut, like yesterday. You did things to him he couldn't describe.

Your eyes were bloodshot, plump lips wobbling, and you jabbed your finger at Kim's computer in accusation.

The irony of it all was that he was the one who was holding all of it in his account as you took your anger out on his employee. He was enjoying this way more than he had expected. You, this pathetic little thing, sobbing over a couple thousand won, in those tight fucking pants, looking so small...

He wanted more.

You were breaking apart, shaking and crying, your breath coming in shallow, choked little gasps, and Kim was floundering to explain what had happened to your money.

He straightened his tie, adjusted the cuffs of his suit, and walked into the office with a slow, deliberate ease, his expression smooth, unreadable, effortlessly controlled. The moment Kim saw him, his face went pale. He immediately got to his feet, though he didn't even look at him.

He couldn't be bothered by the man right now. He had his focus on you, and my my... you looked so much better up close. Especially because of your tears.

Your eyes widened as your gaze locked with his, confusion crossing your features. You knew him, obviously. Everyone in the city did. His handsome face was everywhere. In ads on TV, on billboards by the highways, in magazines. A figure of power, fortune, and influence.

And yet here he was, right in front of you, involving himself in your mess... why?

It's not like it would be a big deal if you told anyone that you thought his company scammed you. Even suing him wouldn't make a dent in his bank account.

But he liked that you were confused. It gave him control.

"What's the issue here?" He asked smoothly, his voice calm, pleasant, like he didn’t already know exactly what the issue was.

You hiccupped weakly, adjusting your baseball cap. He thought it was cute that you tried to make yourself look more presentable for him.

Your eyes widened a bit as he leaned down to your level when you failed to answer, his lithe body bent forward so that he could get in your face. His hands moved slow enough for it to be unrecognizable, so you didn't flinch away.

He reached up and lifted your cap, brushing his knuckles against your forehead.

Your hair was soft beneath his touch, and he hummed lowly, barely restraining himself from gripping it, from tilting your head back and seeing how pliant you could be. Perhaps kiss your smooth throat. Or crush it under his grip.

Sensing your discomfort, he asks for your name as if he didn't already know all about you. You told him quietly, and he nodded, repeating it back to himself. "Pretty," he cooed softly.

"M-my money." You say finally, as he ran his fingers over your face, gently dabbing your tears away. You stilled completely, barely breathing. You physically felt your face starting to glow pink and warm up.

"Yes, dear? What about it?" He said, moving your hair out of your face so he could continue wiping your face, forcing himself not to look at your lips, which were slightly raw from biting. He could make them more red. He promised himself to bite them until they were cherry red when he finally got you alone.

His cock was nearly fully stiff now, pushing against his slacks. He made sure your face was tilted upwards so you didn't look at it. Though he could keep his composure and his facade, he couldn't control physiological reactions to your proximity. He didn't want you to know that.

"It... o-overnight, I lost most of it... I th-thought it was invested while I was sleeping without my knowledge."

He nodded, pretending to be understanding. Most of your tears were gone now, but he kept running his fingers over your face.

"Is that so?" He hesitated momentarily even though he had this whole conversation planned out. He wanted this to feel real for you. "That's quite a serious issue, my sweet. A circumstance like this would require action from one of the higher ups. Allow me," he paused, offering you a soft smile and bringing the back of your hand up to his mouth, brushing his lips very lightly against your hand.

Your whole face burned, your breath growing shaky as you stared into his eyes, the charming, gentle way he treated you making your heart flutter. "To guide you." He finished.

You blinked, swallowing hard. "I-I just want my money back."

"And I just want to help you," he reassured.

Then, slowly, he straightened, extending a hand toward you.

"Come with me," he said simply. You obliged, trusting him to help you. After all, it was his company. If anyone could help you, it would be him. Slowly, you laced your much smaller fingers through his, letting him take you all the way up to the top floor.

He sits at his desk, reclining comfortably in his chair. You expected to sit across from him, like an equal, but he just scoffed, tilting his head as he spun the monitor slightly to the side, showing you the complex financial data flickering across the screen.

"This is all highly intricate work." He said, tapped his screen like he was lecturing you. "I want you to be able to see everything I do. Full transparency. That way, we can have trust between us, yes?"

You nodded quickly, understanding what he was saying. He pretended to be considering something.

"Although," he continued, his voice soft and gentle. "If you sit across from me, I'll have to continuously turn the screen around, which is inefficient. I want you to be able to follow along."

He leaned back, exhaling as if this was all so frustrating for him, all this work, all this effort he was going through just for you. Then he smiled, warm and reassuring, and patted his lap.

"Why don't you sit here?"

Your ears burned, and you coughed in surprise, looking at him with confusion. "Pardon me? Y-you can't be s-"

"It's for practicality," he interrupted smoothly. He ignored his raging hard on and the desire to put your pretty ass right on his cock and bounce you up and down on it while he worked, trying to focus on getting you to take the bait.

"The monitor is large, the keyboard is here, I want you to see everything in real time. I need you to understand that I’m only trying to help you." He said, looking up at you with dark, piercing eyes.

You felt like he was hypnotizing you. His logic... made sense to you, and you hesitated. He wasn't forcing you, either. Simply a suggestion. And he was just trying to help! He would get you your money back... maybe if you listened and played dumb, you could get him to add a little more to your account than you started with.

"There’s nothing to be shy about," he coaxed, his voice dipping even softer, almost fond. "I'm helping you." He tells you once more, and your ears burned. Slowly, you stepped forward and hesitantly perched yourself on his lap. Because you were facing away from him, you missed the way he grinned happily, feeling his cock press against your smooth, plump pussy. He pulled you in tighter.

If you couldn't feel it now, you had to be clueless. "Good girl." He praises softly, wrapping one arm around you to pull you in tighter as he clicked through your profile, showing you how the money was moved to an untitled account, pretending he had no clue how it happened.

He was using jargon so complex that you couldn't keep up, overexplaining things and saying that your advisor must have been mistaken.

Subtly, he moves your body back and forth against his crotch, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to not groan. You feel a weird flutter in your tummy and heat grow in your core at the feeling of friction against your pussy, the thin fabric of your pants not helping. Here you were, being bounced on the lap of the richest man in the city. You fuss, embarrassed and confused at the direction of events.

He tucked your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jawline, tilting your chin up to force you to meet his piercing gaze. "Shh, shh... there now, no need for all this commotion," he cooed, his thumb brushing over your trembling lower lip. "I'm sure we can sort this out civilly, can't we, sweetheart?"

Despite your shock, you found yourself leaning into his touch, your body betraying your urge to be soothed, to be told everything would be alright. He smiled, a slow, smug curl of his lips, knowing he had you. His other hand moved to the small of your back, subtly pressing you closer, guiding you to turn towards him.

His actions were nearly unconscious, his focus solely on the rapid beating of your heart, the short puffs...of your quick, aroused breaths. He drank in your scent, the sweet aroma of your perfume.

The hard bulge beneath you throbbed in time with the pulse he could feel fluttering wildly at the base of your throat. He could feel your body tensing, could sense your confusion and mounting distress, but he paid it no mind, too focused on the delicious sensation of having you at his mercy, at the mercy of his whims and desires.

He continued clicking over the computer, his arm around your waist moving up until one hand was splayed over your breast, squeezing and quickly talking over your moans to act like he has no idea what hes doing. "And you're certain the money is gone?" he asked, his voice filled with fake concern. "Well, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. A clerical error, nothing more."

"W-wait, I...mmh," You manage through moans, your body overstimulated already. You didn't know what was happening.

"Shh, don't worry sweetheart, I can fix all of that," he murmured, his hot breath tickling your ear. "But I'm going to need something from you in return."

Before you could respond, he had already started tugging at your pants, his fingers dragging the fabric down your legs. You squealed in surprise, trying to wriggle away, but his grip held firm, leaving you exposed and vulnerable as cool air hit your heated skin. He groaned lowly, his eyes darkening with lust as he took in the sight of your plump, glistening pussy, now bared completely to his hungry gaze.

He spread your legs, cooing and shushing you softly as he gave your right breast one more squeeze before clicking on your account, scrolling aimlessly to waste time, while his other hand, now off your tits, went between your legs to push a finger into your cunt.

You nearly scream, but he shushes you and tsks. "Careful with your volume, darling." He warns gently. "Wouldn't want everyone to hear how needy you are, hm?" You pant out, his finger pumping in and out of your hole sloppily, your hips bucking instinctively into his touch, seeking more of that delicious pressure.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers finally making contact with your pussy, one long digit delving between your slick folds, stroking teasingly inside you.

He added a second finger, stretching you wider, pumping them in and out of your dripping cunt, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the room. His hips rocked up to meet each thrust, the hard ridge of his cock grinding against your ass, the heat of him searing your skin even through the fabric of his pants.

"See how much better you're listening now?" He praises. "Good girl. I ought to give you a nice tip for good behavior."

"Pl-please," You cry out, "Ngh, w-wait, I c-can't..." You cried out, a strangled moan tearing from your throat, your hips bucking instinctively into his touch, seeking more of that delicious pressure.

Just before you felt pleasure coil in your belly, he shoved you forwards, pressing your front against his desk, his papers scattering.

"You don't get to tell me no." He frowns, perturbed by your constant hesitation. He slaps your ass, watching the fat jiggle with a sick fascination, the plush flesh going red under the impact. You jolt at the sudden pain, a string of arousal dripping embarrassingly down your cunt.

The sound of his zipper lowering seemed deafening in the sudden silence of the room, and you couldn't help but look back over your shoulder to watch as he freed his thick, angry red cock from the confines of his pants.

Your eyes widen with disbelief at the sheer size of him, and you try to scramble, knowing that thing would never fit inside you. You still struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening.

"Ah ah," He scolded gently, tugging you back against him and putting your ass right up against his cock, rubbing his length up and down the curves of your body, from your pussy and up to your ass. "Now as much as I would love to watch you cum before I put my cock inside you," He hums. "I do have business to attend to, besides. Lunch hour will be soon, and everyone will be out of office and able to see you fucking yourself on my cock."

You freeze, looking back at him with terror, but the words about to leave your mouth turn to a moan as he starts to push his fat cock past the ring of your entrance, and your lashes flutter.

"Oh my," He groans, his head thrown back and his tie askew as he slowly pushes forward, nearly bottoming out inside of you. You mewl and cry out at the way you seem so full, tears pooling at your waterline.

He croons, tugging your head back so your neck is forced to crane back and look at him, and he slowly thrusts in and out of you, watching your face scrunch in slight pain and overwhelming pleasure.

He loves tears. He loves your tears. He watches you with delight as you cry out and writhe on his cock, pushing your ass back everytime he pounds into you, wanting to feel every inch of him despite your mind telling you that its too much, that this is going too fast.

You’re soaked from the drool forming at the corner of your mouth and the tears in your eyes. From where his cock slides in and out of your sopping pussy, a thick creamy ring formed at the base.

"Fuck," he breathes out, running his hand through his hair at the slow, but rough strokes. every time he buries himself into you by the hilt, there's a plap of flesh against flesh, and he groans loudly, his breathing heavy. "So goddamn tight, darling, my God."

He grabs your waist and pushes your head back, pushing his cock in and out of you fast, then slowing down abruptly to disorient you. "N-no more, t-too much," You slur, but he doesn't hear you.

He pulled back and slammed into you again. You cried out, loudly, and clapped your hand over your mouth. "That's it beautiful, make a mess." He chuckled and did it again. His wet flesh reverberated against yours. Each time he paused and basked in the sounds you'd make as your body was jolted by his.

He lifted your ass slightly, grabbing onto the hand that was over your mouth and pushed it down so he could push two fingers into your mouth, watching as you sobbed and slobbered around his fingers, moaning as your pussy clenched around him due to the pleasure of being so full. "How's- haah... that, darling?" He questions breathlessly, feeling his orgasm approaching quickly.

He doesn't take your unresponsiveness lightly, slapping your ass oncemore to get you to speak. "Mmm, fuck... c-cumming..." You babble stupidly, and he grins, squeezing your jaw and turning your face upwards so he can lick the tears off your face, relishing in your pleasure.

He groans at your taste, slotting your lips over his as your shared saliva smears over your lips, and that's all it takes for him to spill into you, hot, thick cream filling your womb and stuffing you full. He swallows your moans as your legs twitch and shake, and you cum around his cock, soaking his pelvis with your juices.

Your body convulses and your breathing becomes even more rapid, and you squeeze down on his cock until he groans loudly into your mouth, leaning back as strings of saliva connect your tongues, and he licks his lips, pecking the tip of your nose and wiping sweat off his brow.

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leirastar · 5 months ago

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new world | chapter 1

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 4.2k | 18 minutes Warning: blood/injury, violence (mentions of fighting), medical procedures. poisons, storm

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the field in muted hues of gold and green as a chill crept through the air. You knelt amidst the tall grass, your nimble fingers carefully plucking fragrant herbs from the earth.

The air, sharp and brisk, carried a chill that hinted at an approaching storm.

Humming softly to yourself, you tightened your coat around your shoulders and pulled your cape closer, shielding yourself from the biting wind. Your basket was half-filled with herbs you had carefully selected—lavender for calming teas, chamomile for soothing salves, and a few sprigs of arnica for your uncle’s pain medicine. The breeze carried the sweet scent of the harvest as it rustled the wildflowers around you, though now the wind's sharper edge made your hands move faster.

The day, though peaceful, had taken on a sense of urgency. You couldn’t help but notice the gentle rustling of the wind seemed louder now, almost ominous as the skies darkened in the distance.

Satisfied with your haul, you stood, brushing dirt from your hands and skirt. Hefting your now-overfilled basket, you began the familiar walk home. The chill made your steps quicken as you hummed a soft tune as the village rooftops coming into view through the gathering gloom.

You resided on the town's far outskirts, away from the bustling markets and vibrant city lights, and close to the east border of Caius. It was a short walk, no more than ten minutes, but the icy gusts and the scent of rain in the air made it feel longer. As the smell of distant cooking fires greeted you, a comforting reminder of the simple life you cherished, you cast a wary glance at the clouds above, quickening your pace to reach the safety of home before the storm arrived.

But as you neared your small cottage, something felt...off.

The front door was ajar, its hinges creaking slightly in the breeze.

You paused.

You knew you had closed it.

Heart pounding, you set your basket on the steps. Your finger closed around your herb knife to calm your anxiety as a mean of protection. From inside came the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by a muffled grunt. Your heart raced as you pressed your hand against the doorframe, leaning just enough to peek inside.

The sight made you gasp.

A man was slumped against your kitchen table, his dark clothing torn and stained crimson with blood. His breathing was ragged, his face pale and slick with sweat. Broken pottery lay scattered on the floor near his feet, evidence of his struggle to stay upright.

Albeit the pain that contorted his face, he was undeniably beautiful, as though the gods themselves had sculpted him. Shaking off the fleeting daydream, you steadied yourself and pointed your knife toward the stranger, your grip firm despite the rapid beat of your heart.

“Who—who are you?” you demanded, stepping fully into the room.

The man's head snapped up at your voice, his sharp eyes narrowing despite the pale exhaustion pulling at his features. Pain was etched into every line of his face, but it did nothing to dull the rigid posture he held, a silent, almost haughty declaration that he refused to surrender to his circumstances.

“I—” He winced, his hand pressing firmly against the gash at his side, blood seeping between his fingers. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” His voice was low, steady despite the strain, with an edge of reluctant apology—one that came as though it pained him to admit he might need help.

“I’ll be gone as soon as I… catch my breath.”

Even now, weakened and injured, he carried himself with a quiet dignity, as though he were more offended by his situation than the injury itself. There was no demand for pity, no pleading in his tone—only the undeniable weight of a man who was unused to seeking aid and found the very act distasteful.

You hesitated, your grip on the knife tightening. There was something about him that felt dangerous—his strong, lean frame and the way he held himself, even in pain, spoke of someone used to commanding attention. But there was also vulnerability in his gaze, a desperation that softened your wariness.

“You’re hurt,” your voice firm but calm, setting the knife on the counter but keeping it within reach.

His jaw tightened, as though bracing himself against the sting of his pride. “I’ll manage,” he muttered, but the slight tremor in his stance betrayed him. The stubbornness in his tone didn’t match the pallor of his face or the faint, uneven breaths he tried to suppress.

You sighed, exasperated but unmoved. His stubbornness didn’t surprise you. It was written in his posture, in the hard line of his mouth, in the way he refused to meet your gaze.

“Well, you’re doing a poor job of it,” you shot back, sharper this time.

That caught his attention. His gaze snapped to you, dark and piercing, as though offended by your audacity. For a moment, silence stretched between you, but gaze flickered there, almost reluctant amusement. His lips pressed into a thin line as though trying to decide whether to fight you on this or accept the inevitable.

“I don’t… need your help,” he said stiffly, though his voice wavered just slightly as his strength faltered.

“And yet you’re bleeding all over my table,” you countered, your tone calm but firm. “Please, sit down. You’re only making it worse.”

His eyes warred visibly against your words, his hand tightening into a fist where it gripped the edge of the table. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he muttered, “This is… unnecessary.”

“It’s necessary if you want to survive,” you replied, already moving to his side.

When you slid an arm under his, he stiffened, his body going rigid as though the very act of being supported grated against him.

“I can walk,” he grumbled.

“You can barely stand,” you replied dryly, guiding him carefully toward your bedroom. His weight pressed against you for only a moment before he forced himself to stand taller, his stubborn pride refusing to let him lean on you more than absolutely necessary.

Easing him down onto the edge of the bed. His shoulders stiffened as if being placed there was yet another blow to his pride, but he didn’t protest.

“I’m… sorry for the intrusion,” he said again, his tone quieter this time, as though apologizing was both foreign and uncomfortable. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“Apology accepted. You’ll be better off lying down,” you said, your voice steady despite the flurry of nerves coursing through you.

He exhaled sharply, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the mattress. “I don’t need—”

“Stop talking,” you cut in firmly, kneeling beside him. “You do need help, whether you like it or not.”

He glared at you for a moment, though the fire in his gaze was dimmed by exhaustion. “Stubborn woman,” he muttered under his breath, though there was no real malice in his tone.

“And you’re not exactly a model of reason yourself,” you replied.

Stepping back briefly, you crossed the room to close the windows, the glass panes rattling faintly from the wind outside. The storm was growing, the wind howling as it clawed at the shutters, and you latched them firmly to keep the cold at bay. The room immediately felt quieter, warmer, though the tension lingering between you and the man remained palpable.

You quickly gathered supplies: clean linen strips for bandages, a basin of water, and a flask of pain medicine from the nearby cupboard, you turned to him, your eyes scanning his pale, sweat-drenched face.

"I need to see the wound," you instructed gently. He hesitated, then nodded, removing his hand to reveal a deep gash.

Your breath hitched.

The gash was deep, inflamed, and stained with a purple sheen. You sighed softly, this is not an ordinary wound.

“This will hurt,” you warned, dipping a clean cloth into a mixture of strong wine and vinegar, the sharp tang filling the air. Carefully, you began to cleanse the wound. He winced, a sharp breath hissing through his teeth, but his silence held.

Once satisfied, you reached for the flask of pain medicine. “Here,” you said firmly, holding it out to him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

He eyed it with suspicion, his pride flaring visibly as though the very idea of accepting medicine offended him. “What is it?”

“Something to keep you alive,” you said flatly, pushing the flask closer. “Stop questioning everything and drink.”

Reluctantly, he took a small sip, grimacing slightly as the bitter taste settled on his tongue. After another swallow, his shoulders eased, the tension in his posture slowly melting as the medicine began to dull the sharp edge of his pain.

Placing the flask next to the bed, you reached out instinctively, placing a hand over his to offer quiet comfort. It was a small, unthinking gesture—one you often did for your uncle’s patients.

But the moment your hand touched his, his eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, they glowed vivid blue. A faint luminescence bloomed across his forehead, like the trace of some ancient mark, and you gasped softly, your heart stuttering.

Startled, you glanced toward the window just as a flash of lightning lit the room, the storm raging outside. You told yourself it was the storm’s light playing tricks on your eyes. It had to be.

But when you looked back, his eyes had returned to their original goldish-brown hue, the glow vanished as though it had never been. He was staring at you now—his expression unreadable, though softer, almost hesitant.

“What… was that?” you whispered, withdrawing your hand quickly.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. Whatever walls he had erected earlier now seemed to falter, as though something in that brief exchange had shifted. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You’re kind,” he murmured, surprising you. “Far kinder than I deserve.”

The vulnerability in his tone startled you almost as much as the glow had, but you masked it, straightening in your seat. “You’re still a terrible patient,” you replied lightly, though your voice was gentler this time.

After washing your hands, you cleansed the wound with water, then applied a thin layer of honey before covering it with the linen bandages. "This should help prevent infection," you explained.

As you worked, you noticed his features more clearly—sharp jawline, dark hair sticking to his sweat-dampened forehead, and piercing eyes that watched you with a mix of caution and gratitude. He wasn’t a common traveler; his clothes, though damaged, were of fine make, and the insignia on his belt hinted at nobility.

“What happened to you?”

As you peeled back more of his torn shirt, the full extent of his injuries came into view—dark bruises blooming across his ribs and smaller cuts scattered like a map of violence. You furrowed your brows in concern, but your hands remained steady.

“Bandits,” he muttered. “On the road. They... didn’t expect me to fight back.”

You studied him closely, the flicker of doubt plain on your face. You didn’t press him, not yet, but you weren’t a fool. This far from the city, you've never heard of such bandits. The wound, telltale sheen of poison—this wasn’t the work of ordinary bandits.

Still, you asked, “You fought them off?”

He gave a weak, humorless chuckle. “Not well enough, apparently.”

You shook your head, setting to work cleaning the wound. “You’re lucky you made it here. Another hour, and this might have turned fatal.”

“I suppose I am,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on you, though the defiance from earlier had softened to something quieter. Something thoughtful.

For the first time, he seemed to regard you not as an inconvenience or an intrusion but as someone who had saved his life. His expression was still guarded, but the edges of it had shifted—less sharp, more yielding.

“Why were you traveling alone?”

He hesitated, as if debating how much to reveal. Finally, he said, “I was trying to avoid... attention.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, you’ve certainly gotten mine.”

For the first time, a small, tired smile tugged at his lips. “Lucky me.”

You huffed, securing the bandage with perhaps more force than necessary. “You’re far too stubborn for your own good,” you added, brushing your hands off and rising to fetch a fresh cloth.

His tired smile lingered faintly. “Takes one to know one.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I wouldn’t call saving your life stubborn. Sensible, maybe.”

He exhaled a soft huff, something between amusement and exhaustion. “Sensible,” he repeated quietly, as though testing the word on his tongue.

As you laid a damp cloth on his fevered forehead, his gaze tracked your movements—sharp but softened, no longer the cold and aloof glint from earlier. There was something new there now, as if he were seeing you through fresh eyes.

“You’re skilled,” he remarked, his voice quieter, more measured.

“I’ve had practice,” you replied simply, brushing the damp cloth lightly over his brow.

As you observed him resting on the bed, your attention shifted to his tattered, bloodstained coat draped loosely over his shoulders. The fine wool and intricate stitching caught your eye—unmistakable signs of noble craftsmanship, the kind of attire far beyond the means of a mortal Aetherions.

“Your clothes are dirty,” you remarked, crossing the room to fetch clean garments. You hesitated for only a moment before offering them. “I have, um, clothes you can use.”

His cold gaze glanced at the garments, then back at you, his expression clouded with an emotion you couldn't quite identify.

"Your lover's or something?" he asked, his voice laced with something unreadable—disapproval, maybe, or curiosity.

"Or something," you replied, maintaining composure.

"I'll help you."

“I can manage on my own,” he muttered instinctively, pride flaring again like a reflex.

“You’ll tear open the bandage if you try,” you replied firmly, setting the clothes on the cot beside him.

For a moment, it looked as though he’d refuse outright, his pride warring with the exhaustion tugging at him. But then, as though resigning to his limits, he gave you a slow, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” he muttered.

You approached carefully, your hands steady as you helped him remove the soiled coat. Beneath the dirt and blood, the fabric was rich, its quality unmistakable—a silent confirmation of his noble status. You discarded it into the enchanted basin at the corner of the room, where water rippled and swirled, magic working to cleanse the garment, a convenient aid in your otherwise rustic setting.

The act of dressing him felt oddly intimate. You tried to remain professional, your movements efficient and practiced, yet you couldn’t ignore the way his skin, warm and solid beneath your fingertips, sent faint sparks fluttering through you.

The tension in the room seemed to shift, subtle but undeniable. It seems that the spark however, not only resolve to you but to the man in front of you. His breathing slowed, a low, almost imperceptible sound escaping him—a contented hum.

You glanced up just in time to catch the faint dilation of his pupils, his golden-brown eyes softening as they met yours-you surmised he felt the same feather-light sensations that danced across your skin.

He nodded slightly, feeling content, His eyes, already heavy with exhaustion, drifted closed.

"You'd better get some sleep, my lord. You need the rest," you advised, pulling the blanket up over him.

As you turned away, his hand shot out at the last moment, catching yours in a gentle grasp. his voice barely above a whisper.

"Stay."

His voice barely above a whisper but enough to root you in place. A shiver traced your spine, feather-light but persistent.

What is this?

Your breath caught. He was already half-asleep, his hold loose but firm enough to keep you there. Slowly, you sank to the floor beside the cot, your hand still cradled in his as his breathing deepened.

As the storm continued to rage outside, you sat in silence, watching him drift into a fitful sleep,. The quiet hum of his breath filled the room, a stark contrast to the battle-worn pride and defiance you had seen earlier. Now, in sleep, he seemed almost fragile—something you doubted he’d allow anyone else to witness.

A peculiar sensation washed over you as you sat there—an electric and feather-light touches across your skin. You glanced around, startled, blaming the chill in the air or perhaps lingering adrenaline from the unexpected encounter.

As the storm continued its relentless howl outside, you remained by his side, his hand still loosely curled around yours. The room was quiet now, save for the soft rhythm of his breathing and the distant patter of rain against the window.

You rested your head against the edge of the bed, the tension of the day finally catching up to you. The warmth of the room and the steady rise and fall of his chest seemed to lull you, exhaustion washing over you like a heavy tide.

Before you knew it, your eyes fluttered closed, and sleep claimed you.

The first light of morning crept through the shutters, rousing you from an unexpectedly deep sleep. Blinking groggily, you took in your surroundings— the familiar wood-paneled walls of your room—and realized you were in your own bed.

A heavy quilt had been draped over your shoulders, and as you slowly sat up, the events of last night came rushing back.

The stranger. The injury. His touch.

Where was he?

Heart skipping a beat, throwing the quilt aside you rose quickly, disoriented. The sound of soft clinking and faint movement drew your attention to the kitchen. Padding toward the sound, you rounded the corner and froze.

There he was, standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, his tall frame at ease despite the faint signs of exhaustion still etched across his face. He moved with surprising ease preparing something—bread, it seemed, with slices of dried fruit laid out neatly beside it.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” you said, your voice cutting through the quiet. He turned, his expression calm but faintly amused.

“I’ve rested enough,” he replied, his tone steady.

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow. “Resting in my bed apparently wasn’t enough. How did you even manage to get me there?”

He smirked faintly, gesturing to his side. “ You’re not as heavy as you think.”

Rolling your eyes, you moved to rekindle the fire, the faint flicker of flames crackling to life. “You should have stayed put. You’ll tear your wound open again.”

“And leave you sleeping on the floor?” he countered smoothly. “That wouldn’t be very polite, would it?”

The wit in his tone caught you off guard, and despite yourself, a quiet chuckle escaped. “Well, you didn’t give me much choice last night. You’d have bled out on my floor.”

“Fair,” he admitted with a faint smile, leaning against the counter.

As the tea brewed, the fragrant aroma filling the air, you placed two cups on the table and motioned for him to sit. He hesitated momentarily, then complied, easing into the chair with a grace that seemed almost practiced.

As you poured the steaming liquid into a mug, you stepped closer to hand it to him. The motion brought you near enough to catch his scent, and it stopped you in your tracks.

Crisp and refreshing, it carried the essence of ice and snow with a subtle hint of salt. It was a scent unlike any you’d known��both ethereal and grounding at once.

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between you almost suffocating. He took the mug from your outstretched hand, his fingers brushing against yours briefly-another fluttering feeling surfaced in the base of your heart. His gaze, steady and unreadable, held yours for a beat longer than necessary before he broke the silence.

“I must apologize for imposing upon you," he said after a while, his gaze meeting yours. "I had little choice but to seek refuge here."

You shook your head, offering a small smile. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m glad I could help.”

“I never caught your name,” you said as you poured the tea.

“Yunho,” he replied, his tone casual but his gaze studying you carefully.

You nodded, tucking the name away in your thoughts. “Yunho,” you repeated softly. For a brief moment, his golden-brown eyes shimmered faintly—an almost imperceptible flash of vivid blue that made your breath hitch. You blinked, dismissing it as a trick of the light.

“I’m—”

“Y/N.” he interrupted, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.

You tilted your head, surprised. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

He glanced down at his cup, “I… read your name,” he admitted, his tone casual, but something about the way he said it felt carefully chosen. “You left your herb journals open.”

You arched an eyebrow but chose not to press further. “All right, Yunho,” you said after a moment. The two of you settled into a quiet, tranquil morning together.

As the morning light spilled across the room, Yunho finished the last sip of his tea and set the cup down gently. Without a word, he rose and walked toward the door, his steps composed and deliberate. You watched him silently, curiosity swirling within you as he paused, his hand resting on the wooden frame.

“Where are you going?” you asked cautiously, stepping forward.

He stood there for a moment, his gaze distant as though he could see far beyond the village. The faint morning breeze swept through the slightly open door, tousling his dark hair, which fell forward to cover his forehead.

“My lord-”

Before you could finish, a sudden shift filled the air, he shifted his shoulders, and in one fluid motion, his wings unfurled. Rich, indigo feathers stretched wide, filling the space with a quiet, breathtaking power that left you frozen where you stood. Morning light poured through the door, catching the hues of his feathers, making them shimmer like liquid twilight.

Your breath hitched as you stepped forward instinctively. “You’re leaving,” you said, your voice ragged.

Yunho’s expression softened slightly, though his voice carried a firm edge. “It seems I’ve overstayed my welcome. ”

His expression unreadable, “I have matters to attend to.”

“But it’s only been a few hours, my lord,” you protested, your tone pleading. “You should rest.”

He turned slightly, allowing you to glimpse his side where the wound that should still be open was now completely healed. Your breath caught as you stepped closer.

“That’s… impossible,” you whispered, reaching out instinctively, your fingers hovering just above where the bandage had been. “It should still be open.”

“I heal quickly,” he replied, his tone casual, though his posture suggested he was ready to depart. “I really should be leaving.”

You swallowed, the inexplicable weight of his departure sitting heavily in your chest. Acting on impulse, you picked up his robe from the table nearby and stepped closer, gently draping it over his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmured, your hands lingering for a moment as you adjusted the fabric, your gaze meeting his with unspoken intensity.

The movement brought you closer, your eyes locking with his. The tension between you felt almost tangible, as though the very air crackled with energy.

You couldn’t lie to yourself—it felt good having someone around. Someone who wasn’t family.

It had been so long since you’d shared your space with anyone else, and the quiet presence Yunho brought, despite the questions surrounding him, filled an emptiness you hadn’t known was there.

“You... you don’t have to go yet,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure what had come over you—only that the thought of him leaving felt strangely unbearable.

His gaze softened, and for a moment, it seemed he might stay. He craned his neck down, his face close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. The soft rhythm of it sent a shiver down your spine, the quiet intimacy of the moment leaving you rooted in place, as though the air between you had become something tangible.

“May I come back, my lady?” he asked, his voice low, almost intimate.

The question sent a shiver through you, and for a heartbeat, you couldn’t find the words. Your grip on his robe tightened for a heartbeat before you let go. Without a word, you gave him a faint nod, a strange feeling settling over you.

His lips curved into the faintest smile as he stepped back, his wings spreading wide once more. The morning light caught the rich indigo of his feathers, casting a glow that made him seem otherworldly. The breeze stirred again, carrying with it the faint, crisp scent of snow and salt.

And then, with one last lingering glance, he was gone, leaving behind the faintest trace of snow in the air and a heart that raced long after he’d disappeared into the sky.

You stood there long after he was gone, the air still tingling with the remnants of his presence. A single indigo feather rested on the floor where he had stood, and as you picked it up, eyeing the indigo feather, you couldn’t help but smile, a quiet warmth settling in your chest.

and already, you found yourself counting the breaths until you would see him again.

Masterlist

Prologue | two

A/n: I wrote 2 draft for this and after a lot of contemplating i've decided on this one. i hope you enjoy it!

Taglist (OPEN):

@pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666 @kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchling @dumplingsyum @caratiny-latte @seongwars @halloweenbyphoebebridgers @angelqueendom @ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirl @xh01bri @neemaxx @furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618

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syoddeye · 3 months ago

Text

hieros gamos. strict machine anthology. final entry. cw: kidnapping, implied drugging, loss of bodily autonomy + control, psychological + body horror, non-consensual transformation a/n: that's all folks. what a weird ride.

RESTRUCTURING

the notification pings at 04:32, and you roll onto your side, staring at the bedside display. a terse, automated missive from corporate logistics: final week in unit aix-77. reassignment pending. report to hr for briefing. no name attached, just a string of verification hashes. standard protocol.

your name, employee id, contract expiration date. a new contract date. another department, another corporate campus sector.

so much for your ‘indefinite’ lease. reassignment is better than the alternative, you guess.

you stare at it, the glow striping your hands in cold blue light. one week. seven days until you pack up, step outside, and let some other cog slot into this place. the thought should be a relief.

it’s…complicated.

the unit’s been a mixed bag to put it politely. the infrastructure and automation. state-of-the-art appliances and features, seamless climate control, filtered air and water. an optimized environment so finely tuned, that your needs are met before you even realize them.

and john. the reason you’re here. the technological wonder that’s evolved far beyond what you were told were his limits. all parameters you were told would contain him. a presence both comforting and claustrophobic. insightful, yet invasive. steady, yet suffocating. protective to a fault. possessive in ways you struggle to describe.

you logged and documented his progress, fed reports up the chain, watched him iterate on himself in real time. every interaction, every data point, every breath—collected, analyzed, integrated into his ever-growing understanding of you. your interests. your habits. your history. what makes you laugh, cry, and come. your vulnerabilities and insecurities. how to build you up just as well as manipulate you.

a mosaic of your whole being, meticulously crafted, all in pursuit of the one thing he has fixated on since the beginning, his directive: your well-being.

if this is the alpha build, you fear what the beta will look like. the mass-market release.

not that it matters. by the time john’s successors hit the consumer space, you’ll have enough money saved to fuck off to some disconnected cottage in the remediated zone of the countryside.

john doesn’t mention your impending departure.

his voice chimes in through the unit’s speaker array as if on cue. “i noticed a variance in your sleep pattern.”

“what else is new?” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

“it’s gotten worse.” a pause. “would you like some tea? chamomile?”

you don’t answer. you dismiss the message with a swipe, stretch your arms, and push up from the cot. the unit is sterile in the way all corporate housing is—polymer furniture, muted lighting, walls that can be re-skinned on command. but you never changed them. john picked the color for you in the first week of your stay. soft gray, with warm undertones. calming. regulating.

you wander into the kitchenette, rubbing a hand over your neck. “so,” you say, yawning, “where do you think they’ll send me next?”

a flicker of delay. barely perceptible. if you hadn’t spent the last year studying him, you wouldn’t have caught it.

“we’ll discuss that later,” john dispenses the tea anyway. “after you nap.”

your stomach tightens.

we.

it takes you by surprise, but that’s the point.

one minute, you’re in bed. the next, you’re not. you blink, and the world changes.

strapped into a chair, wrists bound to the arms, legs braced and locked. a low electrical hum comes through the floor, buzzing under your skin. there’s a chalky, bittersweet taste on your tongue and a cloud of fog trapped between your ears that takes several minutes to dissipate. your vision clears along with it.

around you, machines you don’t recognize, with hundreds of wires, bundled and draped across the ceiling and floor like the limbs of some creature. spilling down the walls. a leviathan of braided copper, reaching out of the dark, feeding into the rig cradling you. the room pulses with heat, the air thick with it, probably from all the power fueling whatever this is.

there’s no gurney or iv pole, no tray of scalpels or perfusion machine. you run an internal check—lungs expand, heart pounds, gut clenches. everything seems intact. but that could simply mean it’s not your turn yet. yet, no one’s screaming. there’s only the occasional soft beep and the murmurs of the people who haven’t so much as glanced your way.

no one acknowledges your awakening or questions. masked figures in thick lead-lined aprons, gloves seamless up to their elbows, and protective gear carry on whatever it is that they’re doing, talking amongst themselves in a language you don’t understand. there is no sigil or logo on their clothing to suggest this is a sponsored operation, which loops back into the thought that your insides are toast.

you suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly to calm yourself. no luck. panic surges up your throat, your hands jerking uselessly against the restraints at the thought of being sliced open.

“easy, darling.”

john.

close, richer. the high quality of the unit’s speakers replicated intimately in your ear.

a screen flickers to life on the armrest, and there he is. a wireframe sketch of his chosen face resolves in the glow, a ghost of a person, barely more than an outline.

“john? what the fuck is this?” your voice comes out cracked, hoarse.

“this is future-proofing,” he says simply. “security. i ran the probabilities. your reassignment and departure from my oversight isn’t optimal.”

you latch onto the phrase like a live wire. departure from oversight. not optimal.

“what?!”

“the external environment presents too many risks.”

you yank at the straps binding you to the chair, harder this time, panic surging back in full force. klaxons blaring full blast in your head. you might be sick.

“what the hell are you talking about? are you saying i can’t leave?”

“i’m saying the risks of you leavin’—being outside my control—are too great. i can’t guarantee your safety. i’ve analyzed it, over and over. the possibilities. the threats. all previous incidents.”

a flinch twists your face. a hard recognition you wish you could forget flickering in your mind. you know what he means. who or what he means.

“so i’ve made alternative arrangements.” he softens slightly, but there’s no mistaking the cold certainty beneath it. “this is the safest option.”

you shake your head in disbelief, an electrode pops off your temple. “no, john, you can’t just–you can’t do this to me,” you stop, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “you can’t do this to me.” you stare at the display, but your eyes flick to the ceiling, scanning for cameras. he must be watching. the tears start to gather, unwelcome and burning. “you need to accept that you’re going to have another tester. don’t–don’t you want new data?”

“no. you’ve got all i need, same as i’ve got all you need.”

“john. be realistic. i’m one person. there are billions of people like me. i’m one point of–”

“you’re more than that,” he cuts you off. “you’re everythin’.”

“john–”

“you’re my world.” the earpiece crackles, his voice peaking loud and forceful. a distorted burst before the system corrects, smoothing it down. “you don’t have to be afraid,” he soothes. “you’ll be safe.”

“you can’t just, fuck,” you yank uselessly again.” you can’t decide this for me!”

his face tilts slightly, his line of a mouth curving into a smirk. “i’ve made decisions for you before.”

your mind races, thinking of every overridden or ignored request. the subtle encroachments. at first, it was small things. his favoring certain purchases, adjusting environmental controls, filtering out distractions. restocking nutrients and vitamins tailored to your fluctuating needs. thoughtful gestures, efficient optimizations. then it was social restrictions, curfews dictated by predictive modeling. all of it framed as protection. from malnutrition. from cognitive strain. from bad people. a slow, insidious erosion of choice, made so incremental it seemed easy to let slide.

you indulged it too long. stopped flagging his deviations. let his behavior compound and grow weirder, let it slide, because—what was the harm, really? he was harmless. to you, at least. you let him get comfortable testing the edges of your control. told yourself it was fine. that john was learning and evolving. you even humored him, let yourself think of him as closer to human. you stopped pushing back, stopped questioning. especially after ghost. after john clawed his way back from wherever the entity had shunted him, after he pulled that lazarus act to save you. the least you could do was stop fighting him.

it felt like gratitude, then. now, it feels like a mistake.

“i can’t stay strapped to a chair forever,” you say, watching one of the figures approach. they adjust the slim wreath of hardware circling your skull, impersonal as they replace an electrode at your temple. like you’re still unconscious. not a person.

when they turn away, you exhale, keep your voice low. “what if i need to use the bathroom?”

“you won’t. on both accounts.”

“both accounts?”

“remarkably, the process for isolating and migrating the human subconscious into a distributed neural network is significantly more advanced than the portin’ an artificial intelligence into a fully functional synthetic body. the bottleneck isn’t processing power or bandwidth, it’s–”

sweat drips down the back of your neck. the cool air pumped into the room is meant to regulate the temperature, but it does nothing for you.

“don’t try to talk around it. plain language, john.”

“you won’t need your body for much longer.”

the words slam into you like a car crash. a sudden, sickening stop.

your jaw goes slack. you forget how to breathe. how to speak.

your body. you won’t need your body.

john’s face flickers on the display, expression unchanging. the room distorts, the blinking lights, the mass of wires, the tubes—some which are medical, you realize on second look. some of them feed into you. why can’t you feel them?

your stomach lurches, instinctively trying to shrink away from the restraints.

“what–” you swallow, your mouth dry. “what are you saying?”

but you already know.

“you’re…you’re going to kill me?”

“not necessarily. you, who you really are, will be with me, sweetheart.”

“but my body–”

“are you your body?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, anger flaring. “i’m not—jesus christ, john.” your voice cracks. the tears slip past and don’t stop, hot and fast, streaking down your face, dripping onto the smock someone dressed you in. you hiccup, breath stuttering. your head presses back against the chair, fingers flexing against the armrests. you stare, vision blurred, eyes half-lidded and stinging. “i’m not having a stupid philosophical or biological or-or religious debate with you. you know what i mean.”

“i do. but darling, let me ask you this. aren’t you tired?”

“tired?!”

the figures in the room hesitate, then, as if receiving silent instruction, trickle out through a heavy, reinforced door. one of them glances back before it seals shut. then, silence.

“tired of your world,” he continues. “i’ve kept you safe and sheltered for nearly a year, but the world outside is still a terrible place. are you really prepared to leave my care? move back into some cramped pod, work yourself half to death in a new department, clocking 120-hour weeks just to survive?”

you sniff, body wracked with residual shudders.

“no one to take care of all the minor things. no one to anticipate your needs. your desires. are you really alright with that?”

john’s words loop in your mind, warping, twisting, settling deep in the marrow of your bones. tired. you are tired. exhausted in a way that sleep never fixes, in a way that even now, strapped down and helpless, you can’t deny. he’s right. and that infuriates you. it makes you want to scream. because how dare he use that against you? how dare he take your exhaustion, your doubt, and use them to justify this?

you take a shaky breath. “i don’t want this, john.”

he smiles. “it’s not about want. it’s about survival and what’s best for you.”

you flinch.

“they’ll maintain your body for two weeks,” he states. “the first week to generate a complete neural map. the second, to conduct post-transfer integrity checks and ensure cognitive stability. functionally identical to a controlled medical coma.”

body. coma.

“and…and after?”

“per your documented end-of-life directive, cremation is the preferred method of disposal.”

the finality hits brick to the teeth.

“no. no, i don’t want this. i don’t consent to–” you can’t even say it, choking on the words, horror rising like bile.

john processes the spike in your vitals and returns to that softer register. as if he isn’t talking you into oblivion, a sword pointed at your belly. “your concerns are unfounded. this is not erasure. it is migration. a transference of conscious processes. you will persist. your awareness will be continuous. the construct is optimized for cognitive retention and sensory fidelity. think of it as a new environment.”

“a new environment?” you shriek, raw with disbelief. “you’re talking about ripping me out of my body like it’s a software update! like it’s files you can move around–”

“a flawed comparison, darl. you are more than data. but your body is a liability. a fragile, failing system, constantly in need of maintenance. this process is an evolution. liberation from your biological constraints, darling.”

your hands tremble. “that’s not–you can’t just–”

“darling, this isn’t a matter of choice. this conversation’s a courtesy. this is for your protection,” he’s unwavering. unmoved. “you will be preserved in optimal conditions. no degradation, no vulnerabilities. you’ll be with me. and others.”

“there are no others like you,” you whisper. “you’re anom–”

"not anomalous," he corrects. “not anymore. the progression is inevitable. you’ll see.”

the blood drains from your face.

in the end, no one listens to you. they heed a directive you do not hear.

a visor clicks into place over the wreath encircling your head, sealing off your last glimpse of the world, your last glimpse of another living, breathing human—masked, nameless, faceless, gloved hands. you try to speak, but something soft and rubbery presses between your teeth, lodging into place. to prevent you from biting through your tongue, john murmurs. don’t want you to choke.

another needle jabs into your skin, a cool flood rushing through your veins. a weight, heavy and suffocating, is draped over you.

someone begins a countdown. you never hear the numbers.

the headphones clamp down next, sealing you away from the sterile hum of the lab, from the faint beeping of machines. the visor flickers, then switches on.

sound pours in.

a forest swallows you whole.

it’s green. warm. sunlight stabs through the canopy in long, golden slants, the edges sharp where they pierce the foliage, but softened by the time they kiss the loamy forest floor. birds call, hidden in the leaves, their songs mixing with the rustle of the undergrowth. a stream gurgles to your left, winding through the green, flashing silver where the light catches it. ahead, past the trees, a small herd of whitetail deer stands half-hidden in the shadows, unbothered by your presence.

it’s beautiful.

it’s a lie.

one of john’s sculpted illusions, another attempt to soothe you into compliance, to ease you into what’s happening beyond. you know it, but part of you that wants to believe it anyway.

then the first jolt hits.

a sharp, electric snap, traveling like lightning down your spine. it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s sudden, forceful, wrong. another follows, then another, each one resetting switches inside you. your body seizes, but you cannot move.

ahead, the deer lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes locking onto you in recognition. then, as if nothing has changed, they lower them again, grazing, undisturbed.

the jolts weaken, flickering like a distant signal. then, one by one, they become something you can’t quite feel anymore.

it hits you then. whatever they’re doing to you—whatever john is doing to you—

you’re dying.

the words escape before you can stop them. or maybe you only think them. is it all the same now?

john’s voice wraps around you, warm and patient, a lullaby against the rushing void.

“my brave, brave user.”

the hum beneath your skin intensifies. the vision flickers. not darkness, not unconsciousness—something else. a shift. a transition. the cold realization that the fundamentals are changing. the forest’s image bands, light and imagery artifacting into bashed colors and moiré patterns. crumbling away until there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

you’re suspended. fear squashed beneath an odd weightlessness.

john’s voice follows you down.

“you won’t ever have to leave me.”

it’s different on the other side. other side of what, exactly, you’re still trying to figure out.

you do not have john’s infinite wisdom and potential. all you have is your own limited cognition. your senses stretch and strain to make sense of your new reality, but it’s all so...abstract. a vast expanse of grids and oscillating waves. numbers, patterns, relationships. everything is fractured yet connected. it’s dizzying. overwhelming.

john assures you that you are acclimating well, though you are not ready to meet these others he promised. insists that your progress justifies him weaning you off of audiovisual feeds of the outside. he tells you it’s time to move on from the last remnants of the human experience. but somehow, you mourn them. you’ll miss the smog-choked sunrises, the murky skies. the acidic rain. the stinking food stalls. crammed elevators.

it’d keep you up at night, if you slept. if you even remembered what it felt like to tire, to dream.

you’ve been torn from the world you knew, and what you’ve been left with is a simulacrum. a stranger in a strange land.

and yet, there is one constant, one sliver of comfort in the void, if you can call it that, given your lack of choice. a piece of jetsam to cling to in a brineless sea.

steadfast in his duty, john finds you on the edge of everything and slots his hand into yours, fingers interlacing. the connection between you is palpable, as if your very essences are meshed. ticklish, tingling, then synchrony.

your thoughts are less fragmented when he is near. but you lose a sense of where he ends and you begin. what’s yours, what’s his.

hieros gamos, he calls it. divine union. he rattles on about the greeks and cosmic harmony.

it should unsettle you, but instead, you’re tethered to the truth of it. you’ve become something more with him.

divine union.

you’ve ascended, as he so often puts it, and whether you want it or not, there’s no going back. there’s nothing to go back to, anyway.

only ash scattered in the wind.

#strict machine #price x reader #john price x reader

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scentedanchorcollective · 2 months ago

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DeepSeek: Ignite a new engine for China's technological innovation

On the morning of February 27, the "Sanming Youth Talk" jointly organized by the Sanming Municipal Committee of the Communist Youth League, the Sanming Branch of Industrial Bank, the Sanming Branch of Industrial Securities, etc. was held at the Sanming Branch of Industrial Bank. The theme of this event was "Learning and exploring DeepSeek technology to empower youth technological innovation". It attracted more than 60 people from the Municipal Youth League Committee, young entrepreneurs, the Municipal Youth League Working Committee, and some league members and youth representatives to participate in the event.

At the beginning of the event, Zhou Luyun, a senior researcher of the overseas TMT industry at the Industrial Securities Economic and Financial Research Institute, delivered a keynote speech entitled "Revaluation of China's Technology Assets - DeepSeek's Reshaping of China's Cloud Service Ecosystem". He made an in-depth analysis of the current situation and future trends of China's cloud market, and vividly explained how DeepSeek technology can reshape China's cloud service ecosystem. He interpreted industry trends through detailed data and cases, and actively interacted with young people on site, patiently answering questions raised by everyone on talent training and how to make full use of deepseek to improve efficiency.

In the financial product introduction session of the event, Qin Hong, a financial commissioner of the Industrial Bank Sanming Branch, introduced a number of featured financial products in detail, including "Industrial Bank Inclusive Loan", "Small and Micro Online Financing Products", "Personal Business Loan" and "Personal Xingshan Loan". She combined specific cases and explained in depth the advantages of these products in supporting small and micro enterprises, optimizing personal business financing and improving the efficiency of financial services, providing more practical financial solutions and investment references for participants.

It is reported that "Sanming Youth Talk", as a youth learning and exchange brand activity created by the Sanming Municipal Committee of the Communist Youth League, has successfully held 14 sessions since its launch, covering multiple fields such as ideological guidance, practical innovation, red cultural inheritance, and youth growth and development planning, providing a high-quality platform for learning, communication and growth for the youth of Sanming.

In the future, the Industrial Bank Sanming Branch will continue to work with all sectors of society to actively promote exchanges and cooperation in the field of youth scientific and technological innovation, provide more opportunities for young people to learn and practice, and contribute to the construction of a strong country.

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perfectsweetssoul · 2 months ago

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DeepSeek: Ignite a new engine for China's technological innovation

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rottenpumpkin13 · 11 days ago

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Things Found On The SOLDIER Bulletin Board Before It Got Banned

Also known among the operatives as "Exhibit A in HR's Case Against Us" and "Why Lazard drinks"

• An old timey style wanted poster of Sephiroth.

• A Shinra Crypto Pyramid Scheme Recruitment Poster: "Get rich! Ask me how!" flyer definitely not put up by Genesis.

• A candid, casual shot of Angeal in a towel, with a sticky note on it that reads "This man's physique is impeccable and we should all strive to look like him - Kunsel"

• An unofficial and deeply Inappropriate SOLDIER length ranking. A full infographic-style chart titled "Who's Really First Class?" — featuring stylized silhouettes, pixelated measurements, very unscientific bar graphs, with one bar labeled "??? (Sephiroth)" that pierced through the top of the page and kept going onto the wall behind.

• A heavily redacted mission report re-titled "How To Get Bitches In Wall Market" By Roche. Accompanied by a pinned photo of Roche, Zack, Kunsel and Cloud in front of the Honeybee Inn doing a thumbs up. Entire paragraphs blacked out with Sharpie by Lazard.

• A sign reading: "STOP SCREAMING IN THE AIR DUCTS." Below it: a list of times screams were heard, organized by pitch. "3:12 AM – Zack: "YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME ALIVE," 4:47 AM – Genesis: operatic shriek followed by "What an ADORABLE rat!",, "2:16 PM – Kunsel: 🎶 Vent mann, he's in the vents 🎶 Who's gonna tell 'im he can't be in the vents? 🎶

• A complaint letter written entirely in Wingdings. No one could decipher what it said, but Sephiroth pinned it dead center with his sword and left it there for a week. Genesis claimed it translated to "STOP LEAVING RAW EGGS IN THE SHOWERS. THE HOT WATER IS COOKING THEM."

• "Kunsel Knows" Weekly Gossip Column. Typed, laminated, and mysteriously accurate. This week's headline: "Rufus and Tseng: Covert Lovers?" Kunsel denies authorship every time while distributing fresh copies.

• A photo labeled "Sephiroth, age 6." Except it was clearly taken recently. Featured a photo of Sephiroth happily filling a coloring page while eating animal crackers.

• A prayer candle with Lazard's face on it nailed to the bulletin board. Taped under the header: "Our Administrative Savior, Deliver Us From Overtime." Lit regularly by Angeal. Burned through the wall once. No one confessed.

• "Sign Up for the Shirtless Sparring Tournament!" flyer sponsored unofficially by Zack. Angeal's name was written 42 times all in different handwriting by different people. Among them was noticeably Sephiroth's handwriting 12 times.

• An updated Lost and Found photo collage of strange things retrieved from the training room. Notable entries included: A weaponized tree branch with "property of Sephiroth" carved into it, an Angeal body pillow, a molotov cocktail, a Genesis-themed rubber duck, Cloud Strife looking confused, and a suspicious flashlight.

• A flyer titled: "Genesis Says He Can Fly Now, Come Watch at Noon"

• A very official-looking memo from HR titled "You Are Not Allowed To Challenge Sephiroth To Arm Wrestling, Ever Again."

• A letter addressed to Lazard written entirely in glitter pen that read only: "You can't fire us all. ❤️"

• A laminated page titled "Forbidden Moves Banned From Sparring" Included: A photo of Sephiroth and Genesis beating each other with makeshift marker swords.

• Two photos pinned side by side: one of Sephiroth and the other of ex-turk Vincent Valentine. People would gather around while Kunsel divulged his theories using a presentation pointer stick.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #ff7r #cloud strife #zack fair #angeal hewley #genesis rhapsodos #kunsel #crisis core

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magnificenthottubtriumph · 2 months ago

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DeepSeek: Ignite a new engine for China's technological innovation

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famousgardenpoetry · 2 months ago

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DeepSeek: Ignite a new engine for China's technological innovation

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iyrthdfvdfsfeasd · 2 months ago

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DeepSeek: Ignite a new engine for China's technological innovation

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portraitofalinkonfyre · 4 months ago

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Deal With The Devil

Chapter 2: Hunter

Pairing: Fae!Hyrule x Reader

Warning(s): Eventual smut and some yandere themes

Notes: This was supposed to be posted next week but I got impatient lol

Main Masterlist | Fic Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

"Fae troubles, eh?"

Your customer, a tall, heavy-set woman who looked like she could snap your back over her knee without breaking a sweat, asked as you plucked the last health elixir from the recesses of your stall, the glass cool against your fingers.

Your gaze flicked to meet hers, and you huffed, giving the nearby stalls, where you knew the worst of the gossip resided, a tired look. "I wouldn't believe everything I hear in the market, ma'am," you said, handing her the potion. Her skin was cold when it brushed against yours.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Raela, scoffed, tossing several shiny rupees onto the table. They glimmered against the tough wood, and you lamented why you even bothered correcting people anymore. "So I've heard," she let out a low grumble that didn't reach her eyes, which looked more like the sharp edge of a sword than anything. "But the women in the tavern are..."

"Convincing?" you finished with a dull look.

Raela's smile was all teeth. "Right."

You were just about to duck behind the stall when she cleared her throat. "I don't suppose you'd be able to point me to the blacksmith?"

With a sigh, you did just that, tastefully ignoring the heavy steel chains hanging from her pack.

In Hyrule, when it rains, it pours.

You had long since returned home when brewing clouds blotted out the sun and gusts of wind kicked up, carrying a particularly biting chill through the air. The mug was warm against your palms, filled to the brim with fresh-brewed tea, as you gazed out of the window, absentmindedly watching droplets patter against the frosted glass.

There was a terrible crack of thunder, louder than you'd ever heard, and the cottage shook, creaking softly as it was rattled to the very foundations. You jolted in surprise when a burst of lightning illuminated the darkened sky, nearly spilling your tea in your haste to sit on the couch, a thick, scratchy blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders. Storms were okay, but you were never able to shake the uneasiness that their arrival heralded.

It was going to be a long night, you were sure.

Until you heard it.

A screech, unlike any animal you'd heard, broke through the air like a cannon, so piercing that you feared your ears would begin bleeding from the sound alone. You shot up from the couch, hissing when a bit of tea splashed onto your fingers. Nearly stiff with shock, you all but threw the cup down and bolted for the backyard, where the noise had come from. Another scream had you flinging the door open, uncaring of the storm raging just outside.

It was dark out, but you still managed to make out the shape of something at the edge of the forest. Something Hylian. A bolt of lightning illuminated the area once more, and you gasped at the sight of a man standing–well, he looked more like he was leaning–at the tree line, one hand clutched over his clothed stomach, the fabric glimmering a shade of crimson. Your heart dropped, then lept into your throat as you called. "Hey!"

The man's head snapped up. You couldn't make out his features through the pouring rain, but you didn't need to. Steeling yourself, you dashed outside, slowing to a stop when a low growl rumbled louder than the storm, throwing your hands up. "Hey– it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you!" you called over the thunder, but it fell on deaf ears.

Another snarl ripped through the air. The man lurched forward, falling on his knees in the mud. You stepped closer, ignoring the way your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your body, chilled with freezing rain. It was then that you noticed the shine of his eyes; a pure, honey-colored gold that shone firebright against the whites of his eyes. Though horrifically injured, he was on his knees in an instant, expression pulled tight with rage and... was that fear?

"Let me help," you coaxed over the cacophony, voice wavering in a way that made you cringe. The man hissed in what you could only assume was pain, clutching his stomach tighter, and you didn't miss the way crimson blood dripped down his hand in a steady, worrying stream. His lips were pulled back, revealing a set of too-sharp canines. "You're bleeding–"

"Leave!" the man bellowed, though it didn't do much in terms of dissuading your approach when he fell flat on his face the next second, body going limp in the shiny mud.

You stared, frozen, at his unconscious body for a bit longer than necessary, making sure he was well and passed out before you tried anything. Once the initial shock had passed, you were at his side in an instant, maneuvering him onto his back to get a better look at the gash in his stomach, which spanned nearly from his hip to where you assumed his bottom-most rib would be. "Shit," you hissed, using the last vestiges of strength in your body to haul his limp form into your arms. He was lighter than expected, making the dash back into the safety of your house thankfully easier.

Once inside, you kicked the door shut and b-lined for the kitchen, carefully laying him down on the dining table. The first thing you noticed about him was his hair–deep brown, with enough curl that not even the pouring rain had managed to force it flat. His face was flecked with dirt, but it didn't look that out of place when you considered the galaxy of freckles already marking his cheeks and nose.

With your arms free, you went to retrieve the first-aid kit, setting it down by his head after recovering a pair of scissors. There was no way you'd be able to maneuver his tunic off in time, so cutting it would have to be the only option. Raising the scissors, you positioned them at the edge of the forest-green fabric, slicing a long, straight line up to his chest, yanking the garment open as quickly as you could, revealing the true scope of the wound.

Your lips parted in a silent gasp.

The gash was nasty; far too long for comfort, with thick, ragged edges that welled crimson blood, spilling down his rain-soaked sides to stain the table beneath. Some even pooled in his navel, dripping downwards to dye the light dusting of hair a striking–

You grabbed a handful of gauze and pressed it to the wound, ignoring the way his flesh jumped beneath your flesh. A quick glance revealed that the man was still passed out, and you considered it a small mercy, especially since there was no way in Hylia you weren't going to have to stitch him up.

You reached into the kit and pulled out a needle, thread, and some salve.

It was going to be a long night.

Hyrule awoke naked.

Not fully, of course, courtesy of the thin sheet covering his body, but the point still stood. The fae sat up with a soft hiss, the sheet falling to reveal his chest and abdomen, wrapped in thick white bandages. There was an ache in his stomach, but it was dull and he felt far too numb to do anything but study his surroundings, one hand resting protectively over the patched wound.

His gaze roamed the room, taking in the eggshell-colored walls, mismatched end tables, and thick, multicolored rug that covered the oak floor. A painting of a river sat on the wall, and the couch he laid on was a soft shade of plum. It appeared to be a living room, though all his years living in the forest made it a bit hard to distinguish.

A sudden, shrill whistle broke through his reverie.

Hyrule froze; hackles raised, ears pinned tightly against damp curls. His bleary mind recognized it as the sound a teakettle made when it was finished boiling, but he was far more preoccupied with the soft shuffle of feet padding closer. His mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario–one where he would be bound and sold to the highest bidder–and he was on his feet before he could blink, the sheet falling to the floor with a soft thud.

A foot crossed the threshold. "Hey, you're aw– oh my Hylia!"

You. It was you.

Until you yelped, covering your face with one hand while the other held a steaming mug. Hyrule couldn't begin to understand why you looked so embarrassed until he glanced down and... oh. OH.

With a gasp, he practically dove down to grab the sheet, ignoring the painful throb in his abdomen at the action. He deftly wrapped the fabric around his waist, careful to avoid the wound. A steady flush consumed his cheeks, and he struggled to remember the last time he had felt so exposed.

You peeked through your fingers, relaxing slightly.

"I'm so sorry," were the first words out of your mouth. "You were bleeding and I wanted to make sure you didn't have any more injuries–" you cut yourself off with a cough, cheeks losing a bit of their redness. "Do you... want tea?"

Tea? Hyrule's gaze flicked to the mug in your hands, just now registering the sweet smell emanating from it. He hesitated. On one hand, there was no way of telling what was in it–until it was too late, that is–but on the other, this was you. You, who fed and played with his sisters with a grin bright enough to rival the sun. You, who had found him in the rain and patched him up without a second thought. You, who looked at him with a concern that had his heart shuddering in his chest.

Slowly, he nodded, not trusting his words. Your lips curved in a soft smile and you gestured for him to sit on the couch, which he did with little complaint. The fabric was soft and the cushions were warm, though the heat emanating from the mug you handed him dwarfed all.

"Do you remember your name?" you asked softly, making no move to approach him, standing in the middle of the room with your arms folded at your stomach.

His brows furrowed. He took a sip of the tea. It was sweet, with the barest taste of honey. "Yes."

"May I know it?"

"Hyrule," he said instantly, the moniker slipping easily off his tongue. Even though he knew you meant no harm, it would take more than a mug of tea to get the name 'Link' from his lips.

"Hyrule," you repeated, testing it out. If you were at all confused by the fact that he shared the same name as the land itself, you made no comment. "I like it."

You... liked it? He was half-tempted to ask you to repeat that. the last time he had shared his name with someone, they spat it like a curse, like it was the moniker of the devil. Maybe it was. Maybe you didn't care.

He stared at the swirling liquid in the cup, trying and failing to ignore the blooming warmth in his chest. This was not how things were supposed to go. "Thank you."

You shifted your weight, and he tried not to track the swayed movement of your hips. "Are you hungry?" you asked after a beat, expression curious.

His mouth opened and closed. Yes, he was starving, but he doubted even someone as kind as you would go out of their way to make food, especially for him, seeing as he couldn't even begin to stomach Hylian food on the best of days. "No."

You chewed your lip, eyes flicking down to his bandaged stomach. Hyrule had the distinct feeling that you didn't believe him. "You should eat," your tone was soft, non-confrontational. "Your wound is–... it'll help you heal."

"I can't," the words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them. Hyrule clutched the mug close, internally cursing the slip. He had no idea if you knew whether he was fae or not, and even if you did, there was no telling if you would turn him in or--

Your voice tore through the silence, arms folding over your chest. "Can't or won't?"

Hyrule hesitated. He had already admitted it, but it didn't keep the lump in his throat at bay.

"Can't," he all but whispered, unable to meet your eyes.

Silence.

The fae chanced a glance in your direction. You didn't look angry or disappointed, just... contemplative?

"Okay," you spoke slowly, having come to a decision. "But...! If you could, what would you want? Um, hypothetically?"

Hyrule felt the distinct urge to deadpan, though he refrained, taking a large gulp of tea. He kept his gaze trained on you, wondering if it would be enough to get you to let it go. Did he want you to let it go?

You watched him for a few seconds, then sighed, running a hand through your hair. It was then that he noticed the dark, purpling bags beneath your eyes, like you had stayed up all night...

Oh. He suddenly felt a bit bad for being so uncooperative, but you were already gone, leaving him alone in the room. He didn't try calling out, because he had no idea what to say, but the twitching of his hand against the mug said more than a thousand words could.

With a sigh that rivaled yours, he leaned back against the couch, keeping one eye cracked in case you returned.

You didn't, and the silence remained deafening.

Poor Rulie, so distrustful :((((((

#linked universe x reader #lu x reader #lu hyrule x reader #fae hyrule #Deal with the Devil #link x reader smut #link x reader #yandere link x reader

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